Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 3030766594, 9783030766597

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Laura W. Perna Editor

Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research Volume 37

Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research Volume 37 Series Editor Laura W. Perna, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, PA, USA

Published annually since 1985, the Handbook series provides a compendium of thorough and integrative literature reviews on a diverse array of topics of interest to the higher education scholarly and policy communities. Each chapter provides a comprehensive review of research findings on a selected topic, critiques the research literature in terms of its conceptual and methodological rigor, and sets forth an agenda for future research intended to advance knowledge on the chosen topic. The Handbook focuses on a comprehensive set of central areas of study in higher education that encompasses the salient dimensions of scholarly and policy inquiries undertaken in the international higher education community. Each annual volume contains chapters on such diverse topics as research on college students and faculty, organization and administration, curriculum and instruction, policy, diversity issues, economics and finance, history and philosophy, community colleges, advances in research methodology, and more. The series is fortunate to have attracted annual contributions from distinguished scholars throughout the world. More information about this series at http://www.springer.com/series/6028

Laura W. Perna Editor

Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research Volume 37

With 18 Figures and 22 Tables

Editor Laura W. Perna University of Pennsylvania Philadelphia, PA, USA

ISSN 0882-4126 ISSN 2215-1664 (electronic) ISBN 978-3-030-76659-7 ISBN 978-3-030-76660-3 (eBook) ISBN 978-3-030-76661-0 (print and electronic bundle) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3 © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Preface

Like the preceding volumes in this series, Vol. 37 of Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research offers an invaluable collection of thorough reviews of research on topics that are of central importance to higher education policy, practice, and research. Each of the chapters in this volume represents an important contribution to knowledge. Individually and collectively, the chapters provide in-depth examinations of the state of knowledge on topics that are highly relevant in this current time. Together, these chapters offer important insights into current issues pertaining to college students; faculty; diversity; organization and administration; community colleges; teaching, learning, and curriculum; economics and finance; policy; history and philosophy; and research methodology. This annual publication would not be possible without the intellectual leadership of excellent Associate Editors. For Vol. 37, these exceptionally talented scholars and research mentors are Ann Austin, Nicholas Bowman, Linda Eisenmann, Pamela Eddy, Nicholas Hillman, Shouping Hu, Adrianna Kezar, Anna Neumann, AnneMarie Nuñez, and Marvin Titus. Over the course of a year or more, the Associate Editors and I each work closely with an invited author to develop, produce, and refine the chapters that are included in this published volume. Several of the chapters in this volume advance critical approaches to unpack the racialized nature of higher education policy (Awilda Rodriguez, KC Deane, and Charles H.F. Davis III) and college student activism (Stephen Quaye, Chris Linder, and T.J. Stewart). Other chapters establish the state of research-based knowledge about college student mental health (Daniel Eisenberg, Sara Abelson, and Sarah Lipson), state higher education policy innovations (David Tandberg), and adaptive community college leadership (Marilyn Amey). Still other chapters offer a conceptual model for understanding institutional responses to scandal (Rodney Hughes, Amanda Rose, Jon Lozano, Steve Garguilo, and David Knight), illustrate the application of cultural-historical activity theory to transform higher education (Anne-Marie Nuñez), provide a historiographic review of collegiate admissions (Marcia Synott), and discuss how to effectively use descriptive analysis in higher education research (Daniel Klasick). Two chapters focus on aspects of faculty life, including how to use nudge science to reimagine faculty work environments (KerryAnn O’Meara, Dawn Culpepper, Courtney Lennartz, and John Braxton) and locate emotions in the study of postsecondary teaching and learning (Rebecca Cox). v

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Preface

Each chapter offers a comprehensive review of research findings on the selected topic, critiques the research literature in terms of its conceptual and methodological rigor, and offers an agenda for future research that will further advance knowledge on the particular topic. As in past volumes, this volume also includes an autobiographic essay. In Vol. 37’s essay, Estela Mara Bensimon, University Professor Emerita, University of Southern California, reflects on “An Unpredicted Academic Career.” Professor Bensimon offers candid and compelling descriptions of personal, educational, and professional experiences on her journey from her birthplace in Argentina to distinguished and esteemed professor and champion for racial equity. Among other contributions, this essay makes visible how Professor Bensimon has approached, and overcome challenges, to becoming a faculty member, founding the Center for Urban Education, establishing a research practice focused on racial equity, and continuing the work to transform racial equity through Bensimon & Associates. Volume 37 builds on a long and strong history of outstanding scholarly contributions. The first volume in this series was published in 1985. John C. Smart served as editor of the series through Vol. 26, when Michael B. Paulsen joined him as co-editor. After co-editing Vols. 26 and 27 with John, Mike served as the sole editor through Vol. 33. I am deeply honored that Mike invited me to serve as co-editor with him for Vol. 34, and that I have the privilege of serving as sole editor beginning with Vol. 35. I am grateful for the time, effort, and engagement that the authors and Associate Editors have invested in producing these significant scholarly contributions. With these efforts, the chapters in this volume, like those in prior volumes, provide the foundation for the next generation of research on these crucial issues. In this volume, Associate Editors were responsible for working with the following chapters and authors: Ann E. Austin, “Leveraging Nudges to Improve the Academic Workplace: Challenges and Possibilities,” by KerryAnn O’Meara, Dawn Culpepper, Courtney Lennartz, and John Braxton Nicholas A. Bowman, “Mental Health in College Populations: A Multidisciplinary Review of What Works, Evidence Gaps, and Paths Forward,” by Sara Abelson, Sarah Ketchen Lipson, and Daniel Eisenberg Pamela Eddy, “Beyond the Competencies: Adaptive Community College Leadership,” by Marilyn J. Amey Linda Eisenmann, “A Contentious History of Admissions Policies at American Colleges and Universities: Issues and Prospects,” by Marcia Synott Nicholas Hillman, “The Art of Sophisticated Quantitative Description in Higher Education Research” by Daniel Klasik and William Zahran Shouping Hu, “State Higher Education Policy Innovativeness,” by David A. Tandberg, Jason C. Lee, T. Austin Lacy, Shouping Hu, and Toby Park-Gaghan Adrianna Kezar, “Applying Cultural Historical Activity Theory (CHAT) Perspectives Toward Equity in Higher Education Organizations and Systems,” by AnneMarie Núñez

Preface

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Anna Neumann, “Emotions in Postsecondary Teaching and Learning,” by Rebecca D. Cox Anne-Marie Nuñez, “A Review of Scholarship on College Student Activism from 2000 to 2020,” by Stephen John Quaye, Chris Linder, Terah J. Stewart, and Erin M. Satterwhite I had the privilege of working with authors of the following chapters: “An Unpredicted Academic Career,” by Estela Mara Bensimon “A Model of Misconduct, Accusations, and Institution Response at US Colleges and Universities” by Rodney Hughes, Amanda Rose, J. Sarah Lozano, Steve Garguilo, and David Knight “Towards a Framework of Racialized Policymaking in Higher Education,” by Awilda Rodriguez, KC Deane, and Charles H.F. Davis III February 2022

Laura W. Perna

Contents

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An Unpredicted Academic Career . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Estela Mara Bensimon

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A Contentious History of Admissions Policies at American Colleges and Universities: Issues and Prospects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marcia Synnott

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A Review of Scholarship on College Student Activism from 2000 to 2020 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stephen John Quaye, Chris Linder, Terah J. Stewart, and Erin M. Satterwhite Mental Health in College Populations: A Multidisciplinary Review of What Works, Evidence Gaps, and Paths Forward . . . . . . . . . . . Sara Abelson, Sarah Ketchen Lipson, and Daniel Eisenberg

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Emotions in Postsecondary Teaching and Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . Rebecca D. Cox

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Leveraging Nudges to Improve the Academic Workplace: Challenges and Possibilities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . KerryAnn O’Meara, Dawn Culpepper, Courtney Lennartz, and John Braxton

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Applying Cultural Historical Activity Theory (CHAT) Perspectives Toward Equity in Higher Education Organizations and Systems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anne-Marie Núñez Beyond the Competencies: Adaptive Community College Leadership . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marilyn J. Amey

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133 239

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Contents

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A Model of Misconduct, Accusations, and Institution Response at US Colleges and Universities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rodney Hughes, Amanda Rose, J. Sarah Lozano, Steve Garguilo, and David Knight Towards a Framework of Racialized Policymaking in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Awilda Rodriguez, K. C. Deane, and Charles H. F. Davis III

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State Higher Education Policy Innovativeness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David A. Tandberg, Jason C. Lee, T. Austin Lacy, Shouping Hu, and Toby Park-Gaghan

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The Art of Sophisticated Quantitative Description in Higher Education Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Daniel Klasik and William Zahran

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Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Contents of Previous Five Volumes

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About the Editor

Laura W. Perna is Vice Provost for Faculty, GSE Centennial Presidential Professor of Education, and Executive Director of the Alliance for Higher Education and Democracy (AHEAD) at the University of Pennsylvania (Penn). Her research uses various methodological approaches to identify how social structures, educational practices, and public policies promote and limit college access and success, particularly for groups that are underrepresented in higher education. Recent publications include Improving Research-Based Knowledge of College Promise Programs (with Edward Smith, 2020, AERA), Taking It to the Streets: The Role of Scholarship in Advocacy and Advocacy in Scholarship (2018, Johns Hopkins University Press), and The Attainment Agenda: State Policy Leadership for Higher Education (with Joni Finney, 2014, Johns Hopkins University Press). She has served as President of the Association for the Study of Higher Education (ASHE), Vice President of the Postsecondary Division of the American Educational Research Association (AERA), and Chair of Penn’s Faculty Senate. She is a member of the Board of Directors for the Postsecondary National Policy Institute (PNPI) and previously served as a member of the Gates Commission on the Value of Postsecondary Education and the Board of Directors for the Institute for Higher Education Policy. Among other honors, she has received the Christian R. and Mary F. Lindback Foundation Award for Distinguished Teaching from the University of Pennsylvania, Early Career Achievement Award from ASHE, Excellence in Public Policy in Higher Education Award from ASHE’s Council on Public Policy and Higher Education,

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About the Editor

Dr. Constance Clayton Education Award from the Philadelphia College Prep Roundtable, and Robert P. Huff Golden Quill Award from the National Association of Student Financial Aid Administrators. She is also a member of the National Academy of Education and a Fellow of AERA.

About the Associate Editors

Ann E. Austin Michigan State University East Lansing, MI, USA

Nicholas A. Bowman University of Iowa Iowa City, IA, USA

Pamela Eddy William & Mary Williamsburg, VA, USA

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About the Associate Editors

Linda Eisenmann Wheaton College Norton, MA, USA

Nicholas Hillman University of Wisconsin-Madison Madison, WI, USA

Shouping Hu Florida State University Tallahassee, FL, USA

About the Associate Editors

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Adrianna Kezar University of Southern California Los Angeles, CA, USA

Anna Neumann Teachers College, Columbia University New York, NY, USA

Anne-Marie Núñez Department of Educational Studies The Ohio State University Columbus, OH, USA

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About the Associate Editors

Laura W. Perna Graduate School of Education University of Pennsylvania Philadelphia, PA, USA

Marvin Titus University of Maryland, College Park College Park, MD, USA

Reviewers

Ryan Gildersleeve Morgridge College of Education, University of Denver, Denver, USA Jacob Gross Department of Educational Leadership, Evaluation and Organizational Development, University of Louisville, Louisville, USA Lisa Lattuca Center for the Study of Higher and Postsecondary Education, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, USA Jaime Lester College of Humanities and Social Sciences, George Mason University, Fairfax, USA Jon McNaughtan Educational Psychology and Leadership, Texas Tech University, Lubbock, USA Cecile H. Sam College of Education, Rowan University, Glassboro, USA

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Contributors

Sara Abelson University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, MI, USA Marilyn J. Amey Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI, USA Estela Mara Bensimon University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA, USA John Braxton Vanderbilt University, Nashville, TN, USA Rebecca D. Cox Simon Fraser University, Surrey, BC, Canada Dawn Culpepper University of Maryland, College Park, MD, USA Charles H. F. Davis III University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, MI, USA K. C. Deane University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, MI, USA Daniel Eisenberg UCLA, Los Angeles, CA, USA Steve Garguilo Cultivate All, LLC, State College, PA, USA Shouping Hu Florida State University, Tallahassee, FL, USA Rodney Hughes Center for the Future of Land-Grant Education, West Virginia University, Morgantown, WV, USA Daniel Klasik University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Chapel Hill, NC, USA David Knight Department of Engineering Education, Virginia Tech, Blacksburg, VA, USA T. Austin Lacy RTI International, Durham, NC, USA Jason C. Lee State Higher Education Executive Officers Association, Boulder, CO, USA Courtney Lennartz University of Maryland, College Park, MD, USA Chris Linder University of Utah, Salt Lake City, UT, USA Sarah Ketchen Lipson Boston University, Boston, MA, USA J. Sarah Lozano Baltimore, MD, USA xix

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Contributors

Anne-Marie Núñez Department of Educational Studies, The Ohio State University, Columbus, OH, USA KerryAnn O’Meara University of Maryland, College Park, MD, USA Toby Park-Gaghan Center for Postsecondary Success, Florida State University, Tallahassee, FL, USA Stephen John Quaye The Ohio State University, Columbus, OH, USA Awilda Rodriguez University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, MI, USA Amanda Rose Polk State College, Winter Haven, FL, USA Erin M. Satterwhite The Ohio State University, Columbus, OH, USA Terah J. Stewart Iowa State University, Ames, IA, USA Marcia Synnott History, University of South Carolina, Columbia, SC, USA David A. Tandberg State Higher Education Executive Officers Association, Boulder, CO, USA William Zahran University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Chapel Hill, NC, USA

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An Unpredicted Academic Career Estela Mara Bensimon

Contents An Unprecedented Academic Career . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Patagonia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leaving Paradise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Escaping to College . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Newark’s 11-Week Teachers Strike . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Livingston College: An Experiment in Liberatory Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Grass Roots Work in the Puerto Rican Community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The New Jersey Department of Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Courtyard: A Memory of Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Ford Foundation and UCLA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Back to Teachers College . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Making It . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Getting Tenure and Being Promoted to Associate Professor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Back to Los Angeles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . How I Came to Focus on Racial Equity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Research Practice Focused on Racial Equity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Learning the Methods of Critical Action Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Retirement from USC and a New Phase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

Dr. Estela Mara Bensimon recounts momentous events in her life, from her upbringing to her career in education, her founding and directing of the Center for Urban Education, and her present-day equity-leadership role as a consultant. At the core of her work has been a ceaseless desire to transform racial equity from E. M. Bensimon (*) University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 37, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3_13

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E. M. Bensimon

an ideal that had previously been embraced only in the abstract into something that is actionable and measurable. Keywords

Equity · Race · Education · Leadership · Memoir · Outcomes · Equity-minded · Center for Urban Education · CUE · Argentina · Higher education · Minoritized · Activist · Educator · Racial Equity

An Unprecedented Academic Career Having diversity without equity had symbolic benefits for universities – but it had no substantive benefits for racially minoritized students. I made this statement during the online event in which I announced my retirement from USC. This chapter describes my lifetime journey toward this realization.

Patagonia I was born in Argentina’s Patagonia, in the western part of the country bordering Chile, in a town called Neuquén, which in Mapuche means atrevido (daring), audaz (bold), and arrogante (arrogant). Neuquén was a very small and remote town, of 7,000 inhabitants at most. The unpaved streets became mud when it rained; there was no television anywhere; the public school I attended had about five classrooms. My mornings as a child were spent at school, while in the afternoons I attended the English Cultural School to learn English. I wore a white pleated and heavily starched “guarda polvo” (which translates into “keeps the dust away”) and carried an enormous briefcase. At school we had wooden desks with inkwells that we all kept very orderly. One of my most impressionable memories from that school is of the principal bringing all the students and teachers together in the big hall to inform us that somebody had stolen money and that God would punish the thief by putting a big grease mark on their hand that would make them identifiable. This was my earliest introduction to education. And the truth is, I loved school and my teachers there, and to this day I still correspond with two of my closest friends from school. My father was a physician who had migrated to Neuquén from Buenos Aires because, as a Jew, he’d found it very difficult to establish a practice in the large city. Neuquén, however, was in urgent need of doctors. My father’s parents had been immigrants too – my grandfather and grandmother came to Argentina from Palestine (before becoming the state of Israel) and Odessa, respectively, in the early 1900s. My father was Jewish by birth, and my mother had been raised Catholic, but both were quite anti-religious. As a result, I was raised as an atheist. In Neuquén, where the majority of the population was Catholic and went to mass on Sundays, we were an oddity. The hardest thing for me about not being Catholic was that I did not get to have a white communion dress in which to parade around the plaza.

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Leaving Paradise My life in Neuquén was nearly idyllic. I was part of a nucleus of friends whose parents, like mine, were well educated, cosmopolitan, and middle class. We lived in large homes, we owned cars, and we all took vacations to Buenos Aires in winter and to Argentina’s silky Atlantic Ocean beaches in the summer. It was the kind of life that people fantasize about and that they don’t abandon. We decided to leave Argentina, however, for many reasons. It was in part due to the political situation in the early 1960s which turned violent in the 1970s and resulted in thousands of “desaparecidos” (the missing) at the hands of the fascist military junta. Had we stayed in Argentina, my father as a Jewish man could have been a victim as he had been a few years earlier under the Peron regime when he was jailed. But we also left because my mother had read an article about what higher education was like in the United States. It had been published in the Spanishlanguage version of Readers Digest and written by an Argentine professor (Anderson Imbert) who was a visiting scholar at the University of Michigan. The article made a great impression on her; she soon convinced my father that we should move to the United States, so that my brother and I could experience the romanticized college life described in the article. Our immigration story is not typical – it’s nothing like my husband’s and his teenage mother’s move from Puerto Rico to Spanish Harlem to escape poverty. We actually prepared for our departure from Argentina for more than a year. My father had to study to pass the medical boards to be able to practice in the United States. In preparation for our immigration, my parents went on a serious diet, and my father shaved his mustache. Our orientation to the United States was based on the one or two American movies we saw just about every week in El Teatro Español, Neuquén’s only movie theater at the time. The lessons we’d learned were that Americans were blond and blue-eyed, they were thin, and the men did not have mustaches. Before our departure, my parents changed their physical appearance to make their foreignness less noticeable. Let me just say that was a failed experiment. There was no way we could escape who we were. All we needed to do was say something in English. Another giveaway were our clothes, in particular my brother who in the Argentine tradition for young boys wore short pants at the age of 9. During the preparation year, my brother and I were withdrawn from school and taught English by a private instructor who was a Polish refugee that had spent time in London. We also had to listen to English language instruction records where we learned to say things that Americans never say – phrases like “don’t mention it” instead of “you are welcome” and “I beg your pardon” instead of “excuse me.” I must confess that all that English instruction was not particularly useful. While we did learn things, our pronunciation and our way of speaking English, most likely with a Polish accent, served to make us uniquely hard to understand. After that year of preparation, we arrived in the United States in May 1962, just as the Civil Rights movement was getting underway. My parents felt it was important for us to learn about our “new country” and bought tickets on Trailways (a now defunct bus company) that they’d seen advertised as $99 for 99 days. On this whirlwind tour

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of the United States, we travelled from New York City to San Francisco, making stops in Washington DC, Miami and Tampa, Flagstaff, the Grand Canyon, Dallas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, and throughout the south. The vestiges of Jim Crow were still very much in evidence. Rosa Parks had not yet refused to give up her seat. I can still recall the separate water fountains and bathrooms for blacks and whites at the bus stations. I know that compared to the immigration experience of most, our cross-country trip sounds like an exciting experience, but I hated just about every minute of it. I was anxious during the whole journey because we had no idea where we would end up living. Argentina was all I had known, and we no longer had a home to return to. All I wanted was to go back to Neuquén. After having seen so much of the United States on that trip, my parents settled in Cherry Hill, a suburb of Philadelphia in New Jersey that was very white and middle class, with a large upwardly mobile Jewish community who had moved from nearby Camden, a city with a rapidly growing Black population. My high school had a very small number of Black students and no Latinos. The only other foreign students were one girl from Pakistan and my best friend – a blond, French-speaking Egyptian with considerable élan. High school was culture shock. I was 13 years old when I started the 9th grade, which made me younger than most of my classmates. On the first day at Cherry Hill when the homeroom teacher took attendance and called out “Estela Bensimon,” which he pronounced as Ben-zaimon, I had no idea that was me. Up until then, I had always been “Mara” (the name that I still go by among my family). Though “Mara” is my middle name, it was supposed to be my first – but I was born during the Peron dictatorship, and certain names were not allowed. “Mara” was one of them, which in Hebrew means grief, sorrow, and bitterness. To accommodate the “name” requirements “Estela” – a Christian name – became my first name, and it was in high school that I became “Estela.” Cherry Hill was a tracked school, and I was placed in the “C” track automatically because of my English. I was able to get out of the “C” track fairly quickly, though – I did very well in my English classes because I read a great deal. One of the advantages of having grown up without a TV was that I read for entertainment. But getting out of “C” track did little to change my feelings about my new American school. The truth is, I hated high school. My accent was so “amusing” to people there that I decided to stop speaking as much as I could. To escape, on Saturdays, I took the bus into Philadelphia, got off at Wanamaker’s (a large store that no longer exists), and walked through City Hall to the architecturally imposing Philadelphia Public Library, going by the Rodin Museum. Once at the library, I would choose a book, sit down in the smoking section, and smoke Salem cigarettes while I read for hours. In retrospect, it is quite remarkable that a skinny 13-year-old girl who looked much younger could sit by herself and smoke, undisturbed, in the public library. I found it interesting recently, as I prepared to write this chapter, when I read the chapter written by my friend Laura Rendon. I was struck by the realization that, despite major differences in our background, we’ve shared similar high school experiences, including not having gone to the prom and not being part of the popular social scene.

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Escaping to College In 1966, I went off from my parents’ home to Montclair State College (now university) in New Jersey. My primary motivation to go to college was to get away from home, where I felt stifled by my traditional South American parents. I would prefer to report that I went to college out of some great educational interests, but the truth is I had no academic interests at all. Entering college, I chose to major in Spanish – an easy option given that I was fully bilingual. Nothing in my educational trajectory indicated that I would end up with a passion for education, much less that I would become a professor. At Montclair, my peers were much more likely to be working class. Many were white, but for the first time my circle of friends included Blacks, Cubans, and Puerto Ricans. Unlike me, most were first-generation college students. Socially, I felt newly stimulated – new friends and lots of partying were exactly what I had hoped to find in leaving my parents’ Cherry Hill home. After 4 years of a fairly silent existence with little social life, I went wild. Educationally, however, I felt disinterested and unstimulated by my coursework. It wasn’t until my junior year, when I enrolled in a course on urban education and another on Black literature, which was brand new, that I finally felt engaged and interested. The course on urban education was taught by Myra Danzinger, and she exposed me to the political side of education and the struggle for better schooling. Her course coincided with the NYC movement for community control of schools, led by Rhody McCoy, known as the Ocean Hill-Brownsville struggle for Black control of schools. As a result of the course, I attended a conference in NYC where I heard McCoy and many other Black activists speak about the urgency for community control, detailing the racial chasm between predominantly Black and Puerto Rican communities and the predominantly White teachers who lived outside those communities. This was one of the pivotal moments in my turn toward advocacy for racial equity.

Newark’s 11-Week Teachers Strike In my last year of college, I was admitted into the newly established Teacher Corps program, a federal program to train teachers for urban areas. I spent my senior year as a “fellow” at Broadway Jr. High School in Newark, New Jersey, and the following year I was hired as a full-time teacher. In the spring of 1971, during my first year as a teacher, the Newark teacher’s union called a strike that lasted 11 weeks, the longest teachers strike ever. The New York Times described it as pitting “militants in the majority black community against militants in the minority white, largely Italian, community” (Butterfield, 1971). My exposure to the Ocean Hill-Brownsville political movement made me decide not to join the union and not to participate in the strike. The racial politics in Newark were very similar to those of Ocean HillBrownsville. I, along with a handful of other teachers – all Black – crossed the

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picket line every day, week after week. The longer the strike lasted, the greater the violence. I was screamed at by my colleagues, my car, a bright yellow firebird, was vandalized, and I received anonymous threatening letters. Even my parents, who at the time lived in Utica, NY, received an anonymous letter about their disgraceful daughter. I was harassed most days. My male students, all Puerto Rican and for whom English was a second language, called me “missy” and told me one day that they had decided they would protect me. From that point on, they escorted me across the picket line holding baseball bats. This did not please the principal who more than likely put a stop to it immediately. The strike coincided with the election of Newark’s first Black mayor, Kenneth Gibson, on whose campaign I had worked. His election heightened White resentment, particularly in the North Ward where Broadway Jr. High School was located. The previous mayors and other elected officials had come from the North Ward, which at one time had been predominantly Italian but was now becoming Black and Brown. Gibson’s election signified the loss of White power for the North Ward and Newark forever. As a 21-year-old teacher who was often confused for a student, I proudly wore a Gibson campaign button on my trench coat. One day, one of the White teachers, a prominent figure in the North Ward political machine, called me out for “campaigning” on school grounds and interrogated me relentlessly about my support for Ken Gibson. At the time I was an active member of Puerto Rican Youth United (PRYU) directed by Ramon Rivera, a very charismatic young Puerto Rican who became an influential political figure in Newark and the leader of Newark’s Young Lords Party (a Puerto Rican grassroots movement modeled on the Black Panthers). One day, during my lunch break at Broadway Jr. High, I met Ramon and the leader of the Puerto Rican Socialist Party in their car parked directly across the school. We were meeting to plan our participation in an upcoming Board of Education meeting. Suddenly we were surrounded by police cars on the excuse that they were looking for “a robbery suspect.” The principal, vice principal, fellow teachers, and my students peered from the windows of the school as I was questioned by police. I was mortified. How could I explain this? Though I knew we were being profiled for our activism in the Puerto Rican community, the concept of “profiling” was not yet in my vocabulary. Another troubling occurrence happened at a public meeting of the Board of Education during the teachers strike. There was strong police presence because the board meetings were the site of impassioned speeches and demonstrations, as well as lots of shouting among the different factions. Members of the Committee for a Unified Newark (headed by the writer and poet Imamu Amiri Baraka, aka Leroi Jones) were always a strong presence at the meetings, which typically went on well past midnight. On this particular evening, I attended the meeting with a contingency from Puerto Rican Youth United; we were all in our early 20s and younger. I wore a vivid red alpaca poncho that my mother had bought in Patagonia during a recent trip to Argentina. I had a large shoulder bag under my poncho and was standing in the

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back with other members of PRYU. Suddenly I heard a policeman shout something like, “Grab her. . .she has a gun!” I looked around. The “her with a gun” was me. The police assumed that the bulk under my poncho was some kind of deadly firearm. I was pushed up against the wall and forced to pull away my poncho and show my bag. When I was finally freed from their restraint, there was no apology for their mistake. This incident became part of the many chronicles of adventures shared among members of PRYU. After the strike ended, I left Broadway Jr. High. My decision to cross the picket line made it too uncomfortable to continue at the school. Older white teachers gave me the silent treatment and sometimes bullied me. My activism became a point of contention within the entire school. I decorated my classroom with the Puerto Rican flag and posters of Puerto Rican revolutionaries as well as members of the Black Panthers. When the vice principal saw this, he told me to take all of it down. Even my attire became a point of contention – women were not allowed to wear pants at the time, and I decided to violate this rule. Clogs had just come into fashion, and I wore a pair to school. The principal, Mr. Ciliano, took to the public speaker system and announced to the entire school that clogs were “dangerous” and not allowed. One of my last acts of rebellion at the school was to take up the cause of a physical education teacher whose colleagues were spreading malicious rumors about her being a lesbian, which in 1971 was viewed by many as abnormal and disgusting. I took it upon myself to write a letter, in a very indignant tone, to the principal naming the teachers who were the source of the rumors that were tormenting my colleague and friend. To strengthen my case, I enlisted two other teachers, both Black, to sign the letter with me. Things did not turn out as I expected, however. The principal shared the letter with the tormenting teachers, who in turn threatened to sue us for defamation of character. We were also forced to withdraw our accusations and make a formal apology to the teachers. It was a poisonous environment, and I saw no reason to stay in it.

Livingston College: An Experiment in Liberatory Education I went from Broadway Jr. High’s rigid and politically conservative environment to the politically progressive environment of Livingston College, which had opened in 1969 as a response to the Newark Black rebellion during the summer of 1967, one of the largest and most violent civil insurgences in the United States. According to an article in (Pfaff, 2019) the New York Times, a rumor that a Black taxi driver had been killed by police was “enough to inflame a population filled with years of pent-up grievances: not only abuse at the hands of the police, but entrenched, unaddressed poverty, urban renewal policies that bypassed black residents and a white political power structure that had long ignored their needs.” Two years after the Newark insurgency, Rutgers University founded Livingston College in Piscataway. Originally the college was envisioned as an MIT of Social Sciences, but in view of the Newark insurgency and demands by Rutgers Black students for greater access and curricular changes, the mission of Livingston College became one of the most

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radical in the nation. Unfortunately that mission lasted less than a decade before Livingston became like all other campuses. Embracing a mission of social justice, Livingston was intentional in addressing the needs of Black and Puerto Rican students that had not been well served by Rutgers. Offering many features that distinguished it from the rest of the Rutgers campuses and higher education in general, Livingston’s original motto was “Strength Through Diversity.” The Spring 1969 undergraduate catalogue said the following: “Livingston College will have no ivory towers. It cannot; our cities are decaying. Many of our fellow men are starving; social injustice and racism litter the earth; weapons of awesome destruction threaten our existence. The times we live in are revolutionary and bewildering. Radical change has become the rule; understanding and mastering that change has become a necessity. Livingston students will need to get a sense of the transformation occurring around them” (Rutgers, the State University of New Jersey, December 18, 2019) (Bensimon et al., 2019). When I was offered a position there as counselor in the Academic Foundations Department (the equivalent of today’s Educational Opportunity Programs), I felt incredibly lucky because Livingston was the happening place for education, and I was excited to be part of it. During the Attica Uprising on September 9, 1971 – just a few weeks after I started my position – we held all kinds of teach-ins, lectures, and performances. Aside from being politically aware, Livingston was innovative; it was one of the first universities to establish a Puerto Rican Studies program – noteworthy at the time because there were not many Puerto Rican scholars with doctorates. But Livingston didn’t hesitate to break the rules, hiring a majority of professors who did not have doctorates. But they were brilliant, inspirational, and wonderful teachers. Among those teachers was Maria Josefa Canino, a highly respected figure in NYC politics, who became chair of the department. Other members of the department were Carlos Piñeiro, Hilda Hidalgo, Eddie Ortiz, Victor Fragosa, and Miguel Algarin, the poet and activist who founded the iconic Nuyorican Poets Café. Well-known authors Nikki Giovanni and Toni Bambara also taught at Livingston. Livingston had coed dormitories, also something that was nonexistent at other campuses, and it had a Puerto Rican House and a Black House. Most of the students to whom I was assigned as counselor lived in these dorms and came from New Jersey’s urban and rural areas: Paterson, Jersey City, Hoboken, Newark, Elizabeth, Perth Amboy, and Vineland. As their counselor, my job was to make sure they were registered for classes, received their financial aid, and (most of all) listen to their experiences as they navigated college and learned how to be college students. As may be obvious, I loved my job, and I formed very close relationships with the students. I was not that much older than them, and my office was a place for them to hang out. I remember one of my students told me that she’d become pregnant. At the time, abortions were only available in New York City, so I took her to a clinic there to have an abortion. Thinking back on it now, I recognize it was a big risk; if anything had gone wrong, I would have had to bear responsibility. But I was pleased that she had confided in me and that I could help solve a problem in a manner that others might have found morally wrong.

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Though I enjoyed my time at Livingston, my tenure there was not very long. Carlos Piñeiro, who was on the faculty of the Puerto Rican Studies department, was appointed executive director of Aspira of New Jersey and asked me to join him as his deputy. I didn’t hesitate to accept and returned to Newark where Aspira was located.

Grass Roots Work in the Puerto Rican Community Aspira was a national organization with branches in several states and cities. I worked with clubs of Aspirantes at Ferris High School in Jersey City, Hoboken High School in Hoboken, and several high schools in Newark, Paterson, and other cities and towns throughout the state. The purpose of these clubs was to develop Puerto Rican youth leadership and encourage their aspirations to go to college. We took students on college visits, we practiced completing college applications and financial aid forms, and we made home visits to persuade parents that college was indeed a possibility. It was all important work, but one of my most important accomplishments as director of Education was to convince the Newark schools superintendent to allow Aspira’s counselors to provide the services within the schools and to give us office space. It was a big deal because the assistant superintendent was not friendly toward us. Of course, the work we did at Aspira was to counteract the lack of guidance counselors as well as the absence of a college-going culture in those high schools – all of which were predominantly Puerto Rican and Black. I worked at Aspira for about 2 years, 1973–1975. My only assets at the time were a master’s degree in counseling which I completed during my second year in Teacher Corps and the activist fervor I’d developed through my volunteer experiences at Puerto Rican Youth United. Many of the students I worked with went on to prestigious colleges including Rutgers in New Jersey. Many who went away for college returned and took on important public positions in the community as judges, politicians, teachers, and professors. I am still in touch with some of them. Aspira also introduced me to policy. Shortly after I joined Aspira, the famous legal case Robinson vs. Cahill was about to be argued in the New Jersey Supreme Court. Robinson was a high school student in Jersey City who was contesting that the financing of public schools in New Jersey was in violation of the constitution’s provision of a “thorough and efficient education.” New Jersey’s public schools, like those of many other states, were funded from property taxes, a practice that led to great inequalities in resources across different neighborhoods and regions. At the time, property taxes in urban cities that had experienced White flight were based on very low property values compared to wealthier suburbs. Robinson vs. Cahill attracted a coalition of nonprofit community organizations, Aspira among them. One of my jobs as Aspira’s representative at strategy meetings was to produce a report on the significance of Robinson vs. Cahill for the Puerto Rican community. I recall having no idea how to get that report done – it felt very daunting. Maria DeCastro Blake, one of my mentors, suggested that I contact the journalist and writer Kal Wagenheim, who had written extensively about Puerto Rico’s history. He was

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married to the well-known historian Olga Wagenheim, a professor at Rutgers University. I remember calling Kal on the phone and being incredibly anxious about talking to such a well-known figure. Kal turned out to be a wonderful colleague, and the report he produced joined the documents of amicus curiae. Robinson triumphed in the case, and the court ordered changes in the financing of the public schools across the state as well as an educational strategy that would make “thorough and efficient” measurable. While I could not make the connection at the time, this was my first clear example of the chasm between policymaking and implementation. The Supreme Court’s mandate was never fully implemented nor did it solve the racial inequalities in educational opportunity. The case had been won, but the battle had not. Around 1975, I was recruited by Alfonso Roman, the executive director of the Puerto Rican Congress of New Jersey, to take the position of director of Education. This was a much larger organization than Aspira and played a much larger leadership role in New Jersey. The mission of the Congreso was to advocate for education, housing, business, and early childhood education through policy and direct services. Our offices were located in Trenton, right by the state capitol and directly across the street from the Department of Education. Our building was an old house of about three floors divided up into offices. The board of directors was predominantly Puerto Rican men, some of whom worked in government, some were educators and lawyers, and others held elected office in municipalities. When I was interviewed for the position, I was asked two questions that seemed odd: did I have children? To which I answered, “No, and having children is not part of my life plan.” The other question was about my religion. To which I answered, “I am an atheist.” These questions were of course inappropriate, but as a 25-year-old it did not occur to me to say so. And my honest responses of course – not wanting to be a mother and not believing in God – made me even more culturally suspect, in the eyes of traditional Puerto Rican men, than being an Argentine with a Jewish name. Nonetheless I was hired. The work at the Congreso was very different than at Aspira. It brought me into close contact with the Department of Education staff (I served on some of their advisory boards), and I often had to make presentations to the Board of Education and be in meetings with the commissioner and his staff. Our relationship with the Department of Education was often adversarial because we were advocating for the educational rights of Puerto Ricans; the Department of Education was all White and not very racially sensitive. At the Congreso, I learned how to be an advocate and to take and defend unpopular positions, but most of all I learned about federal funding because much of the work we did was supported by the then US Department of Health, Education, and Welfare. It was essential knowledge that I carried with me for my entire career. I learned other things at the Congreso as well: the commissioner of Education at the time was named Burke, and at some point, we decided it might be nice to invite him to have lunch at a local Puerto Rican restaurant. It was a hole on the wall, so to make the lunch special I bought a very good bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape and four wine glasses. Burke was surprised when he saw the wine and, with a great smile,

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announced that it was his favorite wine. I don’t know if that was true, but I know that we surprised him that day, perhaps on more levels than one. But the highlight of the lunch for me was not the wine. It was me surreptitiously sweeping a cockroach off the tabletop as I continued conversing casually with the commissioner.

The New Jersey Department of Higher Education Working at the Puerto Rican Congress and Aspira, I felt valued and supported by my colleagues. I felt I had the power to make things happen. But when I was appointed director of Bilingual Education in the NJ Department of Higher Education, I found myself surrounded mostly by older White men and women who questioned what I was doing. Bilingual Education had no status at that point, and most of the other professionals in the office behaved as though they did not think of it as legitimate. Thinking back on it, there were numerous experiences at the department that we would describe today as racialized aggressions. I remember arriving at my office cubicle one morning and finding on my desk a newspaper article titled something like “Against Bilingual Education.” Sections of the article had been underlined and underscored with exclamation points. The person who left the article on my desk never identified themselves, but I had a pretty good idea who it had come from. The act of a colleague sneaking into my cubicle to leave an article that called into question my role as director of Bilingual Education was an expression of hatred, disrespect, and intimidation, belittling me and the entire field. I do not recall whether I shared it with the vice chancellor, to whom I reported, but I know nothing was ever done about it – certainly no memo from the chancellor declaring such actions reprehensible. The second incident that shook my confidence came about when I was asked to write a response to a letter the chancellor had received from a constituent, either attacking bilingual education or making disparaging remarks about non-English speakers. I cannot remember what the topic was, but it was a letter clearly motivated by racism. I eagerly wrote a response to refute the claims in the letter and to give the chancellor an opportunity to take a moral stand as an advocate for the educational rights of oppressed communities. I was very pleased with the letter, and I was additionally pleased that I had been asked to write a response that would be signed by the chancellor. But those good feelings were shattered when, once again anonymously, I found a copy of my letter on my desk with a message written across it in capital letters: THIS IS THE WORST WRITING I HAVE SEEN. The message may not have been as polite as that – I prefer not to recall the exact wording. I may then have realized that this response was not about the writing but about what I had written (which went well beyond the typical response of “thank you for your letter. . .”), but I was still too young (around 25 or 26) to have the confidence to not internalize the message. In all likelihood, albeit unconsciously, I probably believed that I was the “worst writer.” Of course, these stand out because of the negative impact they had on me at that time. I must note that there were many other experiences at the NJ Department of

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Higher Education that were gratifying professionally and that gave me the feeling of advancing the value and credibility of bilingual education teacher preparation programs. Moreover, my time at the DHE motivated me to think about pursuing a doctorate, and it gave me the connections that made it possible for me to win a Title VII Fellowship at Teachers College, Columbia University.

The Courtyard: A Memory of Fear It was Ted Hollander, the chancellor for Higher Education in New Jersey, and my last boss before I became a full-time doctoral student, who told me that I should consider getting my doctorate if I had ambitions for higher level administrative positions in higher education. I had met Dr. Isaura Santiago-Santiago, a professor at Teachers College and the director of its Bilingual Teacher Training program, at conferences and other meetings. She invited me to apply for a Title VII Fellowship, and I enrolled as a full-time doctoral student in the fall of 1980. Isaura also offered me a position as a staff member in her office. I was incredibly fortunate because my Title VII fellowship paid my tuition and books as well as a stipend – and it lasted for 3 years. The assistantship with Isaura came with a salary, benefits, and even an office. When the position with Dr. Santiago-Santiago came to an end, I became the research assistant to Wagner Thielens, a sociologist who did not have a faculty appointment but had an office in the suite occupied by the higher education faculty. Wagner was quite eccentric, but he was very wealthy – to the point that he was his own foundation. Though my work as his research assistant was not very demanding, my salary was excellent, and on top of that he enrolled me in TIAA-CREF. At the time, most graduate students as well as faculty had to do all their computer work in a central, shared location. Wagner decided that it was too much bother for me to have to go to the central computer room, so he bought me a computer, which in those days (the early 1980s) was a big expense. My computer was connected to the mainframe via a telephone and other contraptions that are no longer in existence. Wagner was incredibly generous, and in the last 6 months of my graduate work, he continued to pay me but suggested I just work on my dissertation. I don’t know whether he treated all his research assistants like this, but I was (and am) certainly grateful for it at that time in my life. As I write this, it has been several decades since my first semester as a doctoral student at Teachers College, and while much of what happened that year is forgotten, there is one experience that has always stayed with me. It was the first week of classes in September of 1980, and I had just attended my first class, which I think was something like The Purpose of Higher Education. One of the required books was Three Thousand Futures, one in a series produced by the now defunct Carnegie Commission on Higher Education. The title referred to the number of colleges and universities that were in existence at the time, but I probably did not know that. The fall in New York City is the best season, full of sunny days, crisp air, and blue skies. I went into one of the courtyards at Teachers College and sat down to read the

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assigned chapter. But suddenly panic struck me. Looking at the chapter, I had no idea what I was reading. I knew the words, of course, but I couldn’t grasp the meaning in the text. Sitting there with that coursebook in my hands, it suddenly dawned on me that I had just turned 30 and I had given up my position as director of Bilingual Education in New Jersey’s Department of Higher Education. What have I done? went through my mind. I will never be able to get a doctorate. I will fail. It was an anxiety or panic attack, and it frightened me as much as the thought of having made a terrible mistake. The majority of my professors throughout my 3 years at Teachers College were men, White men. They came across as confident authorities as they lectured from the front of a traditionally organized classroom. I suspect that the fear of failure that I experienced on that sunny day in the courtyard had to do with being on an old and historical campus full of White men who were at ease, spoke with authority, and walked through the halls with purpose. It was an alien culture, and I felt intimidated. But I persevered, perhaps driven in part by that fear of failure, and the feeling fortunately went away after my first semester. It was during my first semester that I met Robert Birnbaum. He taught one of the required courses in the higher education concentration, Purposes and Policies of Higher Education, or something along those lines. I had met Dr. Birnbaum (he became Bob later on) when I applied for admission, but he had not been particularly warm or personable. As a teacher, he gave detailed lectures that I enjoyed listening to because they were full of information about the specifics of the evolution of higher education that I had never known. It was in his class that I learned about institutional types, particularly Historically Black Colleges and Universities and Tribal Colleges, shared governance, and much more. Dr. Birnbaum introduced me to the literature by major figures in the scholarship of higher education, Alexander (who later became Sandy to me) Astin and Helen (later becoming my good friend Lena) Astin, David Reisman, Clark Kerr’s Uses of the University, Joseph Ben-David, the collection of Carnegie works, David Breneman, and Charles Willie. With the exception of Helen Astin, Patricia Cross, and Charles Willie, the reading list was predominantly White and male, which was the way things were and which I did not question. However, I remember reading David Reisman and Christopher Jencks’ Academic Revolution and being taken aback by the condescending tone of the chapters on HBCUs and women’s colleges, which were full of racist and sexist ideas and language. One of Bob’s requirements was that we each maintain a subscription to the Chronicle of Higher Education, and every week he expected us to identify articles that illustrated the topics we were studying. Even though I had worked at NJ’s Department of Higher Education for 2 years, I had never become aware of the existence of the Chronicle, and I approached it with sincere curiosity and interest. Another novel practice (at least at the time) was the weekly evaluation, a form we completed to evaluate his class, compare it to previous classes, and write comments. Bob dutifully provided us with a report the following week that included all of our comments typed up. I loved this practice and adopted it in my own courses at Penn State and later at USC.

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One of the topics on which I have written is institutional agents (Bensimon et al., 2019): individuals who have power and resources that they can, if they choose, mobilize on behalf of others. If I were asked to name institutional agents who played a role in my own intellectual and professional development, Bob would be at the top of the list. When I entered Teachers College, not only did I not have any idea as to what I would do after earning the doctoral degree, I also had serious doubts – as noted above – about my abilities to succeed. My anxiety attack in the courtyard was in part caused by my doubts about my ability to write, to do research, to speak, to be an intellectual. My confidence in myself was low. My experiences at the NJ Department of Higher Education had filled me with doubts about my intellect; these intensified in my early days at Teachers College. The positive side of my anxieties was that they motivated me to prove that I was not the “worst writer” and to dispel the perception that, because I was a Latina who spoke English with a distinctive accent, I was not “doctoral” material. As a result, I went over and above on the first paper I wrote for Bob’s class, and the reward for me was a personal note on my paper saying something to the effect that it was an excellent paper, well-written, and that he was glad that I was in his class. Like any institutional agent, Bob had the power to give or withhold praise, and in giving me that praise at that moment, he gave me the confidence I needed to feel like I belonged there and that I could make it in the program. By my second semester at Teachers College, I was working with Bob as his research assistant and learning from him how to be a scholar. And my doubts evaporated. I felt very comfortable and confident. Much later in my career, at USC where I spent 25 of my 31 years in the professoriate, I taught mostly PhD courses, often including qualitative methods for first-year students. And on the first day of class with those new students, I often shared with them my story of “fear in the Teachers College courtyard.” I shared it because I wanted them to know, especially students who, like me, might experience “impostor syndrome,” that fear and intimidation were something I too had experienced but was able to make it past that and succeed. The part I didn’t tell them is that while my self-doubts at Teachers College vanished, many years later, they strangely reemerged when I was promoted to associate professor.

The Ford Foundation and UCLA I finished my doctorate in 1983, exactly 3 years after starting. A few weeks before defending my dissertation, someone at Teachers College gave my name to Alison Bernstein at the Ford Foundation as a suggestion to fill a consulting position on a new initiative to support a national cohort of urban community colleges to strengthen transfer. I was grateful for the recommendation, though I really did not know much about community colleges at the time. But I was aware that the Ford Foundation would be a great opportunity. Before my interview with Alison, I spent days reading about community colleges. My preparation paid off – the interview went very well, and I was offered the position.

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The Ford Foundation was a very different world from graduate school – the unique all-glass architecture of their headquarters near the UN building and the furnishings of their offices oozed with corporate wealth and privilege. In the mornings and afternoons, a waiter would roll a cart through the hallways offering us coffee and pastries. Compared to Teachers College rundown offices and furniture, it felt extremely luxurious. I loved being there. My position at Ford was as a consultant-in-residence to the community college project and to Alison. Pretty much every day there would be higher education scholars from around the country coming to see Alison and make their case for grants – Sandy Astin, Lena Astin, David Breneman, Art Cohen, Florence Brawer, Dick Richardson, Kay Moore, and many others who I have since forgotten. The odd thing was that my role at Ford, even though it was not particularly important, elevated my status. Alison trusted my opinion and would ask me to review proposals and make comments and recommendations about their feasibility. It was at Ford that I realized that having grants was a tremendous power. Throughout my 31-year academic career, in fact, there was never a year where I did not have grants to support the work I was doing. The millions of dollars in grants that I received from the Lilly Endowment, TIAA-CREF, Ford, Hewlett, Carnegie, Lumina, Gates, ECMC, James Irvine, and College Futures gave me the freedom and autonomy I needed. At Ford, I met Art Cohen, who had been given a grant to evaluate the new Transfer Opportunities Program, and he invited me to join the community college research center that he and Florence Brawer, his wife, directed in Los Angeles. I was to become the lead researcher for the project and would also be given an appointment at UCLA as a postdoc. This offer was completely unexpected, and I was faced with making the first of many choices between career and personal life. Agapito, my longtime partner, had just completed his degree at Harvard’s Kennedy School and was moving to NYC to live with me, and now here I was headed all the way to Los Angeles. It was a hard choice. The result was that I moved to Los Angeles and Agapito moved into my NYC apartment, sharing it with my brother for 2 years. They had a much better time than I did in Los Angeles. All of this movement and change sounds random in the way I’ve described it here, and that’s not inaccurate. As I have already said, I was not very strategic. If I had been like my PhD students at USC, I would have plotted how to take advantage of the postdoc and use it to lay the groundwork for an academic career. But I did not because it simply never occurred to me; I had not developed the habits of mind to be purposefully future oriented. Instead, I spent hours and hours doing research and designing the study, collecting survey data, and writing up reports. My only publication during that time was a chapter in New Directions for Community Colleges and an evaluation report on the transfer initiative, which I naively shared with Michael Olivas, and he tore it apart. In later years, Michael became a good friend and was always supportive of me, but at that time, I was an unknown quantity to him. When the evaluation project in Los Angeles ended, I decided to return to NYC even though my future there was uncertain. But I missed the city, I missed my partner and my friends – having spent 2 years in Los Angeles without a car had made it difficult for me to feel part of the city, and I was not as socially connected there as I was in NYC.

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Back to Teachers College I returned to New York City in 1985, and by early 1986 I had also returned to Teachers College to work with Bob Birnbaum in the newly funded National Research Center on Leadership, Governance, and Finance. Bob was the principal investigator and director of the Institutional Leadership Project, and I, along with Anna Neumann, who moved from Fresno to join us, was the assistant director. Returning to Teachers College to work with Bob after my 2 years of loneliness at UCLA felt like a miracle – I could not have been happier. I felt that I finally had what I wanted. Between 1986 and 1989, the three of us collaborated in a wide-ranging national study of leadership that involved 32 colleges and universities. Anna and I were each responsible for 14 colleges and over a 3-year period visited each of them twice to interview their presidents, leadership teams, and faculty leaders. Typically, we would spend 3 days at each site. Some of the places were exciting to visit like Northwestern University, Piedmont Community College in Charlottesville, and the University of Denver, but others were remote, like Bay de Noc in Escanaba and Crowder in Missouri. I also visited several HBCUs: Florida A&M, Fayetteville State University, and Wilberforce Academy. Anna and I became close colleagues and friends. We wrote together. We read each other’s work. We shared our anxieties. Before each conference presentation, we practiced by presenting our papers to each other. We met often at a coffee shop on Broadway near Teachers College where we wrote one or more papers and began writing a book (Bensimon & Neumann, 1993; Bensimon, 2018a) that was published by Johns Hopkins University Press. We shared many dinners, and we also shopped together. We were each other’s primary source of support. Thirty-five years later we’re still friends and able to share deep confidences about our lives. As for the Leadership Project itself, my experience doing the work made me realize that the only way to continue doing the kind of work I loved was to obtain an academic appointment, and so I became an assistant professor at Penn State in 1989. For the next 6 years, I commuted weekly between Manhattan, where my husband was now working for the city of New York, and Happy Valley where I lived 3–4 days a week in a dreary apartment. The first year I commuted by train, about 8 hours, and starting the second year I flew, taking a plane to Pittsburgh and switching to another one to make the last part of the trip.

Making It For some, it may be odd to consider that my first faculty appointment did not happen until 1989, about 6 years after having earned my doctorate. Right before I received the offer at Penn State, an ASHE colleague advised me that I had already let too much time go by since earning the doctorate and that based on research on the professoriate and productivity, I was unlikely to be successful. When I shared with

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Anna what he had said, her reaction was, “don’t listen to him.” Fortunately, his prediction was wrong, way wrong. I started at Penn State having just turned 40; compared to most assistant professors who follow a traditional trajectory, I was old. My advantage was that the 3 years of affiliation with the Institutional Leadership Project made it possible for me to acquire a scholarly identity as a specialist in higher education leadership, and I arrived at Penn State with publications and a book (with Anna Neumann) in progress. I also already possessed my own grants – one from the Lilly Endowment and another from TIAA-CREF – so I had a head start. Both of these grants were mediated by Peggy Heim, an economist at TIAA-CREF who I met at Ford and took a liking to me. She used her power and connections to support my career. But even so, I did not have a good strategy for how to be successful as a tenure-track faculty member. I was not socialized to become an academic because my graduate program at Teachers College did not aspire to place its graduates in academic positions. At USC, by contrast, the current PhD program is extremely focused on preparing students for the professoriate. PhD students there aspire to faculty positions, they join research centers like the Center for Urban Education, they present papers at ASHE and AERA, and many get to publish their research before they receive their degree. They experience what sociologists call anticipatory socialization at its very fullest. I admire their intentionality. I did none of these things. When I entered the doctoral program at Teachers College, a program that awarded the EdD, my only objective was to earn the degree. There was no plan. There was no strategy. There was no vision. Yet, despite my lack of intentionality, I ended up hired into a tenure-track position at one of the top higher education research centers, the Penn State Center for the Study of Higher Education. And it was at Penn State, of all places, where I found my voice as a woman, a feminist, and a Latina. Perhaps there was an implicit strategy that I was not aware of. Context matters a great deal in how we define ourselves. At Penn State, I found myself in a place that on the one hand had fairly traditional White male academics (I was the only woman in the faculty in the higher education program), while on the other hand it had Bill Tierney and Bobby Wright. Bill, Bobby, and I became our own network. Bill was very different from anyone I had ever met, and he exposed me to critical theory and power. Bill’s scholarship was driven by an agenda to shed light on power asymmetries and to give voice to “silenced lives.” He was not trying to “pass” – academically or sexually. He felt confident in using the “master’s tools” to reveal oppressive conditions in the academy that impacted the existences of gay students, academics, and Native Americans, and that perpetuated the mythology of equal educational opportunity. Both Bobby and Bill were gay, and in 1989–1990, Penn State – and most of the United States – was still a pretty homophobic place. Bill decided to advocate for adding “sexual orientation” to the list of protected categories in the university’s antidiscrimination statement. It may seem rather ridiculous that we were fighting for what now seems like such an inconsequential

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concession. At the time, though, it was a major step, and Bill’s campaign was exciting to me because it reminded me of the old days of advocacy for bilingual education when I worked at the Puerto Rican congress. So naturally I joined him in that campaign, as did Bobby. It never crossed my mind that I might be doing something that could lessen my chances of being successful. But there I was, an assistant professor, without tenure, taking up a cause that was not particularly popular among senior faculty, and that was taking time away from research and writing, which I needed to do if I had any hope of earning tenure. All I knew was that being part of Bill’s campaign was exciting, and it made me feel I was doing something that mattered. I recognize now that it was that feeling of satisfaction about “doing something that mattered” that helped me become the kind of scholar that I eventually became. The work with Bill led me to a research project on the experiences of gay and lesbian faculty, which turned into a life history article on lesbian existence in the academy. I happened to be attending a conference at the Plaza Hotel in NYC where Maxine Greene, the renowned philosopher, was the keynote speaker. By pure chance, I happened to run into her in the ladies room. We struck up a conversation, and I must have said something about the paper on lesbian existence. She asked that I send it to her because it would make a nice contribution to The Journal of Education. I was tremendously flattered. Having someone of Maxine’s stature interested in me and my work was hard to believe in my first years as an assistant professor. The other high point in my early career was my turn to feminist theory. I, along with Judy Glazer,1 Fran Stage, and Barbara Townsend,2 was invited to organize a presidential symposium for the Association for the Study of Higher Education. I think it was the 1990 meeting, held in an awful venue in Portland, Oregon, the Red Lion-Jantzen Beach, which was on the freeway not very close to town. It was billed as a Distinguished Symposium: The Feminist Perspective and the Study of Higher Education. And it’s worth noting that even though it was 1990, I think it may have been the first time that “feminist” appeared in the title of an ASHE conference. My paper was based on Sandra Harding’s feminist standpoint theory and consisted of rewriting the paper where I had previously referred to all the presidents as “he” and made the women presidents invisible. To write the paper, I amassed a library of books and articles to teach myself feminist theory. Looking back now, after about three decades of presenting at ASHE, that symposium still remains one of my favorite sessions. For me it was an academic breakthrough. I had finally found my voice and no longer felt that disconnected and distanced from what I was writing. This is not to say that I discounted my work on leadership, which is what distinguished the early years of my academic career, it’s just that writing about leadership as a disembodied practice was not as much fun as writing about presidents from the standpoint of feminist theory.

1 2

Judy Glazer married a few years later and became Judy Glazer Raymo. Barbara Townsend died very young in 2009.

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Getting Tenure and Being Promoted to Associate Professor I spent 6 years at Penn State, from 1989 to 1995. I was promoted to associate professor either in 1992 or 1993. I don’t recall the year, but I do remember that it was an early promotion, mainly because I had been offered a position at Ohio State University as a tenured associate professor as well as the editorship of The Journal of Higher Education to replace Bob Silverman, who had decided to retire. That offer was very attractive, and I wanted to accept it, but commuting between Columbus and Manhattan would have been more difficult than my commute between Happy Valley and Manhattan, which I did just about every week for 6 years. In the end, two things happened. Bill Tierney and I won a grant to do a study of junior faculty, and Penn State promoted me to associate professor to retain me. Becoming an associate professor with tenure should have been a moment worth commemorating, but I do not recall how I celebrated. I’m sure I did in one way or another. What I do remember, though, is that I unexpectedly sunk into a profound depression that lasted many months. I had always been subject to anxiety and feelings of insecurity and inadequacy, but this was very different. I did not want to answer the telephone. I did not want to leave my apartment in Manhattan either, and every time that I had to get on the plane to make the weekly trip to Penn State, it became harder and harder. It also became more difficult for me to interact socially. In desperation, I reached out to a friend at the University of Michigan, a psychiatrist, and he explained that I was suffering from depression and social phobia and referred me to a psychiatrist affiliated with Columbia University. I was treated with antidepressants, and in a matter of weeks, or at least what now seems like just weeks, I felt reborn. I had great energy, I felt confident, and best of all I became super-productive. I have never shared this side of my life, and very few people have ever known about it. At the time, there was too much stigma associated with antidepressants or with the idea of being depressed, so I never told anyone. I share this now because I know that there are many others who suffer what I experienced, and there were many times, particularly with graduate students, that I felt my experience might be helpful to them, though I never did share it. I knew that to many I have always appeared very sure of myself, sometimes even intimidating. Michael Olivas calls me “la reina” (“the queen”), for example, so it has been difficult for me to admit that internally I was not always that person and to reveal that, like many others, I too faced various insecurities, fear of public speaking, doubts, and also imposter syndrome – all of which I kept in check chemically.

Back to Los Angeles In 1993, my year of depression, Bill went on sabbatical to Costa Rica. In 1991 Bobby had died of AIDS. These were the early days of AIDS, and no one knew about his illness. During his long illness Bill and I spent a great deal of time with him

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at his home in State College but mostly at the hospital in Hershey. Bobby was a Chippewa Cree from Montana’s Rocky Boy Reservation, and in May of 1991 he returned there to die. He was just 40. He was a beautiful and kind person who had a playful side to him. With Bill leaving for Costa Rica and Bobby gone, I was left alone at Penn State for a difficult year. When Bill returned from his sabbatical, he had decided that “we” should leave Penn State, and he applied for a position at USC for both of us. He was invited to interview, and I was not. When he was offered the position, he negotiated as part of his package that there would be an additional faculty position for me. Bill moved to USC in 1994, and I joined him as a full professor there in 1995. I had been appointed full professor at USC’s School of Education after 4 years as an assistant professor and 2 years as an associate professor. I was relieved to have achieved the status of full professor before turning 50 because, as a 40-year-old assistant professor, I’d felt very self-conscious. But being a 46-year-old full professor seemed more normal. My return to Los Angeles, after having sworn that I would never leave NYC or return to Los Angeles, was happy. I had commuted by plane and train to Penn State for 6 years, and it was not until I stopped doing so that I realized how exhausting it had been. For the first time in many years, Agapito and I were having a normal life, and best of all we could now live in a house – quite the novelty after having lived together for 16 years in a Manhattan apartment of less than 1,000 square feet. I was thrilled to have a garden and a home office with a separate entrance that itself was half the size of our NYC apartment and where I was able to build floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Another plus was having so much light; as much as I loved NYC, much of the time it was grayish, and the highrise buildings that surrounded our apartment did not allow for much sunlight. Bill and his then-partner and now-husband, Barry, who were our good friends, lived just 5 min from us. Bill and I planned to build a higher education research center at USC. But this did not work out as planned. In the spring of 1996, around the time of the AERA meeting, Gib Hentschke, our dean, asked me to take the position of associate dean. I had been at USC less than a year at that point and accepted the offer. To my surprise, this caused a rupture in my relationship with Bill that lasted 15 years before we spoke again and reunited. There is no denying that the breakup with Bill was very painful, particularly since we worked in the same building and were together in many meetings. This made it very awkward, certainly. But much more than that, it was very sad to me, and I shed many tears over the breakup. A friend of mine told me at the time that it was very unlikely that Bill and I would ever reestablish our relationship. At that point, it was hard not to agree with her, but happily she turned out to be wrong. Although becoming associate dean had cost me my friendship with Bill, I benefitted greatly from a professional standpoint. I was able to bring about some important changes to the school that raised its quality, changed the curriculum, incentivized research, and introduced the practice of bonuses. Of course, I also made many mistakes. If I had to do it all over again, I would spend more time building relationships and engaging in the kinds of strategically prosocial behaviors that I now see my dear friend Shaun Harper putting into action.

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In my last year as associate dean, then-provost Lloyd Armstrong and his executive vice provost, Mike Diamond, announced a competition for funds to motivate innovation, particularly around the initiatives delineated in the strategic plan. With a group of colleagues from the school, I wrote a plan to establish the Center for Urban Education. I had low expectations for the success of our proposal, mainly because the School of Education, as is often the case in research universities, was not a high priority for the university’s leadership; I anticipated that the funding would go instead to the sciences or the College of Arts and Sciences. When the provost’s office let me know that they were giving me almost $1 million, I was elated. That money became the foundation for the most productive and rewarding phase of my time in the academy.

How I Came to Focus on Racial Equity I had learned a bad lesson at the NJ Department of Higher Education, which was further reinforced in graduate school: in order to succeed in the mainstream, you could not afford to engage in so-called “identity-based” scholarship. I still recall vividly and with great shame being at a seminar on leadership at the ETS Princeton campus, around 1986 or so, and presenting a paper on presidential leadership where all presidents, regardless of their gender, I referred to by the pronoun “he” as if it were neutral. Donna Shavlick, at the time the head of the American Council on Education’s Division of Women and Leadership, asked me a question that was something to the effect of, “What about women leaders?” or “women presidents,” and I, stupidly and ignorantly, responded with something like, “Gender does not matter.” She was kind to me and did not point out how very wrong I was. I know it must be difficult to imagine those words coming out of my mouth. I had been so thoroughly socialized into the myth of the academy as a place of objectivity that must be genderless and raceless that I could not see how my conforming to and upholding these values contributed to my own and all women’s invisibility. I could not see how it added to the “angustio” brought on by the pressures of trying to be what was considered an authentic academic – distanced, free of an agenda, nonpartisan, erudite, and, most of all, highly articulate and confident. I use the Spanish “angustio,” which roughly translates into “anguish,” because the word anguish does not express the painfulness of trying to be something that one is not and how that ultimately is exhausting and emotionally damaging. It may also be hard to imagine this, but up until 1999, the year I founded the Center for Urban Education, I had been pretty much an academic in the traditional sense, moving from assistant to full professor, existing within academia as many others had for countless decades before me. As I wrote in Bridging the Artificial Gap between Activism and Scholarship to Form Tools of Knowledge (2018a; Essed, 2002), in 1999, I suddenly found myself in a sort of professional and personal crisis, but it was one that motivated me to change my research agenda and the methods of research I relied upon. I found myself constantly asking questions about my own work: What good did it do to document the cultural practices of tenure and

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promotion and their disproportionate impact on women and faculty of color if it did not result in concrete changes? How would publishing a rebellious analysis of Total Quality Management in the Harvard Education Review bring greater legitimacy to knowledge centered on the experiences of historically oppressed communities? How would documenting the silencing of women and people of color in leadership teams contribute to developing more gender- and race-conscious leadership selection processes? I became aware that simply collecting and analyzing data was no longer satisfying to me. Studying leaders or faculty or change initiatives was not enough. Even publishing my findings in peer-reviewed journals felt unfulfilling. Thus in 2000, my work veered off in a direction that was methodologically new yet very much influenced by the values and politics that had always been at the center of my activist work in the1970s. From then until today, my research agenda – embodied in the collective work of the Center for Urban Education – has been explicitly anti-racist. CUE’s agenda throughout that time has remained explicitly political and race conscious. At the time I created CUE, in 1999, as unbelievable as it may sound, there was still a great deal of reticence about talking openly about race and racism. There was a lot more comfort with inequalities based on income. I was counseled against centering my work on racial equity, and I’m glad that this time around I did not listen. The value of having tenure and the rank of full professor equated to the freedom to choose and to use one’s resources to do research that calls out the production of racialized inequities through everyday practices (Essed, 2002; Kemmis & McTaggart, 2000). The anti-racist and equity-focused agenda that I set for CUE shared the ideals and philosophy that had motivated my community-oriented advocacy with and on behalf of the Puerto Rican community in New Jersey many decades prior. Much like the community advocacy work I had done in the 1970s, the work I led as CUE’s director was focused squarely on racial equity. Both shared a clear intent to dismantle institutional barriers that stand in the way of racial equity in educational access and outcomes. At CUE, we upended the focus on the achievement gaps of Blacks, Latinx, Native Americans, and marginalized Asian American groups to focus instead on the failing performance of higher education for these populations. At CUE we also created tools (https://www.cue-tools.usc.edu/) still used today to remediate institutional structures and develop equity-minded agency among practitioners and leaders. I wanted to transform racial equity from an ideal that had been embraced only in the abstract into something that was actionable and measurable. In my community work, I’d advocated for bilingual education and other reforms aimed at Spanish speakers on the grounds of fairness and justice. As an academic, however, I learned to frame advocacy for racial equity in higher education in the language of theory, evidence, and empiricism. My experience having engaged in advocacy based on a moral appeal for justice in the 1970s helped me in 2000 to rethink research as a practice that should be based on the ideals of justice and could be pursued through methods of participatory critical action research (Kemmis & McTaggart, 2000; Baez, 2000; Bonilla-Silva, 2014;

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Harper, 2012). The change agenda that I set for the Center for Urban Education at the turn of the century is not all that different from the one I had pursued decades before that, in my 20s, but the methods and knowledge base I was now drawing from were very different. The only thing left for me to determine then was how to put this agenda into motion.

A Research Practice Focused on Racial Equity Soon after establishing the Center for Urban Education, I received funding from the James Irvine Foundation (thank you Bob Shireman) that enabled me to start an action research project involving 14 public and private, 2- and 4-year campuses in Southern California. We dubbed them “opportunity colleges” because these institutions enrolled very high percentages of African American and Latinx students. They and other institutions like them were (and still are) the main avenues to higher education for racially minoritized students. The goal of this initial project, which was centered on metrics organized into what became an innovative Equity Scorecard, was to work collaboratively with institutional teams on the use of data to identify and document inequities in educational outcomes for African American and Latinx students and then to develop strategies to eliminate those inequities. Of course, I must note here that the Equity Scorecard began for me at the time as something I called the Diversity Scorecard. I’m not jumping ahead very much by revealing that it didn’t take long for that name to change. Even in its early stages, the project gave me unique insight into how campus practitioners’ assumptions about the origins of students changed over time, as they became more “equity-minded” – a term we created that has come into very common use now. Not long after beginning the project, I renamed the Diversity Scorecard the Equity Scorecard, because it had become clear to me that the meanings of diversity and equity were quite distinct and that my goals were really about solving the problem of racial equity. I could see then, as I do now, that diversity is much more about access and representation, whereas equity is about accountability to the students who made diversity possible. As a researcher, I felt most at home with theories of organization and leadership, so instead of approaching the problem of racial inequity as a behavioral, motivational, aspirational, efficacious, and academic preparation, I chose to frame it as a problem of organizational learning and organizational performance. Obviously, organizations do not exist without people, so practitioners, including faculty, staff, and leaders, needed to accept and understand the manifestation of racial inequality in their own institutions and ask themselves why there has been (and still is, unfortunately) a consistent pattern of unequal educational outcomes among racially minoritized students and how practices, structures, and policies are implicated in the production of these inequalities. I was making the conscious choice to treat racial inequality as a problem of racism institutionalized in the routine practices that keep colleges running and in the established structures of teaching and research. It felt like a major shift in thinking to me. A great deal was being and has been written on the phenomenon of institutional and structural racism (Baez, 2000; Bonilla-Silva, 2014; Harper, 2012). On the other

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hand, however, the research methods I was adopting then to develop the capacity of institutions and practitioners to more effectively produce racial equity in educational outcomes were novel – to me and to the field of higher education studies. There was no shortage of studies that had touched directly or indirectly on topics of racial inequality, but my interest was to conduct research that would create change (2004), so I chose to learn and apply the methods of participatory critical action research (Kemmis & McTaggart, 2000; Polkinghorne, 2004). One of the motivations I felt to operate in the manner I’ve described was an interest I had in establishing more enduring relationships with colleges that were struggling to improve the educational outcomes of Black and Latinx students. I knew that I wanted to do research to genuinely create change rather than just describe theoretically how change happens, and I also knew that the change I was seeking to create would be at the local institutional level, from the inside. Inspired by the work of Donald (Bustillos et al., 2011; Polkinghorne, 2004), I was persuaded that individuals – not programs or best practices – should be treated as the embodiment of interventions. I felt that the severity and pervasiveness of racial and ethnic inequity called for a model of intervention different from typical programmatic approaches. Thus, my colleagues and I at CUE, first with the guidance of Don Polkinghorne and later with that of Robert Rueda, developed a research model that engaged faculty in a structured and facilitated process of inquiry into the structures, practices, and policies that shape the institutional culture experienced by racially minoritized students. From Don and Robert, we learned to focus on the effectiveness of our tools to bring about practitioner self-change (Polkinghorne, 2004) and to frame the purpose of our tools toward remediating activity settings where practices are produced and reproduced (Bustillos et al., 2011; Dowd & Bensimon, 2015).

Learning the Methods of Critical Action Research It should be clear now that my motivation to remake my research practice was great, but I was a neophyte in action research methods, and most of my knowledge at that time derived from my memories of the methods I’d used in community organizing and the K-12 teacher inquiry literature I had read. As a result, I started out in this work believing that by involving faculty and staff in the process of populating the Equity Scorecard with data disaggregated by race and ethnicity, it would serve as a catalyst to question how things are done and to take action. I assumed that upon seeing these data, others would react to it as I had – with shock and with the resolve to do something about it. But that was not what happened. Although some participants responded as I’d hoped they would, too many had a very different reaction. They absolved themselves of responsibility and came up with racialized rationalizations. I should not have been surprised. Practitioners who assume that students are responsible for their own success are common among most faculties in all sectors of higher education. Nonetheless, the rationalizations to normalize racial inequity

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offered by participants in the early years of the Equity Scorecard’s implementation came as a shock. Why had I not anticipated this? What had made me think that faculty at colleges that were Hispanic serving and had large numbers of Latinx and Black students would have the critical racial understanding to ask, “Why is it that my or our teaching is not as effective with Latinx and Black students as it appears to be with White students?” Confronted with this unexpected challenge, it became clear to me that data alone would not be a catalyst to change. Though I was disappointed to realize that the Equity Scorecard tool by itself was not going to be sufficient, I did perceive that it was a necessary and valuable point of departure. Using the scorecard would create the data and ignite the discussion. But I could see that, by itself, it would not change the deficit and racialized perspectives that erupted in response to the data. I could see then that the deficit perspectives expressed by our partners in response to their own data required us to build action research tools that would remediate deficit perspectives among our institutional partners and assist them in adopting a critical race-conscious stance toward their own practices. This, I knew, would be another serious undertaking. It lasted years and involved many talented and creative CUE staff and partners. Eventually, a grant from the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation would help me and my colleagues to bring together all the tools we’d created and organize them into an open access microsite, to allow anyone to become an equity champion on their campus. In its 20 years of activity, CUE’s footprint became broad and deep. In that time, our tools and methods touched 678 institutions – starting with the first Equity Scorecard cohort in California that included Occidental College, University of La Verne, Redlands, Mount St. Mary, Loyola Marymount, Cal State Dominguez Hills, Cal State LA, Cal State Fullerton, Santa Monica CC, Long Beach City, Rio Hondo, and De Anza. Over the years, our equity work expanded to include the University of Wisconsin System, the Pennsylvania State System of Higher Education, Colorado’s public 2- and 4-year colleges, community colleges in Texas, Oklahoma, Illinois, Nevada, and even the Coast Guard Academy and Leiden University in the Netherlands. CUE also created new language and concepts that have steered educational thought and equity solutions. I am proud that CUE came up with the term “equityminded” to represent the actions, beliefs, values, and knowledge of race-conscious practitioners. And I’m also proud to emphasize that much of our progress was made possible through collaboration with individuals whose specialized expertise enabled me to see critical action research more expansively and broaden CUE’s reach. Of particular note, the deep imprints of Alicia Dowd’s intellectual leadership as CUE’s codirector for 5 years before joining Penn State’s faculty are noticeable in all of CUE’s tools and particularly in the analysis of impact (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Bensimon, 2007). The CUE years were the most productive for me, and I became more known. Some of my most cited publications were written between 2000 and now, including the paper I wrote to deliver at the end of my presidency of ASHE – “The Underestimated Significance of Practitioner Knowledge in the Scholarship of Student Success” (Bensimon, 2007). In this article, along with one I wrote earlier,

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“Doing Research that Makes a Difference” (Bensimon et al., 2004), published in the Journal of Higher Education (Bensimon, 2020), I described the conceptual underpinnings of the Equity Scorecard work and the methods we used. CUE’s methods have had a clear and meaningful influence on the work of many others (Bensimon et al., 2004). Most recently, my articles in Change Magazine, including “The Case for an AntiRacist Stance Toward Paying Off Higher Education’s Racial Debt” (Bensimon, 2020) and “Reclaiming Racial Justice in Equity” (Bensimon, 2018b), have been among the most downloaded of my writings. Even with those successes, I know that I have not been what most would term a prolific scholar, and I will always think that I still have not done enough. It never occurred to me to contemplate how one becomes an AERA Fellow or gets voted into the National Academy of Education. When I gained recognition from both, I was surprised and thrilled. I know that one gains these recognitions because colleagues invest their time in writing thoughtful nomination letters that take an extraordinary amount of time. As an AERA Fellow and a member of the NAEd, I feel that it is my responsibility to enable the recognitions of others, particularly among Black, Latinx, and other racially minoritized faculty.

Retirement from USC and a New Phase I officially retired from USC on December 31, 2020, but I had decided to do so 3 years earlier, during a sabbatical in Mexico City, the same year that Trump won the US presidential election. My decision to retire had to do with age and conceit. I remembered when I had been associate dean, there were many faculty members at the school who were well past 70 and not particularly productive. Some had grown relentlessly cranky. So I told myself then that I would leave at the height of my career, rather than in its decline. I also believe it is important to make room for others. And I also knew that my retirement would only mean that I would be doing different work. Shaun Harper and I organized an online gala event to take place on June 1, 2020, in the middle of the pandemic, which had already forced me to cancel a planned celebration of CUE’s 20th anniversary. At this virtual event I announced my retirement as well as CUE’s merger with the USC Race and Equity Center. Shaun’s decision to move back to USC from the University of Pennsylvania had come at the right time for me. It had always been clear to me that he was the natural and rightful inheritor of CUE. Shaun and I had a shared vision about racial equity in higher education, we had no aversion to being viewed as scholars with activist agendas, and we had a long history of collaborative work, including joint grants that we still lead at the time of my writing this. As someone who has studied organizations and leadership, I knew that mergers can be messy. But fortunately, this merger has been very successful. The work of REC and CUE have often had much in common, and Shaun has shown a commitment to keeping CUE’s pioneering racial justice action research agenda alive and growing. It was a relief that Shaun and I were able to secure the resources that

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enabled CUE’s professional staff to stay intact as well. As I write this, Debbie Hanson, Esmeralda Hernandez-Hamed, Megan Chase, and Jordan Greer continue to lead the implementation of CUE’s tools and methods in colleges around the nation. My last PhD student, Adrian Trinidad, was also able to continue as a research assistant. As for my “retirement,” while I’ve often fantasized about leisurely mornings in Los Angeles or Mexico City reading newspapers, the New Yorker, the Atlantic, enjoying the newest books, going to art galleries, and travelling the world, I know that this fantasy simply would not survive very long. I am not a “relaxing” type of person. And unfortunately, other than restaurants, wine, and movies, I also have no hobbies. I do not garden. I do not yearn to learn photography. I don’t play bridge (although at one time I was a very good player of pinochle). So I knew that when I retired from USC, I would not be retiring from work. In April of 2020, I created Bensimon & Associates, an independent organization that would enable me to continue the work I had been doing over the past 20 years. To this point, most of the work I do is with the Postsecondary Success Team at the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. Along with Megan Chase, who has joined me, we are supporting the efforts of the team there to refocus their grants making on racial equity. In the same way that CUE created tools to help higher education practitioners study their practices through a racial equity lens, I am now creating tools that enable program officers to examine their grants through a racial equity focus. Through this work, I’m able to see changes happen not only in language but also in what and who gets funded. As someone who has often been a critic of philanthropic organizations for their insistence on being race-neutral, this work has given me an opportunity to be part of the necessary change. I also continue doing public speaking engagements, working with college presidents on the development of racial equity agendas, and acting as an advisor to colleges on how to bring a racial equity-minded perspective into their searches for faculty and leaders. Retiring from USC did nothing to change who I am or dull my commitment to equity. My “retirement,” I know, is not what most would imagine for themselves, but it’s exactly what I want it to be. I have often thought of myself as a “late bloomer,” and this was confirmed on the days immediately after the announcement of my retirement. Right after announcing my retirement, I received a letter from USC’s president letting me know that I had been appointed university professor, a title held by just 20 or so faculty that has been awarded very selectively by the president based on multidisciplinary interests and significant accomplishments in several disciplines. I was able to enjoy this new status for about 6 months. At about the same time, I learned that I had been selected to receive the Harold W. McGraw, Jr. Prize in Education, considered by many in the field as “the Nobel Prize of education.” This prize celebrates innovation, inspiration, and impact in education by recognizing individuals whose accomplishments are making a difference in the lives of students. Both of these recognitions were totally unexpected, and I remain enormously grateful for both gifts. On the eve of my retirement, Shaun Harper announced that the USC Race and Equity Center was creating the Estela Mara Bensimon Society and the Bensimon

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Prize for Equity-Minded Leadership in Higher Education. Each year, the Center will induct four women of color into the Bensimon Society. According to the announcement: “These will be inspiring, incredibly accomplished department chairs, center directors, deans, provosts, presidents, state higher education leaders, governing board members, and higher education association executives who have made enduring and extraordinary contributions to the advancement of racial equity. A fivemember selection committee will choose four women who embody aspects of Professor Bensimon’s legacy – boldness, courage, brilliance, strategic thinking and action, depth and breadth, endurance, and equity-mindedness.” Each of these women leaders will receive a medal and framed certificate of induction, and one of the four inductees each year will be awarded the Bensimon Prize for Equity-Minded Leadership in Higher Education. The prize will be presented to the woman of color whose leadership has had the biggest, most enduring impact on minoritized students, faculty, and staff members beyond a single college or university campus. Additionally, the annual prize winner will receive $50,000 and a bronze statuette of me (!), which to my recollection is the first time I will have been represented in such a way. When I decided to merge CUE with the USC Race and Equity Center, many asked me why did I not try to keep it going and find a successor, but most of all I was asked whether I was sad about “giving up my legacy.” But I think these people were unclear about what my legacy really is.

Conclusion A few days ago, I was at a meeting with my colleagues in the Postsecondary Success Team at Gates, and Patrick Methvin, the director said, “I know what Estela’s theory of change is: insert all her former students in strategic places.” He said this because two of my former students are now at Gates: Dr. Tiffany Jones, who was appointed deputy director for Measurement, Learning, and Assessment, who then in turn hired Letty Bustillos, also a former PhD student. My legacy is in the form of the doctoral students who were socialized into the world of higher education at CUE and are now carrying out its philosophy and agenda into many different domains and who will continue to do so long into the future, among them Chery Ching (assistant professor, University of Massachusetts-Boston), Eric Felix (assistant professor, San Diego State University), Edlyn Vallejo-Peña (professor, California Lutheran University), Keith Witham (Ascendium Foundation), Georgia Bauman Lorenz (president, Seminole Community College), and Lindsey Malcom-Piqueux (vice president, Cal Tech). Kelly Ward was the first PhD student I advised. She went on to have a very successful academic career, both as a faculty member and administrator. Kelly’s career was cut short by an accident that ended her life prematurely. Marta Soto was my first PhD student at USC, and she became a community college vice president. At the age of 40, cancer denied her the life she so much deserved. The premature deaths of Kelly and Marta were shocking and sad. They are a reminder of the “unbearable lightness of being” (Kundera, 1999) and to not put things off.

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While I noted above that I have no hobbies, there is one thing I have always regretted – not having done more volunteer work. The pandemic, however, gave me an opportunity to be more generous with my time. Since the start of the pandemic, I have been a volunteer with Unite LA Local 11, assisting their Spanish-speaking members in navigating the complexities of applying for unemployment benefits online. Doing this work has given me a different insight into the hardships experienced by people in low-wage service occupations as well as into the incredible privileges I have that make my life and the lives of my colleagues significantly less stressful. This work has made me realize that when we yearn to “get back to normal,” we are yearning for a return to more and continued inequality. Instead, we need to yearn for a different kind of normal, a more just and equitable normal. We can achieve that new and equitable normal by redistributing wealth through a more progressive system of taxation, increasing the minimum wage, creating a program of guaranteed income, and insisting on a system of universal healthcare. To reach that new normal, we need to make higher education affordable and grant citizenship to undocumented students. I know that these may seem like lofty, even unattainable goals to many of us. But I feel that now, more than ever, we can achieve these goals by recognizing the need to assert a broad commitment to racial equity. As educators and activists, we have the resources to advance an authentic agenda for racial equity.

References Baez, B. (2000). Race-related service and faculty of color: Conceptualizing critical agency in academe. Higher Education, 39, 363–391. Bensimon, E. M. (2007). The underestimated significance of practitioner knowledge in the scholarship of student success. Review of Higher Education, 30(4), 441–469. Bensimon, E. M. (2018a). Bridging the artificial gap between activism and scholarship to form tools of knowledge. In L. W. Perna (Ed.), Taking it to the streets: The role of scholarship in advocacy and advocacy in scholarship (pp. 65–71). Johns Hopkins University. Bensimon, E. M. (2018b). Reclaiming racial justice in equity. Change: The Magazine of Higher Learning, 50, 95. Bensimon, E. M. (2020). The case for an anti-racist stance toward paying off higher education’s racial debt. Change: The Magazine of Higher Learning, 52(2), 7–11. Bensimon, E. M., & Neumann, A. (1993). Redesigning collegiate leadership: Teams and teamwork. Johns Hopkins University. Bensimon, E. M., Dowd, A. C., Stanton-Salazar, R. D., & Davila, B. (2019). The role of institutional agents in providing institutional support to Latino students in STEM. Review of Higher Education, 42(4), 1689–1721. Bensimon, E. M., Polkinghorne, D., Bauman, G., & Vallejo, E. (2004). Doing research that makes a difference. Journal of Higher Education, 75(1), 104–126. Bonilla-Silva, E. (2014). Racism without racists: Color-blind racism and the persistence of racial inequality in America. Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Bustillos, L. T., Rueda, R., & Bensimon, E. M. (2011). Faculty views of underrepresented students in community colleges. In P. R. Portes & S. Salas (Eds.), Vygotsky in 21st century society. Peter Lang.

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Butterfield, F. (1971, April 8). At root of Newark teacher strike: Race and power. The New York Times. Dowd, A. C., & Bensimon, E. M. (2015). Engaging the “race question”: Accountability and equity in U.S. higher education. Teachers College Press. Essed, P. (2002). Everyday racism: A new approach to the study of racism. In P. E. Goldberg (Ed.), Race critical theories (pp. 176–194). Blackwell Publishers. Harper, S. R. (2012). Race without racism: How higher education researchers minimize racist institutional norms. Review of Higher Education, 36(1), 9–29. Kemmis, S., & McTaggart, R. (2000). Participatory action research. In N. K. Lincoln (Ed.), Handbook of qualitative research (pp. 567–605). Sage. Kundera, M. (1999). The unbearable lightness of being (M. H. Heim, Trans.). Faber & Faber. Pfaff, L. G. (2019, December 18). Keeping the Rutgers’ Livingston story alive 50 years after the trailblazing college opened. Rutgers The State University of New Jersey. Polkinghorne, D. (2004). Practice and the human sciences: The case for a judgment-based practice of care. State University of New York Press.

Dr. Estela Mara Bensimon is Director of Bensimon & Associates, continuing her lifelong commitment to normalizing racial equity – helping organizations, higher education leaders, and staff feel empowered to effectively address the subject and make changes leading to improved outcomes for racially minoritized students. As Founding Director of the Center for Urban Education, which Dr. Bensimon created in 1999 and led until its merging in 2020 with the USC Race and Equity Center, she developed the Equity Scorecard – a process for using inquiry to drive changes in institutional practice and culture, increasing equity in higher education outcomes for students of color. Dr. Bensimon has published extensively about racial equity, organizational learning, practitioner inquiry, and change.

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A Contentious History of Admissions Policies at American Colleges and Universities: Issues and Prospects Marcia Synnott

Contents A Historical Overview of Collegiate and University Development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Impact of Institutional Change on Admissions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Admissions Discrimination Against Jewish Students . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Race and Ethnicity at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton: And Beyond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anti-Semitism in American Universities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Racial Discrimination in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Race and Admissions at the Leading Schools . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Racial Violence in the Southern States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Discrimination Against Women in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Discrimination Against Women on the Basis of Their Ethnicity and Race . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . African American Women . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Native Americans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Japanese Americans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hispanic Americans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nontraditional Students in the Twenty-First Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Battles over Affirmative Action . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Legal Challenges to Affirmative Action . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Students for Fair Admissions Sues Harvard College . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Related Considerations at Yale and Princeton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Coda: The Uncertain Impact of Covid-19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

34 37 39 41 41 46 46 50 54 58 58 59 59 60 60 61 63 64 68 69 72 73

Linda Eisenmann was the Associate Editor for this chapter. M. Synnott (*) History, University of South Carolina, Columbia, SC, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 37, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3_3

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Abstract

Historically, American higher education has favored admitting children of affluent parents. Founded by English and Western European Christians, the earliest private colleges, among them today’s Ivy League, enrolled alumni sons. With westward expansion and the formation of public universities and colleges, policies broadened nationally to admit by examination qualified applicants, often first in their families to attend college. But beginning with Columbia University in the late 1910s, elite institutions used quotas to exclude children of Eastern and Southern European immigrants, especially academically competitive Jews. After World War II, as Americans began to welcome population diversity, colleges and universities became coeducational and increased their admission of African Americans, Asians and South Asians, Latinx/Hispanics, and Native Americans. In reaction, white parents complained that racial preferences denied their children admission. Experiencing growing numbers of Asian applicants, colleges and universities curbed their admission to give seats to alumni children and to selected racial minorities. Such admissions policies seemed to value affirmative action over meritocracy. Although narrowly tailored affirmative action policies have been upheld from Regents of the University of California v. Bakke (1978) to Students for Fair Admissions v. Harvard College (2019), the issue will again go to the Supreme Court. Since the spring of 2020, the impacts of Covid-19 on college and university admissions policies and enrollments have altered plans of students and their families. Keywords

Admission by examination · College Entrance Examination Board · Jewish quotas · Meritocratic admissions · Intellectual meritocracy · Higher Education for American Democracy (1947) · Legacy admissions (alumni children) · Racial minorities · Benign quotas · Desegregation · Diversity and inclusion · Narrowly tailored affirmative action · Federal court decisions · Women in higher education · African American students · Latinx students · Asian American students · Students for Fair Admissions · Harold Wechsler

American higher education developed several levels over the past three centuries, tiers whose roles and interactions help to explain both its successes and contradictions. David Labaree (2017), sociologist of education at Stanford University, focuses on what he calls the American system’s “structural elements,” notably its “broadbased political support, large and multiple sources of revenue, institutional autonomy, and organizational capacity” (p. 4). These factors, he argues, over time led to “a tension between social accessibility and social exclusivity, between admitting everyone and limiting access to the elite” (Labaree, 2017, p. 5). It is this ongoing tension that characterizes the history of admissions to US colleges and universities. Through stratification into four tiers, the United States has promoted open access to institutions at the bottom and limited access to elite institutions at the top. Labaree (2017) explains that the most elite tier constitutes the private colleges established during

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the colonial era, a group which expanded to include certain early flagship state colleges founded during the first half of the nineteenth century. The second tier, developed later, were the land-grant colleges established by federal legislation, which soon pushed to become universities. The third tier were the late nineteenth-century teacher-training focused normal schools, which would evolve into teachers’ colleges and then, by the 1960s, into “comprehensive regional state universities” (Labaree, 2017, p. 11). These three tiers espouse the ideal of the research university and offer different versions of that type. A fourth tier evolved partly from junior colleges of the early twentieth century into an extensive community college system, which could offer transfer to universities. Separate from this tiered structure are religious institutions and private liberal arts colleges, both of which Labaree (2017) noted have developed “a particular market niche with its own parallel hierarchy” (p. 11). Adding to our understanding of the evolution and chronological phases of American higher education are various books and articles on its history by John R. Thelin, University of Kentucky. His collaboration with Jason R. Edwards and Eric Moyen produced a reference encyclopedia article on “Higher Education in the United States” (2003), supported by a brief but useful bibliography. The three authors, similar to Labaree (2017), outline the stages of higher education from the colonial era to the twenty-first century, when more than 4000 accredited institutions enroll over 15 million students and award over 2 million degrees each year. Of the $26 billion annually that colleges and universities spend on research and development, $16 billion is funded by the federal government. As of 2019–2020, the United States had 3982 degree-granting higher educational institutions, according to figures provided by the Department of Education (NCES, 2019). Of the 1625 public institutions, there were 772 public 4-year institutions and 853 2-year institutions. Of the 1660 nonprofit institutions, 1568 were 4-year and 92 were 2-year. In addition, there were 697 for-profit institutions, of which 339 were 4-year and 358 2-year (NCES, 2019, Table 317.20). Given the levels and types of American higher educational institutions, their admissions policies have ranged from open and accessible in the lowest tier to limited and highly competitive in the top tier. Historically, admissions policies in the earliest American colleges favored the sons of affluent parents. Founded by English and Western European Christians, these private colleges, which would be identified by the name of “Ivy League” in 1954, wanted to enroll young men who shared their same values. Not until the late nineteenth century, with westward expansion of the United States and the formation of public universities and colleges, did private institutions broaden their policies to admit applicants based on their admissions test scores, both those administered by the colleges themselves and then those administered by new testing agencies: the College Entrance Examination Board set up in 1899 and its Scholastic Aptitude Test, first administered in 1926, and its competitor American College Testing, active starting in 1959 (Thelin et al., 2003). Thus proving that they were qualified, these students often became the first in their families to attend college. However, elite private colleges continued to favor admitting alumni sons to ensure parental support and financial contributions; and they assumed that alumni sons would provide cultural and institutional continuity to the newer students. This chapter explores certain key eras and issues in the history of American collegiate admissions. The chapter begins with an overview of how the tiers of

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American institutions developed, including their preferred student populations. This is followed by a brief review of how admissions became structured to favor those populations. The essay then explores several key elements within the larger admissions history: discrimination against Jewish students, beginning around 1870 and continuing for roughly 100 years; a specific examination of how Harvard, Yale, and Princeton universities treated race and ethnicity in their admissions processes; specific attention to women as students, first overall and then briefly at women of different backgrounds; a look at the connection of affirmative action to collegiate admissions, with particular attention to the 2014 lawsuit brought by Asian American applicants against Harvard’s admissions procedures. The essay concludes with a coda exploring the possible impacts of the Covid-19 virus on admissions and accessibility. Across this history and throughout these particular developments, the tension between accessibility and exclusivity remained, often highlighted by efforts among the highest tier of institutions. While this discussion does not purport to be a full review of every era, it concentrates on issues that play a particularly significant role or address a key moment in the history of collegiate admissions.

A Historical Overview of Collegiate and University Development Alumni of Cambridge and Oxford and other British universities who settled in New England in the seventeenth century wanted similar institutions that could prepare their future young men for the Protestant clergy and leadership. Harvard College, chartered in 1636 by Puritans, was followed by nine other colleges and seminaries before the American Revolution. The second oldest in 1693 – and the only one in the South – was William and Mary, in Williamsburg, Virginia, with close ties to Anglicanism. Like Harvard, Yale was founded by Puritans, who escaped from Anglican England and whose ministers identified as Congregationalists. Its institutional origins date from 1701 when the Connecticut governor and legislature adopted “An Act for Liberty to Erect a Collegiate School.” In 1718, after the school was moved from Saybrook to New Haven, it was renamed Yale College in recognition of merchant Elihu Yale’s donation of profits from the sale of cloth goods, 417 books, and a portrait of King George I. During the Great Awakening from the 1730s to 1770s, the various Protestant denominations founded their own seminaries (Schiff, undated). Presbyterian ministers established the College of New Jersey in 1746, renamed Princeton University in 1896. The Baptists founded their college in 1764, originally named the College in the English Colony of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations. After Nicholas Brown Jr. (class of 1786) pledged a $5000 donation, the college was renamed Brown University in 1804 (Thelin et al., 2003). The students at all of the colonial colleges were white Christian men, some of whom became missionaries to Native Americans. The most significant contribution of these colleges was educating leaders and thinkers, who learned about Scottish and Enlightenment writings and then became leaders of the American Revolution. In the newly independent United States, colleges were independent of the federal government and then protected by the US Supreme Court from state interference. The

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Court’s 1819 decision in Dartmouth College v. Woodward prevented New Hampshire from appointing a new board of trustees, in effect disestablishing church and state for collegiate enterprises (Thelin et al., 2003). The first half of the nineteenth century was notable for the establishment of over 200 degree-granting colleges and universities. Many closed as their financial support, which depended on tuition and private donations, waned. While these institutions emphasized classical languages and the liberal arts, they also introduced new studies in engineering and the sciences. Newly created institutions began to teach legal studies and medicine. With the Second Great Awakening in the early nineteenth century, new denominations founded their own small liberal arts colleges in the Northeast, Midwest, and Kentucky, and Tennessee, which attracted students who were not among the elite, but who were or aspired to become middle class. In the 1830s, young women who wanted to become teachers began to attend normal schools or female seminaries, both of which prepared them for teaching (Thelin et al., 2003). Both specialization and expansion characterized the next era. By the mid-nineteenth century, numerous institutions specializing in specific subjects were founded, among them agricultural and scientific colleges and medical, law, and engineering schools. Private philanthropy supported Rensselaer, Drexel, Cooper Union, and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). The federal government also began supporting higher education with the Morrill Act of 1862, under which states received allotted money from Western land sales for funding agricultural, mechanical, and military sciences as well as liberal arts programs. Federal support of higher education expanded with the Hatch Act (1887) funding agricultural experiment stations and the Second Morrill Act of 1890. The latter funded racially segregated African American colleges in seventeen southern states (Thelin et al., 2003). During the so-called gilded age from 1870 to 1910, higher educational institutions thrived, supported by expanding philanthropy. The Association of American Universities was charted in 1900 by 14 members: Johns Hopkins, Columbia, Harvard, Cornell, Yale, Clark, Catholic University, Princeton, Stanford, and the Universities of Chicago, Pennsylvania, California, Michigan, and Wisconsin. In the following decades, other universities joined the Association, including Midwestern public universities and the private institutions of Brown, Northwestern, MIT, and Vanderbilt. Modern universities defined themselves by their graduate and professional programs, which awarded PhDs. To fill the absence of clear and consistent academic standards, such private agencies as the Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching and the Rockefeller General Education Board were founded to push universities and professional schools to adopt specific criteria for admissions, instruction, and awarding of certification. However, many undergraduates were more motivated to engage extensively in extracurricular activities, especially intercollegiate sports, fraternities, and social clubs. New women’s colleges began to offer Bachelor of Arts degrees, notably the so-called “Seven Sister” colleges of Mount Holyoke, Vassar, Smith, Wellesley, Bryn Mawr, Barnard, and Radcliffe colleges. Women also applied successfully to state universities and such private institutions as the University of Chicago and Stanford University (Thelin et al., 2003).

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During World War I, college campuses hosted special military training programs and encouraged research that impacted warfare. Afterward, college enrollments grew substantially and intercollegiate athletics attracted large crowds, but at a cost to institutional academic missions. The excesses were exposed in 1929 by the Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching. Even during the Great Depression of the 1930s, colleges increased their enrollments and their faculty developed significant projects. During World War II, colleges and universities made important contributions to the war effort and were rewarded by President Harry S. Truman’s Commission on Higher Education in a Democracy, which affirmed that federally funded research should be continued. Congress also enacted the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act, known as the G.I. Bill in 1944 (Thelin et al., 2003). American higher education had entered a “golden age” that continued from 1945 to 1970. States also responded to an increasing American birthrate by planning for expanding college enrollments, notably California, whose statewide Master Plan in 1960 offered different educational tiers to accommodate masses of students. Junior colleges that dated from the beginning of the century expanded in California during the 1930s. In the postwar era, they provided the means by which students could transfer after 2 years to a 4-year college or university, or could join the workforce with a terminal degree or certification in various occupational fields. As these colleges increasingly offered affordable continuing education that appealed to adults, their names were changed to “community colleges” (Thelin et al., 2003). The federal government also sponsored a number of distinguished national research projects, particularly during the Cold War, in the areas of defense, agriculture, physics, chemistry, and later in psychological testing and health care. In The Uses of the University, an influential book first published in 1963 that went through five editions, Clark Kerr (2001) said that between 50 and 100 institutions of higher education had become “Federal Grant Universities” due to the size of their federal largesse. Between 1960 and 1986, campuses evolved with the construction of new buildings. As state university enrollments expanded, Ohio State University in Columbus reached over 50,000 students, an increase similar to that experienced at the University of Minnesota. Enrollment at the University of California at Berkeley rose from 19,000 to 26,000. System-wide, the University of California developed ten campuses, with over 150,000 students. The California state colleges enrolled around 200,000 students. The California community colleges eventually included over 100 campuses. On the East Coast, the State University of New York (SUNY) included over 60 campuses. Among the beneficiaries of expanding enrollments were public community colleges, especially in Texas and Florida, as well as California. At the same time, after 1950, enrollments declined at private colleges from 50% to 30% of all college students (Thelin et al., 2003). The 1972 Education Amendments marked the participation of the federal government in promoting access, choice, and affordability for college-aged students – with a significant impact on admissions. The Pell Grant, begun as the Basic Educational Opportunity Grant (BEOG), met the financial needs of many college students. By 1978, low-interest loans began to replace student grants. The increasing

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number of enrolled students, expanding campuses, and greater financial investment led to what some called a “managerial revolution” in how decisions were made and carried out by institutional bureaucracies. Testing expanded from the College Entrance Examination Board (CEEB) to the nationally used Scholastic Aptitude Test. The SAT enabled prestigious private colleges and universities to admit larger numbers of public high school students from across the nation. The SAT and other standardized tests were criticized, however, for favoring applicants with the best preparation instead of fully identifying students with the greatest potential. In addition, racial discrimination and segregation slowly ended after 1954, when the US Supreme Court ruled in Brown v. the Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas that laws racially segregating public schools were unconstitutional. In time, higher educational institutions began to seek out and admit a more ethnically and racially diverse student body (Thelin et al., 2003). Colleges made adjustments to survive despite the difficulties caused by the 1960s anti-war movement, student dissatisfaction with their campuses, the 1970 shootings at Kent State and Jackson State universities, the financial impacts of declining governmental and public support for higher education, and rising inflation and energy prices. Many institutions became coeducational. By 2000, women were 40% of those entering medical school and almost one-half of first-year law students. Women earned more PhDs in biology, literature, and humanities fields than male students, although they lagged far behind in engineering and the physical sciences. “Higher education in the United States has succeeded in running its own operations while also considering new roles and constituencies,” concluded Thelin et al. (2003), but they also noted: Its strength has ironically been its major source of weakness. In other words, the aspiration and ability of the American postsecondary institutions to accommodate some approximation of universal access has been its foremost characteristic. Institutions’ shortfalls in completely achieving that aspiration have been the major source of criticism and debate within American higher education. It is the perpetual American dilemma of how to achieve both equality and excellence.

The Impact of Institutional Change on Admissions In a separate paper on selective admissions presented at the panel I chaired on diversity or discrimination at a recent annual meeting of the History of Education Society, Thelin (2019) analyzed the significant and concomitant changes that developed in the operation of admissions offices, especially in the latter half of the twentieth century. For example, the 1960 California Master Plan for Postsecondary Education had a major impact on the University of California system. For private higher education, the Ivy Group (officially designated in 1954 with the formation of the NCAA athletic conference for Division I) led to the development of common practices in admissions and financial aid. Thelin (2019, n.p.) concluded that “students as applicants faced a situation tantamount to a ‘stacked deck’ in terms of information and images in making decisions and choices.” This situation resulted in

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prestigious, well-resourced colleges enjoying what he termed an “unprecedented” advantage in recruitment. As Thelin (2019, n.p.) further explained, some “thirty-five selective private colleges consolidated their influence and dominance in the competitive orbit of college admissions in the early 1970s.” As members of the voluntary Consortium on Financing Higher Education (COFHE), they committed themselves to funding the full financial aid of the students they admitted. In fact, the series of surveys COFHE still performs provide the basis for a “systematic and robust examination of the undergraduate experience.” In Washington, DC, moreover, the Consortium’s office tracks “the legislative issues pertaining to financial aid, tax policy, and other topics affecting college attendance and the cost of college.” Drawing on earlier work by Trow (1970) and Turner (1960), Thelin (2019) also emphasized that, as has been the historical reality, applicants enjoying lineage, wealth, athletic skills, and favored race and ethnicity will continue to enjoy admissions advantages. The influence of these personal characteristics on admissions policies at different colleges over time requires detailed analysis. In examining the history of American higher education and its admissions policies, Laurence Veysey (1980) – himself a key figure in the history of higher education – provided a useful synopsis of collegiate admissions in his lengthy review of my book The Half-Opened Door: Discrimination and Admissions at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, 1900–1970 (Synnott, 1979). There, Veysey identified five phases of higher education admissions policies from the mid-nineteenth century to the 1970s. The first phase at the “Big Three” of Harvard, Yale, and Princeton universities was admission by examination. Applicants whose scores were too low could be admitted “on condition” and had the opportunity to take courses to remedy their deficiencies in Greek, Latin, and mathematics so they could pass examinations. The second phase admitted applicants from the better secondary schools as well as those who passed standardized College Entrance Examination Board tests, which Harvard adopted in 1905. Worried that it was enrolling too many mediocre young men from elite prep schools, Harvard decided that a standardized test would help attract and enroll a higher-caliber student. But this requirement still allowed academically weaker students to be tutored until they could pass the tests. During Veysey’s (1980) third phase, which extended from the late 1910s to post-World War II, Columbia, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, followed by other “selective” colleges, implemented informal quotas on Jewish students, who, despite their academic qualifications, were deemed to lack the social acceptability of White Anglo-Saxon Protestants (WASPs). Not until World War II’s revelation of the Nazi genocide of Jews did universities denounce quotas that excluded applicants on the basis of race, religion, or sex/gender and begin to adopt, in Veysey’s fourth phase, meritocratic admissions. After investigating the difficulties that Jews had in gaining admission to medical and other academic and professional programs, in 1946, the Mayor’s Committee on Unity in New York City denounced discrimination by higher educational institutions in the metropolitan area. With the passage of statewide fair educational practice laws in New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts, colleges and professional schools deleted questions on nationality, race, and religion from application forms.

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Veysey (1980) dated the adoption of “intellectual meritocracy in a pure form,” his fifth phase, as occurring in the 1950s and 1960s. But it did not actually happen everywhere at the same time. Moreover, colleges and universities decided to maintain some selectivity in their admissions when confronted by the postwar flood of so many academically qualified applicants among World War II veterans, supported by the G.I. Bill, and newly graduated high school students, followed by baby boomers born between 1946 and 1964.

Admissions Discrimination Against Jewish Students Examining Veysey’s (1980) third phase in greater depth, scholarly research has shown that the doors to higher education began to be shut against Jews around the 1870s, a situation that persisted in some form for close to 100 years. As Benjamin Epstein and Arnold Forster (1962) astutely observed, the university was “America writ small” when it participated in ethnic and racial discrimination. Their book, entitled “Some of My Best Friends. . .,” went on to note that “In sum, the entire gamut of discrimination that exists in society as a whole is reproduced in university society,” from restrictive admission to prejudicial treatment after matriculation (p. 164). American universities have reflected social prejudices more often than they have been standard bearers of enlightened attitudes toward ethnic, racial, and religious minorities. Thus, these institutions can provide fascinating case studies of the acceptance or rejection of minorities and their rate of mobility and assimilation. The pioneering history on discrimination by elite private colleges against Jewish and other recent immigrants is Harold Wechsler’s (1977/2014) richly detailed study of Columbia University President Nicholas Murray Butler’s imposition of the first Jewish quota in The Qualified Student: A History of Selective College Admissions in America. Butler had made Columbia more attractive to immigrants, especially to Eastern European Jews, by both improving relations with public secondary schools in New York City and encouraging admission through tests administered by the College Entrance Examination Board. Also, Columbia allowed undergraduate students to begin their professional training through its combined course. But as the city high schools sent more immigrant and Jewish students to Columbia, Admissions Director Adam LeRoy Jones and college faculty added social characteristics to academic achievement as part of their institution’s admissions criteria. Applicants were soon screened by Tests for Mental Alertness, which E.L. Thorndike of Columbia’s Teachers College devised. Initially used during World War I to screen those applying for the Students’ Army Training Corps, the tests began to be offered in 1919 as a substitute for entrance examinations. As a result, Columbia would determine whether an applicant should be admitted based on his academic record, “character and promise,” general health, and intelligence. As dean of Columbia College, Herbert E. Hawkes contended that rational admissions decisions could be made on the basis of performance on intelligence or psychological tests. Since he believed that Jewish applicants lacked the home environment to enable them to perform as well on such tests as average Native American young

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men, their numbers would be cut in half. Indeed, between 1919 and 1922, Columbia College cut its undergraduate Jewish enrollment from 40% to 20% to protect the existing WASP social culture of its campus. Yet despite this selection process, Wechsler (1977/2014) found that during the 1920s, “at least 40% of the freshman class was from immigrant families.” An increase in the numbers of Catholics, particularly Italian Americans, began to make up for the decline in Jewish freshmen, until Catholics also began to experience limitations. For example, the class of 1938 numbered 572 freshmen, of whom 58% were Protestants, 25% Catholic, and 17% Jewish. Jonathan Zimmerman of the University of Pennsylvania praised and summarized the work of Wechsler, his New York University colleague, in a February 2017 Chronicle of Higher Education essay written shortly after Wechsler’s death. As Zimmerman noted (2017), Wechsler’s “key insight in his first and best-known book, The Qualified Student (1977), shattered any myths we might have had about a golden age of American meritocracy.” A teacher who recognized the full range of student needs, Wechsler was also concerned about whether or not “colleges would integrate the students whom they did admit.” At Harvard, even after the adoption of the College Entrance Examination Board tests, many of the best performing freshman applicants were Jews, whose numbers rose to 7% by 1908 and 20% 10 years later. Earlier, University of California-Berkeley sociologist Jerome Karabel (2005), whose history The Chosen “built heavily on Wechsler’s work,” noted that Harvard began to require applicants to identify the maiden name of their mothers. By the 1920s, Harvard identified applicants by evidence of their Jewishness: “J1s” were “conclusively Jewish”; “J2s” were preponderantly Jewish; and “J3s” were possibly Jewish. To admissions officials at Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and other Ivy League colleges, whether an applicant earned A and B grades was less important than their Jewish identity. In 1933, President Butler emphasized to the Columbia college dean that grades were less important than students’ personal identity as Jews, although he acknowledged a need to handle their exclusion carefully after Adolf Hitler came to power in Germany. Columbia’s “battery of psychological and physical test” were designed to “identify – and weed out – Jews” (Zimmerman, 2017). Wechsler (1977/2014) also addressed the potential impact of the decision in the 1978 case Regents of the University of California v. Bakke in allowing colleges and universities to admit minority students identified by race and ethnicity under affirmative action. Zimmerman (2017) complimented Wechsler’s “graceful new epilogue to a 2014 edition of The Qualified Student,” in which Wechsler noted that affirmative action impacted minority students differently, especially Asian Americans who “had to score considerably higher on standardized tests than white students to get into elite colleges.” Affirmative action also reduced the number of successful women applicants to some colleges that preferred a strong male student body. According to a Washington Post study (Anderson, 2014), “64 selective schools – including Brown, Wesleyan, and Tufts – had higher admission rates for male applicants than for female ones.” Zimmerman (2017) pointed out that in Wechsler’s uncompleted book-in-progress entitled Unwelcome Guests, the senior scholar had expressed his “most heartfelt

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concern: that despite lots of rhetoric about ‘celebrating difference,’ institutions hadn’t shifted their norms and practices to adjust for it.” Wechsler understood that “the enduring myth of Bakke was that bringing together diverse students would automatically enhance their learning and their lives.” In reality, “minority students report feelings of alienation at selective colleges, either because the institutions ignore their distinct needs or because they are asked to serve as ‘representatives’ of their group.” White students also feel uncomfortable in such an environment. Summarizing his colleague’s conclusions, Zimmerman (2017) recalled that when he spoke to Wechsler “after protests engulfed college campuses in November 2015, he didn’t pull any punches. ‘Diversity hasn’t worked,’ he told me, ‘and we have a lot of hard work to do.’”

Race and Ethnicity at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton: And Beyond My contribution to this historiographical discussion focuses primarily on why Harvard, Yale, and Princeton universities, the so-called Big Three, adopted informal quotas on Jewish students in the 1920s, as well as why they ultimately relinquished them almost 50 years later, as they began to diversify their undergraduate student bodies in terms of ethnicity, religion, race, and gender (Synnott, 1979). A significant part of this history discusses the decline of anti-Semitic prejudices, which allowed Jewish students, faculty, and administrators to move from the margins of campus life to its mainstream. These three universities also became more accommodating to students’ sexual orientations and to students with disabilities. During the last 20 years, they have greatly increased financial aid for students from lower-income families. At the end of this section, I will also explore the debates over whether using race as a factor in admissions, legitimized by cases from Bakke in 1978 to Grutter v. Bollinger in 2003, discriminates against nonminority students, in particular those who do not benefit from other preferences – those accorded to legacies and athletes (Synnott, 2005a, 2005b). It will conclude with a discussion of the lawsuit against Harvard University for allegedly discriminating against Asian American and Pacific Islander applicants in an admissions process that favors African Americans and white legacy applicants.

Anti-Semitism in American Universities My ongoing study of anti-Semitism in American universities began with my 1974 dissertation for the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, which I entitled “A Social History of Admissions Policies at Harvard, Yale, Princeton, 1900–1930.” After expanding by 40 years the period covered, it was published as a book in 1979, as The Half-Opened Door: Discrimination and Admissions at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, 1900–1970. It was republished with my new introduction in 2010 by Transaction Publishers; as of 2017, this book is available through Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group. I then expanded on my research with a second book, Student

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Diversity at the Big Three: Changes at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton Since the 1920s (2013). I also drew on my research in scholarly papers, for example, my 2012 presentation at the University of Florida entitled “From Margins to Mainstream: Jewish Students and Administrators at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton.” In tracing the history of quotas against Jews, which first developed in the United States around the 1870s and lasted in some form for close to 100 years, as noted earlier, it becomes clear that they were imposed – and even continued – during years of relative prosperity. Academic anti-Semitism arose from and was sustained by a combination of factors: petty social snobbery, intellectual mediocrity, and the fear of potential economic competition. It was used primarily as a mechanism of exclusion to ensure that middle- and upper middle-class White Anglo-Saxon Protestants did not face too much competition from Jews in seeking entrance to the most prestigious colleges and universities, as well as graduate and professional schools. Admission to these, in turn, determined who would have the best opportunity to enter lucrative professional and managerial positions and even high appointive and elective offices. Moreover, those Jews who were admitted to colleges usually experienced social discrimination on campus. Their numbers were limited in residential houses, and they were excluded from Greek letter societies, with the result that they founded their own fraternities (Synnott, 1979, pp. 3–25). Moreover, an analysis of admissions discrimination at private and public universities and professional schools in other sections of the country indicates that, despite considerable institutional and regional variations, the anti-Jewish quotas imposed during the 1920s at such Ivy League institutions as Columbia, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton and at East Coast medical, dental, and law schools had spread by the 1930s to many private and to some state universities in the Midwest, Far West, and South (Synnott, 1986, pp. 233–271). Administrators and faculty at elite private universities readily attributed to Jews in the aggregate characteristics of clannishness, pushiness, and social offensiveness that they might not have ascribed to most of them individually. For the good of the entire student body, they argued, the number of Jews had to be limited to a percentage that could be absorbed without changing the character of the institution. During the 1920s, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, at that time overwhelmingly White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, reacted against what they viewed as an “invasion” of their citadels by first- and second-generation immigrant students, especially Jews from Eastern Europe and Russia, by imposing informal admissions quotas, which ranged from 3% at Princeton to 10% at Yale and 15% at Harvard (Synnott, 1979; Synnott, 2013/2017). At the same time, relatively few Jewish faculty were welcomed at the most prestigious institutions before World War II. Nor were refugee scholars from Nazism offered positions. As a contemporary report concluded, Harvard’s reluctance to find a place for them limited its own opportunity to recruit excellent teachers, foster “diversity of scholarship,” and serve as a model for other universities (Thompson, 1939). Only after World War II as invidious quotas came to be publicly discredited and officially renounced did American universities begin to reexamine their educational missions. In this period, from the late 1940s to the 1970s, as universities took steps to raise academic standards for admission, they gradually relinquished Jewish quotas (Synnott, 1979, pp. 199–231).

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In a tabulation compiled in 1961, Rabbi Richard J. Israel, director of Yale’s B’nai B’rith Hillel Foundation (Lovett, 1962), estimated that 11.8% of Yale’s undergraduates were Jewish. Contacts at other Ivy League colleges reported that their undergraduate Jewish enrollments were higher: 21% at Harvard and 15% at Princeton. Both trailed Columbia, Cornell, and the University of Pennsylvania, which enrolled, respectively, 45%, 26%, and 25% Jewish undergraduates. Brown and Dartmouth’s Jewish enrollments were, respectively, 18% and 15%. As Harvard became more welcoming to non-Protestants in the 1940s, the enrollment of Catholic and Jewish students began to rise, although Catholic students were probably welcomed earlier than Jewish students (Hawkins, 1972, pp. 184–190; Wills, 1993, pp. 97–99). In the 1920s, James Byrne, class of 1877, served as the first Catholic on the Harvard Corporation, and the University conferred an honorary degree on the politically powerful Cardinal William Henry O’Connell, Archbishop of Boston, in 1937. Catholic alumni, 5% of the class of 1921, were 9.1% of the class of 1929. In the class of 1944, the 137 Catholics were 15.3% of the entering freshmen. By the presidency of John F. Kennedy, class of 1940, there were probably 1000 Catholic students at the university. While almost 13% of Harvard freshmen in 1940 had indicated no religion or omitted religious affiliation, 12.5% or 114 of those students voluntarily responding to a religious survey of the 912 freshmen in the class of 1944 identified themselves as Jewish. A later estimate placed Jews as high as 25% of undergraduates by 1956. On the other hand, by 1956, Unitarians, 37.5% in the mid-nineteenth century, had declined to 4%, while Episcopalians, who had averaged above 22% of undergraduates during World War II (202 in the class of 1944), dropped to 14.5%. Because over half of Harvard freshmen in the 1950s were raised as Protestants, a number of administrators, faculty, and alumni still saw Harvard as predominantly an educational institution for white Protestant Christian men. Non-Christians, specifically Jews, had not yet attained first-class status. During the 1950s, Jewish students had to fight for their religious and social inclusion within the Harvard community. Non-Christian private religious services, including marriages between mixed faith couples, were still excluded from Harvard Memorial Church. Many at Harvard criticized this policy, despite the fact that it was supported by President Nathan Marsh Pusey, in office from 1953 to 1971, and the chairman of the university’s board of preachers. Among those protesting was Jerome D. Greene, a former overseer and secretary to the Harvard Corporation under presidents Charles William Eliot and James Bryant Conant. Just as he had opposed, in the 1920s, President A. Lawrence Lowell’s proposals for a 15% Jewish quota and the decision to exclude black students from the Freshman Halls, the 83-year-old Greene decried the policy of barring Jewish weddings and funerals from Memorial Church since Jews had contributed generously to the church’s construction and had died in wartime service. In his April 12, 1958, letter to editor of the Harvard Crimson, Greene wrote that the action showed “a tragic lack of Christian charity” that was “not the spirit of Harvard,” to claim that Protestant Christianity had “a monopoly of ultimate truth” (Greene, 1958). Because of the opposition of Greene and many faculty and alumni/ae, the Harvard

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Corporation in 1958 opened Memorial Church to all private religious services (Synnott, 1974, 1999a, 1999b). During the past 50 years, Jewish students gained increasing acceptance from their non-Jewish classmates and held important offices in undergraduate groups and in the Harvard Alumni Association. But while Episcopalians continued to be represented on the Harvard Corporation, not until 1987 was a Jew elected, Danzig-born Henry Rosovsky. A Harvard economics professor, dean of the Faculty of Arts and Sciences, Rosovsky had served twice as acting president, in 1984 and again in 1987 (Keller & Keller, 2007, pp. 276–277; Rosovsky, 1986). In 1991, Harvard chose as its president the Princeton-, Oxford-, and Harvardeducated English literature scholar Neil Leon Rudenstine, whose father was the son of Russian Jewish immigrants. Though his religion has been described as Anglican/ Episcopalian, Morton Keller and Phyllis Keller called Rudenstine the university’s first Jewish and “professorial president” (Keller & Keller, 2007, p. 486). However, these distinctions probably should be ascribed instead to Rudenstine’s successor during the period 2001–2006, the MIT- and Harvard-educated economist Lawrence Henry Summers, also a Clinton administration Secretary of the Treasury (Keller & Keller, 2007). The slow process of changing institutional culture is similarly well illustrated by Yale (Synnott, 2013/2017). After admitting 127 Jewish students (14%) out of 888 in the class of 1962, their number actually declined in the next three classes to 104 out of 1020 (10.1%) of the class of 1965. Because this pattern definitely suggested the persistence of a Jewish quota, the Committee on Religious Life and Study voted to request that President A. Whitney Griswold (1950–1963) ask the University Chaplains to submit a confidential report concerning discrimination by the Board of Admissions. However, some Corporation Fellows and influential alumni still wanted to restrict Jewish admissions to the 6–10% quota imposed in the 1920s based on stereotypical views of their “character,” firmly believing like Griswold in Yale’s Protestant tradition. In the class of 1967, public high school graduates equaled for the first time the number of private preparatory school graduates. Harvard had attained that equality in the 1940s and Princeton by 1955. More significant – and controversial – departures from Yale’s “gradualist” changes in admissions policies began with President Kingman Brewster Jr. (1963–1977) and his appointment of R. Inslee (“Inky”) Clark as admissions director. The number of Jewish freshmen rose above 20% in 1967 (Soares, 2007; Kabaservice, 2004). A quarter of a century later, in 1993, the Yale Corporation was ready to elect its first Jewish president, Richard Charles Levin, a Stanford graduate who studied at Oxford and earned his PhD in economics at Yale. He was then the longest-serving president in the Ivy League. Princeton began to drop its limitation on Jewish applicants during the presidency of Robert F. Goheen (1957–1972), a process that accelerated when President William G. Bowen (1972–1987) actively recruited Jewish students. Bowen, a 1955 graduate of Denison College, a PhD in economics from Princeton (1958), and then professor of economics and provost from 1967 to 1972, “believed ‘inclusiveness’ meant that all students should feel that Princeton was ‘their university’ and not a place where they were merely tolerated as ‘guests’” (Bowen, 2010, pp. 112–113). In

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1994, Princeton opened the $4.5 million Center for Jewish Life, an educational and social center that offered a large kosher kitchen, Talmud classes, and Friday night services. Nevertheless, a drop in Jewish enrollment from 18% in the early 1980s to about 10% (about 450 undergraduates) in the 1990s convinced the center to appoint a task force to study the issue. The center wanted to communicate to high school students that Princeton’s Jewish students were both happy and felt enriched by their campus experiences. Rabbi James S. Diamond emphasized that “the quality of Jewish life here is probably as good as anywhere in the country.” In contrast to the “infamous bicker” of 1958, when Princeton’s eating clubs did not offer bids to almost two dozen, mostly Jewish, students, Jews belonged to the clubs and could sign up in advance for membership at about half of them (Arenson, 1999). Significantly, Princeton, which was once the most anti-Semitic of the “Big Three,” chose a Jew as president before either Harvard or Yale: Canadian-born Harold Tafler Shapiro (1988–2001), a Princeton PhD in economics (Synnott, 2013/2017). Jewish women have also been outstanding administrators at Princeton and elsewhere. Amy Gutmann, a Radcliffe College graduate and Harvard PhD, taught political science at Princeton from 1976 to 2004 and also served as its Dean of the Faculty and Provost before leaving become president of the University of Pennsylvania in 2004. Nancy Weiss Malkiel, a Smith College graduate and Harvard PhD in history, completed 24 years as Dean of the College at Princeton in June 2011. She has the distinction of having the second longest tenure of any dean in the elite college’s history, just 3 years less than Andrew Fleming West, the first dean of the Graduate School, who served between 1901 and 1928 (Stevens, 2010). The successes of Jewish students, faculty, and administrators stand as an important illustration of Professor Leonard Dinnerstein’s (1988) conclusion that never had American Jews “been more prosperous, more secure and more ‘at home in America,’” whether they were “Orthodox, Conservative, Reform or secular.” Moreover, “issues of concern to Jews are clearly enunciated and vigorously promoted,” rather than Jews having, as in the unspecified past, to “rely exclusively on quiet, behindthe-scenes diplomacy to obtain desired political objectives.” While “many Jews [were] still wary” about a possible resurgence of anti-Semitism in the United States, Dinnerstein (1988, pp. 3–14) concluded that by the late 1980s, it was not a serious problem. Indeed, American Jews had by then moved from the margins to the mainstream of academic life, especially at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton universities. In contrast to the era of admissions quotas imposed on Jews until World War II, since then university administrators and faculty have shown some degree of transparency on their websites about decisions made in admitting their first-year classes. When their policies have been legally challenged, they have justified their decisions by filing legal briefs in several court cases, while continuing to resist intense scrutiny into the process by which they decide who to admit and who to reject. Since the 1960s, both elite private colleges and public flagship institutions began to adopt “benign” admissions quotas to compensate ethnic and racial minorities who had faced discriminatory admissions policies in the past that would enable them to successfully compete for admission with white, Protestant, and middle- or upperclass men. But critics have cast doubts on whether such “benign” admissions quotas

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are fair to academically better qualified applicants. Despite the progress that has been made in striking down religious barriers or quotas, in desegregating historically white higher educational institutions to admit African American students, and in reducing institutional gender barriers to admit both men and women, American higher education has not yet reached in 2021 the goal set in 1947 under President Harry S. Truman.

Racial Discrimination in Higher Education In broadly examining discriminatory admissions against those who are or were not white Christian men, historians should consider the physical factors of ethnicity, race, gender, and family lineage. The weight usually given to these factors before World War II was criticized by President Truman’s Commission on Higher Education (United States, 1947), set up to examine the “barriers to education opportunities” for all Americans, which produced a six-volume report still being discussed today. In 2019, for example, I organized and chaired a panel at the annual meeting of the History of Education Society, at which I presented a paper on affirmative action at Harvard. Key references also include a special issue of the History of Education Quarterly published in August 2007 to commemorate the report’s 60th anniversary.

Race and Admissions at the Leading Schools In addition to ethnicity, then, race became another key battleground in the accessibility of higher education, played out most notably in the mid-to-late twentieth century. The history of the admission of African American students to Ivy League universities has been well analyzed by Stefan M. Bradley (2018) in his Upending the Ivory Tower: Civil Rights, Black Power, and the Ivy League, a book that a knowledgeable reviewer called “essential reading” (Glasker, 2019). These elite private universities were impacted, as were historically white segregated universities in the South, by the civil rights and Black Power movements during the three decades from 1945 to 1975. As pioneers in desegregation, Black students continued to feel racially segregated and isolated. As their numbers increased from a token few to a visible percentage, they became more vocal and demanded an education that suited their needs, an education that included Black history and Black studies programs, but without resorting to violence. They also established Black student unions and demanded the appointments of Blacks to positions in admissions, administration, and the faculty. To meet special needs, they requested additional tutoring and health care services. At Princeton, defined by its early connections to southerners and slaveholders, Black students spoke out against university investments in businesses involved in South Africa (Wilder, 2013). Greater acceptance of change occurred at Brown University, which began a Black studies program in 1969. Black students achieved success at Dartmouth by establishing both a center for Black culture and a residential

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space. Bradley (2018) detailed the 1968 student sit-in at Columbia University, when both Black students and white members of Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) occupied campus buildings and opposed the construction of a gymnasium in Morningside Park, because it would disrupt that neighborhood. They had to be removed by the police. When the city of Philadelphia displaced over 2700 people from their homes to construct a new high school and dormitories at the University of Pennsylvania in the 1970s, Black students and white students in SDS occupied administration buildings for 6 days. They also opposed Penn’s support of the military during the Vietnam War. The university responded by negotiating a settlement with the protesting students, who adhered to regulations on demonstrations and did not disrupt institutional operations. The police did not have to be called to campus. Yale University established its Black studies program in 1968, during a time when the Black Panthers were active in New Haven. Days of protest experienced on Harvard’s campus led President Nathan Marsh Pusey to call in 400 police officers to arrest the unruly students. Cornell University experienced violent protests in April 1969, following the burning of a cross on the porch of a house in which Black women lived. When Black students occupied Straight Hall, white fraternity men engaged them in fisticuffs, which led the Black students to come out with rifles. To curb the potential for ongoing violence, Cornell agreed to Black student demands. From studying these incidents, Bradley (2018) concluded that Black students realized that their successes resulted from voicing and acting on their concerns. The respected Journal of Blacks in Higher Education (JBHE) has annually surveyed for almost 30 years the enrollment of Blacks in the first-year classes at top-ranked research universities in the United States. JBHE (2020b) reported that for the class of 2024, Harvard University admitted 1980 students out of over 40,000 applicants; African Americans were 14.8% of those admitted. At Pomona College, Claremont, California, Blacks constituted 14.2% of the 745 admitted students. Of the 19% of applicants accepted by Wellesley College, 57% were “domestic students of color.” Barnard College admitted just 10.9% of 9411 applicants; among the accepted, 62% were “women of color.” The University of Pennsylvania admitted 3404 of 42,205 applicants; among them, 53% self-identified as belonging to minority groups. The same source noted the following year (JBHE, 2021b) that for the class of 2025, Harvard, which accepted 1968 students, only 3.43% of the 57,435 applicants, increased its admission rate of Black applicants, who will be 18% of the entering class, an increase from 14.8% the previous year. William R. Fitzsimmons, dean of admissions and financial aid, proclaimed: We have the most diverse class in the history of Harvard this year, economically and ethnically. . .This is an incoming group of students who’ve had experiences unlike any experiences first-year students have had in the history of Harvard or history of higher education.

At the elite private Amherst College, there has been a truly significant change in the racial diversity of its entering classes. In the daily Inside Higher Ed newsletter, Scott Jaschik (2021f, June 7) explains how Amherst, “once known for educating

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New England’s elites,” now enrolls a majority of non-whites among its approximately 1800 students, but it has “been a long haul.” When Amherst was founded 200 years ago, its purpose was “to educate ‘indigent young men of promising talents and hopeful piety.’” Women students were not admitted until 1975. In 2020, attendance at Amherst cost $76,800 for tuition, room, and board. According to Matthew L. McGann, dean of admission and financial aid at Amherst, two presidents helped to effect these changes: Anthony W. Marx (from 2003 to 2011), who increased non-white enrollment from 34% to 43%, and Biddy Martin (2011 to the present). The class of 2025, again according to Jaschik (2021f, June 7), will be “50.2 percent domestic nonwhite,” with an additional 12% international students. Of the new American students, 18% are Asian American, 17% Black, 17% Latinx, and 3% Native American. About 4% of entering students do not identify themselves as either male or female. Amherst faculty have also developed Native studies program for the Five College Consortium, which includes Amherst and three other colleges – Hampshire, Mount Holyoke, and Smith – as well as the University of Massachusetts Amherst. Together they educate 38,000 students. Amherst College has filled half of its positions for 7 years with faculty from minority groups, some of whom teach programs focusing on minorities, among them Asian American studies. The consortium admitted American and international students “on a need-blind basis.” In fact, Jaschik (2021f, June 7) also noted, drawing upon its more than $2 billion endowment, Amherst spent $61 million this past year on providing average grants of $50,000 to those among its 1700 enrolled students who needed it. The college expected to spend more as enrollment returns to normal after Covid-19. About one-fourth of its students may receive Pell Grants. Moreover, the antiracism plan Amherst published the previous year endeavors to help Black students “feel safe to share ideas with the college” (Jaschik, 2021f, June 7). President Martin’s apology to these students is worth quoting extensively: To our Black students and alumni, on behalf of the college and in my role as its current president, I offer you an apology for the harm you have experienced here and for having not made more progress. In 2015, in the wake of the Amherst Uprising, you requested that I apologize for the ways the college has fallen short and reproduced the oppressive inequalities of the society as a whole over the course of its history. I explained why I considered an apology of that sort to be a kind of arrogance, an assertion of a degree of control and authority that does not accurately reflect an institutional culture that so highly values shared governance. Amherst has reflected a much larger world of systemic racism, as all institutions have.

After her statement was “challenged,” Jaschik (2021f, June 7) noted, Martin acknowledged that: Too often white people deny responsibility for what they see as the sins of the past without recognizing how those sins live in the present, how systemic they are, and how much we who are white benefit from them, whether consciously and willfully or not. [To] our Black alumni and students, [I offer] our recognition that the realities of structural racism in the United States have shaped our educational institutions, including Amherst, and my deep sorrow about the toll your negative experiences at Amherst have taken.

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Just as Ivy League universities and elite private colleges on the East Coast began to broaden their admissions policies to admit a more racially and ethnically diverse student body, so have prestigious institutions in California such as Stanford University in Palo Alto and the California Institute of Technology (Caltech) in Pasadena. At Stanford University, the faculty voted for the adoption of policies to reduce the importance of family wealth in admissions (Jaschik, 2021e, February 16). According to an analysis by Raj Chetty at Harvard University, which was featured prominently in the New York Times (Leonhardt, 2017), 66% of Stanford students are in the top 20% economically with a median family income of $167,500. The families of over half of undergraduates ranked in the top 10% economically; 39% were in the top 5%; 17% were in the top 1%; and 3.5% were in the top 0.1%. Ranking in the bottom 20% were 4% of students’ families; and only 2.2% of students were from a poor family, although these students prospered as adults. However, Stanford students are racially and ethnically diverse: Whites make up 32%; Asians 23%; Latinx 17%; Blacks 7%; and Native Americans 1%. Indeed, in an effort to clarify the extra support some students find, the Stanford Faculty Senate adopted two admissions-related proposals. First, students should identify those who helped them apply – through advisement reading their application – and indicate their relationship. The second proposal called for “an improved data system to evaluate the effect of admissions on philanthropic support to the university and to initiate surveys to track the distribution of income and wealth levels for parents and undergraduates.” The committee behind the faculty resolution was led by David Lobell, a professor of earth system science at Stanford. Another faculty member, Ruth A. Starkman, private admissions counselor and teacher of writing and rhetoric at Stanford, pointed out (Jaschik, 2021e, February 16) that almost “70 percent of students use some form of college admissions counseling,” and “many private counselors are small-business women.” Among those hiring counselors are Asian Americans, “who dread being excluded because of their race” and want “to help their children beat the odds against them.” But such hiring of counselors may backfire, if students do not tell their own stories in their own words. Starkman suggested instead that students submit a form on family income, even if they are not applying for financial aid. (Stanford continues to depend on donations, even though it has a large endowment.) As Angel B. Pérez, CEO of the National Association for College Admission Counseling, explained: The majority of institutions are highly dependent on philanthropy to achieve their goals. Often the goal of increasing socioeconomic diversity is directly at odds with an institution’s philanthropic efforts. . . . Admission officers often wrestle with the challenge of opening the doors wider to low-income students while feeling pressure to admit others whose families could help position the institution for financial success.

As for Caltech, which in the past ignored information requests, the Journal of Blacks in Higher Education (2021c, June 30) indicated that among those committed to entering as freshmen in the fall of 2021, just over four in ten or “41 percent selfidentify as coming from historically minoritized groups.” Among them are “33 Black or African American first-year students,” which “is the largest number of

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Black first-year students in Caltech’s history.” Of the entering graduate students, 39% are “from underrepresented groups,” with Black or African Americans numbering 21 graduate students. While acknowledging that these results were only a first step in what would have to be a coordinated, long-term effort, Caltech president Thomas F. Rosenbaum noted approvingly that “Insight and leadership from students, tireless work of staff and faculty, and both divisional and centrally supported programmatic innovations were vital to our success in attracting exceptional scholars to Caltech.” The University of California system has also increased its number of Black applicants, again as noted in JBHE (2021a, February 9), even though Californians voted against reinstating affirmative action in the state’s public colleges and universities in the November 2020 election. (The ban on affirmative action had been approved by a 1996 referendum.) Across the system, 128,128 residents applied to one of the nine undergraduate campuses for admission in the coming fall of 2021, 13% higher than in the fall of 2020. Of that number, 8405 were African Americans, totaling 6.6% of all resident applicants. Blacks, who are about 7% of the state’s population, increased their applications by 21.8%. Blacks applying to UC-Berkeley have increased by over 35% from 2020; overall, Berkeley has seen a 23.8% increase in applicants. At the University of California at Los Angeles (UCLA), Black applications rose by almost 37%. The other seven campuses had smaller increases in Black applicants. The percentage increases at Berkeley and UCLA are attributed to their dropping the requirement to submit scores on standardized tests, which favors Black applicants whose high grade point averages were significantly above their SAT or ACT scores.

Racial Violence in the Southern States The leading American private and public colleges and universities have made great progress in recent decades in achieving racial diversity, although their journeys are not yet complete. In comparison, it has been difficult for many higher educational institutions in the southern states to move from their historically segregated past to a desegregated and more inclusive present. As outlined in my essay on desegregation in The New Encyclopedia of Southern Culture (Synnott, 2011), summarized below, desegregation of higher education was marked by a contentious, even violent, history in the southern states, ultimately playing out around the admission of Black students to formerly white institutions. Admissions policies and admissions practices at higher education institutions in the southern states were dramatically altered by several decades of battles over desegregation. The Civil War in the United States (1861–1865) pitted the Confederacy of southern states against the union. After the end of Reconstruction in 1877, racially dual school systems were mandated by the eleven former Confederate states, joined by the six bordering states of Delaware, Kentucky, Maryland, Missouri, Oklahoma, and West Virginia, and by the District of Columbia with its separate Black schools provided by Congress. In Plessy v. Ferguson (1896), the US Supreme Court

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sanctioned such separate but equal public schools and accommodations, which then expanded in northern states in reaction to the Great Migration of Blacks (1890– 1930) to cities like Chicago, Indianapolis, and Philadelphia. Southern public schools would slowly desegregate during the next hundred years as African Americans pushed for desegregation with the campaign launched by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). From 1930 to 1945, Charles Hamilton Houston and Thurgood Marshall, NAACP Legal Defense and Education Fund attorneys, brought a series of lawsuits to equalize Black and White schools in terms of their curricula, teachers’ salaries, and physical equipment. Lawsuits brought against graduate and professional schools only for Whites forced states either to establish new graduate and professional schools for Blacks or to admit them to the all-White universities. The University of Maryland was ordered in 1936 by the state court of appeals to admit Donald G. Murray to its law school, because it had no state law school for Blacks (Murray v. Pearson). In 1938, the US Supreme Court ruled that Missouri did not meet equal-protection standards under the Fourteenth Amendment when it gave Lloyd Gaines a tuition grant to study law out-of-state (Missouri ex rel. Gaines v. Canada). Following Gaines’s unexplained disappearance, Missouri established a segregated Black law school. Also in 1938, West Virginia voluntarily admitted Black graduate and professional students, but Black plaintiffs were unsuccessful in Kentucky and Tennessee. In 1945, Thurgood Marshall began a direct attack on separate but equal schools, which opened graduate and/or law schools to Blacks at the universities of Oklahoma, Kentucky, Texas, Virginia, Missouri, and Louisiana State University; Delaware and Arkansas voluntarily admitted Blacks. In Sweatt v. Painter (1950) and McLaurin v. Oklahoma State Regents for Higher Education (1950), the US Supreme Court issued two unanimous rulings: The University of Texas Law School was required to admit Heman Sweatt because the new Black law school was academically inferior; and the University of Oklahoma was ordered to provide George McLaurin equal, nonsegregated treatment in its classrooms, cafeteria, and library. These victories, along with the reports of President Truman’s Committee on Civil Rights and Commission on Higher Education, inspired the NAACP to attack segregated public elementary and secondary schools. On May 17, 1954, the US Supreme Court unanimously ruled in Brown v. Board of Education that, based on its five included cases, “separate educational facilities are inherently unequal” because they denied plaintiffs equal protection of the laws. Its 1955 decision in Brown II sent these cases back to federal district courts to implement desegregation “with all deliberate speed.” In reaction, southern states employed an approach of massive White resistance to oppose desegregation from 1955 to 1964. The federal government enforced courtordered desegregation, culminating in the 1964 Civil Rights Act, which enforced widespread desegregation from 1965 to 1992. To dismantle dual systems of education, southern states were threatened by the withholding of federal education funds and the advocacy of affirmative action programs. Southern states responded by enacting new laws to either prohibit or indefinitely delay integration, especially on

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the K-12 levels: pupil-placement laws, freedom-of-choice amendments, tuition grants, repeal of compulsory attendance laws, modifications of teacher tenure. The city of Norfolk and Prince Edward County in Virginia closed their public schools, and states passed interposition laws to nullify the Brown decision (Synnott, 1998a, 1998b; Leidholdt, 1997). Mob violence erupted during the late 1950s and the early 1960s at the University of Alabama (1956), Little Rock Central High School (1957), the University of Georgia (1961), and the University of Mississippi (1962). The federal courts and military triumphed: paratroopers returned nine Black students to Little Rock Central High School, and at the higher education level, the US Army protected James Meredith when, in 1962, he enrolled at the University of Mississippi. The federal government together with University of Alabama leaders registered two Black students in 1963, bypassing Governor George C. Wallace’s televised “schoolhouse door” stand. In 1963, Clemson and the University of South Carolina decided to integrate with dignity. Private universities – Duke, Emory, Rice, Tulane, and Vanderbilt – also recognized they should desegregate, heeding advice from philanthropic foundations, accrediting and scholarly associations, federal granting agencies, and some progressive administrators, alumni, faculty, students, and trustees (Synnott, 2010; Kean, 2008). In effect, collegiate admissions at these institutions were challenged by – and ultimately changed by – these local and national efforts. Congressional enactment of the 1964 Civil Rights Act forced public schools to desegregate and led to widespread desegregation from 1965 to 1992. Under Title VI, segregated schools and colleges could not use funds from the Elementary and Secondary Education and Higher Education acts. To curtail White flight to the suburbs, courts imposed citywide busing of students. The US Supreme Court’s 1968 ruling, Green v. County School Board of New Kent County, Virginia, required desegregation plans to “ensure racial balance,” which included reasonable BlackWhite ratios among students and faculty and the equalization of facilities, transportation, and extracurricular activities. Then in 1969, the Supreme Court unanimously ruled in Alexander v. Holmes County (Mississippi) Board of Education that all school segregation be ended immediately by establishing unitary schools. Two years later, the Supreme Court upheld in Swann v. Charlotte-Mecklenburg (North Carolina) Board of Education (1971) the practice of central city to suburban busing. Such busing transported 79% of southern Black students who attended integrated schools. On the other hand, the Supreme Court allowed busing to be halted at Richmond, Virginia’s city line and in Detroit, Michigan. To increase numbers of Black students and faculty and expand financial aid and remedial programs as well as the election of Black trustees, the Predominantly White Institutions (PWIs) in ten southern and border states including Oklahoma and Pennsylvania were required by the US Office for Civil Rights to submit comprehensive desegregation plans (Adams v. Richardson, 1973). To establish more specific criteria, the NAACP returned to court (Adams v. Califano, 1977), beginning a series of cases which would improve Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs). Mississippi presents an interesting case study. Initially, lawsuits were filed under the name of sharecropper Jake Ayers (Ayers

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v. Allain, 1987 and 1990). The Supreme Court then ruled in United States v. Fordice (1992) that Mississippi’s “race-neutral” admissions policies had failed to eradicate its dual system of higher education. It took 9 years for the settlement that was achieved in Ayers v. Musgrove (2001). As a result, three public HBCUs were awarded over $503 million, which strengthened their academic and summer developmental education programs and which funded endowments and capital improvements. Even though applicants could seek admission to any 4-year public college by several flexible pathways, Mississippi continued to show residual segregation in enrollments. During the 20 years from 1984 to 2004, white enrollments at the state’s three HBCUs barely increased, from 1.7% to 2.9%. Black enrollments at five PWIs rose from 13% to 22%. Districts were legally challenged if they tried to diversify schools segregated by housing patterns. The Supreme Court ruled in 2007 against assignment programs in Louisville, Kentucky, and Seattle, Washington, on the grounds they violated the rights of individual students. The Court examined the “managed choice” program adopted in 2000 after the county’s 25-year-old court-ordered desegregation plan dissolved (Meredith v. Jefferson County (Kentucky) Board of Education et al.). Students were assigned to schools after considering parental/student preferences, student needs, school programs, building size, and pupil capacity as well as the district’s educational mission. Under “managed choice,” Black enrollment was maintained at no lower than 15%, but not above 50% at any school. Plaintiffs in Parents Involved in Community Schools Inc. v. Seattle School District No. 1 et al. sought an injunction to bar using race in school placement, applying it as “a tiebreaker” after the number of applicants was more than the available seats and if non-White enrollment was either over 15% or lower than the district’s non-White population. Although Louisville had fulfilled its courtordered desegregation, Seattle schools had never been legally segregated; neither city, however, was seen to have a “compelling interest” to remedy previous intentional discrimination. Chief Justice John G. Roberts’ argument that “the way to stop discrimination on the basis of race is to stop discriminating on the basis of race,” unfortunately, did not achieve the elusive goal of full integration. Both the University of North Carolina and the University of South Carolina took steps to increase their Black enrollments. UNC at Chapel Hill used its Carolina Covenant Program to provide tuition grants that paid all expenses for students whose families were at or below 150% of the federal poverty level. Of all flagship state universities, the University of South Carolina emerged as the leader in Black enrollment in 2000, with 17.6% of freshmen and 18.7% of undergraduates. Blacks in the state were 30% of the population. By 2007, the proportion of Black freshman had dropped to 8% even as total freshmen enrollment increased by two-thirds. Total Black enrollment fell to 12.5%. In addition to requiring higher SAT scores, the South Carolina flagship was one of the most expensive public universities in the South, costing more than $8800 in tuition and fees for in-state undergraduates. To compensate, its Gamecock Guarantee provided grants and scholarships to academically qualified first-time South Carolina freshmen whose families were low income. Nevertheless, new patterns of segregation were developing within schools in the South as middle-class parents campaigned politically for a voucher system founded

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on their assumed right to choose the best available schools for their children. A voucher system in South Carolina proposed assisting parents with an income of $75,000 or less to pay for private or parochial school tuition, home schooling, or transferring their child to another public school. The South Carolina Supreme Court’s ruling in 1999 (Abbeville v. the State of South Carolina et al., 2005) constitutionally required public schools to provide no more than a “minimally adequate education.” Seven decades after the Brown decision, issues of desegregation and integration continue to play out in the courts, as colleges tweak and shift their admissions policies. The earlier outright refusal to admit Black students gave way to various efforts and programs to admit them under certain conditions. Presently, efforts like the Gamecock Guarantee and the Carolina Covenant demonstrate a new attention to increasing the percentages of Black students admitted to public state universities.

Discrimination Against Women in Higher Education The first generation of women who attended college before the Civil War were pioneers: most attended women-only institutions, and only about 50–60% of them went on to marry. The second generation – between about 1870 and 1920 – showed a greater interest in recreation, men, and domesticity. About 90% of those graduating by 1910 married, also spending more years in paid employment, usually as teachers or clerical workers, and had on average less than two children. These facts were revealed in an edited volume (Clinton & Gillespie, 1997) entitled The Devil’s Lane: Sex and Race in the Early South. In terms of curricular pursuits, Farnham (1994) noted that between 1860 and 1920, some 70% of women students sought instruction in home economics and teacher training at the coeducational land-grant institutions, which were established first for Whites and then for Blacks under the Morrill Acts of 1862 and 1890. Although HBCUs and Black state universities appeared in the late 1800s, the early generations of women were predominantly middle class or upper middle class and in terms of race and ethnicity, White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. During the progressive era, the introduction of intramural sports in the 1890s freed women from their corsets. Women’s experiences varied at all-female colleges and at coeducational institutions (Synnott, 1990; Miller-Bernal & Poulson, 2004). Smith College, among others, allowed women to play basketball in bloomers. Vassar College provided a rigorous curriculum and hired strong women faculty, among them Maria Mitchell, who learned astronomy from her father on Nantucket Island, Massachusetts, and discovered a planet in 1847. At coeducational colleges, women were generally excluded from extracurricular activities by male students and mocked in male publications. Women attending the University of California at Berkeley created their own campus organizations, encouraged by Phoebe Apperson Hearst, first woman regent of the university, and later by Lucy Sprague, Dean of Women. Preferring to model women’s experiences on the eastern women’s colleges, especially Wellesley, the University of Chicago’s first two deans of women, Alice Freeman Palmer and Marion Talbot, encouraged women’s campus activities,

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supported by the university’s nine women faculty, the largest number at any coeducational institution, and the city’s clubwomen. After 1900, collegiate women began to experience a backlash to their presence and their success (Synnott, 1992; Gordon, 1990). By 1901, women constituted about 25% of all collegiate undergraduates, but numbered one-third at coeducational institutions. Women were 26% of graduate students and 3% of professional students. However, as the number of women seeking higher education rose from 11,000 to 85,000 between 1870 and 1900, and as White women’s birthrate declined, White men voiced opposition to females attending college. Physicians, especially Dr. Edward Clarke, Harvard Medical School professor and author of the 1873 book Sex in Education, argued that study damaged women’s reproductive functions and nervous system by sending blood from the uterus to the brain. Stanford University established a quota, admitting only one woman for every three men, while both the University of Chicago and the University of Wisconsin established segregated classes for women, and the University of California established a junior college system for women. In response to this attack on coeducation, some private women’s colleges endeavored to establish – or settled for – a coordinate relationship with a neighboring men’s college, for example, Barnard with Columbia, Pembroke with Brown, and Radcliffe with Harvard. But even at these coordinate institutions, women students and faculty were treated as second-class citizens. Although Harvard appointed in 1919 its first woman professor, Alice Hamilton, a University of Michigan MD, as an assistant professor of industrial medicine, the university informed her that she was not to enter the Faculty Club, participate in commencement processions, or apply for faculty tickets to football games (Miller-Bernal & Poulson, 2004). In the 1920s, women’s college enrollment peaked at 47% of total enrollments, although it declined during the Depression years, to 43% in 1930 and to 40% in 1940. It spiked to about 50% in 1944 due to the number of male students undertaking military service for World War II, and many colleges who might have resisted women’s earlier enrollment found themselves relying on women during wartime. In graduate training, by 1940, women earned over one-third of master’s degrees and 13% of doctoral degrees. During the 1940s, more than 6 million women entered the wartime workforce. In terms of military service, 74,000 women served in the Army and Navy Nurses Corps, and over 277,000 volunteered for service, mainly in the WACs (Women’s Army Corps) and the WAVES (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service) (Morden, 1990/2016; Hucik, 2018a, 2018b; Freedom’s Way National Heritage Area, 2020). When Congress approved the G.I. Bill in 1944 as a reward for wartime service, about 35% of women veterans took advantage of the funds, whereas 41% of male veterans received benefits that included an allowance up to $500 for tuition, fees and supplies, and a monthly subsistence depending on marital status. However, the huge and rapid influx of veterans dominated higher education enrollments: one million veterans comprised almost half of postsecondary students in 1947. In response, the University of Michigan reduced freshmen women’s enrollment by one-third and imposed a quota on them until 1952. Although Harvard College had admitted Radcliffe College women to its classrooms in 1943, it

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insisted on a male-female ratio of 4:1 until the 1970s (Synnott, 1981; Howells, 1978). Thus, the wartime appeal of women’s enrollment proved short-lived. The most significant outline for postwar American education was Higher Education for American Democracy, the six-volume report of the President’s Commission set up under Harry S. Truman (Reuben & Perkins, 2007). The 30-member committee, chaired by American Council on Education president George F. Zook, included only two women: Sarah Gibson Blanding, recently appointed president of Vassar College and former president of the National Association of Deans of Women, and journalist and philanthropist Agnes Meyer, wife of financier and Washington Post owner Eugene Meyer. The President’s Commission asserted a clear view of the role higher education should play in the future, noting that “education for all is not only democracy’s obligation but its necessity” as well as “the foundation of democratic liberties.” Its goal was to convince the nearly 17 million men and women over 19 years of age who had left school to see the value in higher education. The rates of those completing some college work showed clear racial differences. Whereas 13.4% of White men completed some college, only 4.3% of Black men did. The rates for White women were 12.1%, compared to 5.2% of Black women. Even more stark racial disparities were evident in graduate and professional training. The Commission’s commitment to eliminating “racial, religious, and gender barriers discouraging less-traditional students” proved to be a long-term goal. The gains women made during the war years eroded during the “baby boom” which brought 79 million births from 1946 to 1964. As women’s average age of marriage dropped to 20.3, their college enrollment declined by 1950 to 31% of 2.3 million students. Indeed, in response to the popular literature of the Cold War era reinforcing the idea of homemaking as women’s ordained role, many women’s colleges and almost all coeducational public universities offered courses or programs in domestic science or home economics taught by women faculty. Nevertheless, economic need sent married women back into the labor force, so that by 1957 almost 40% of them were earning money for the consumer goods their families enjoyed (Eisenmann, 2006). In the 1960s, women’s undergraduate enrollment edged up from 37% to 40%, and they also began to apply for fellowships funded by federal agencies. The 1958 National Defense Education Act (NDEA) program, passed in response to the Soviet Union’s launch of the spacecraft Sputnik, created undergraduate and graduate loans and fellowships to improve training in science, mathematics, and foreign languages. In 1961, President John F. Kennedy appointed 13 women and 11 men to the 2-year President’s Commission on the Status of Women (PCSW), 1961–1963, chaired by former first lady Eleanor Roosevelt. The Commission’s education committee, chaired by Radcliffe College President Mary Ingraham Bunting, a microbiologist, called attention to the educational needs of mature women interrupted by family responsibilities, as well as to women students’ tendency not to pursue college in the first place. Whereas 48% of women completed high school, compared to only 40% of men, those percentages dropped in college, with women constituting only 41% of college students and just one-third of those earning bachelor’s degrees (Eisenmann,

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2006). As Vassar economist Mabel Newcomer (1959) showed conclusively in A Century of Higher Education for American Women, women’s participation in higher education had declined since the 1920s when it had reached almost half of college enrollments. Like Newcomer, Bunting sought ways of linking education to women’s life cycle so that women could combine advanced study leading to a career with marriage and a family. Among the recommendations in PCSW’s report, entitled American Women (1963), several were geared to support women’s educational participation: paid maternity leave, day-care programs, tax deductions for childcare expenses, continuing education and vocational training opportunities, equal employment opportunities, equal pay legislation, and promoting women in the federal bureaucracy. Subsequently, the University of Minnesota, Sarah Lawrence College, and Bunting’s Radcliffe Institute for Independent Study pioneered in launching continuing education programs funded by philanthropic foundations to assist mature women in resuming their educations and completing their degree programs. The PCSW’s immediate accomplishments included forming a Citizens’ Advisory Council on the Status of Women, encouraging formation of state commissions on the status of women, and passage of the Equal Pay Act of 1963 (Eisenmann, 2006). President Lyndon Baines Johnson’s Great Society programs, extensively documented at his presidential library (www.lbjlibrary.org), advanced economic and educational programs and civil rights. He appointed 16 women to federal positions and established a new Women’s Bureau under director Mary Keyserling. A number of Johnson’s Great Society programs specifically benefited girls and women and racial minorities. The 1964 Civil Rights Act outlawed racial discrimination in public schools and public places, and its Title VII prohibited employment discrimination on the basis of sex. The 1965 Head Start Program helped very young children from disadvantaged homes, while the 1965 Elementary and Secondary Education Act tied federal aid to school desegregation plans. The 1965 Higher Education Act provided funding to both public and private institutions and tuition support for individual students to attend 4-year colleges, continuing education, and community colleges. Between 1960 and 1967, overall college attendance increased from 3.6 million to 5.2 million students. The proportion of students attending public colleges and universities, about 50% in 1950, climbed to 59% in 1960 and to 73% in 1970. By 1968, women had received about 20% of the available 15,000 graduate fellowships. Community colleges nearly quadrupled in number, offering an affordable and flexible pathway to nontraditional students. Women made up 38% of community college enrollment in the 1960s, which climbed to 58% by 1998. Women were also 45% of full-time faculty in community colleges by 1992. But as Labaree (2017) showed, community colleges – so supportive of enrollments by women and people of color – nonetheless were at the bottom “tier” in terms of prestige in higher education. In terms of women’s sports, the real boost came with Title IX of the 1972 Educational Amendments Act that prohibited sex discrimination by educational institutions receiving federal funds. Despite discrimination by male scientists and educators against girls studying the physical sciences, women tripled between 1960

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and 1990 their proportion of Bachelor of Physical Science degrees while young men began to decline as they chose business careers. Women’s colleges were originally established because men’s institutions refused to accept female students. In 1960, there were 280 women’s colleges; by 1970, their number had declined to 230. The number of men’s colleges was 174. As of 2000, only 63 women’s colleges remained in existence, while no equivalent figures are available for men’s colleges. Between 1970 and 1980 alone, 108 women’s colleges and 101 men’s colleges converted to coeducation, while another 46 women’s colleges and 27 men’s colleges closed their doors (Synnott, 2009).

Discrimination Against Women on the Basis of Their Ethnicity and Race Although the summary above presents women’s enrollment as a whole, it is clear that women students, like men, continued to be identified and often judged by their ethnicity, race, religion, and social class. African American, Native American, Hispanic, and Asian women faced two hurdles: gender and ethnic/racial identity. Since the 1960s, African American women – and more recently Asians – have made significant educational progress. Native American and Hispanic women are making gains more slowly.

African American Women Since Emancipation, African American women, like African American men, have valued education as an avenue of individual and racial advancement and have consistently fought for civil rights. Courageous Black girls served as plaintiffs in lawsuits to desegregate historically White public schools, for example, the Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1957. In her autobiography Coming of Age in Mississippi (1968), Anne Moody recalled her anger and fear at hearing of the murder fourteen-year-old Emmett Till in August 1955, because the young visitor from Chicago had allegedly whistled at a White woman in Mississippi. At Tougaloo College, Moody participated in lunch counter sit-ins, enduring verbal and physical abuse. At historically White higher educational institutions, African Americans, both men and women, have been trailblazers, even when their admission was denied (Synnott, 2014a, 2014b). Lucile Harris Bluford unsuccessfully sought admission to the University of Missouri’s School of Journalism after the Supreme Court ruled in Missouri ex rel. Gaines v. Canada (1938) that states could not fulfill their Fourteenth Amendment obligations by sending Black students out of state for higher education in fields offered to White students at in-state schools. In June 1949, after winning her lawsuit in the Supreme Court, Ada Lois Sipuel Fisher entered the University of Oklahoma Law School, but was initially segregated as the only African American and only woman among over 300 White male students. Though Autherine Lucy

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broke the color barrier at the University of Alabama in 1956, she became the first Black student at any public university to experience a riot and, for criticizing the university trustees, was expelled. In 1961, Charlayne Hunter and Hamilton Holmes experienced a riot after entering the University of Georgia, but they stayed and graduated. In 1963, without violence, the University of Alabama admitted Vivian Malone and James Hood under federal court order. Although Hood was subsequently expelled, Malone graduated in 1965. The University of South Carolina was the final holdout against desegregation. There, in 1963, Henrie Monteith was the first Black woman and the second plaintiff after Harvey Gantt at Clemson College to enroll at a historically White institution in South Carolina. These pioneers inspired future generations of African American women, who, 40 years later, earned two-thirds of all bachelor’s degrees, 71% of the master’s, and 64% of the professional degrees awarded to African Americans.

Native Americans Native American boys and girls had different educational experiences from other minority groups, because many of them were educated separately from Whites in federally sponsored boarding schools, beginning with the Carlisle Indian Industrial School (1879–1918) in Pennsylvania, and later in twentieth-century tribal colleges. Although the Cherokee Female Seminary in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, founded by tribal leaders in 1851, offered students a curriculum similar to that at Mount Holyoke College, the more than 100 “Indian” boarding schools that existed from 1878 to 1928 weakened the traditional authority of Native American women. Girls, about half the students, were forced to endure the cutting of their braids, to dress like European Americans, and to become Christians. In “School Days of an Indian Girl,” one of several articles she published in the Atlantic magazine between 1900 and 1902, Gertrude Simmons Bonnin (1900/2009), whose Yankton Sioux name was Zitkala-Sha (Red Bird), wrote of suffering “extreme indignities” as an 8-year-old at a Quaker missionary school in Indiana. After graduating in 1895, she attended Earlham College rather than returning home, and later lobbied, with her husband, for citizenship rights and legislation benefiting Native Americans. In recent decades, Native American women conducted sit-ins and walkouts to gain a more relevant curriculum in public elementary and secondary schools, which now enroll the majority of Native American pupils. There are also 106 Bureau of Indian Affairs elementary and secondary schools and 60 schools controlled by the tribes. Native American women have become leaders of 12% of the 500 federally recognized Native American and Alaskan nations.

Japanese Americans Like Native Americans, Japanese Americans also had their lives disrupted by the US government. During World War II, it ordered the more than 110,000 Japanese

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Americans living on the West Coast relocated to inland internment camps on grounds of national security. After 3.5 years at the desert camp, Manzanar, Jeanne (Toyo) Wakatsuki Houston, the daughter of a Hiroshima-born fisherman father and a Hawaiian-born mother, was released in 1945. The first in her family to attend college, she studied sociology and journalism at the University of San Jose and, in 1957, became the first in her family to marry a non-Asian. After revisiting the camp in 1972, she wrote, with her husband, James D. Houston, Farewell to Manzanar (1973) and then published Beyond Manzanar and Other Views of Asian-American Womanhood (1985). In the past few years, West Coast universities began making amends for interrupted educations by awarding honorary degrees to their former Japanese American students. In May 2009, 85-year-old Michiko Kiyokawa received an honorary degree from the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma. She had previously earned a bachelor’s degree from Hamline College in St. Paul Minnesota.

Hispanic Americans Hispanic students, once marginalized by a curriculum that emphasized folklore and crafts without providing them with viable livelihoods, gained influential advocates by the mid-twentieth century. The Chicano Movement, launched by Cesar Chavez to fight for higher wages for the United Farm Workers in 1965, also led to the founding in 1972 of La Raza Unida as a separate political party that has assisted Chicanos seeking control of local school boards and rural areas and in campaigning for the acceptance of bilingualism in the public schools. However, in 2000, one-third of Hispanic women between 25 and 34 years of age had not graduated from high school. One of the most important trailblazers exemplifying what Latinas can achieve is Sonia Sotomayor, a US Supreme Court Associate Justice appointed by President Barack Obama in 2009 (Synnott, 2014a, 2014b). As she recounts in her popular autobiography, My Beloved World (2013), her life as a Puerto Rican girl growing up in a Bronx housing project was transformed by admission to Princeton University, from which she graduated summa cum laude in 1976 and then 3 years later from the Yale Law School, where she served as editor of the Yale Law Review. Even children handicapped by poverty, inferior schools, and health problems, Sotomayor (2013, pp. vii–x) believes, may have dreams, even “fantasies,” that stir within them “the will to aspire.” The best public and private American universities must deal with their twofold challenge: the responsibility to recruit the top students from all socioeconomic groups by making an extra effort to seek out those from the bottom quartile and then to accurately assess which applicants among the thousands yearning for acceptance letters have that “will to aspire,” a quality that can determine success in college.

Nontraditional Students in the Twenty-First Century In the twenty-first century, even with more flexible admissions practices, debates continue over whether women have achieved full access to the entire range of

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educational opportunities from formal schooling to personal learning. Gender may be less of a barrier given the fact that women are now over 50% of college graduates, and outstanding women have been appointed presidents of such Ivy League institutions as the University of Pennsylvania, and Princeton, Brown, and Harvard universities. On the other hand, socioeconomic class and race still impede the educational progress of women – and men. With minority students reaching close to 30% of public high school graduates nationwide, the demographics of those attending American high schools and colleges have profoundly changed since World War II. College life has also changed as 20% of enrollments at some institutions were older returning women students, many of whom have jobs and families. While some students needing flexible scheduling and curricular options to prepare for specific careers have turned to “no-frills” universities or to for-profit online universities, other young people pursued an enlarged pathway to higher education through community colleges (Perna & Finney, 2014). Since the colonial era, postsecondary education has been the pathway to personal and economic advancement for both sexes. Providing admission pathways will increase enrollments and college graduates.

Battles over Affirmative Action When post-World War II America began to welcome growing population diversity, colleges and universities increased their admission of African Americans, Asians and South Asians, Latinx/Hispanics, and Native Americans. It is interesting to examine how these shifts impacted Ivy League schools such as Harvard, Yale, and Princeton – schools which had the luxury of choosing their student bodies carefully (Synnott, 2013/2017, pp. 113–175). To their established preferences for legacies and athletes, these three universities have added preferences for underrepresented racial minorities in the interest of promoting diversity within their student body. Since the late 1960s and 1970s, the Big Three also began to address the recruitment of undergraduate women to benefit the undergraduate educational – and social – experiences of their male students. They have also begun to provide more scholarship aid to enable students from lower socioeconomic families to attend and more recently have increased the amount of aid. With growing awareness of globalization, they have, within the past 10–20 years, encouraged more foreign students, many of whom need financial assistance, to apply and enroll. If the goal is to create a citizen of the world, undergraduates must interact on campus not only with students from abroad but must also participate in a significant international experience. In many ways, the approaches taken by Harvard, Yale, and Princeton exemplify some institutional reactions to affirmative action. Despite welcoming a more diverse student body, the Big Three continued their legacy preferences (i.e., children and relatives of alumni) in admissions, which averaged 12–13% in each class (Synnott, 2017). In 2010, which Harvard publicized as a “historic year” for admissions, the College invited 2205, just over 7% of the 30,489 applicants, to enroll in the class of 2014. Of the 1664 freshmen matriculating

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(a 75.5% yield), 94 were admitted from the waiting list. The Middle Atlantic states were represented by 23.3%, the South by 17.5%, the Pacific states by 17.1%, and New England by 16.8%. The 79 countries sending international students comprised 10.1% of freshmen, doubling the percentage from 1993. As for international students, in 1937–1938, only 37 students from overseas had enrolled among Harvard’s 3713 undergraduates. But by 2010, in all the university departments and programs, as many as 15–20% of degree candidates were international students, as noted by President Drew Faust, the first woman Harvard president. As the first president to visit Africa, she encouraged undergraduates to undertake a “unique international experience” while at Harvard. The university in 2010 awarded $145,433,000 in scholarships to 60% of freshmen as well as loans totaling $5,522,000 (Synnott, 2017). A combination of scholarships, loans, and/or employment were given to two-thirds of freshmen. Although 52.4% of admitted freshmen were male (the applicant pool was 50.9% male), more women would begin to matriculate. In terms of American minorities offered admission, 18.2% were Asian American; 11.3% African American; 10.3% Latinx; 2.7% Native American, which had increased through the Harvard University Native American Program; and 0.4% Native Hawaiian. At Yale, the 1344 freshmen arriving in August 2010 represented an increase of 37 from the total in 2009, selected from 25,869 applicants, 134 fewer than the previous year, allowing more admissions from the waiting list (Synnott, 2017). Financial aid was offered to 59% of the freshmen, following the “need blind” approach Yale had adopted. Its financial aid averaged $35,700, which was $1389 higher than in 2009, and covered “about 75% of the cost of attendance.” Among those matriculating, 11.9% qualified for Pell Grants. Of those 490 freshmen, 35.9% self-identified as American “people of color”: 17.4% said they were Asian or Asian American; 8.4% African American; 8.6% Hispanic; and 1.5% said Native American. Undergraduate women, 41 years after coeducation was launched, were 54.5% of the applicants, outnumbering men among those enrolling, 697 to 647. The Northeast had the most freshmen, 35.3%; and the West, 17.7%. Arriving from 47 countries, international students were 10.7% of the freshmen, similar to the 2009 percentage. Princeton, like Harvard and Yale, also continued to admit a higher percentage of alumni sons and daughters than of other groups, though such candidates had to offer far stronger credentials than they did 50 years ago (Synnott, 2017). In 2009, Princeton admitted 230 (41.7%) of the 552 alumni children who applied, while admitting only 9.79% of all applicants. The 166 matriculating alumni sons and daughters constituted 12.7% of the 1304 members of the class of 2013. The class of 2013 was the second class to enroll almost equal numbers of both men (658) and women (646). Princeton’s class of 2014 was just the third “to be evenly balanced in terms of gender.” History Professor Nancy Weiss Malkiel had played a prominent role as Dean of the College (1987–2010) in supporting Princeton’s “core values” of “access and affordability,” and its attainment of “our goal of making Princeton affordable for any student regardless of family financial circumstances” (Synnott, 2017). The total number of applicants increased by 19.5% in 2010 to 26,247; 8.8% or 2311 applicants

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were admitted, a dip from 10.1% the previous year. With 1313 matriculating in 2010, Princeton achieved for the second year its goal of the “gradual expansion of the size of the undergraduate student body” which it had begun in 2005, aiming to enroll 5200 students by 2012–2013. With its cost rising to $52,180, Princeton awarded a total of $27 million in scholarships, averaging $35,157, to 768 freshmen (58%, 2% fewer than in 2009). To increase its diversity, the class of 2010 enrolled a significant number of students from lower-income families as well as 490 students (37.3%), who identified as American minorities, and 141 international students (10.7% of freshmen). Although affirmative action programs were established at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, and most other colleges, White parents have complained that racial preferences, even if not actually discriminatory quotas, resulted in denying admission to their own children. They added their voices to the debates over whether using ethnicity or race can ever be a legitimate factor in admissions.

Legal Challenges to Affirmative Action Affirmative action plans have been limited by court decrees and voter-approved bans (Synnott, 2005a, 2005b). As far back as 1978, in Regents of the University of California v. Bakke, the Supreme Court ruled, 5 to 4, that the special admissions plan implemented by the University of California Medical School at Davis reserving 16 places in each class of 100 for “qualified minorities” violated the Fourteenth Amendment’s Equal Protection Clause and Title VI of the 1964 Civil Rights Act (Sindler, 1978). The Medical School, which twice rejected Allan Bakke, a qualified White applicant and veteran, was required to admit him. However, Supreme Court Justice Lewis F. Powell Jr. opened the door for a way to look at affirmative action, arguing that, because the First Amendment protects academic freedom, universities have considerable discretion in admitting students. He cited Harvard College’s program, because it treated “each applicant as an individual in the admissions process,” who would be compared “with all other candidates for the available seats.” Affirmative action policies and plans were frequently adjudicated in the courts, as well as by state law and referenda (Synnott, 2005b). For instance, the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in Hopwood v. State of Texas (1996) that the University of Texas Law School was prohibited under the Fourteenth Amendment from discriminating against White applicants and “non-preferred minorities” in order to admit more Blacks and Mexican Americans. Also in 1996, after California voters approved Proposition 209, a constitutional amendment which outlawed preferences based on race, ethnicity, and gender “in public employment, public education or public contracting,” percentages of Black freshmen admitted to the state’s public universities dropped considerably. Washington state voters approved in 1998 a ban on racial and gender preferences in public colleges and government agencies. The Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in Johnson v. Board of Regents of the University of Georgia (2001) that it violated the Fourteenth Amendment to award either fixed numerical points to non-White freshman applicants or race-based scholarships.

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Georgia Blacks defended their HBCUs and their cultural heritage when, in response, the legislature proposed to cut costs by merging two of them with Predominantly White Institutions (PWIs). In the 2000s, the University of Michigan became an affirmative action battleground after White plaintiffs appealed two cases from the Sixth Circuit Court to the US Supreme Court. Briefs by private and public universities, Fortune 500 companies, and retired military officers persuaded the Supreme Court, in Grutter v. Bollinger (2003), to decisively uphold, 5 to 4, the University of Michigan Law School’s “highly individualized, holistic review of each applicant’s file” in admitting diverse and talented individuals to the Law School. However, the companion case Gratz v. Bollinger (2003) struck down as mechanistic the point system benefiting minority undergraduate applicants to Michigan’s College of Literature, Science, and the Arts. Some states restricted, even banned, affirmative action in their publicly supported colleges and universities. California, which had voted to ban affirmative action under Proposition 209 in 1996, voted against restoring it under Proposition 16 in 2020. Florida and Texas developed alternative plans to increase Black enrollments. A “One Florida” plan announced in 1999 by Governor Jeb Bush guaranteed students in the top 20% of their high school class admission to one of the state’s public universities. The “Texas 10 Percent Plan,” for which Governor George W. Bush obtained legislative support, guaranteed the top tenth of graduating high school seniors admission to their favored state university (Lutz, 2011). As a result, Black enrollment at the University of Texas at Austin, which had dropped after Hopwood, climbed by 2007 to about 5%. According to a 2008 study, minority students ranking in the top 10% of their high school classes tended to graduate within 6 years if they enrolled in the competitive UT-Austin or Texas A&M at College Station. Their graduation rates called into question the “minority mismatch” theory that asserted Black graduation rates were higher at less competitive colleges. The Southern Regional Education Board’s (2011) survey of 16 member states showed a 52% growth in Black college enrollment to 1.1 million by 2005; HBCUs enrolled just 19% of Black students. Blacks more than doubled their number of bachelor’s degrees earned since 1990. Two-thirds of their 136,122 bachelor’s degrees were earned by Black women. In 2016, the Supreme Court ruled, 4 to 3, in Fisher v. University of Texas at Austin that universities are constitutionally permitted to use race as one of many admissions factors.

Students for Fair Admissions Sues Harvard College The most recent affirmative action lawsuit is Students for Fair Admissions, Inc. v. President and Fellows of Harvard College, which, at the time this essay was written, was under consideration for certiorari by the US Supreme Court (https:// admissionscase.harvard.edu/appeal). The lawsuit, initiated by conservative activist Edward J. Blum in 2014, has its roots in Regents of the University of California v. Bakke (1978), Grutter v. Bollinger (2003), and Fisher v. University of Texas at

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Austin (2016), all of which constitutionally permitted universities to use race as one of many factors in admissions. If heard by the Supreme Court, this lawsuit has the potential to change collegiate admissions yet again. In the federal district court trial in 2018, attorneys for Students for Fair Admissions (SFFA) accused Harvard, calling it well known for its “secretive admissions process,” of intentionally discriminating against Asian American applicants in admissions. The plaintiffs “relied primarily on statistical analysis, its experts, and documents and testimony from Harvard officials.” Pointing to the progress made in student diversification over past decades, Harvard attorneys denied any discrimination, saying Harvard evaluates many factors in addition to race in admitting applicants. They argued that, of the 1962 admitted to the class of 2022 from over 42,000 applicants, 46% identified as White, 18.1% as Asian and 3.8% as South Asian (in contrast to only 3% Asian in 1980), 10.7 as Black, and 6.5% as Hispanic or Latinx (Bolotnikova, 2019; Synnott, 2019). Filing briefs in support of Harvard were over 70 colleges, universities, and alumni and student groups, over 500 social scientists, 16 statisticians and economists, the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), the ACLU of Massachusetts, the Harvard Black Alumni Society, the Association of Black Harvard Women, and 21 Colorful Crimson, as well as a number of Asian American organizations, including the Asian American Legal Defense and Education Fund (AALDEF) and the Harvard Asian American Alumni Alliance (H4A), which added its name to the NAACP Legal Defense Fund’s brief. For the SFFA side, three conservative organizations and the Justice Department, then led by US Attorney General Jeff Sessions (Jaschik, 2018), supported SFFA in a statement of interest submitted in August 2018 and alleged that Harvard University’s “race-based admissions process significantly disadvantages Asian-American applicants.” Harvard’s position (Walsh, 2018a) is revealed in its response statement expressing its deep disappointment in the Justice Department’s endorsement of what it called “misleading and hollow arguments that prove nothing more than the emptiness of the case against Harvard,” given the Supreme Court’s decisions for over 40 years upholding “the freedom and flexibility to create the diverse communities that are vital to the learning experience of every student.” Harvard further noted that it is “proud to stand with the many organizations and individuals who are filing briefs in support of this position today.” At trial in 2018, attorneys for SFFA accused Harvard of intentional discrimination, arguing that Harvard rated Asian Americans lower on personal characteristics, despite their higher academic achievements and strong extracurricular activities, while giving preferences to legacies, families of wealthy donors, faculty and staff children, student athletes, and African Americans and Latinx/Hispanics. Pointing to the progress made in student diversification over the decades, Harvard attorneys denied any discrimination, saying it evaluates many factors in addition to race in admitting applicants and referring again to data on the class of 2022. Among close observers of higher education, journalists noted, Harvard’s position had both supporters (Walsh, 2018b; Krantz, 2018; Taylor, 2018) and critics (Flanagan, 2018; Emba, 2018). In oral arguments in 2019 before Federal District Court Judge Allison D. Burroughs, two Harvard attorneys who had graduated from the institution in

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the early 1970s – William F. Lee `72, the son of Chinese immigrant parents, and co-counsel Seth Waxman `73 – argued that a ruling for “race-neutral admissions” would exclude “1,000 Hispanic and African-American students from Harvard’s campus, and would be a disaster for the country.” Testifying for Harvard were Dean of Admissions William R. Fitzsimmons `67; Drew Faust, Harvard’s first woman president (2007–2018); eight undergraduates and alumni; and Ruth Simmons, an African American daughter of Texas sharecroppers, who earned her PhD from Harvard and later became president of Brown University. This phase of the case also attracted much public comment (Fernandes, 2019; Walsh, 2019). After hearing arguments, Judge Burroughs “appeared skeptical” that SFFA had provided sufficient “proof that Harvard College intentionally discriminated against Asian-American applicants.” However, she expressed concern with Harvard’s case, noting that 6 years of admission statistics indicated that it “gave Asian-American applicants lower personal scores,” with “only 22 percent” in the top 10% academically receiving “high personal” ratings, in contrast to “30 percent of white [sic] applicants.” The amicus briefs filed by 25 Harvard student and alumni organizations supported the University’s development of a racially diverse campus to benefit students, noting that the faculty and curriculum needed diversification to become more welcoming. As of 2016, for example, it noted that just “18 percent of Harvard’s 2,517 professors are minorities.” On October 1, 2019, Judge Burroughs upheld Harvard admissions policies as not discriminating against Asian American applicants (Walsh, 2019). She concluded that Harvard’s application of affirmative action and its according of preferences to athletes, legacies, children of faculty and wealthy donors, and to racial minorities were relatively open. SFFA appealed Judge Burroughs’ ruling to the US Court of Appeals for the First Circuit. In February 2020, the Justice Department filed its brief supporting the SFFA appeal, arguing that “Harvard intentionally uses race in its admissions process” and has not met “strict scrutiny by showing that its use of race is narrowly tailored to a compelling interest.” It argued further that the consistency in the racial composition of its first-year classes indicates “racial balancing,” which was also confirmed by “Harvard’s own internal study of race-neutral alternatives.” Going beyond “the mere application of a ‘plus’ factor,” which Judge Burroughs had approved, “Harvard’s process employs a system of de facto quotas,” which “imposes a racial penalty by systematically disfavoring Asian-American applicants.” The personal rating applied by Harvard’s admissions officers “produces consistently poorer scores for Asian Americans.” Numerous individuals, corporations, and groups supported Harvard’s case, some with friend of the court briefs, as noted in the online compilation maintained by the university. Noting that there were no “race-neutral effective alternatives,” support was offered by many distinguished scholars, including Nobel laureates and social scientists, as well as business executives and 15 state attorneys general, and 26 Harvard alumni and diverse student organizations. Amicus briefs were filed by 14 American corporations, among them Apple Inc., Microsoft, and Twitter, who argued that diversity among college students benefits them as they compete globally. Harvard’s

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brief was also endorsed by the American Council on Education’s 41 member organizations. A brief filed by 15 higher educational institutions urged “the court to affirm the right of educational institutions to structure admissions programs that appropriately consider race and ethnicity within the context of an individualized and holistic review.” The brief of over 670 social scientists advocated for “Harvard’s whole-person review[which] treats each individual as an individual, not merely as a member of a racial group with presumed qualities and characteristics.” It also “benefits Asian American applicants.” In oral arguments on the appeal in September 2020, the SFFA argued, “After nearly six years of litigation, and a lengthy trial, the district court was unable to competently determine that Harvard treats Asian American applicants fairly.” SFFA attorney William Consovoy also argued that if the Harvard case were a Title VI discrimination case against women employees, it “would have been resolved with summary judgment, let alone a trial.” Arguing on behalf of Harvard, Attorney Seth Waxman maintained that “SFFA didn’t present a single fact witness who testified at all about implicit bias.” Others speaking in defense of Harvard noted that “Harvard’s admissions process is consistent with the 40-years-plus precedent, grounded in an individualized review that is narrowly tailored to achieve Harvard’s compelling interest in student body diversity.” In November 2020, the First Circuit Court of Appeals upheld the October 2019 ruling of District Court Judge Burroughs “that Harvard University’s admissions process does not discriminate against Asian-American applicants, likely propelling the battle over affirmative action to the US Supreme Court.” In their 104-page decision, the First Circuit rejected SFFA’s claims that Harvard “(1) engages in racial balancing of its undergraduate class; (2) it impermissibly uses race as more than a ‘plus’ factor in admissions decisions; (3) it considers race in its process despite the existence of workable race-neutral alternatives; and (4) it intentionally discriminates against Asian American applicants to Harvard College.” In addition to the Harvard case, which Attorney Blum and SFFA planned to appeal (Harvard Crimson, 2021), they simultaneously took to trial a case against the University of North Carolina, theorizing that these two cases, one against a private university and the other against a public institution, would raise such “different constitutional and civil-rights issues” that the Supreme Court would reevaluate affirmative action plans in higher education. Several law school professors and commentators shared their reactions and their expectations for what the SFFA case could mean for collegiate admissions (Synnott, 2019; Fernandez, 2020). NYU School of Law professor Deborah Archer, now the first Black person elected as head of the American Civil Liberties Union, characterized the decision as fully in Harvard’s favor. Archer believes universities should review what have long been taken as standard features of admissions policies such as legacy, athletic, and faculty preferences because such policies have detrimental impacts on students of color. University of Denver Sturm College of Law professor Nancy Leong thought that the First Circuit anticipated that the case would come before the US Supreme Court, which now has six conservative justices. Tufts sociology professor Natasha K. Warikoo suggested that the Supreme Court had a

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compelling reason to accept the case. In the National Review, Roger Clegg (2021) predicted that the Supreme Court would take the case, arguing that “it is critically important that the Court revisit its 2003 ruling that ‘diversity’ justifies discrimination.” If the Supreme Court takes the case, the decision of the justices may well affect the future of affirmative action at universities nationwide that consider race in admitting students, rather than exploring racially neutral alternatives (Lu, 2021; Rosenberg, 2021). In its petition for certiorari, SFFA asked the Court to terminate any use of race in admitting students to higher educational institutions, thereby overturning its Grutter v. Bollinger (2003) decision. Harvard defended its position (Walsh, 2021), saying, “We will continue to vigorously defend the right of Harvard College, and every other college and university in the nation, to seek the educational benefits that come from bringing together a diverse group of students.” The full Supreme Court will only hear the case after four justices initially agree that it should be heard. For its part, Harvard is proud that the students admitted to the class of 2024 included 24.4% Asian Americans, 14.7% Blacks, 12.7% Latinos, and 1.8% Native Americans; White students were about 46% (Harvard Gazette, 2021). As of this writing, the Supreme Court is still considering certiorari and in June 2021 asked the Biden administration’s Justice Department to provide a brief.

Related Considerations at Yale and Princeton In February 2021, probably influenced by the 2020 First Circuit finding in favor of Harvard (Mystal, 2020), the US Justice Department withdrew its lawsuit charging Yale University with discriminating against Asian and White applicants by “keeping the annual percentage of African American admitted applicants to within one percentage point of the previous year’s admitted class,” irrespective of their SAT scores. In reaction to this withdrawal, Students for Fair Admissions said it would now sue Yale, just as it has sued Harvard, for illegally using quotas to achieve racial and ethnic diversity in admitting classes (Davidson, 2021). A defender of constitutionally applied affirmative action admissions policies, Michael A. Olivas of the University of Houston Law Center, argued that the Court should reject SFFA’s appeal of the Harvard case (Lu & Tsotsong, 2021). Arguing in favor of striking down affirmative action (Jaschik, 2021, February 8) were Shirley J. Wilcher, executive director of the American Association for Access, Equity and Diversity, and Yukong Zhao, president of the Asian American Coalition for Education, who was “totally shocked by the Biden DOJ’s hasty decision to drop the Yale lawsuit, only eight days after President Biden signed an executive order claiming to combat anti-Asian discrimination . . . This is purely ugly identity politics that further divides our nation.” Yale president Peter Salovey defended his institution (Jaschik, 2021, February 8a) by emphasizing “there is more to getting into Yale than having the best grades and test scores,” because these measures “do not provide a complete picture of each applicant.”

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Without making a finding about possible racial discrimination in Princeton University’s admissions policies, the US Department of Education closed its investigation of that institution in January 2021, an inquiry which Princeton president Christopher L. Eisgruber had termed “specious” (Jaschik, 2021, February 15).

Coda: The Uncertain Impact of Covid-19 The wide-ranging, unpredictable, and worldwide impacts of Covid-19 seem likely to change college admissions dramatically. As of this writing, colleges and universities are struggling to understand the experiences their students had in academic year 2020–2021, as well as to anticipate the needs of those who enroll for academic year 2021–2022. What seems evident, however, is that Covid-19 dampened collegiate enrollments in the past year, with especially outsized effects on some groups of students, and that these negative impacts may extend into the next academic year. As John Thelin and other scholars have indicated (Kim, 2021), Covid-19 required educational institutions to rely even more on Internet use and distance learning and to develop these platforms extensively. Whether the shift to distance learning will heavily favor students already advantaged by family wealth and by ethnicity and race depends on how much assistance federal, state, and local governments will be able to grant to children from lower-income and racial minority families. They will need free use of computers and Internet access, as well as more educational support from teachers and professors. Higher education enrollments of recent high school graduates already are showing declines in early decision (4.6%) and early action (5.7%) applications by race, gender, and economic status (Jaschik, 2021, February 8b; Jaschik, 2021, January 11). Notably, Black and Latinx students often find that applying early to college limits their opportunity to weigh the different aid offers they may receive. In 2021, about 7% of Blacks are applying early, out of 14% of them graduating from high school. Of 25% of Latinx students graduating from high school, only 5% are applying early. At the same time, White and Asian early applicants rose 1% to reach 39 and 11%. Early action applicants had already begun to decline in 2019– 2020. Schools with no more than 2000 students saw drops in early action application of 29%; institutions with 2001–4000 students saw drops of 24%; institutions with 4001–7000 by 12%; those with 7001–13,000 by 10%; those with 13,001–20,000 by 2%; and those with more than 20,000 students rose by 5%. Overall, strong enrollments were maintained in the past year at prestigious colleges and large public universities, while smaller institutions and less selective colleges experienced declines (Jaschik, 2021, February 8b). Many students chose to attend a college close to home during Covid-19, making it difficult for most institutions to predict enrollments. Noting one of the ongoing challenges in equalizing admissions, Angel B. Pérez, CEO of the National Association for College Admission Counseling, suggested that “students and parents will read about the most selective institutions and defer applying to college this year – even though the

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reality is, most institutions in this country are more than happy to accept their applications and admit them.” Examination of the early impact of Covid-19 on admissions shows a mixed pattern (St. Amour, 2020). According to the final report of the National Student Clearinghouse Research Center, fall 2020 enrollment numbers declined at many institutions of higher education; community colleges experienced the sharpest decline at 10.1%. Freshman enrollment overall declined by 13.1%. Altogether college enrollments recorded a student loss of around 400,000, about 2.5%, two times higher than in the fall of 2019. Enrollment at public colleges, which seven of ten students attend, declined by 4%. American students who enrolled in the spring of 2020 generally returned for the fall semester, and graduate student enrollment rose 3.6% compared to the fall of 2019. Both undergraduate and graduate enrollment increased by 5.3% at 4-year for-profit colleges. However, institutions enrolling international students saw a decrease in their numbers because of Covid-19. Other enrollment decreases occurred by age and gender. Adult enrollment – those older than 24 – declined by 30%, likely because of expenses for childcare and employment demands. While male enrollment dropped by 5%, female enrollment declined only 0.7%, even though mothers usually had the major responsibility for childcare. In 2020, international graduate students’ first-time enrollment continued to decline for the third year, which had the sharpest drop of 39% due to concerns about Covid-19 and the visa and immigration limitations instituted during the administration of President Donald J. Trump (Redden, 2021). The “first-time enrollment of graduate students declined by 43 percent at the master’s level and by 26 percent at the doctoral level.” Before the pandemic, the Council of Graduate Schools (CGS) had been optimistic that “we might have more international graduate students enrolled at U.S. institutions in Fall 2020 than Fall 2019.” First-time graduate enrollment dropped especially among students from China and India by, respectively, 37% and 66%. Iranian students applying for doctoral programs tended to defer admission; only 13% enrolled in the fall of 2020. Even applications from Canadians and Mexicans dropped, respectively, by 5% and 6%, although those from Oceania – Australia and New Zealand – rose by 5%. In terms of fields of graduate study, those that dropped over “39 percent were mathematics and computer sciences ( 53 percent), engineering ( 52 percent), public administration and services ( 51 percent), and business ( 41 percent).” Graduate schools were also left with the challenge of estimating how many of their accepted students would choose to defer admission. As for community colleges, St. Amour (2020b) noted that Michelle Asha Cooper, president of the Institute for Higher Education Policy, emphasized that community colleges experienced “the sharpest of these striking declines in enrollment” due to Covid-19 – a particular concern because these schools “often serve the largest share of students of color and students from low-income backgrounds.” Cooper noted that students’ withdrawal or postponement of enrollment “can decrease the odds [that they] will ultimately earn a degree or credential.” A further concern is that they would lower their prospects of earning the benefits “and workforce outcomes associated with educational attainment, both of which could help students and families recover from this crisis and cushion themselves against a future recession.”

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Some community colleges have “cold called” their students who dropped out – 10% overall – to find out how they were coping during Covid-19 and to ascertain the problems they experienced with family life, financial needs, and online learning (Snow & Binkley, 2021). Older adult students employed in industries with high unemployment reported struggling financially and have had to defer their own education to oversee their children’s virtual classes. To cite one example, from the fall of 2019 to the fall of 2020, enrollment at Phoenix College, one of ten community colleges in Maricopa County, dropped from 10,978 to 9446, a loss of about 14%. Racial minorities make up about 60% of Phoenix College’s enrollment. Historically, community colleges offer new courses and job skills to low-income people needing to find employment during economic downturns. During his February 2021 Senate hearing for secretary of education, Miguel Cardona said community colleges are “this nation’s best-kept secret” and deserved federal financial assistance. As another example, MassBay Community College in MetroWest Boston offers over 100 online courses and meal assistance scholarships, even as it experienced a 10% enrollment decline. MassBay president David Podell expressed concern that those students who never return to classes after dropping out will have lower earnings throughout the rest of their lives. Overall, the highest declines at community colleges were among Black students and Native Americans, whose enrollments dropped by 13% compared to a 10% drop among Whites and Hispanic students and 5% among Asians. In 2020, there was there was almost a 22% decrease in high school graduates entering college from over 2300 high schools, according to the National Student Clearinghouse (Whitford, 2021). This caused enrollment to fall “from 35.3 percent to 27.7 percent, a drop that is 10 times greater than the decline between 2018 and 2019” (St. Amour, 2020a). Comparing the differences between high- and low-income schools, evidence suggests that those graduating from “low-income high schools saw a nearly 30 percent drop in college enrollment, compared to a 17 percent drop for those at high-income high schools.” Both urban high schools and those educating minorities had larger percentage declines in college enrollment. The National Student Clearinghouse Research Center reported in June (Whitford, 2021) that data released by 97% of American degree-granting institutions showed a decline in the previous spring of over 603,000 students, 3.5%, with overall enrollment falling from 17.5 million students to 16.9 million, the most significant drop since 2000. Included in these numbers are students who left college in the fall of 2020 and did not return in 2021. The decline of 727,000 (4.8%) of undergraduate students was the largest, since graduate enrollment rose 124,000 students (4.6%). Of these institutions, community colleges experienced a 9.5% enrollment decline of 476,000 students, with students enrolled for associate degrees declining by 10.5% and those working toward certificates declining by 4.8%. Overall, community college declines totaled more than 65% of the decline in undergraduates. In response, 2-year colleges focused on retaining their existing students. Regionally, colleges and universities in the southern states experienced a lower decline of 1.9%, while those in the Northwest and Midwest dropped, respectively, by 4% and 4.1%. In the spring of 2021, California institutions lost 122,752

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(5.3%) of their students. Other states with enrollment declines of over 20,000 were New York, Michigan, Illinois, and Pennsylvania. New Mexico had the highest percentage decline of 11.4%, while Delaware, Michigan, Kansas, and Wyoming had declines of 6.2% or more. Experiencing enrollment increases were New Hampshire, Utah, West Virginia, Nebraska, Virginia, Idaho, and Maryland. By gender, the decline in men’s enrollment was double that of women, a trend observed for a decade. Some 400,000 men, 5.5%, dropped out, compared to 203,000, 2%, of women (Whitford, 2021).

Conclusion Colleges and universities have never been “ivory towers,” despite the idealism of some faculty and presidents. Since their founding, America’s earliest universities have been closely linked to the contemporary economy and, by extension, to the global economy. Because of the economic and political power of their founders and trustees, colleges and universities have reflected the prejudices of each era. Occasionally, however, faculty will deliver a no confidence vote to their board of trustees. Students have also taken the initiative to effect changes at Ivy League colleges, for example, at Dartmouth College (Jaschik, 2014). On April 1, 2014, President Philip J. Hanlon ’77 was confronted by a student sit-in to persuade the administration to approve of what they termed a “Freedom Budget” that includes a demand for increased minority enrollment to 10% of each of three groups (African Americans, Latinx, and Native Americans) and to raise to 47% postdocs of color. Contemporary scholars and journalists have built on Ralph Waldo Emerson’s (1837/2017) observation that colleges “can only highly serve us, when they aim not to drill, but to create;. . . and, by the concentrated fires, set the hearts of their youth on flame.” In the New York Times, Nicholas Kristof (2014) appealed, “Professors, We Need You!” He called on contemporary academics to become involved in public debates and to reach out to the general reading public. “SOME of the smartest thinkers on problems at home and around the world are university professors,” he wrote, “but most of them just don’t matter in today’s great debates.” There are two reasons: “the anti-intellectualism in American life” and the increasing, perhaps excessive specialization of the disciplines. There are “fewer public intellectuals on American university campuses today than a generation ago.” Professors can change this by using “a growing number of tools available to educate the public, from online courses to blogs to social media.” “So, professors, don’t cloister yourselves like medieval monks – we need you!” In March 2014, New York University historian Jonathan Zimmerman added his support to Kristof’s New York Times column, calling on contemporary academics to become involved in public debates and to reach out to the general reading public, as they once had done. Zimmerman (2014) commented that he had “been trying to make a similar case to my fellow historians for more than a decade, stressing our duty to serve the public, and it has largely fallen on deaf ears.” He is now telling “younger scholars” that though “the public needs you, dear historian, you also need

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the public.” But given the declining number of “tenure-track positions,” younger scholars may “not be employed at universities” and “will need to know how to connect with readers and listeners outside of our guild.” The job market projects that “an increasing fraction of professional historians will not be employed in higher education. To get jobs, they will need to know how to connect with readers and listeners outside of our guild.” In an earlier era, historians connected successfully with the reading public by writing bestsellers and textbooks. Zimmerman named Charles and Mary Beard, Carl Becker, Henry Steele Commager, Oscar Handlin, Richard Hofstadter, and more recent authors David McCullough, Doris Kearns Goodwin, and James McPherson. Zimmerman (2014) exhorted, “Historians, The Public Needs You! But you need the public, too. Don’t turn away from it, as so many of us have been taught to do. The job you save may be your student’s. Or your own.” I believe that not only historians but professors in all academic disciplines should comment on the roles of their colleges and universities in American society, on how to recruit the best prospects through academically strong admissions policies, and then on how to educate students for a future that may continue to be uncertain.

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Trow, M. (1970). Reflections on the transition from mass to universal higher education. Daedalus, 99(1), 1–42. Turner, R. H. (1960). Sponsored and contest mobility and the school system. American Sociological Review, 25(6), 855–867. U.S. Reports: Brown v. Board of Education, 347 U.S. 483 (1954). https://www.loc.gov/item/ usrep347483/ United States. Committee on Civil Rights. (1947). To secure these rights: The report of the President’s Committee on Civil Rights. [Online ed.]. https://www.trumanlibrary.gov/library/tosecure-these-rights United States. President’s Commission on Higher Education. (1947). Higher education for American democracy: A report of the President’s Commission on Higher Education. Author. United States. President’s Commission on the Status of Women. (1963). American women. [The Petersen Report.] Author. Veysey, L. (1980). The history of university admissions. Reviews in American History, 8(1), 115– 121. Walsh, C. (2018a, September 4). Hundreds of experts, scholars back Harvard in admission suit. Harvard Gazette. https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2018/08/hundreds-of-expertsscholars-back-harvard-in-admissions-suit/ Walsh, C. (2018b, November 4). Attorney appears confident admissions case ruling will favor Harvard. Harvard Gazette. https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2018/11/harvard-attorneyappears-confident-in-admissions-case-ruling/ Walsh, C. (2019, February 14). Final arguments in admissions suit. Harvard Gazette. https://news. harvard.edu/gazette/story/2019/02/final-arguments-in-admissions-suit-against-harvard/ Walsh, C. (2021, May 17). Harvard argues admissions suit isn’t worthy of Supreme Court review. Harvard Gazette. https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2021/05/harvard-argues-admissionssuit-isnt-worthy-of-supreme-court-review/ Wechsler, H. S. (1977/2014). The qualified student: A history of selective college admissions in America. (Republished with a new introduction.) Transaction. (Original work published 1977). Whitford, E. (2021, June 10). Spring enrollment takes a plunge. Inside Higher Ed. https://www. insidehighered.com/news/2021/06/10/final-spring-enrollment-numbers-show-largest-declinedecade Wilder, C. S. (2013). Ebony and Ivy: Race, slavery, and the troubled history of America’s universities. Bloomsbury. Wills, J. (Ed.). (1993). The Catholics of Harvard Square. Saint Bede’s. Zimmerman, J. (2014, March 3). Calling all professional historians: Come out of the ivory tower [Blog post]. WHYY. https://whyy.org/articles/calling-professional-historians-out-of-the-ivorytower/ Zimmerman, J. (2017, February 24). Harold Wechsler and the myth of meritocracy. The Chronicle of Higher Education. https://www.chronicle.com/article/harold-wechsler-and-the-myth-ofmeritocracy/

Marcia Graham Synnott The Half-Opened Door: Discrimination and Admissions at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, 1900–1970. Press, Westport, CT. With a new introduction by the author (New Brunswick (U.S.A.) and London (U.K.) 2010. Originally published in 1979 by Greenwood.

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A Review of Scholarship on College Student Activism from 2000 to 2020 Stephen John Quaye, Chris Linder, Terah J. Stewart, and Erin M. Satterwhite

Contents The Stories That Inform Our Interest in Activism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stephen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . TJ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Erin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rationale for Identity-Based Student Activism and Power-Consciousness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Social Movements Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Content Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Subject Matter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Methodologies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Topic, Group, or Issue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Terminology and Language . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Themes in the Literature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Student Experiences . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Methods and Tactics of Activists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Institutional Responses and Administration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Scholar-Activism and Pedagogy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Anne-Marie Núñez was the Associate Editor for this chapter. S. J. Quaye (*) · E. M. Satterwhite The Ohio State University, Columbus, OH, USA e-mail: [email protected] C. Linder University of Utah, Salt Lake City, UT, USA T. J. Stewart Iowa State University, Ames, IA, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 37, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3_5

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Implications for Researchers Studying Student Activism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124

Abstract

Since the inception of higher education, college students have engaged in activism to bring about change on their campuses. In this chapter, we review identitybased student activism scholarship, which centers the needs of activists with minoritized identities, published from 2000 to 2020. We performed a content analysis to examine the subject matter, methodologies, and topic, group, or issue of this scholarship, which resulted in addressing five areas in this chapter: the history of identity-based student activism, student experiences, methods and tactics of activists, institutional responses and administration, and scholaractivism and pedagogy. We also provide recommendations and implications for researchers studying student activism. Keywords

Student activism · Minoritized identity · Social movements · Power · History · Scholar-activism · Administrators

College students in the United States have engaged in activism for as long as postsecondary institutions have existed. Although students focused their early activism primarily on food and living conditions (Moore, 1997; Pisner, 2011), in the 1930s, students protested World War II (Braungart & Braungart, 1990; Cohen, 2013), addressed civil rights during the 1960s (Cohen, 2013), resisted the Vietnam War in the late 1960s and 1970s (Hine, 1996), and pushed for multiculturalism on their campuses from the 1970s to the 1990s (Levine & Wilson, 1979; Rhoads, 1998). Over the last two decades (2000–2020), college student activists have addressed a number of issues related to racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, and ableism both on and off campus. These are both identity- and issue-based forms of activism, as the issues being addressed cannot be separated from identities, which inform the material experiences of students on college and university campuses. While not exclusively identity-based or exclusively issue-based, the issues of oppression impacting students both on and off campus warrant increased attention from university educators and administrators. Students do not attend colleges and universities with an inclination to become activists; to the contrary, many assert that they want to just be students (Linder et al., 2019a). Instead, they engage in activism as a way to hold administrators, faculty, and staff at their institutions accountable for enacting the institution’s espoused values of equity and justice. Students also become activists, in some cases, because their mere existence in their minoritized bodies makes them vulnerable to oppression from people with dominant identities (Linder et al., 2019b). Additionally, while students may engage in activism beyond their own identities, they are still engaging in identity-based student activism. For example, while many cisgender students advocate for systemic change related to issues of gender identity, we refer to this as

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identity-based student activism because the oppression the activists are addressing is rooted in identity, albeit not always their own identity. Cisgender students can understand the ways in which their transgender peers experience oppression based on their gender identity and work to rectify that identity-based oppression, even when it is not their experience as cisgender students. Further, although students might center a particular identity in certain kinds of activism, no activism is exclusively about one identity; some students have a deep understanding of the significance of intersectional activism that may center one or more identities but is really about getting at the root of the ways all oppression is tied together. Students’ resistance is also fueled by administrators not doing their jobs by addressing oppression on their campuses (Stewart et al., 2020). Over the past 20 years (i.e., 2000-2020), activism among college students has addressed broad issues related to their minoritized identities. Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi, three Black women (two of whom also identify as queer), for example, initiated Black Lives Matter following their outrage with the disposability of Black lives after a not-guilty verdict in the trial following George Zimmerman’s murder of Trayvon Martin in Sanford, Florida, in 2013. Students on college campuses then also began tweeting #BlackLivesMatter and holding rallies (Heineck, 2012; Stewart & Quaye, 2019). Black students also engaged in activism following Darren Wilson shooting and killing Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, 2014, most notably at St. Louis University and the University of Missouri (Izadi, 2015). In December 2014, the African American Policy Forum (AAPF) and Center for Intersectionality and Social Policy created #SayHerName to acknowledge the invisibility of Black girls and women within the movement (AAPF, n.d.; Whaley, 2016). Administrative response to sexual violence among college students also emerged as a salient issue among activists. In 2012, Angie Epifano wrote an op-ed detailing her negative experience at Amherst College with how administrators managed her report of sexual assault (Epifano, 2012); the post went viral and the movement picked up steam. In 2013, Andrea Pino and Annie Clark filed a Title IX complaint against the University of North Carolina – Chapel Hill for mishandling sexual assault cases (Mangan, 2018). Emma Sulkowicz carried her residence hall mattress on campus – and at graduation – to protest administrators not expelling her alleged rapist (Bogler, 2016), and sexual assault survivors shared their stories in the film The Hunting Ground (Dargis, 2015). In the subsequent years, students filed 502 Title IX complaints against their institutions (The Chronicle of Higher Education, n.d.). Shortly into the twenty-first century, September 11, 2001 sparked a rise in xenophobia directed toward Muslim students on college campuses (Raghunathan, 2017). This oppressive treatment was spurred following Donald Trump’s election in 2016, encouraging activists to advocate for the needs of undocumented students, sometimes resulting in institutions declaring their campuses as sanctuary spaces for undocumented students (McMahon, 2016). Finally, Indigenous activists worked to protect the land and water through the No Dakota Access Pipeline (Hersher, 2017). In all of the aforementioned cases, students have worked tirelessly to challenge oppression toward the pursuit of being able to just be college students, live fully in their minoritized identities, change the curricula of their campuses, and address systemic oppression.

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In this chapter, we provide a review of published scholarship on identity-based student activism over the past 20 years (2000–2020). Before discussing the themes from our review, we offer five organizing sections below. First, we situate ourselves in this chapter by discussing our positionality as authors. We want readers to know what led us to this work so that they have a better understanding of the particular assumptions and lenses we brought to our reading and writing. Next, we offer our rationale for examining identity-based student activism through a power-conscious lens, the major contribution of our chapter. Following this discussion, we highlight social movements theory, specifically Museus and Sifuentez’s (2021) chapter on this topic, to address how our work is tied to and departs from social movements theory. We then discuss the process for our content analysis to help readers understand the decisions we made as we reviewed the published scholarship. In the last organizing section, we define terms we use in highlighting the major themes from the published scholarship.

The Stories That Inform Our Interest in Activism Writing positionality statements is a common practice among researchers employing qualitative methods; however, we seek to move beyond positionality and engage in reflexivity with our work. Reflexivity requires researchers and authors to wrestle with their relationship to the topic they are studying on an ongoing basis, recognizing the ways their relationship to the topic morphs over time, depending on the context (Daley, 2010). In our stories below, we answer the question: What brought us to the work of student activism? We share stories from our past that inform our present understandings of activism, the ways we wrestle with our own engagement in activism, and how our identities shape what we see and do not see related to activism.

Stephen Unbeknownst to me at the time, my mother and father were my first examples of activism, although they likely would not label any of their actions as activism. As Ghanaian immigrants, their mere existence in the white spaces they occupied was a form of rebellion. Existing in their Black skin was their resistance. One of my most vivid memories was seeing my mom parked in her usual spot in our white minivan with wood paneling that was hip in the 1990s. A white kid was continually picking on my older brother who was around 11 at the time. I walked out of school with my brother, and this white kid proceeded to follow my brother, continually calling him names. We got to where my mom was parked, and out of the window my mom turned and looked directly at this kid and told him to stop picking on my brother. I don’t recall the details of what else she said, but I remember her saying sternly at some point, “Get out of my face, you stupid boy!” After that day, this kid no longer picked on my brother.

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Over the years, my mom’s resistance revealed itself to me in quieter, more subtle ways, for example, the way she made a home of respite and safety for her four children in a country not her own as an immigrant from Ghana, West Africa. I also saw her quiet activism in how she sat at the kitchen table with us, helping us with our homework, or in the ways she taught us how to master English, which she said would be our tool to navigate this white world. She also fed us and, in the process of making meals, told us stories of Ghana and her trials and tribulations of coming to America. I saw her resistance in how she worked to gain citizenship at the Immigration and Naturalization Services office where so often agents told her and my dad that they did not have the necessary paperwork and needed to go back home after waiting in line for hours. She did not complain and, instead, came back, determined to demonstrate resistance in her perseverance. I did not realize how instrumental these behind-the-scenes activism shaped who I am today. My mom’s resistance coupled with my dad’s mantra of “You have to work twice as hard as your white counterparts to achieve success in this society” forged my own identity as an activist. As a Ghanaian immigrant, I realized as a young child that my presence in the predominantly white Christian school I attended from fourth grade through graduation from high school was a form of activism. I did not belong in that space, and, every day, my Blackness reminded my teachers and peers of that fact. As such, showing up in spaces I did not belong was how I learned to be an activist. My more introverted, meek nature was something I took from my mom, while my “study-and-perform-well” attitude in white spaces I learned from my dad. Both qualities enabled me to survive in the white spaces I visited, never an occupant, always a passerby, and yet consistently navigating them with dexterity and precision. When Darren Wilson shot and killed Michael Brown on August 9, 2014, in Ferguson, Missouri, I moved my meek and quiet activism into bolder strategies. Michael Brown’s death, for the first time, shattered my perception that if I mastered the white spaces in which I existed in my mannerisms, dress, and performance, white people would see me as exceptional and protect my Black body. Michael Brown’s death crumbled this belief. With two of my former colleagues, Dominique Hill and Mahauganee Shaw, we formed the Mobilizing Anger Collective (MAC), a group of faculty, staff, and students on Miami University’s campus who joined to mobilize our anger into collective action. I started to think more deeply about activism and began to study it. I wanted to learn from my predecessors about how to blend my scholarship as a faculty member with my activism. While working with the MAC, I noticed, and Mahauganee and Dominique also pointed out, that despite our efforts to view our group as a collective, when people reached out, they often asked Mahauganee or Dominique to engage in unpaid work, such as creating flyers, sending announcements, and ordering materials for protests, while denoting me as the leader of the group. In one of our meetings as a trio, I heard both of them grumbling about these instances, and they started poking fun at me for how my privilege as a cisgender man played into how others positioned me. I could feel the pain of their invisibility in their jokes. I felt immense guilt about not pushing back when people silenced them and expected them to do menial tasks as Black women. I started reflecting more on my cisgender privilege and opportunities I am

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afforded as a result of being a cisgender man. I began pushing back when people saw me as the leader and trying to take on more of the tasks in which they engaged. In preparing to write this chapter, I paid more attention to my own cisgender dominance when reading historical articles that centered Black men and ignored Black women’s contributions and reflected back on the MAC days and how, even within our present-day organizing from 2015 to 2017, similar gender patterns existed. Although awareness of my cisgender privilege comes with no easy list of what to do with this knowledge, it continues to ground me and returns me to my mother’s story with newfound meaning. I often wonder now how she felt to engage in so much labor with minimal recognition. Yet, she still showed up, much in the same ways that Black women activists continue to show up even when their voices are overshadowed by Black men. But at what cost(s)? These experiences leave me with immense responsibility to not reproduce these conditions and honor the voices and stories of Women of Color activists in my work while continuing to move my awareness into action now and in the future. I enter this chapter with these stories at the forefront – stories of my mom, stories of Black women, stories of the MAC, and stories of grief, loss, hope, and possibilities. These stories guide me and remind me why I do this work – not for praise or publications but as a way to center the voices of those often forgotten and to remember the immense privilege and power I hold, which comes with tremendous responsibility for doing justice to these stories and so many other stories I still do not see.

Chris After we finished our book about student activism, I said, “No more research on student activism for a while.” Yeah, right! Despite my constantly shifting positionality, especially as it relates to institutional power, I am continually intrigued by and in awe of student activists. Further, I am grateful to remain in community with scholars thoughtful about the future of scholarship on student activism, which consistently pulls me back to this work. I, myself, was not a student activist as an undergraduate. A first-generation, White, working class woman from rural Kansas, I went to college to “get ahead.” I subscribed to individualistic, dominant culture values related to going to college to make money, and, therefore, I majored in business, which fueled my commitments to rugged individualism. At the same time, I engaged in a number of leadership opportunities on campus, and my engagement in leadership was also quite traditional – I was a resident assistant, highly involved in student government, the college of business student leadership group, the alumni association student organization, and the campus recreation center advisory board. I think it safe to say that I approached these involvement opportunities from a selfish place – I sought to build my resume and my community, yet I would not have called it that. During my junior year of college, I took an economics class with a focus on gender and began to have my first awakenings to how our society was structured in inequitable ways; however, it took

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many more years for me to further develop this understanding and integrate it into my way of being in the world. My path from those days as an eager undergraduate student focused on getting ahead to becoming a faculty member in a higher education program has been circuitous and filled with many moments of learning, sometimes as a result of my own missteps, requiring people with minoritized identities to serve as my teacher. Through these learnings, I have learned the importance of community- and coalitionbuilding and of a variety of strategies for pushing institutions of higher education to become more just and equitable spaces. I have also come to understand my own socialization and values better, working to make the unconscious conscious by continually asking what my values and beliefs are and from where those came. For example, to this day, I get quickly offended when people suggest or share with me an idea that feels obvious to me – I feel as though they somehow believe that I don’t know what they are pointing out or that they assume that I am dumb. This is an example of an unconscious value of assumed competence, something heavily rooted in my White socialization. Unconsciously, White people often expect to be treated as though they are competent and capable (Goodman, 2012). Coming to understand this, I challenge myself to be mindful of how this value of wanting people to think I am competent is rooted in individualism and Whiteness and may get in the way of my learning from other people or being able to build relationships with others. Early in my career, I served as the director of a campus-based women’s center with a heavy focus on addressing relationship and sexual violence. Through this work, I was introduced to anti-racism and its relationship to the anti-violence movement. I learned about the long history of White women controlling the antiviolence movement and recognized my own contributions to privilege and oppression within feminist movements. This is also when I became interested in student activism – I observed women of color students pushing back on Whiteness in feminist spaces and wanted to better understand how they came to engaging in activism and, more specifically, why they had hope for White women like me to change. In the late 2010s, I did my first research project in my doctoral program about the experiences of women of color activists, and then I wrote my dissertation about the ways undergraduate White women attempted to engage in anti-racist activism through feminism. In fall of 2014, I remember noting the ways college students were engaging social media to connect with each other to make significant progress on raising public awareness about the issue of sexual assault among college students and, even more specifically, the inferior ways campus administrators managed the response to sexual assault after it happened. Because I had a long history working with students around issues of sexual assault and observing student activists, I was immediately intrigued, so I quickly recruited a research team to explore the strategies these activists used to address sexual assault on college campuses. From there, my interest in student activism continued to grow, and I have led and co-led several research teams investigating student activism. In the past 2 years, I have moved into a highly visible and political leadership position on my campus directly tied to addressing relationship and sexual violence

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among college students. For 18 months, I served as the special assistant to the president for violence prevention and education, which led to me initiating and serving as the director of the Center for Violence Prevention. In these roles, I have supported the president of our institution as she has navigated the waters of better understanding and engaging with student activists, giving me yet another avenue to put my scholarship to practice by helping the president to consider various strategies for engaging with student activists in productive ways. As a scholar of student activism, this experience has been insightful. I continue to appreciate student activists pushing institutions of higher education to do and be better, and I also see the ways in which our president has worked so hard to listen to students, make change, and move us forward, yet the students have been so hurt through institutional betrayal (Smith & Freyd, 2014), that they cannot move forward. Our president recently resigned from her position, with some indication that her experience trying to manage campus safety played a role in her decision to step down (Tanner, 2021). Today, I still wrestle with individualism in my work as individualism is highly rewarded in the tenure and promotion process for faculty advancement. Further, collaborating with people requires a significant investment of time, something also not supported by the structures of academia. However, I strive to engage as a scholaractivist when I can. Specifically, when I engage in research, I almost always collaborate with large research teams that include student affairs practitioners and students to ensure a strong connection between theory and practice. Further, in initiating the Center for Violence Prevention, I have engaged in community- and coalition-building with a number of student affairs educators and students to develop a collective vision. I feel proud of the work we are doing and am excited to keep moving forward, working to eradicate relationship and sexual violence among college students in the United States.

TJ I enter this place and space as someone who has a complicated relationship to activism but who values deeply the ways that mobilizing and organizing push our campuses and our society in ways that are desperately needed. I often explain my childhood and upbringing by saying I was raised by women. Kelly Norman Ellis wrote a poem of the same name that beautifully captures what this means to me, but suffice it to say, I was raised with a strong value for truth, justice, and, overall, with a radical Black politic, which continues to inform my personal values, my academic interests, and what I think matters in the world. By the time I arrived at my undergraduate institution, I was relatively vocal about issues of equity and justice. In fact, I often referred to myself as “the Rockefeller of outrage” as an homage to Joe Clark, the famous educator and school principal who was known to say that phrase to essentially communicate that he had no shortage of outrage energy. I used my energy to name and counter systems of oppression. The racism I experienced on campus motivated me to engage with like-minded individuals, and I became a student activist as part of my membership in our campus Black

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Student Association (BSA). During that time, I learned valuable lessons about the difference between mobilizers, organizers, activists, and how leadership materialized differently in activist spaces. I also learned early on that institutional leaders were often not interested in transformational change but maintaining a positive image and placating student activists until they graduate. After transitioning from my undergraduate experience to my graduate work, and shortly thereafter my professional work, I experienced – almost instantly – the barriers that prohibit staff from engaging, supporting, and engaging activism as part of their student affairs work. It was a disorienting experience, but I refused to be ineffective even if I could not engage in my activism publicly. At this point, I began to think about resistance as opposed to activism and how those words can and do mean different things. While I was not a visible staff activist, there were many ways that I engaged in resistance through undermining oppressive systems, structures, and institutional leaders in the service of supporting students. As the sun began to set on my admin/staff work, I knew I wanted to pursue doctoral study. At the start of that journey, I knew that activism was an area of scholarly interest, and I felt fortunate to work with Chris on her work around activism and begin work of my own. Around this time, I joined the #ActivismOnCampus team and worked with Stephen, Chris, and a host of other brilliant scholars to engage this work. However, this question of activism versus resistance continued to haunt me. I have written about the ways these terms are conflated, and this issue is the bedrock of my aforementioned complicated relationship to activism. As a general principle, I believe that all activism is resistance but not all resistance is activism. There are some people that activism is not preferred or possible but still can and do engage in resistance. I believe activism/ist to have largely become a political label that some willingly embrace as a performance (they often have dominant identities), and others feel they have no choice but to be labeled that way despite their choicelessness to engage in activism; as if they do not, they may not survive the world because they are not meant to. The students and educators across several writing projects from our national study on student activism, the corresponding book we authored, and several articles have encouraged me about the future of our campuses and the potential for higher education, if only we would embrace those who fight for equity and justice. As a Black, fat-bodied, queer, cisgender man, and from a low-income lineage, I understand why this fight is important. I recognize the way dominance presses upon those of us located at the nexus of many points of oppression. This recognition has compelled me to ask the question: Given all that we know, who is still missing? Who is still not accounted for in the activism, equity, and justice discourses? My search for that answer has pushed me to consider those in the shadows and on the fringes of our campus and in society, whose movements may not receive the visibility, traction, or support that more prevalent movements receive – issues that may be perceived as relatively settled in the matter of public and campus opinion; issues such as fatphobia and whorephobia/sex work stigma, where it seems socially acceptable to silence and to oppress; issues that are not understood as justice issues; and issues that impact people, humans, in real ways just like other issues activists advocate for.

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My search has led me to understand that as far as we have come, we have such a long way to go, and I am committed as a faculty member to engaging in a scholarship of consequence. I am committed to researching dangerously and standing boldly in support of the movements and moments that are not only minoritized but that are stigmatized as we work to have these folks heard, supported, and liberated, not only on campus, but beyond. I am proud of my individual and collective work; I also want scholars and educators to push ourselves and each other around supporting activists in meaningful and material ways and to move beyond the intellectualization of our writing and scholarly efforts but to be coconspirators and to put some proverbial skin in the game for equity, justice, and student activism.

Erin Though my research experience with student activism has been relatively limited, I have had an almost decade-long relationship with activism and coalition-building. My deep passion for social and institutional change has irrevocably changed my understanding of higher education in policy and practice. Additionally, my experiences have informed my research agenda coming into graduate school and shaped my professional and pedagogical philosophies in praxis. As an undergraduate student, I reluctantly came to activism work at my predominantly White institution almost 10 years ago. I attended my first protest in support of Trayvon Martin and in response to racist reactions from White students on campus. As a Black woman, I felt a deep call to action, and something inside of me felt a profound sense of connection during that movement. As an overly involved student, I found myself immersed in spaces that introduced me to higher education’s bureaucratic side. Each of these experiences helped me to build a more autonomous and critical view of my institution as it pertained to equity and neoliberalism (though I had no words for these revelations at the time). As a woman of color who worked so hard to emerge as a leader on my campus, I strived to utilize my positions to advocate for change and toe the line of not “rocking the boat.” As a master’s student, I found my activism and advocacy morph from movements and demonstrations to educational means. I was fortunate to be surrounded by scholars who pushed me to read critical and post-structural scholarship. This knowledge widened my views of the profound importance student activists have to motivate change and, at the same time, recognize the laborious task of feeling the need to be called to that work as a student. When I was immersed in my activist work as an undergraduate student, I knew what I felt but never had the language to name it. Working through my master’s degree allowed me to immerse myself in the existing literature and helped me process through so much for which I had no words. As a doctoral student, I find my relationship with higher education more tumultuous and complicated than ever before. The more I learn and research, the more disconcerted I feel about the state and future of higher education, especially for marginalized students. My activist identity as an undergraduate student is something I wore as a badge of honor and I know shaped who I am now. However, I would have

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loved the opportunity to just be a student. Many student activists are often burned out or vilified for working toward positive change on their campuses and in their community. Knowing this feeling first hand, I am motivated to maintain an identity of a scholar-activist through liberatory frameworks in the classroom, research and writing as a research assistant, and often speaking up against injustice in my program. Having situated ourselves as the researchers for this study, we now discuss the rationale for centering identity-based student activism and paying attention to power in our chapter.

Rationale for Identity-Based Student Activism and Power-Consciousness As noted below, social movements theory offers a broad conceptualization of how social movements occur (Diani, 1992). Because of oppression, scholars might not see the activism of students with minoritized identities and, as such, not label their activism as contributing to a larger social movement. As such, we emphasize the importance of studying activism at a localized level even if not tied to larger, structured social movements. Our rationale for reviewing scholarship on identitybased student activism is to center the role of social identities in activism. By social identities, we mean identities tied to privilege, power, and oppression. When students are engaged in activism tied to their identities, particular nuances and consequences arise (e.g., burnout) (Gorski, 2018), which makes centering identity-based activism worthy. Further, we situate our analysis using a power-conscious framework. Specifically, this means we examine the scholarship by looking for issues of power, privilege, and oppression related to activism. The power-conscious framework highlights three foundations on which the framework is built: power is omnipresent, identities are socially constructed, and power and identity are inextricably linked (Linder, 2018). In this instance, we refer to power as the ability to influence our own and other people’s experiences. Power is both formal and informal. Formal power includes hierarchical power as well as positional power. Informal power, which is closely related to formal power, also includes the relationship between social identities. For example, White people typically hold power over people of color in everyday interactions based on the informal power that White people hold in mainstream US society. Our chapter is predicated on the assumption that power and identity are inextricably linked. We argue that identity-based student activism exists because minoritized students and their justice-minded peers observe and push back against power imbalances in student experiences both on and off campus. Although we focus this chapter on student activism because we are scholars of higher education and student affairs, we note that much of the activism students engage in as it relates to power and identity is tied to activism and issues of oppression beyond campus boundaries.

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Although student activism is not new, from 2000 to 2020, a resurgence in public, visible activism occurred, and scholarship on this topic proliferated during this time. We center our chapter on these two decades for two primary reasons: to identify major patterns and trends in this resurgence in activism in more recent years and to center the minoritized identities of activists during this time period. We understand our choice has potential to minimize or overlook activism before 2000, and the advent of social media during 2000–2020 also enabled activists to document their activism and raise awareness of oppression more easily. For these reasons, centering our analysis in this timeframe is important. In the next section, we discuss social movements theory in order to help readers understand how our focus on identitybased student activism connects with and departs from this larger theory.

Social Movements Theory Social movements theory scholars seek to document and, more importantly, explain how and why social movements (i.e., organized action by people with the goal of change) happen (Almeida, 2019; Diani, 1992). This theory rests at a macro-level of analysis, paying attention to the role of systems in social movements, an important contribution. Given our focus on minoritized social identities, social movements theory enables us to see how students with these identities organize to effect largescale change. Despite these helpful connections, social movements theory does not offer a more localized analysis of activism, and social movements theory scholars also often operate from a neutral stance (Museus & Sifuentez, 2021). Museus and Sifuentez (2021) offered a compelling case for why scholars might engage their proposal of a critical social movements theory framework, which combines critical theory and social movements theory, to strengthen both analytics toward a more “holistic critical analysis of the intersection between social systems and movements” (9). Of their critique of social movements theory, they offer: However, while social movements theory researchers engage macro-level systems in their analysis, they often do not take an explicit political stance on systemic oppression and politics. As a result of this assumed neutrality, social movements theory scholarship often clarifies how it advances knowledge while falling short of explicitly elucidating whether and how it contributes to social justice objectives to eradicate systemic oppression or advance the emancipation of marginalized communities. As a result, social movements theory might not adequately capture the realities of marginalized communities or provide room for researchers who are motivated to advocate with them. (7)

Their articulation is an important one, and we note additional ways that social movements theory presents a challenge in relation to an analysis of power, identity, and local activism (i.e., activism at an individual, smaller-scale level) that are not necessarily nullified when combined with critical theory. To illustrate our thinking, we provide a few, but certainly not exhaustive, examples. First, social movements theory is historically grounded in the belief that social movements are always already spontaneous, unstructured, and guided/initiated by

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emotions and occur as a form of collective behavior when there are social and cultural breakdowns in society (Morris, 1999). These articulations summarily oversimplify certain movements, in particular, those related to racism and White supremacy. On this point, Morris (2000) illustrates the ill-fitting way scholars apply social movements theory to one of the most well-known social movements: the Civil Rights Movements of the 1950s and 1960s. Morris (2000) argues that social movements theory broadly (specifically, the political process model) shortchanges the role human agency plays in movements and the theories “gloss over fundamental sources of agency that social movement groups can bring to the mobilization process” (445). To further illustrate, Morris (2000) highlights how social movements theorists were mistaken in their view that the Civil Rights Movement’s central frame was that of “rights,” which were connected to the well-known legal contestations of racial oppression and bigotry. In fact, the more accurate frame for the mobilization of that movement was a moral one, which leads to a more comprehensive freedom and justice frame. A freedom and justice frame more strongly captures the cultural significance of Black Americans of faith. The “moral frame had mobilizing power because it was deeply rooted in the culture of the agency-laden African-American church and had instant resonance for most of the people embedded in that church” (Morris, 2000, 448, emphasis added). To this point, Museus and Sifuentez (2021) are accurate in the challenge of social movements theory to fully capture the realities of minoritized people. At the same time, scholars continue to debate whether critical theory, due to its deep connection with Marxist thought, overemphasizes the primacy of class struggle and underemphasizes or obscures axes of struggle related to other identities, including race, gender, and ability. The other argument we offer about the challenge of social movements theory is in relation to the various levels of many contemporary activist movements – that in many ways are also moments – and how social movements theory can obscure local organizing. For example, Black Lives Matter is a well-known “movement” and is different from other well-known movements in relation to Blackness and Black people. Black Lives Matter is significantly different from the Black Panther Party or the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). Unlike SNCC, which provided a national model for incorporating younger people within the Civil Rights Movements, or the Black Panther Party, which was a comprehensive revolutionary political party, Black Lives Matter developed in response to state violence, and local organizers and mobilizers attached their work to that frame retroactively, initially with no corresponding national organization. As scholar Charles Davis said in a tweet, “This led to existing groups operationalizing the frame but keeping their own structure while others used the frame to begin building new, local BLM chapters in the absence of connection to pre-existing orgs” (Davis, 2020a tweet). This articulation of the unfolding of the movement is important because application of social movements theory may be too abstract to examine the particularities or processes of how Black people mobilize and organize for Black lives whether they use “Black Lives Matter” rhetoric or not. More importantly, social movements theory may not be equipped to make legible smaller scale, local, or developing activism until it

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reaches the level of being understood as a coherent social movement. Davis (2020) captures a similar point by talking about pre-Black Lives Matter as “before the movement had a name” (Davis, 2020b tweet), which conveys that activists were organizing and mobilizing around state-sanctioned violence against Black people for many years before the concept of “Black Lives Matter” emerged to describe a broader movement. This raises the question: Before the emergence of “Black Lives Matter,” how would (could) scholars engage that work, in the absence of Black Lives Matter as a “movement,” frame, or analytic? We argue that frameworks and analyses that focus on Blackness and Black people as a historical and contemporary target of White supremacist violence might better handle the specificity of respective activist movements and moments. This would also be the case for all other identity-related activism. Rather than a universal identity-based lens or framework, we are suggesting that specificity is important and the frames/theories that are grounded in social identities of activists are stronger fits than analytics that try to understand any and all activism as social movements. This reality is not limited to activism related to race, as similar dynamics exist with activism around sexual violence and #MeToo. In 2017, Actress Alyssa Milano suggested people should reply to her tweet with the words/hashtag #MeToo if a perpetrator had sexually harassed or assaulted them. However, Tarana Burke, a Black woman activist, had been using that specific phrase in her sexual violence work as early as 2006 (Trott, 2020). Milano, as a notable actress, provided hypervisibility to the phrase, making it go viral. Does #MeToo constitute the totality of all sexual violence activism, and how might people frame the issues in absence of either that language or the optics of a social movement? Previously, the topic was largely thought about as a women’s issue, and while people of all genders experience sexual violence, scholars have articulated the prevalence of violence against women that cannot be understated (Walsh et al., 2019). Similarly, when scholars center environmental justice activists, many of whom are White, they miss seeing how Activists of Color and People of Color who do not identify as activists have been addressing issues related to the environment in poorer predominantly communities of color for decades without formal recognition or scholars labeling their activism as a movement. Further, when engaging in intersectional analyses around the impact of environmental justice, Communities of Color and disabled people, for example, are disproportionately affected by issues related to environmental injustices (Jampel, 2018; Perkins, 2021), which is to say the topic of environmental activism cannot be divorced from an identity-based unit of analysis if the analyses are to be truly power-conscious. To this end, we value the contributions of what social movements theory offers to the study of activism and especially the critical lens Museus and Sifuentez (2021) added that offers a more complex theory that attends to power and oppression. The contribution we make in this chapter is centering the role of identity, whose construction and enactment are inherently value-laden processes that are attentive to power, dominance, and oppression, in constructing activists and activism. We now discuss our process for identifying and reviewing articles for this chapter (Fig. 1).

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Fig. 1 Number of articles published from 2000 to 2020

Content Analysis Scholarship about college student activism began steadily growing in 2015, as highlighted in the chart below. In addition to the journal articles reviewed for this chapter, scholars have also authored a number of books about college student activism during this time. Given the proliferation of student activism scholarship, we center our chapter on peer-reviewed published scholarship from 2000 to 2020 to address the most recent scholarship on this topic. To identify articles for inclusion in this review of the literature, we began with a search in three education-related databases: Academic Search Ultimate, Education Full Text, and ERIC. We used the subject terms student activis* (to capture student activism and student activist) and college or university or higher education and limited our search to the years 2000–2020. We further limited the search by selecting peer-reviewed articles only. This search resulted in 341 articles, and upon an initial read-through, we noted a large number of these articles did not involve empirical or conceptual scholarship; instead, they were commentaries, essays, or magazine articles. Further, given our focus on identity-based student activism with a relationship to issues of power, privilege, and oppression, we limited our search to articles focused on US-based activism. We acknowledge the significant body of scholarship on activism in international contexts outside the United States. However, we focus on the United States because issues of power, privilege, and identity vary dramatically based on global location, and our research team does not have expertise in global activism. It is beyond our expertise or purview to effectively analyze articles outside of a US-based context. To ensure that our review focused on activism among US college students and highlighted primarily scholarly pieces, including empirical research or theoretical

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papers, we narrowed the articles we reviewed considerably. We removed 60 articles that included book reviews, commentaries, and essays about student activism; 165 articles about activism outside the United States; 18 non-research or nontheoretically oriented, magazine articles (e.g., Change magazine); and seven duplicate articles, resulting in a remaining 90 articles. Given our collective familiarity with this subject area, we noticed a number of articles with which we were familiar were missing from this search and added them to the collection for review. Upon further review, we noted that the majority of articles in higher education-related journals – Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, The Review of Higher Education, Journal of College and Character, and the Journal of College Student Development – did not appear in this search. We then did a search in Google Scholar with the same parameters and identified 82 additional articles that met our criteria that did not show up initially in the research databases. We share this level of detail about our search process to assist future researchers in thinking about their search criteria and the search engines they select; for example, researchers may wish to engage sociological, historical, or ethnic studies databases for research about activism. After collecting these articles, each member of the research team read ten articles to begin to identify themes and patterns for us to discuss. We then met and identified the major subject categories into which the articles fell. We also discussed the additional criteria we wanted to use to organize the articles and decided to categorize the articles by subject, student group or topic explored, and methodology employed. Although many articles may fall into multiple categories, we chose to focus on the primary subject (i.e., history, student experiences) and topic (i.e., LGBT issues, environmental issues), so no article counted twice in the analysis. We also acknowledge that researcher perspectives play a large role in research and writing – our perspectives sometimes differed from each other’s, and other researchers may also categorize some articles differently than we did based on their own assumptions and perspectives. However, we discussed and came to a consensus on the general categorizations of the articles based on our initial review of the articles. We generated the categories based on our collective discussion and understanding of the literature based on the categories and topics we observed in the literature.

Subject Matter The subject matter of the articles fell into one of five major categories: history, student experiences, methods and tactics of activists, institutional responses and administration, or scholar-activism and pedagogy. We organize our review by these major categories, providing more detail below. The vast majority of articles in the review focused on student experiences with activism or historical analysis of activism. The history section included articles highlighting an analysis of primary documents (e.g., newspapers, communication between students and administrators) related to student activism or analysis of historical periods of student activism. In the

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student experiences category, authors engaged in empirical studies examining student experiences or wrote conceptual or theoretical papers highlighting students’ experiences with activism. The methods and tactics of activists focused on the strategies student activists used to engage in activism (e.g., social media, protest). The institutional responses and administration category highlighted articles that focused on ways administrators or educators engaged with student activists and organizational and institutional characteristics contributing to student activism; finally, the scholar-activism and pedagogy section highlighted articles reviewing how faculty used their scholarship (either research or teaching) to engage in or support student activists (Table 1).

Methodologies Additionally, we categorized the articles by the methodologies employed by the authors, as summarized in Table 2. Of the 172 articles, 94 were empirically-based, meaning that the authors collected and analyzed data. Seventy articles employed qualitative methods, 17 quantitative, three mixed methods, and four content or discourse analysis. We categorized 21 articles as conceptual or theoretical, meaning that the authors did not collect data for the piece but instead used theory or scholarship to make or frame an argument about student activism. Finally, authors of 51 articles used historical analysis as the methodology for their articles. Table 1 Subject matter of articles reviewed

Subject matter of articles Subject matter History Institutional response Methods/tactics Scholar/pedagogy Students Total

Number of articles 50 38 13 15 56 172

Table 2 Methodologies of articles reviewed

Methodologies of articles Subject matter Conceptual/theoretical Historical Law review Mixed methods Content/discourse analysis Qualitative Quantitative Show and tell Total

Number of articles 21 51 1 3 4 70 17 5 172

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Topic, Group, or Issue Finally, we also attempted to organize the articles by topic, which ranged dramatically. We initially noted that a number of articles focused on a particular group of students based on identity (e.g., Black students, LGBT students); however, as we began to dig in, we noted that some articles did not focus on student groups per se but instead an issue with which student activists were attempting to engage (e.g., DACA/immigration issues, sexual assault), which are still closely tied to identity. As in the previous section, many articles may have fallen into more than one category, so we tried to address this by creating a category for multiple identities or choosing the primary category that the authors centered. For example, one article explored activism around LGBT issues at a religious college, and we categorized that as “LGBT” because that was the social issue addressed by activists. Table 3 highlights the topics of the articles in the study. Notably, students with minoritized identities were front and center in the groups or topics studied. Of the 172 articles reviewed, 90 articles explicitly centered students with minoritized identities, 31 articles focused on Black or African American students, 13 focused on Students of Color broadly, and 14 focused on students Table 3 Student group or topical area of articles reviewed

Student group or topical area centered Group or topic Asian/Asian American Black/African American Latino/a/x Native American Students of Color (generally) LGBTQ Trans * (only) Disability Women/feminist Working class/poor Multiple minoritized identities Non-specified students Conservative students Religious identity Faculty Faculty/Staff of Color DACA/immigration Sexual assault Sweatshop labor Environmental Civic engagement Institutional characteristics/leaders Architecture/planning Total

Number of articles 4 31 4 2 13 8 2 3 7 2 14 27 3 2 6 4 4 5 3 2 7 9 3 172

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with multiple minoritized identities (e.g., Black women). The additional breakdown of identities is highlighted in Table 2. An additional segment of articles focused on issues closely tied to identity, including immigration (n ¼ 4) and sexual assault (n ¼ 5). We categorized another significant segment of articles (n ¼ 27) as non-specified students, meaning the authors referred to “student activists” but did not specifically name the identities of the student activists. In fact, many of these articles did not even include demographics of their participants, making the research difficult to interpret from a power- and identity-based lens. We categorized just under one-third (n ¼ 46) of the articles as focusing on something other than identity or identity-based issues facing minoritized students. These articles included research related to environmental or sweatshop activism, institutional characteristics related to student activism, architecture and planning in student activism, and the role of faculty and staff in supporting student activists.

Terminology and Language To understand the language we use throughout the “Themes in the Literature” section, we define common terms below. These definitions are especially important in the “Institutional Responses and Administration” section. Whether directly stated or not, when researchers use the term institution or the institution, this almost universally refers to actual members of the institution: faculty, staff, students, senior-level administrators, and, in some cases, the local and surrounding community. This is a critical point because framing incidents of activism – and corresponding responses to activism – using the institution as language is a passive anthropomorphic articulation that does not center who has power and who is doing an/the action. Instead, using institutional leaders or faculty and staff is a more active framing that directly implicates who at the institution is responsible for a particular response or a course of action. Additionally, institutions are not necessarily land or buildings. While land and buildings are components of campus environments, the institution is the people, which is to say the individuals who make choices and who take action or inaction, which result in particular outcomes in relation to college student activism. In relation to individuals who comprise the institution, when researchers use faculty and students, the meaning is relatively clear. If the study centered undergraduate students versus graduate students or faculty of a certain designation or rank, authors indicated it. The population where there was more gray area at times was in relation to staff and administrators. Sometimes, researchers clearly indicated who and what they meant; oftentimes, they did not. When referring to a particular study or finding, we use the language researchers used when citing them. In general, researchers used these terms in the following ways: • Faculty – individuals whose primary responsibility is teaching and/or research • Administrators – individuals who are non-faculty but possess power to facilitate or hinder student activism (Ropers-Huilman et al., 2005), usually those in more senior-level positional roles

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• Staff – generally unclear term often used to mean non-faculty and sometimes includes or excludes administrators, for example, “. . .custodial staff, people who work in entry-level positions in student services offices, mid-level managers, and a number of other positions” (Linder et al., 2020, 5) • Educators – individuals who are responsible for student support in some way, a broad term that includes faculty, staff, and administrators (Linder et al., 2020) • Scholar-activism – how scholars, researchers, and teachers blend their scholarship and activism to create a critical agenda toward social change (Clancy & Bauer, 2018; Quaye et al., 2017; Romano & Daum, 2018) Institutional agents/agents of the institution is another term that researchers use in writings about activism. Stanton-Salazar (1997), referring to people who can provide students with access to social and cultural capital, defines institutional agents as “individuals who have the capacity and commitment to transmit directly, or negotiate the transmission of institutional resources and opportunities” (6). In his conception, institutional agents include persons such as “middle-class family members. . .teachers and counselors, social service workers, clergy, community leaders, college-going youth in the community, and others” (Stanton-Salazar, 1997, 6). In the context of scholarship on student activism, we frame institutional agents in higher education as faculty, administrators, and staff who share responsibility to support student development (Linder et al., 2020). In contrast to these intellectual origins of the term, scholars of student activism also use the term institutional agent to mean someone who shares/bears responsibility for the actions of the institution or whom there exists an assumption of loyalty/allegiance to the institution through the association of full-time employment, thereby complicating relationships or responses to student activists (see Griffin et al., 2020).

Themes in the Literature Having described our content analysis process above, in the bulk of the remainder of this chapter, we underscore the themes from our analysis. As highlighted above, the research on college student activism generally fell into five major categories: history, student experiences, methods and tactics of activists, institutional responses and administration, and scholar-activism and pedagogy. We do not go into detail about the specifics of each individual study; instead, we review the overarching themes and takeaways from each section, illustrating for readers what is thoroughly covered in the scholarship on student activism as it relates to identity and what areas for continued scholarship exist.

History The History section focuses on articles written by historians and/or articles written about past events in activism. Researchers often centered student activism at one

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particular institution during a certain time period (e.g., activism at North Carolina State University in 1970; Broadhurst, 2010); focused on certain portions of the United States (e.g., the South); or highlighted particular student populations (e.g., Black students). We limit our analysis to articles published during 2000–2020, even though authors who published between 2000 and 2020 at times centered activism that occurred well before the 2000s (e.g., 1960s and 1970s). Of the 50 historical pieces, almost half (n ¼ 17) centered the activism of Black students. Two history articles were about students across multiple identities, and three focused on Students of Color more broadly. In this section, we discuss the core themes we gleaned from the 50 history articles reviewed and highlight specific examples to provide deeper insight and context related to our points. We underscore the following predominant themes: (1) racism as a frequent focus of activism and (2) how activists built coalitions to address multiple systems of oppression.

Racism as a Frequent Focus of Activism With regard to activists’ focus on addressing racism and exclusion in college curricula, several authors focused on how Black students fostered the development of Black studies (Baumgartner, 2016; Bradley, 2010; Claybrook, 2013; Cole, 2018; Joseph, 2003; Rogers, 2012). For example, Claybrook (2013) noted tensions between Black students and administrators in the development of Afro-American Studies at Loyola Marymount University in the late 1960s and 1970s, and Baumgartner (2016) illustrated the development of Black studies at Amherst College in 1970 led by four Black men. Although Amherst College faculty and administration characterized the actions of these four Black students as militant and “a takeover” (290), the author carefully portrayed how the strategies employed by the activists were rather moderate. The tension between activists’ own perspectives and administrators’ perspectives of what was interpreted as “radicalism” was difficult for Black student activists to navigate, because labeling students’ approaches as radical constrained their relationships with administrators. Articles on Black student activism, notably, rarely focused on the role of Black women in this activism. Flowers (2005) and Sanders (2019) were exceptions to this norm. With the Brown v. Board of Education decision to end legal segregation in public education, many Black people believed they would finally gain full citizenship in the United States, and yet White people continued to enforce segregation. Black students at colleges and universities engaged in activism to address continued segregation. One such example is the 1960 sit-in when after purchasing school supplies, four Black men took seats at the lunch counter in F. W. Woolworth’s store in Greensboro, North Carolina, to wait for service. “The act of taking a seat at the lunch counter and requesting service,” Flowers (2005) conveyed, “represented an act of defiance aimed at the South’s Jim Crow laws and practices that defined the nature of social interactions between Whites and African Americans in the South” (53). Although scholars debate whether students engaged in the sit-ins more spontaneously or orchestrated them in more structured, organized ways (Flowers, 2005), the point for readers is that, while scholarship centered the organization of Black

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men student activists (itself an important contribution), the involvement of Black women activists, who also engaged in these sit-ins, remained unexamined. In a corrective to the tendency to overlook Black women’s contributions to activism, Sanders (2019) discussed the direct and substantial ways Bennett College’s president, Wilma Player, supported Black women students in their activism. Because Player believed in community involvement as essential to Black women students’ growth and development, she advocated for students through creating physical space on campus for Black women to organize and learn how to engage in activism (Sanders, 2019). When researchers center Black women activists, they deepen their understanding of activism by, for example, examining the multiple issues for which Black women activists advocate (e.g., addressing racism and sexism) and also seeing “the ways in which Black women contributed to the African American freedom struggle independently of men” (Sanders, 2019, 3). Although most scholarship on US student activism has focused on student movements located in the American South, some research has also focused on student activism in the Northeast (Bradley, 2010), Midwest (Hernandez, 2013), and the West (Cole, 2018) regions of the United States. Looking at activism in other parts of the United States beyond the South helps paint a fuller picture of the ubiquity of racism and illustrates student activism across the United States to address racial oppression. One examination of student activism in the Northeast occurred in Bradley’s (2010) examination of activism around Black student representation at Princeton University. His analysis of how several of Princeton’s early trustees owned slaves (Bradley, 2010) illustrated close linkages between slavery and racial oppression with respect to Princeton’s history and climate for Black students. The 1967 race riots in Newark, New Jersey, spurred Black student activism across colleges and universities in New Jersey (e.g., Rutgers University), and Black students at Princeton engaged in their own activism during this time. Black student activists in 1967 formed the Association of Black Collegians in order to increase the representation of Black students at the university. One example of how they worked to do this was recruiting Black students across the country at predominantly Black high schools, as well as hosting prospective Black students on campus (Bradley, 2010). Another study (Cole, 2018) about how students addressed racism in the American West indicates how, at UCLA, Black students spoke about how barbers would not cut their hair, and apartment managers refused to rent to them (Cole, 2018). This resulted in Black students at UCLA protesting to raise awareness about their unequal treatment. In response to student protests, Franklin D. Murphy, the chancellor of UCLA at the time, opened a barbershop on campus for Black students and removed landlords who discriminated against Black students from the university’s list of recommended off-campus housing options (Cole, 2018). Although the large majority of historical articles centered Black students, some addressed the activism of students with other racially minoritized identities. For example, Nguyen and Gasman (2015a) explored the development of Asian American studies, inspired by activism among Black students to institute Black studies (Bradley, 2010; Claybrook, 2013). They argued that the development of Asian American studies provided students, namely, Asian American students, with a

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body of knowledge that centered their unique and diverse stories and histories. One particular issue Asian American activists challenged was the model minority myth, which paints Asian Americans as successful without needing any support. Activists pushed back against this monolithic view that reduced Asian Americans to a single identity and obscured these students’ distinctive struggles. Five student activists also formed Gidra, a local newspaper that detailed happenings of the Asian American studies movement. Articles in Gidra effectively challenged this model minority myth as well (Nguyen & Gasman, 2015a). Even as the authors offered the historical account of Asian American studies as a field of study, particularly important was their illustration of how this field of study grew out of other racial movements, like the Black Power Movement, showing the connection between various activists’ movements. They also underscored more recent activism at the University of California, Irvine, among Vietnamese students, as these students worked to support Vietnamese refugees following the end of the Vietnam War between 1980 and 1990 (Nguyen & Gasman, 2015b). Both pieces illuminate an often-ignored population of activists – Asian American students – by highlighting their own contributions to present-day Asian American studies and expanding the dominant focus on Blackness within historical activism. This research indicates how both Black and Asian American activists were instrumental in establishing ethnic studies programs devoted to these students’ particular histories while also illustrating how the Black Power Movement provided a central movement from which activists could organize and build curricula across colleges and universities that centered their identities (Museus & Sifuentez, 2021). Of the articles included in our content analysis, fewer focus on the activism of Latino/a/x students. As a point of comparison, 17 focused on Black students, none on Native American, two on Asian/Asian American, and two on Latino/a/x. Hernandez’s (2013) research focused on Latino/a/x activism among Mexican American women at Indiana University (IU) in the 1990s. To address concerns regarding the low representation of Latino/a/x students at IU (their enrollment was only 2% in the 1990s), Latina women students engaged in activism, eventually forming Latinos Unidos of Indiana University (LUIU) (Hernandez, 2013). As an organization, LUIU centered the stories and needs of Latino/a/x students at IU and provided a platform for students’ activism. Noteworthy in this study is the attention to the Midwest, again underscoring activism within other regions of the United States beyond southern states. Although student activists engaging in activism to combat racism constituted the bulk of the articles in what we categorize as historical scholarship about activism, some scholars have begun to document the history of activism conducted by students with additional minoritized identities, including queer and trans students and students with disabilities. One historical article explicitly focused on queer students (Beck, 2019). Beck’s historical analysis documented the waning queer student activist momentum at the University of Florida between 1981 and 1992 and how faculty and staff used “quiet activism” (Eisenmann, 2005, 17) to create change on campus for the rights of queer people. Quiet activism mirrored the concept of tempered radicalism (Meyerson & Tompkins, 2007), whereby faculty, administrators, and staff engage in behind-the-scenes activism in order to disrupt oppressive

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systems in different organizational contexts. One potential reason for a shortage of research about the organization of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and/or transgender activists is the “institutional homophobia that sought to remove queer populations – physically and ideologically – from the public sphere” (Beck, 2019, 1360). This homophobia obscured documentation of these students’ experiences and made accounting for historical queer activism difficult. Some scholarship also focused on how disability student activists fight for recognition within higher education institutions. Administrators often did not understand the needs of disabled students as an oppressed group (Danforth, 2018; Patterson, 2012). Yet, these students coalesced to advocate for their rights. At UC Berkeley in the late 1960s, for example, disabled students fought for greater control over services, 20 years before the 1990 American with Disabilities Act, naming themselves the Rolling Quads (Danforth, 2018). Medical staff who aided these students formed an underground network to advocate for these students’ needs, such as building curb cuts and accessibility ramps (Danforth, 2018). In another case, friendships borne out of rehabilitation centers and summer camps for students with disabilities led to the development of social communities that evolved into activist networks, which advocated for the formation of policies and laws that prevented discrimination against disabled people (Patterson, 2012). Patterson’s (2012) analysis of disability rights activism, in particular, is important because of its examination of disabled student activism across three contexts – California, Illinois, and New York – thereby contributing to documenting disabled student activism in the Midwest, an area often not included.

Coalition-Building Finally, some scholars have focused on how activists built coalitions across various minoritized identities to address multiple systems of oppression (e.g., racism, sexism, homophobia). We would be remiss if we did not highlight the importance of activists working together to illustrate how oppressions are linked in order to forge solidarity while also understanding the nuances of specific identities (Anderson et al., 2006; Gibbons et al., 2014; Kim, 2018; Lee, 2014). For example, three law students at the University of California, Berkeley School of Law (Boalt), engaged in activism centered on addressing oppression tied to their racial identities. As law students, they organized to address racism through their involvement in student organizations (e.g., La Raza Law Students Association, Law Students of African Descent, National Latina/Latino Law Student Association) and in writing through journals (e.g., Berkeley Journal of African-American Law & Policy, Asian American Law Journal, Berkeley La Raza Law Journal). In letters composed to each other, they document their activism, the coalitions they built together across different racial identities, and challenge “the unspoken assumption that law students must relinquish completely their connections to their various communities during their time as law students” (Anderson et al., 2006, 1883). As former law students, the context for their activism was within legal education, and they drew from their stories to illustrate their unique and shared contributions to the larger movements for racial justice (Museus & Sifuentez, 2021).

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Other research indicates that coalition-building among activists enabled them to have greater power to challenge systemic oppression and learn how to work across identities. For example, the Black and Puerto Rican Student Community (BPRSC) at Lehman College and City College of New York in the 1960s created a list of demands around the needs of Black and Puerto Rican students. The demands focused on creating a school for Black and Puerto Rican Studies, an orientation for Black and Puerto Rican students, that SEEK (search for education, elevation, and knowledge) students establish the guidelines for the program, that the racial composition of the institutions reflect the demographics of New York City high schools, and that Black and Puerto Rican history as well as Spanish language proficiency be required of all education majors (Opie, 2009). Additionally, nine students at Harvard Law School, called the Griswold 9, coalesced around their minoritized racial, gender, sexual orientation and disabled identities to advocate for greater representational diversity among faculty within the law school (Lee, 2014). The students filed an antidiscrimination lawsuit claiming the lack of faculty of color within the law school denied them the “social, educational, and professional benefits of an integrated faculty” (Lee, 2014, 56). Although the judge concluded that since the students were not employees they could not argue for an employment discrimination case, the judge still applauded the students for their advocacy. The students continued their protest after the law school offered tenure to four White men and the dean labeled the students’ actions as tied to needing selfconfidence and validation and not about racial discrimination. The Griswold 9 made demands, including faculty developing a list of diverse faculty candidates, an apology from the dean for his statements, and that the dean invite Derrick Bell, the school’s first tenured African American professor, to return to the law school, following his own protest by taking unpaid leave until the school hired a tenured or tenure-track Woman of Color faculty member. In response, the Administrative Board charged the students with interfering with the functions of the university. Ultimately, as a result of the students’ activism as well as Derrick Bell’s resignation, the dean formed a committee to discuss race and gender issues within the law school, and, in 1998, the law school hired Lani Guinier, its first tenured Woman of Color. We illustrate in the aforementioned paragraphs the importance of identity-based activism historically and how activism tied to one’s minoritized identities can effect systemic change (e.g., creation of ethnic studies). From these historical studies, we draw two main conclusions. First, students engaged in activism not necessarily because they wanted to but instead because they saw a need to address the oppression they experienced. Next, the history articles reviewed overwhelmingly center activism of Black students; yet, paying attention to other minoritized identities is important in order to get a fuller picture of the expansiveness of student activism over the past several decades.

Student Experiences We framed the category “student experiences” to capture a wide variety of empirical and conceptual scholarship that examines specific student-identity groups’

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experiences, often focusing on minoritized students’ attempts at pushing their campuses to be more equitable spaces. In this section, we focus on scholarship that examines current students’ experiences. Some of the topics are similar to topics covered in the “History” section, which allows us to understand how history informs current students’ experiences. Specifically, students advocated for more racially just campus spaces (Anderson, 2019; Lerma et al., 2020; Logan et al., 2017), engaged in activism to allow trans women to attend all women’s colleges (Weber, 2016), and sought to push campus administrators to have a more trauma-informed response to sexual assault (Lewis et al., 2018; Linder et al., 2016). A segment of the scholarship in the student experiences category examined outcomes of student activism, with a specific focus on civic engagement.

Identity and Student Activism In the “Student Experiences” section, 41 of the 56 articles focused on a particular minoritized student identity group or an issue directly related to a minoritized identity (e.g., DACA/immigration). Building on the discussion in the “History” section, a major takeaway from reviewing the articles centering students’ experiences with activism also highlighted racism as a primary driver of student activism (Blissett et al., 2020; DeAngelo et al., 2016; Gibson & Williams, 2019; Linder et al., 2019b; Logan et al., 2017). Researchers centered students of color in 25 of the 41 articles that focused on a student identity group. Similarly, researchers highlighted that LGBTQ students also engaged in activism as a result of their experiences with marginalization and discrimination on campus and beyond (Renn, 2007; Swank et al., 2020; Vaccaro & Mena, 2011), and women students frequently engaged in feminist activism as a strategy to combat sexism and sexual violence in their environments (Lewis et al., 2018; Linder et al., 2016; Marine & Lewis, 2014). Interestingly, no articles explicitly examined White students’ experiences with activism, including White students’ attempts to engage in anti-racism. Some authors did explore “conservative” student activism (without specifying the race of the students involved), focusing on the various strategies conservative activists used to recruit students to their work (Munson, 2010) and how they navigated Trump-era politics (Kidder & Binder, 2020). Specifically, this research indicated that at least one conservative organization used very specific recruitment strategies relying on college students’ transition to college to recruit new students to the organization, to collectively engage in meaningful work, and to connect with like-minded community members (Munson, 2010, 769). Further, researchers demonstrated that students interested in conservative politics approached the work from various perspectives and with different tactics, noting that traditional college Republican groups tended to attract students interested in engaging around politics and political processes, including discussing differing ideas with their peers, while conservative student organizations that developed specifically to assist in the election of Trump tend to attract students who were more staunch Trump supporters. Conservative student organizations were more likely to instigate political action and disrupt “liberal sensitivities” on college campuses (Kidder & Binder, 2020, 156).

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Researchers noted the ways institutions of higher education frequently benefited from the labor of Students of Color and additionally minoritized students (Blissett et al., 2020; Jones & Reddick, 2017; Linder et al., 2019a). Exerting this labor could often result in negative mental health experiences and exhaustion for those students (Anderson, 2019; Dominguez, 2009; Linder et al., 2019a; Vaccaro & Mena, 2011). Further, scholars have noted the ways Students of Color engage in activism related to their experiences with racism on campus, often tied to larger issues in society (Dache, 2019; Gibson & Williams, 2019). For example, one study specifically highlighted Black students’ intergenerational knowledge about activism through relationships with their parents and grandparents as significant in their own development. Students relied on their parents’ and grandparents’ knowledge about various forms of activism to engage in contemporary activism similar to previous generations (Hotchkins, 2017). Some researchers specifically have sought to make connections between student activism as a form of student engagement or leadership (Grim et al., 2019; Linder, 2019; Manzano et al., 2017; Renn, 2007), noting that students tended to approach the work of equity and inclusion differently depending on whether they identified themselves as a leader or activist. Students who identified as leaders typically worked more within systems of higher education to make change (e.g., working with administrators, serving on university committees), while students who identified as activists frequently worked to disrupt systems in higher education to address issues of equity and inclusion (Grim et al., 2019; Renn, 2007). Researchers indicats that, in terms of self-identifying with labels, student activists appear to have a complex relationship calling themselves activists (Cole, 2014; Chalhoub et al., 2017; Linder et al., 2019b; Swank & Fahs, 2014). Some students engaged in resistance or activism explain that they avoid the label activist because they do not think their actions are enough to warrant the term activist (Chalhoub et al., 2017; Swank & Fahs, 2014). These students held high expectations of engagement and outcomes to warrant the label activist. Similarly, other students did not call themselves activists because they considered their activism a responsibility or form of survival, not something in which they chose to engage (Linder et al., 2019b).

Outcomes of Student Activism We found that some researchers focused on the outcomes of student activism, including student activists’ influence over policy and practice as well as measures of civic engagement among college student activists. Authors of two specific studies used content analysis as a methodology examined newspaper articles, social media, and university policies to highlight the influence of student activism on changes to university policy and practice (Grady-Benson & Sarathy, 2016; Weber, 2016). Grady-Benson and Sarathy (2016) examined activism related to fossil fuel divestment and highlighted that 13 of the 23 schools studied divested from fossil fuels in the wake of student activism. Similarly, Weber (2016) noted the ways student activists influenced women’s colleges to change their policies to welcome gendernonconforming students to their campuses. Additionally, several studies examined

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outcomes of student activism by focusing on how engaging in activism influenced students’ college experiences. In addition to exhaustion, mental health concerns, and negative impacts on coursework as documented above, other researchers have highlighted more positive outcomes associated with engaging in student activism. Specifically, students engaged in student activism frequently had higher scores on civic engagement outcomes during and after college (Bowman et al., 2014; Krings et al., 2015). Similarly, several authors noted the importance of engaging in activism as a form of education to participate in a civic democracy, including how to engage in various activities that contribute to a well-functioning democracy postcollege (Anderson, 2019; Barnhardt et al., 2015; Biddix et al., 2009; Krings et al., 2015).

Methods and Tactics of Activists We identified 13 articles in our literature search that focused on methods and tactics students used to engage in activism. In this section, we discuss the various strategies activists used to organize movements, along with the characteristics of their methods. We end with the outcomes of these tactics.

Methods That Activists Employ In the articles reviewed, perhaps the most common studied topic in relation to student activist tools of organizing and communication has been social media, an artifact of our choice to focus on scholarship since the year 2000. Activists often used social media platforms, such as Twitter, to share their message. Research indicates that the ease of using social media enabled activists to more easily connect with student audiences across the country. Biddix’s (2010) study of the communication technologies of 22 student activists across eight campuses from 2000 to 2008 indicated how technology facilitates engagement in student activism. They found that strategic use of technology (e.g., web pages, emails, text messages, Facebook) to organize activist events provides a virtual community that enables activists to sustain momentum and reduce feelings of isolation. Social media, in particular, can offer a platform to share and try out ideas, engage with challenges to those ideas, communicate with others, and build community (Biddix, 2010; Linder et al., 2016). The overarching takeaway from these articles is that activists find broad ways to communicate with each other beyond face-to-face engagement. Two such ways are email and text messaging (Biddix, 2010). The study indicates that, across the 22 participants, activists used email primarily to share announcements of meetings and events through university-provided email addresses but then switched to secondary accounts when they feared administrators were reading their emails (Biddix, 2010). Within the 22 participants, 17 identified as women and five as men, and the author noted gender differences in activists’ email strategies. Women preferred to follow up with a phone call or personalized email after a recruitment event, whereas men were satisfied to add new members to future communications without personal communication via email (Biddix, 2010). In general, regardless of gender, activists

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also used text messages as a way to communicate about their plans, preferring texting over calling as a more efficient and speedy way to spread mass messages. A similar gender pattern as noted above manifested in the use of Facebook, where women preferred to follow up via Facebook by friending someone after meeting them face-to-face as a way to convey a desire to know the person more personally, whereas men tended to prefer more efficient, impersonal methods involving mass communication (e.g., email) (Biddix, 2010). Like their predecessors, contemporary activists also created lists of demands to hold administrators accountable for addressing oppression (Linder et al., 2016; Ndemanu, 2017). For example, following the nationally covered incident where Darren Wilson, a police officer, shot and killed Michael Brown, a Black teenager in Ferguson, Missouri, students at the University of Missouri engaged in activism to address police brutality. Their activism sparked similar organizing across the United States, and Ndemanu (2017) captured the demands of Black activists across 73 universities. University of Missouri students demanded (1) an increase in representation of Faculty and Students of Color, (2) diversity training for faculty and staff, (3) a required social justice course for all students, and (4) the issuance from university presidents of statements addressing and/or apologizing for racism. The demands to increase Faculty of Color and create courses attuned to the needs of Students of Color (Ndemanu, 2017) are reminiscent of demands raised by activists in the 1960s, as described in the “History” section of this chapter. Although they may have used different methods of communication, both generations of activists continued to raise similar demands, begging the questions: Do present-day activists pay attention to history, and why do faculty, administrators, and staff continue to struggle with increasing representation of Faculty of color? Having discussed the various methods and tactics of student activists, we highlight two common characteristics that define these tactics: the importance of digital methods and drawing attention to minoritized voices. As noted above, scholarship about activism that took place after 2005 indicates that activists relied upon digital platforms to aid in their activism. As activists share their message in these ways, they could refine their tactics through engaging with other people and getting feedback on their messaging, thereby expanding potential to address the voices and needs of people excluded from recognition (i.e., the second characteristic) (Gismondi & Osteen, 2017).

Outcomes of Activists’ Methods and Tactics We conclude this section by reviewing effects of student activists’ methods and tactics as suggested by the literature reviewed. Two central motivators for activism are to promote changes in people’s behavior that ends oppression and to hold institutional leaders accountable for modifying practices that will enable students to live as their full selves. As a reminder, activists engage in a number of strategies to address oppression, some of which include making demands, employing social media as a tool (Linder et al., 2016), and using other communication strategies, such as email and texting, to connect with other activists (Biddix, 2010). Activists often want institutional leaders, such as presidents, to acknowledge harm, apologize for that harm, and change their behaviors to reduce harm (Ndemanu,

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2017). One outcome from activists’ efforts is changes among presidents in the form of statements or letters apologizing for oppression. For example, the protests of the Griswold 9, as noted above, resulted in the dean of the Harvard Law School writing to apologize and forming a committee to focus on increasing faculty diversity (Lee, 2014), and students protesting racism at UCLA in the 1960s led to its chancellor, Franklin D. Murphy, speaking publicly against racism and working to persuade business leaders to be welcoming toward Black students (Cole, 2018). Raising awareness is an important first step in making change, and as noted above, activists employ a number of tactics to raise awareness (Linder et al., 2016). Therefore, raising awareness about key social issues has been another outcome from activism. By pointing out where institutional leaders, for example, fall short in enacting their espoused commitments to equity and social justice, activists help others see oppression where they might not otherwise notice a problem. Biddix (2010), for example, as outlined above, documented the ways activists raised awareness through technology, and Linder et al. (2016) underscored activists’ use of social media to raise awareness about sexual violence. Another important outcome from activism is building community, particular across groups with minoritized identities (Biddix, 2010; Gismondi & Osteen, 2017; Linder et al., 2016). Through social media channels, such as Twitter and Facebook, activists connect with others wanting to address similar kinds of oppression, which is especially important for activists with minoritized identities, who might not see many students like themselves on campus and therefore feel isolated in activist efforts. Social media can provide possibilities for building virtual communities that sustain activists and enable activists to try out ideas, refine them, and engage in different tactics to address oppression (Biddix, 2010). For example, Biddix (2010) noted that using digital platforms enabled activists to feel empowered to share information and judge the credibility of that information, important skills in both in-person and virtual spaces.

Institutional Responses and Administration College student activism is always already informed and framed by the respective institutions where the students engage in the activism. Campus contexts and environments are salient to the genesis and outcomes of activist movements in that their conditions can either facilitate activism, suppress activism, or both. Understanding activism within the contextual framing of institutions is important because college campuses occupy a position, whereby they are influenced from within and outside the organization and by formal (administrators, faculty, staff, and students) and informal actors (individuals and organizations unaffiliated with the institution). Furthermore, the United States has the most diverse set of higher education institutions in the world, from wealthy private institutions (with predominantly White enrollments) to far poorer community colleges (with predominantly students of color and low-income student enrollments). Resources and status of the institution could also influence how student activism plays out in a particular organizational context.

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As discussed in the “Key Terms and Language” section, the definitions of institutional actors in relation to student activism scholars use are important, as certain articles may focus on an aspect that one could consider the institution but count as part of another category in our analysis, as previously mentioned. Using articles that mentioned the institution or administration as criteria, we categorized 38 articles as institutional responses and administrators. Within this category, we identified seven articles focused on institutional characteristics and six focused on institutional leaders. Therefore, the majority of articles that we categorized as focused on “the institution” were essentially focused on the people, the communities they made up, and the culture surrounding any given institution in relation to activism. Given this, the literature on activism and the institution was often concerned with two broad framings. First, some of the research has addressed the institution as a set of environmental characteristics or culture/values that resulted in activism, to address questions like the following: How can/does the institution influence student activism by nature of certain characteristics (see discussion of Baker and Blissett, 2018 below)? Rather than a focus on organizational climate and culture, the second framing of research has emphasized the institution as represented by individual actors in their respective positional roles, social locations, or broad positionalities responding to activism directly or attempting to influence the institution’s response or embrace of activism.

Institutional Culture, Characteristics, and Environments Any given college or university serves as a primary context for activism to materialize, or not. The institutional factors that can influence activism vary greatly and can include characteristics of faculty and staff of certain ranks and designations, size of the student body, or even regional location as a demarcation of social values. For example, Baker and Blissett (2018) conducted a quantitative analysis to investigate what, if any, institutional characteristics predicted the mobilization of #ITooAm campaigns and what had been the distribution of institutional type in relation to these student-centered movements. The #ITooAm campaign began at Harvard where students used the hashtag #ITooAmHarvard as an awareness strategy, named for Langton Hughes’s “I, Too, am America” line (Baker & Blissett, 2018) in the poem titled I, Too. The hashtag was accompanied with stories and, more famously, photos of racially minoritized students holding dry-erase message boards containing racist messages conveyed to them by their peers (Baker & Blissett, 2018). Students throughout the United States began to develop their own campaigns modeled after #ITooAmHarvard as a result of the racism they experienced on their respective campuses, and, thus, those campuses comprised the initial data set for Baker and Blissett (2018) study. The researchers linked the 40 institutions where students mobilized an #ITooAm campaign to institution-level data between the years of 2009 and 2014 using the Integrated Postsecondary Education Data System (IPEDS). Using logistic regression, researchers analyzed the relationship between certain institutional characteristics and the odds that the campus would have an #ITooAm campaign and if those odds changed based on various institutional characteristics (e.g., racial diversity of students, social class diversity).

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Baker and Blissett (2018) found that higher selectivity (operationalized as mean scores on standardized tests), larger institution size, and decreased share of students on Pell Grant status (their indicator for students from low-income backgrounds) were more predictive factors of students mobilizing around an #ITooAm campaign than the racial diversity of the student body (Baker & Blissett, 2018). Important considerations of these findings suggest representational diversity may not be enough when addressing student unrest around racism, which is supported by the finding that racial diversity was not a predictive factor (Baker & Blissett, 2018). Yet, student grievances with their institutions were strongly tied to the institutional characteristics that could be considered as more stationary (i.e., selectivity or elite status). As Baker and Blissett (2018) offer: “an institution cannot necessarily change elite status nor are admissions rates completely malleable” (202–203); however, maintaining an awareness of those aspects of their institutional characteristics – which seem to be correlated to student unrest – would be prudent as administrators develop strategies to mitigate those environments. Future researchers might examine relationships between campus activism across the United States along with respective institutional characteristics to see if the findings hold across identities and issues (e.g., #MeToo or United Students Against Sweatshops). Further, Baker and Blissett (2018) suggest qualitative analyses will be important to understand the deeper dimensions of the movements, including meaning-making of the activists, strategizing, and focusing on founders of current movements to understand the impetus for organizing. Beyond institutional characteristics, institutions can also be influenced by organizations and political values surrounding institutions in their respective locations. For example, Barnhardt (2015) engaged a mixed method inquiry to examine what campus characteristics and context increase or suppress student collective action and what is the role of curricula in creative campus contexts that foster student collective action. The study found that external organizations (such as The American Federation of Labor – Congress of Industrial Organizations – the largest federation of unions in the United States) contributed significantly to campus-based collective organizing and action (Barnhardt, 2015). Further, Barnhardt (2015) found that diversity courses and enrolling high numbers of students in diversity, identity, and cultural studies contributed to fostering student activism, which connects “diversity curriculum to tangible collective action” (Barnhardt, 2015, 60). In short, Barnhardt (2015) found that enrollment and curricular decisions create particular educational contexts that facilitate or hinder collective action, student activism, and student engagement. Similarly, staff perceive institutional culture around espoused values or beliefs as facilitators or inhibitors to activism and support of activism. Broadhurst et al. (2018) examined this phenomenon through their qualitative study that explored the experiences of student affairs administrators who worked to effect change on campus for and with LGBTQ students given their regional location in the southern United States. The researchers found participants experienced several challenges but also developed strategies to accomplish their work as they tried to navigate the institutional system, including (1) a lack of knowledge about and care for LGBTQ students

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by various leaders, (2) the importance of building coalitions to support LGBTQ students, (3) religious beliefs and “southern mentality” as overarching cultural markers that hindered their ability to support LGBTQ activism on campus, (4) barriers erected to hinder LGBTQ student support, and (5) the importance of building trust with the LGBTQ community on campus (Broadhurst et al., 2018). Barnhardt (2015) and Broadhurst et al. (2018) suggest that the environment that surrounds an institution, including the region, or the presence of external organizations, can also be taken into account when conducting research on activism.

Institutional Actors, Decision-Makers, and Relationships Some research indicates that the manner in which institutional leaders respond to activism is strongly tied to increases and decreases in student activist activity or changes in student activist tactics. For example, Barnett et al. (2008), using a qualitative design, examined student activist approaches to planning and messaging as they worked to influence administrators who have the decision-making power to bring about the change students seek. Their questions included what strategies student activists use in their planning, what tactics are included in students’ strategies, and finally at what point do students engage in negative compliance-gaining strategies (Barnett et al., 2008). Compliance gaining is a term that refers to efforts by individuals to alter the behavior of others, to get them to do something, and to comply (Barnett et al., 2008), in this case, senior administrators. This study would be an example of examining how students change the institution through their engagement with administrators, which is to say, again, “the institution” cannot be divorced from the people. Barnett et al. (2008) found that students used three strategies including rational persuasion (using logic and facts to persuade), coalition (seeking support of others to persuade), and pressure (demands, threats, or intimidation) to gain compliance. Further, Barnett’s team found that students are “more likely to use positive strategies in their initial interactions with administrators and use negative strategies more as a ‘last resort’” (Barnett et al., 2008, 344). The implications are that the degree to which institutional leaders meet students with resistance informs how students enact activism (Barnett et al., 2008). Put differently, the more institutional leaders resist student activists, the more activists will use disruptive tactics in their activism. We want to challenge the implicit assumption of Barnett and colleagues (2008) that more disruptive strategies in activism, which they describe as “rebellion” or “confrontation” (340) (vs. rational persuasion), are inherently negative. What is framed as “negative” in activism can depend on the standpoint of the diverse stakeholders (e.g., students, administrators, faculty, staff, boards of trustees) affected by activism. In fact, recent power-conscious research argues that activist strategies, including disruptive ones, are a valuable form of feedback to institutional agents to improve campus environments (Gaston Gayles & Rockenbach, 2021). One implication of this line of thinking is that scholars and practitioners should abandon respectability logics and discourses that contribute to maintaining the status quo (Linder et al., 2020; Stewart et al., 2020). Some research has shown how institutional agents respond to activism informs corresponding student perception and response. For example, Hoffman and

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Mitchell’s (2016) case study research explored how and the extent to which administrative responses to activism aligned with institutions’ stated values of equity and diversity and how student activists perceived the administrative response to their activism. The authors found that administrators’ action, including issuing nonperformative letters, described as language that fails to enact its espoused values, largely undermined espoused institutional values of diversity and equity and directly impacted the culture of the institution and perceptions of the institution as supportive or hostile to activism. The issued statements and other organizational responses indicated unclear commitments to equity and justice for minoritized students; for example, when students demanded the university fulfill their commitment to diversity, the president responded by redirecting students back to the promises of the institutional commitment to diversity. The authors indicate issued statements also (re)centered majority culture, which the authors describe as institutional leaders deflecting the concerns of minoritized students through “expecting their conformity to institutionalized processes for advancing diversity work already shown to be ineffective” (Hoffman & Mitchell, 2016, 279). Finally, the issued statements broadly diminished student activist labor and contributions to the campus environment through a lack of acknowledgement of student resistance as an illustration of cultural capital. The consequences of these actions resulted in a discursive environment and context that students had to maneuver that provided little to no support for addressing their concerns. Hoffman and Mitchell (2016) suggest that administrators shape “the institution” through their actions and choices, which connects to Barnett et al.’s (2008) findings. The choices that administrators, faculty, and staff make inform the context that students maneuver. Policy decisions, connections to local and state legislatures, and (un)willingness to engage in risk shape the context through which students understand institutional leaders as deeply connected to the institution and as representatives of institutional values and action. Another study constructed a typology of actors in relation to student activism. In this study, Ropers et al. (2005) used a qualitative approach to understand how student activists understood their relationship to administrators and how they characterized these relationships. The researchers found that student activists categorized administrators in four different ways: as gatekeepers in the system, as antagonists and enemies, as supporters, and as absentee leaders (Ropers-Huilman et al., 2005). In the study, participants shared that they desired to have more access and engagement with administrators so that they could work with them to improve the university (Ropers-Huilman et al., 2005). Administrator response – or lack of response – to student activists shifted the relationship between student activists and administrators to an adversarial space, although activists would have preferred to work with administrators to facilitate change. Researchers have examined how staff navigate activism in relation to their roles with students and with administrators. In one study, Harrison (2010) used a qualitative participatory approach to identify consequences that student affairs staff experienced as they advocated for students and to explore what strategies they used to navigate said consequences. Staff in the study articulated that they

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continually experienced a desire to support students, but they were concerned with how senior administrators would perceive their loyalty to the administration. Staff experienced fear and felt powerless when they wanted to challenge systems of oppression, such as institutional policies that silenced students and staff (e.g., one participant mentioned breaking a political neutrality policy by writing pro-Palestine statements with students), which led to termination of the staff participant (Harrison, 2010). Researchers indicate that the social identities of administrators tasked with responding to activists matter when considering how and why staff and administrators engage student activists. For example, in one study, Griffin et al. (2019) used a qualitative case study approach to examine how diversity professionals responded to activism related to racism. Black staff and administrators in the study who indicated that they were also once student activists also felt the need to be intentional and distinguish their personal versus professional commitments in how they approached working with student activists (Griffin et al., 2019). Further, they discussed the complexity of supporting or desiring to support students while juggling their need to appear impartial by not publicly aligning their actions with those of student activists (Griffin et al., 2019). What these findings suggest is that there are differential consequences for different institutional stakeholders when incorporating a racial analysis, which is to say that some staff and administrators feel further constrained than others to enact activism based on their racial identities. With regard to faculty roles in activism, the literature has documented positive interactions and collaborations between faculty and student activists. For example, Case et al. (2012) engaged in a faculty student partnership as participatory action research project that sought to push their institution to include gender identity and expression as part of their university nondiscrimination policy. While the researchers articulated that their collaborative effort was ultimately unsuccessful in meeting its original aim, they suggest their efforts contributed to a culture shift around challenging oppressive structures at their institution. Following on this work, researchers suggest that faculty can take responsibility in the curricular space to cultivate change and support student activists. For example, Kezar et al. (2011) used a case study approach to examine the grassroots leadership tactics used by faculty and staff to increase the capacity for leadership, how tactics are connected to the tempered radicals framework (Kezar et al., 2011), and how tactics differed by organizational context. Similarly, Linder (2018) offered a theoretical argument combining a power-conscious and intersectional framework that urged the importance that educators understand power, privilege, and oppression to more powerfully support the learning and development of student activists. Both studies suggest that the ways faculty and staff contributed to institutional change connected to student activism, including leveraging curricula and classrooms to engage in activist praxis and discussion, mentoring students, hiring people committed to social justice, and partnering with key stakeholders (Kezar et al., 2011; Linder, 2019). The implications of this research are that educators can go further in their respective roles through assigning action projects – not only intellectual ones – that address problems/issues students care about and frame their work through a power-

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conscious lens as a check on if they are living up to espoused values around social justice and, finally, working to help students hold the institution accountable (Linder, 2019). In a related vein, faculty also shape activism through their research, scholarship, and academic offerings. For example, Byrd et al. (2019) used the Institutional Data Archive on American Higher Education to conduct an analysis of student activist demands between the years of 2014 and 2016 in an effort to understand patterns in the demands and their connection to institutional characteristics. These researchers found that an increased history of activism at a given institution or the mere presence of certain academic departments (such as Africana Studies Programs) was associated with higher levels of activism (Byrd et al., 2019). Scholars shape discourses about student activism through their research that in turn can skew future research about student activism. For example, in his discourse analysis of higher education scholarship on student activism and social movement between 1967 and 2008, Mars (2009) suggested the prevalent framing of scholarship on activism with the well-known periods of the 1960s and 1970s involved a predominant emphasis on resistant logic, which is informed by an agenda of resistance and direct opposition and demonstration, that is, more active and disruptive activist tactics. An alternative to resistant logic is collective action, which is informed by “transforming society through alignment with rather than in opposition to existing social, economic, and/or political structures” (Mars, 2009, 126). The resistant logic framing, he argued, rendered other types of activism (e.g., large periods of graduate student employee organizing) as less impactful because as higher education experienced environmental shifts and organizational changes, scholars’ analyses did not seem to keep pace. To illustrate one example, Mars (2009) points to authors who both emphasized graduate student unionization as an important social movement that leveraged a growing critique of the neoliberal nature of higher education, and, at the same time, those authors articulated that the graduate student unionization movement (1) did not have an identity of activism, (2) was not grounded in principles of social justice, and (3) had little impact beyond the particular campuses where the mobilization occurred. Mars (2009) offered: The graduate student union movement was on the one hand understood by scholars as having emerged out of a spirit of resistance. . .but on the other hand was questioned based on its departure from the racial strategies, tactics, and agendas of the student activists of the 1960s and early 1970s. (135)

The implication for scholars is that the choices researchers make in conceptualizing, designing, and analyzing their studies can significantly confine “the diversity of research on college student movements and activism in higher education” (Mars, 2009, 137). To this end, researchers may want to explore if scholars continue to patrol and shape the conceptual bounds of student activist research or if scholars have become more skilled in embracing diverse analytics in tandem with environment and organizational shifts. Finally, Cho (2018) offered a theoretical argument that is pertinent to student activism in relation to “the institution,” and, thus, we close this section with her

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offering. Nearly all of the studies addressed in this section focus their unit of analysis on the student even when scholars articulate an interest in “the institution” broadly. Cho (2018) articulated this as follows: The majority of research on student protests focuses on students: their context for change, their actions/strategies taken, and the immediate consequences. While these studies provide a foundational context regarding student resistance, this student-centered approach places the onus of positive change on students and the implications of such research focus (only) on what students have, could, and should do to hold the institution accountable. (83)

Even beyond students as a focus of analysis, many articles examined experiences of many staff and to a lesser degree faculty with regard to the difficulty and challenge they face in engaging in activism themselves or in supporting student activists. These foci largely render the institution invisible as a contextual backdrop and active player in these movements. The implication of her Cho’s argument is that scholarship about institutional accountability employing organizational theories would complement and enhance the focus on students and other individual stakeholders (e.g., faculty, staff, administrators), providing more expansive avenues for inquiry about student activism.

Scholar-Activism and Pedagogy Scholars can be powerful influences in supporting student activism and propelling institutional change through advancing scholarship about activism, employing organizing in the classroom, or participating in demonstrations. In this section, we address the paradigmatic, pedagogical, and critical methods used to engage in scholar-activism. Although there is a dearth of literature in this area, we draw from the existing body of research to offer an overview of the rationale for scholaractivism and the ways scholar-activists engage in activism and/or tie their scholarship to activism. We defined scholar-activism earlier in this chapter. Some scholars find their activism informs their research and pedagogy, while others utilize their academic positions as a form of activism. The review of the literature in this section will operate under these definitions.

The Impetus for Scholar-Activism Numerous factors encourage scholars to engage in and document their activism. Most scholar-activists frame their work to challenge injustices that impact people with marginalized identities either on campus or nationally. Ten of the 15 articles on this subject were published in or after 2017. Those articles ranged from police brutality with a specific focus on Black and Brown people (Dixson, 2018; Forsgren, 2017), a rise in overt xenophobia (Romano & Daum, 2018), or Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) (Ishiwata & Muñoz, 2018), all of which have been increasingly relevant issues since the rise of Trump’s influence in the political realm (Romano & Daum, 2018).

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Specifically, scholars engaged in these topics through outlining their experiences with teaching, supporting students, or advocating around issues of social injustice, particularly on university campuses (Silva, 2018). Some of these pressures are around Title IX and sexual assault (Krause et al., 2017; Sharp et al., 2017) and racial inequities (Kynard, 2006; Turner Kelly et al., 2017). However, in all the articles, faculty members have worked to empower students in the classroom, through research, or through organized activities to show students support in their activism.

Methods of Engaging in Scholar-Activism Researchers indicats that scholar-activists choose to engage in or document their work in a variety of ways. However, a clear delineation between activism in the classroom and activism in other spaces exists. For example, in five articles, scholaractivists from several disciplines discussed how they enacted activism through incorporating feminist, post-structural, or postcolonial frameworks in their pedagogy as a way to push against dominant narratives of their fields and teach students to value the praxis element of their coursework and assignments (Clancy & Bauer, 2018; Hawkins & Giroux, 2012; Howard, 2007; Ishwiata & Muñoz, 2018; Silva, 2018). For example, Howard (2007) examined how his undergraduate composition course focused on learning to write as a counter-discourse to the dominant narratives in English education. Howard highlighted topics like literacy gatekeeping and composition as a tool for institutional activism for students by implementing explicit writing assessments to interrogate culturally hegemonic writing norms. Silva (2018) used decolonial pedagogy to inform the development of a community psychology course that centers participatory action research to challenge both traditional academic paradigms and learning norms. Decolonial pedagogy focuses on three areas of learning: challenging dominant narratives, self-empowerment, and confronting injustice within one’s community and spheres of influence. The researchers, including Silva as the professor and the collective of students who completed this course, focus on community psychology and emphasize a necessity for praxis, utilizing a commitment to liberation and community transformation through decolonial pedagogy. Silva’s implementation included a large-group community activism project to show the potential impact of the decoloniality framework in improving conditions in their local communities. The students established a diversity center at the University of Washington Bothell and orchestrated a campus-wide walkout protest when met with pushback from administration, creating the hashtag #WEWANTSPACE. In the arts, Hawkins and Giroux (2012) highlighted how they created assignments in their art community service course that engaged students in theatrical performance and political art statements around HIV/AIDS and poverty support in sub-Saharan Africa. The topic is linked to another known art activism initiative known as The Cradle Project at Columbia College Chicago, a cause important to Giroux. Hawkins and Giroux then created this intensive art studio course that engaged students by joining The Cradle Project and assigned readings around postcolonial theory, African politics, and art activism. Beyond the classroom, some scholar-activists have written about their activism to build coalitions among different institutional actors to effect transformative social

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change. Willison (2016) encouraged the increase of faculty support in student activism by implementing three events at Bridgewater State University in collaboration with university employees and students alike to show how mentorship and coalition-building can work toward social change. These events included a Black Lives Matter campus-wide rally, an open forum known as Actors for Justice, and a Men of Color student success summit. The impetus for these events was an institutional focus on supporting historically underrepresented populations as well as the shifting political landscape around racial justice due to police brutality. Quaye et al. (2017) documented how three Black faculty collaborated to create the MAC, whose purpose was to address injustices on Miami University’s campus and the surrounding community, specifically ignited by Darren Wilson, a White police officer, shooting and killing Michael Brown, a Black teenager in Ferguson, Missouri. The MAC, which grew to include students, hosted a series of events and demonstrations in 2015 that resulted in administrators better understanding the needs of students, faculty, and staff with minoritized identities and a stronger sense of community among MAC members. Sharp et al. (2017) organized with four faculty members across disciplines to create a collective known as “Fearless Faculty” after a fraternity event promoting sexual assault at Texas Tech University. The outrage and subsequent apology from the fraternity fueled these faculty members to start a multidisciplinary collective to educate and advocate against rape culture on campus. The collective opened up the group to undergraduate and graduate student participation through dialogue and demonstrations, cultivating a strong presence on their campus and empowering students to use their voices in relation to the issue of addressing rape culture on campus as well as empowering students to become educated around sexual assault and Title IX. Sharp et al. (2017), Willison (2016), and Quaye et al. (2017) encouraged the need for scholar-activists to work as change agents on campus, as well as encouraging activism with students, and noted potential challenges, such as racial battle fatigue among Scholars of Color and incentive and reward structures inhibiting the tenure and promotion process for scholar-activists by, for example, not recognizing the important work in equity and mentoring that scholar-activists often conduct. Krause et al. (2017) took a conceptual approach and encouraged scholars to employ a feminist theoretical perspective to more systematically address and reduce sexual assault in higher education. The authors outlined a feminist research agenda and identified potential areas of growth for researchers wanting to engage in this type of scholar-activism. Their work suggests how various theoretical and conceptual lenses addressing power and identity could enhance research on student activism to engage with and address particular social issues.

Implications for Researchers Studying Student Activism As seen from our content analysis, from 2000 to 2020, researchers published scholarship on student activism in high numbers, with a steep incline in the last 5 years of those two decades (2015–2020). Researchers looked at the history of

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student activism within certain institutions that led to the formation of ethnic studies curricula and programs and offered readers a historical understanding of the ways students worked to make their campuses more just and better attuned to their needs. Based on analyses of students’ experiences, readers can see that student activists grapple with identifying with the label activist and that many of the issues they address pertain to oppression of minoritized identities. Researchers also linked activism to leadership and civic engagement outcomes while also noting the ways student activists engaged in uncompensated labor, which benefited their institutions. Activists also employ a number of methods or tactics, ranging from social media to email and texting, which enables them to build coalitions and connect with other activists virtually. Activists also have complicated relationships with administrators, who activists believe do not live up to their espoused values of equity and justice and, instead, often seek to placate activists or create barriers in their activism. Finally, our analysis underscores the importance of scholar-activism and the ways faculty members connect their scholarship with activism or engage in activism themselves. Our analysis leaves us with a number of implications and directions for future research on this topic. The topic of student activism is of interest to many different types of scholars – historians, social scientists, fine arts researchers, scholars of teaching and learning, sociologists, and educators, among many others, have written about student activism and published the scholarship in education-related journals. Although we conducted our search using only educational databases as listed above, we noted a number of articles written generically about student activism, without using student development theory, higher education organizational theory, or even previous scholarship written by higher education scholars. Further, many studies across these different fields appear to be disconnected from one another. Many scholars in disciplines outside higher education fail to acknowledge the expertise of higher education scholars about college students, higher education structure and organization, and higher education policy. For example, an article in a higher education public relations journal claims to investigate student activism and institutional response; however, the article does not include any theoretical framework or scholarship about student activism in higher education. Instead, the article highlights one campus’s experience with student activists, discussing the challenge of responding to student activists through a public relations lens, without consideration of power, privilege, or students’ experiences. The article illustrates the challenge with writing about student activism without considering previous scholarship on the topic; had the authors reviewed prior scholarship, they might have a deeper understanding of more effective ways to respond through a public relations lens, if they understood the needs of the students engaging in activism. We ask researchers on student activism in all fields to read and consider previous scholarship about student activism in different fields, including higher education scholarship and much of the work cited in this chapter, before engaging in new research. Doing so will contribute to advancing student activism research that is more nuanced, reflects the perspectives of both students and other personnel, and provides theoretical or conceptual perspectives that would be more responsive to the

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needs, concerns, and demands of student activists. For example, many researchers have indicated that Students of Color engage in activism as a result of their experiences with racism. More research on the changes that administrators, faculty, and staff have made as a result of student activism and how they have implemented those changes would advance the field. One of the reasons that researchers outside of education may not be building on the expertise of higher education scholars may be because we, as higher education scholars, are not categorizing our research as clearly as we could be for a broader array of scholarly and practitioner audiences. As with most disciplines, we likely use very specific terms for our research about student activism (e.g., racial microaggressions, institutional agents) that mean something to us in higher education, for which people outside the discipline would not know to search. To enhance translational potential of scholarship to multiple audiences, we urge higher education scholars and journal editors to consider using both broad (e.g., student activism) and specific (e.g., racial battle fatigue) keywords when searching for scholarship on student activism or when developing keywords for manuscripts on activism. Notably, we could not identify scholarship that centers the role of students with dominant identities in student activism. While some scholars have explored the role of White student leaders in addressing racism (Foste, 2019, 2020), none of that work emerged in our search of the literature on activism. Given that students with dominant identities likely play an important role in creating more equitable environments on college campuses, examining their understanding of their roles in campus activism for equity would make a significant contribution to the literature. Activists with minoritized identities experience consequences related to burnout and racial battle fatigue; scholars interested in this topic can conduct research about how White students engage in activism to explore scholarly and practice-oriented models to remove the onus from their Peers of Color for primarily holding their institutions accountable for addressing racism. Similarly, the scholarship on student activism ages quickly. Because activism is so closely tied to current issues and events, the contexts in which it takes place change quickly. In 2021, for example, students are dealing with issues of life and death as a result of increased volatility from police violence, a COVID-19 pandemic that disproportionately impacts Black and Latinx people, hostile immigration policies, and a rollback of progressive policies affirming students’ gender identities. Advancing equity through research and practice on campuses requires recognition of tactics and results of previous movements, as well as attending to movements as they unfold in real time, particularly given the rapid communication and mobilization potential afforded by new and ever-evolving social media and other technologies. Scholars may need to start focusing their studies on those who do not support activism or who perceive the risks, consequences, and barriers to their support of activism as more important than their (in)decision to support activists. For example, Griffin et al. (2019) focused on the difficult space that Black staff and administrators occupy, which is important and necessary. However, returning to our recommendation to extend research on the involvement of personnel with dominant identities in activism, what about the mostly White administrators and staff who either do not

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view student activism as an issue worthy of their support or who do not think activism is an appropriate avenue for advocacy? Immense potential exists for administrators and faculty to work with student activists toward the goal of improving and changing institutional and organizational cultures. When administrators and faculty center student activism as a critical part of institutional governance, they validate activists’ insights and work and support them in building campus environments that are more equitable (Gayles & Rockenbach, 2021). It might be instructive for scholars to advance research to examine actual consequences or threats staff and administrators have experienced and the genesis of the pressure/fear staff and administrators feel around student activist support. Research that focuses on a way “out” or “through” dilemmas and tensions could provide insights on strategies to transform institutions to become more equity- and justiceoriented. Scholars, for example, could conduct case studies on successful instances where staff and administrators have worked with student activists to effect institutional change to enact more inclusive and equitable environments, particularly for minoritized students and with regard to issues such as sexual assault, racism, and xenophobia. In general, there tends to be a lack of information and understanding about senior university officials (e.g., presidents) and their honest perspectives of student activism (Cole, 2018). As mentioned above, Cole (2018) used archival research to document UCLA Chancellor Franklin D. Murphy’s engagement with activists in the 1960s. To further Cole’s work and address this gap, researchers can employ critical discourse methods to explore the barriers that preclude senior leaders from doing more to address the needs of student activists. More research is needed on senior leaders’ perceptions and sensemaking of their work with activists. As a reminder, our search only yielded 15 articles focused on scholar-activism and pedagogy, meaning there is a dearth of research in this area. However, given the increase in articles published in the latter half of the 2010s, scholar-activism is an emerging area in activist research. We recommend that more scholar-activists begin analyzing and publishing about their experiences working with student activists (e.g., in the classroom, out of the classroom, in writing, supporting advocacy). Generating research to examine the triumphs and pitfalls of scholars’ work with student activists can be a powerful way of not only advancing the research in this field but also sharing resources with other aspiring scholar-activists and informing other practitioners about the role of scholarly work in activism. Additionally, the limited number of studies on scholar-activists in higher education suggests that more higher education scholars could engage in scholar-activist work. The bulk of the existing literature on scholar-activism and pedagogy that we identified came from other disciplines. Scholar-activists should continue to include a focus on praxis when developing their interventions in working with student activists. From out-of-class public support to in-class assignments to semester-long community projects, encouraging students to use their classroom and co-curricular learning experiences for coalition-building and organizing can be powerful in encouraging and facilitating interest in social change. In the literature, we saw faculty had success with these types of praxis-driven interventions.

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A number of historians of student activism did not either explicitly address the roles of the identities of activists or failed to address women activists, particularly women of color, in their studies. This finding, of course, is no surprise, given the ways authors often center men in history related to activism. More research on student activism ought to address the role of women and Women of Color in particular. When researchers primarily center men, they inadvertently reinforce male patriarchy and minimize the significant role of women students in activism. In addition, researchers on student activists should expand research on the stories of activists with more diverse roles to illustrate a range of different strategies for engaging in activism. As noted in our “Content Analysis” section, given our lack of expertise in global activism, we did not include articles focused on contexts outside the United States. We recommend scholars who have knowledge about the complexities and nuances of social identities in international contexts conduct comparative studies about activism, as such studies would deepen and enrich the higher education field. Researchers should continue to conduct studies that center coalition-building among activists, where activists form connections across their various minoritized social identities, and even with those from dominant identities, to address multiple systems of oppression simultaneously. This work enhances the understanding of how activist movements build on each other, in incremental or fundamental ways. It also provides a way for activists to learn lessons from their predecessors. Finally, researchers should continue addressing how activists use current and emergent social media techniques to organize social movements, especially given the proliferation of social media over the past 20 years. A growing body of researchers have illustrated the importance of virtual communities among students, especially those with minoritized identities, who may not have access to alike peers on their campuses (Black et al., 2019; Brady et al., 2015; Linder et al., 2016). Continued studies on networking and addressing oppression via social media enhance the understanding of benefits and potential challenges of this tool for activism.

Conclusion Student activists have worked tirelessly to hold institutional leaders accountable for addressing societal oppression that is reflected in campus settings. In this chapter, we have conveyed the depth of research published on student activism over the past two decades (2000–2020). We hope that as researchers continue to tackle this line of inquiry, they ground their work in higher education and related disciplinary literature and attend to how their own reflexivity shapes their approaches to inquiry. Ultimately, the potential for this line of work is for researchers to do justice to student activists’ stories and use their power in shaping discourse, knowledge, and understanding, to take the onus off student activists so they can just be students (Linder et al., 2019b). When researchers, administrators, staff, and faculty understand scholarship on student activists and see the patterns from the research conveyed in

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this chapter, they learn proactive ways to improve their institutions to become more equitable spaces, which augments the capacity for student activists to live and thrive as their full selves, leading to more empowered communities within and beyond college campuses.

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Bradley, S. M. (2010). The southern-most Ivy: Princeton University from Jim Crow admissions to anti-apartheid protests, 1794–1969. American Studies, 51(3/4), 109–130. Brady, S. R., Young, J. A., & McLeod, D. A. (2015). Utilizing digital advocacy in community organizing: Lessons learned from organizing in virtual spaces to promote worker rights and economic justice. Journal of Community Practice, 23(2), 255–273. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 10705422.2015.1027803 Braungart, R. C., & Braungart, M. M. (1990). Political generational themes in the American student movements of the 1930s and 1960s. Journal of Political and Military Sociology, 18, 177–230. Broadhurst, C. J. (2010). “We didn’t fire a shot, we didn’t burn a building”: The student reaction at North Carolina State University to the Kent State shootings, May 1970. The North Carolina Historical Review, 3, 283–309. Broadhurst, C., Martin, G., Hoffshire, M., & Takewell, W. (2018). “Bumpin’ up against people and their beliefs”: Narratives of student affairs administrators creating change for LGBTQ students in the South. Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, 11(4), 385–401. https://doi.org/10.1037/ dhe0000036 Byrd, W. C., Luney, L. T., Marie, J., & Sanders, K. N. (2019). Demanding attention: An exploration of institutional characteristics of recent student demands. Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, 14(1), 25–36. https://doi.org/10.1037/dhe0000133 Case, K. A., Kanenberg, H., Erich, S. A., & Tittsworth, J. (2012). Transgender inclusion in university nondiscrimination statements: Challenging gender-conforming privilege through student activism. Journal of Social Issues, 68(1), 145–161. Chalhoub, H., Ciavottone, D., & Wetzel, C. (2017). “I wouldn’t classify myself as an activist”: Reflections on studying contemporary student engagement. Humanity & Society, 41(3), 299– 312. https://doi.org/10.1177/0160597616639711 Cho, K. S. (2018). The perception of progress: Conceptualizing institutional response to student protests and activism. Thought &Action, 34(1), 81–95. Clancy, K. A., & Bauer, K. (2018). Creating student-scholar-activists: Discourse instruction and social justice in political science classrooms. New Political Science, 40(3), 542–557. https://doi. org/10.1080/07393148.2018.1489091 Claybrook, M. K. (2013). Black power, Black students, and the institutionalizing of change: Loyola Marymount University, 1968–1978. The Journal of Pan African Studies, 5(10), 1–19. Cohen, R. (2013). Rebellion in black and white: Southern student activism in the 1960s. The John Hopkins University Press. Cole, B. E. (2014). Student activism within Christian college cultures: A symbolic interactionist perspective. Christian Higher Education, 13(5), 317–339. https://doi.org/10.1080/15363759. 2014.950358 Cole, E. R. (2018). College presidents and black student protests: A historical perspective on the image of racial inclusion and the reality of exclusion. Peabody Journal of Education, 93(1), 78– 89. https://doi.org/10.1080/0161956X.2017.1403180 Dache, A. (2019). Ferguson’s Black radical imagination and the cyborgs of community-student resistance. The Review of Higher Education, 42, 63–84. https://doi.org/10.1353/rhe.2019.0045 Daley, A. (2010). Reflections on reflexivity and critical reflection as critical research practices. Affilia, 25(1), 68–82. https://doi.org/10.1177/0886109909354981 Danforth, S. (2018). Becoming the rolling quads: Disability politics at the University of California, Berkeley, in the 1960s. History of Education Quarterly, 58(4), 506–536. https://doi.org/10. 1017/heq.2018.29 Dargis, M. (2015, February 26). Review: “The Hunting Ground” documentary, a searing look at campus rape. The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2015/02/27/movies/review-thehunting-ground-documentary-a-searing-look-at-campus-rape.html Davis III, C. H. F. [@hfdavis]. (2020a, December 30). This led to existing groups operationalizing the frame but keeping their own structure while others used the frame to begin building new, local BLM chapters in the absence of connection to pre-existing orgs [Tweet]. Twitter. https:// twitter.com/hfdavis/status/1344306894538731521

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Davis III, C. H. F. [@hfdavis]. (2020b, December 30). Before the movement had a name [Tweet]. Twitter. https://twitter.com/hfdavis/status/1344309754106171394 DeAngelo, L., Schuster, M. T., & Stebleton, M. J. (2016). California DREAMers: Activism, identity, and empowerment among undocumented college students. Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, 9(3), 216–230. Diani, M. (1992). The concept of social movement. The Sociological Review, 40(1), 1–25. Dixson, A. D. (2018). “What’s going on?”: A critical race theory perspective on Black Lives Matter and activism in education. Urban Education, 53(2), 231–247. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 0042085917747115 Dominguez, R. F. (2009). U.S. college student activism during an era of neoliberalism: A qualitative study of students against sweatshops. The Australian Educational Researcher, 36(3), 125–138. https://doi.org/10.1007/BF03216909 Eisenmann, L. (2005). A time of quiet activism: Research, practice, and policy in American women’s higher education, 1945–1965. History of Education. Quarterly, 45(1), 1–17. Epifano, A. (2012, October 17). An account of sexual assault at Amherst College [opinion]. https:// amherststudent.amherst.edu/article/2012/10/17/account-sexual-assault-amherst-college.html Flowers, D. (2005). The launching of the student sit-in movement: The role of black women at Bennett College. The Journal of African American History, 90(1/2), 52–63. Forsgren, L. D. L. (2017). Black folks’s theatre to Black Lives Matter: The Black revolution on campus. Theatre History Studies, 36, 301–309. https://doi.org/10.1353/ths.2017.0014 Foste, Z. (2019). Reproducing whiteness: How white students justify the campus racial status quo. Journal of Student Affairs Research and Practice, 56(3), 241–253. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 19496591.2019.1576530 Foste, Z. H. (2020). The enlightenment narrative: White student leaders’ preoccupation with racial innocence. Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, 13(1), 33–43. https://doi.org/10.1037/ dhe0000113 Gayles, J. G., & Rockenbach, A. N. (2021, May 17). The transformative power of student voices in the midst of racial injustice. Inside Higher Ed. https://www.insidehighered.com/views/2021/05/ 17/engaging-students-about-racial-injustice Gibbons, W. C., Petty, A., & Van Nort, S. C. (2014). Revolutionary times revisited: Students’ interpretations of the city college of New York student protest and takeover of 1969. History Teacher, 47(4), 511–528. Gibson, C., & Williams, F. (2019). Understanding the impetus for modern student activism for justice at an HBCU: A look at personal motivations. The Urban Review, 52, 263–276. https:// doi.org/10.1007/s11256-019-00527-0 Gismondi, A., & Osteen, L. (2017). Student activism in the technology age. New Directions for Student Leadership, 63–74. https://doi.org/10.1002/yd.20230 Goodman, D. J. (2012). Promoting diversity and social justice: Educating people from privileged groups. Routledge. Grady-Benson, J., & Sarathy, B. (2016). Fossil fuel divestment in US higher education: student-led organising for climate justice. Local Environment, 21(6), 661–681. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 13549839.2015.1009825 Griffin, K. A., Hart, J. L., Worthington, R. L., Belay, K., & Yeung, J. G. (2019). Race-related activism: How do higher education diversity professionals respond? The Review of Higher Education, 43(2), 667–696. https://doi.org/10.1353/rhe.2019.0114 Grim, J. K., Lee, N. L., Museus, S. D., Na, V. S., & Ting, M. P. (2019). Asian American college student activism and social justice in Midwest contexts. New Directions for Higher Education, 25–36. https://doi.org/10.1002/he.20321 Harrison, L. M. (2010). Consequences and strategies student affairs professionals engage in their advocacy roles. Journal of Student Affairs Research and Practice, 47(2), 197–214. https://doi. org/10.2202/1949-6605.6003

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Hoffman, G. D., & Mitchell, T. D. (2016). Making diversity “everyone’s business”: A discourse analysis of institutional responses to student activism for equity and inclusion. Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, 9(3), 277–289. Hawkins, A., & Giroux, J. (2012). Art activism in the classroom: One imagined future for servicelearning. Interdisciplinary Humanities, 29(3), 88–101. Heineck, K. (2012, March 27). Virginia Tech students hold “hoodie march’ for Trayvon Martin. https://www.dailyprogress.com/newsvirginian/news/virginia-tech-students-hold-hoodie-marchfor-trayvon-martin/article_4af1d752-1e34-592d-b85a-edf87bbee1e0.html Hernandez, E. (2013). Mexican American women’s activism at Indiana University in the 1990s. The Journal of Higher Education, 84(3), 397–416. https://doi.org/10.1080/00221546.2013.11777294 Hersher, R. (2017, February 22). Key moments in the Dakota Access Pipeline fight. https://www. npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2017/02/22/514988040/key-moments-in-the-dakota-access-pipe line-fight Hine, D. C. (1996). The Kent State era, 1968–1970: Legacies of student rebellion and state repression. Peace & Change, 21(2), 157–168. Hotchkins, B. K. (2017). Black student leaders practicing resistance in the midst of chaos: Applying transgenerational activism knowledge to navigate a predominantly white institution. The Journal of Negro Education, 86(3), 269–282. Howard, R. M. (2007). Curricular activism: The writing major as counterdiscourse. Composition Studies, 35(1), 41–52. Ishiwata, E., & Muñoz, S. M. (2018). “They Tried to Bury Us”: Scholar advocacy in the wake of the DACA rescission. New Political Science, 40(3), 558–580. https://doi.org/10.1080/07393148. 2018.1489093 Izadi, E. (2015, November 9). The incidents that led to the University of Missouri president’s resignation. The Washington Post. https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/grade-point/wp/ 2015/11/09/the-incidents-that-led-to-the-university-of-missouri-presidents-resignation/ Jampel, C. (2018). Intersections of disability justice, racial justice and environmental justice. Environmental Sociology, 4(1), 122–135. https://doi.org/10.1080/23251042.2018.1424497 Jones, V. A., & Reddick, R. J. (2017). The heterogeneity of resistance: How Black students utilize engagement and activism to challenge PWI inequalities. The Journal of Negro Education, 86(3), 204–219. https://doi.org/10.7709/jnegroeducation.86.3.0204 Joseph, P. (2003). Dashikis and democracy: Black studies, student activism, and the black power movement. The Journal of African American History, 88(2), 182–203. https://doi.org/10.2307/ 3559065 Kezar, A., Gallant, T. B., & Lester, J. (2011). Everyday people making a difference on college campuses: The tempered grassroots leadership tactics of faculty and staff. Studies in Higher Education, 36(2), 129–151. Kidder, J. L., & Binder, A. J. (2020). Trumpism on college campuses. Qualitative Sociology, 43, 145–163. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11133-020-09446-z Kim, M. (2018). URPE at UC Berkeley: The activities, protests, and legacy of the economics students and URPE’s once largest chapter. Review of Radical Political Economics, 50(3), 522– 533. https://doi.org/10.1177/0486613418782500 Krause, K. H., Miedema, S. S., Woofter, R., & Yount, K. M. (2017). Feminist research with student activists: Enhancing campus sexual assault research. Family Relations, 66, 211–223. https://doi. org/10.1111/fare.12239 Krings, A., Gutiérrez, L. M., Austic, E., & Dirksen, K. (2015). The comparative impacts of social justice educational methods on political participation, civic engagement, and multicultural activism. Equity & Excellence in Education, 48(3), 403–417. Kynard, C. (2006). ‘Looking for the perfect beat’: The power of black student protest rhetorics for academic literacy and higher education. Changing English, 12(3), 387–402. https://doi.org/10. 1080/13586840500347236

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Lee, P. (2014). The Case of Dixon v. Alabama: From civil rights to students’ rights and back again. Teachers College Record, 116, 1–18. Lerma, V., Hamilton, L. T., & Nielsen, K. (2020). Racialized equity labor, university appropriation and student resistance. Social Problems, 67(2), 286–303. Levine, A., & Wilson, K. R. (1979). Student activism in the 1970s: Transformation not decline. Higher Education, 8(6), 627–640. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3446223 Lewis, R., Marine, S., & Kenney, K. (2018). I get together with my friends and try to change it’. Young feminist students resist laddism, rape culture and everyday sexism. Journal of Gender Studies, 27(1), 56–72. Linder, C. (2018). Sexual violence on campus: Power-conscious approaches to awareness, prevention, and response. Emerald Publishing. Linder, C. (2019). Power-conscious and intersectional approaches to supporting student activists: Considerations for learning and development. Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, 12(1), 17–26. Linder, C., Myers, J. S., Riggle, C., & Lacy, M. (2016). From margins to mainstream: Social media as a tool for campus sexual violence activism. Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, 9(3), 231–244. https://doi.org/10.1037/dhe0000038 Linder, C., Quaye, S. J., Lange, A. C., Roberts, R. E., Lacy, M. C., & Okello, W. K. (2019a). “A student should have the privilege of just being a student”: Student activism as labor. The Review of Higher Education, 42(5), 37–62. https://doi.org/10.1353/rhe.2019.0044 Linder, C., Quaye, S. J., Stewart, T. J., Okello, W. K., & Roberts, R. E. (2019b). “The whole weight of the world on my shoulders”: Power, identity, and student activism. Journal of College Student Development, 60(5), 527–542. https://doi.org/10.1353/csd.2019.0048 Linder, C., Quaye, S. J., Lange, A. C., Evans, M. E., & Stewart, T. J. (2020). Identity-based student activism: Power and oppression on college campuses. Routledge. Logan, G., Lightfoot, B. A., & Contreras, A. (2017). Black and Brown millennial activism on a PWI campus in the era of Trump. The Journal of Negro Education, 86(3), 252–268. Mangan, K. (2018, June 26). How a student used Title IX to force her college to change her response to cases of sexual assault. The Chronicle of Higher Education. Retrieved from https:// www.chronicle.com/article/How-a-Student-Used-Title-IX-to/243763 Manzano, L. J., Poon, O. A., & Na, V. S. (2017). Asian American student engagement in student leadership and activism. New Directions for Student Services, 65–79. https://doi.org/10.1002/ss. 20244 Marine, S. B., & Lewis, R. (2014). “I’m in this for real”: Revisiting young women’s feminist becoming. Women’s Studies International Forum, 47, 11–22. Mars, M. M. (2009). Conceptual boundaries and pathways: Exploring the institutional logics of higher education scholarship on college student social movements and activism. 1967-2008. Education, Knowledge, & Economy, 3(2), 121–140. McMahon, J. (2016, November 16). 1,000 students declare Syracuse University, SUNY ESF a ‘sanctuary campus’. https://www.syracuse.com/sunews/2016/11/1000_students_declare_syra cuse.html Meyerson, D., & Tompkins, M. (2007). Tempered radicals as institutional change agents: The case of advancing gender equity at the University of Michigan. Harvard Journal of Law & Gender, 30(2), 303–322. Moore, K. M. (1997). Freedom and constraint in eighteenth century Harvard. In L. F. Goodchild & H. Weschler (Eds.), The history of higher education (2nd ed., pp. 108–114). Simon and Schuster. Morris, A. (1999). A retrospective on the Civil Rights Movement: Political and intellectual landmarks. Annual Review of Sociology, 25, 517–39. Morris, A. (2000). Reflections on social movement theory: Criticisms and proposals. Contemporary Sociology, 29(3), 445–454. https://doi.org/10.2307/2653931 Munson, Z. (2010). Mobilizing on campus: Conservative movements and today’s college student. Sociological Forum, 25, 769–786. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1573-7861.2010.01211.x Museus, S. D., & Sifuentez, B. J. (2021). Toward a critical social movements studies: Implications for research on student activism in higher education. In L. W. Perna (Ed.), Higher education: Handbook of theory and research (vol. 36, pp. 1–47). Springer.

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Ndemanu, M. T. (2017). Antecedents of college campus protests nationwide: Exploring Black students activists’ demands. The Journal of Negro Education, 86(3), 238–251. Nguyen, T., & Gasman, M. (2015a). Activism, identity and service: The influence of the Asian American Movement on the educational experiences of college students. History of Education, 44(3), 339–354. https://doi.org/10.1080/0046760X.2014.1003338 Nguyen, T., & Gasman, M. (2015b). Cultural identity and allegiance among Vietnamese students and their organizations at the University of California, Irvine: 1980–1990. Teachers College Record, 117(5), 1–22. Opie, F. D. (2009). Developing their minds without losing their soul: Black and Latino student coalition-building in New York, 1965–1969. Afro-Americans in New York Life and History, 33(2), 73–112. Patterson, L. (2012). Points of access: Rehabilitation centers, summer camps, and student life in the making of disability activism, 1960–1973. Journal of Social History, 46(2), 473–499. https:// doi.org/10.1093/jsh/shs099 Perkins, T. (2021). The multiple people of color origins of the US environmental justice movement: Social movement spillover and regional racial projects in California. Environmental Sociology, 7(2), 147–159. https://doi.org/10.1080/23251042.2020.1848502 Pisner, N. (2011, October 20). Past tense: A tradition of protest. Retrieved from https://www. thecrimson.com/article/2011/10/20/city-protests-history/ Quaye, S. J., Shaw, M. D., & Hill, D. C. (2017). Blending scholar and activist identities: Establishing the need for scholar activism. Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, 10(4), 381–399. https://doi.org/10.1037/dhe0000060 Raghunathan, S. (2017, September 11). Too many Americans think patriotism means racism and xenophobia. The Nation. Retrieved https://www.thenation.com/article/too-many-americansthink-patriotism-means-racism-and-xenophobia/ Renn, K. A. (2007). LGBT Student leaders and queer activists: Identities of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer identified college student leaders and activists. Journal of College Student Development, 48(3), 311–330. https://doi.org/10.1353/csd.2007.0029 Rhoads, R. (1998). Student protest and multicultural reform: Making sense of campus unrest in the 1990s. The Journal of Higher Education, 69(6), 621–646. https://doi.org/10.2307/ 2649211 Rogers, I. H. (2012). The Black campus movement: the case for a new historiography. The Sixties, 4(2), 171–186. https://doi.org/10.1080/17541328.2011.625195 Romano, S. T., & Daum, C. W. (2018). Symposium: Transformative practices of teacher-scholaractivists in the era of Trump. New Political Science, 40(3), 515–527. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 07393148.2018.1487114 Ropers-Huilman, B., Carwile, L., & Barnett, K. (2005). Student activists’ characterizations of administrators in higher education: Perceptions of power in “the system.” The Review of Higher Education, 28(3), 295–312. Sanders, C. R. (2019). “Pursuing the unfinished business of democracy”: Willa B. Player and liberal arts education in the civil rights era. North Carolina Historical Review, 96(1), 1–33. Sharp, E. A., Weiser, D. A., Lavigne, D. E., & Kelly, R. C. (2017). From furious to fearless: Faculty action and feminist praxis in response to rape culture on college campuses. Family Relation, 66, 75–88. https://doi.org/10.1111/fare.12238 Silva, J. M. (2018). #WEWANTSPACE: Developing student activism through a decolonial pedagogy. American Journal of Community Psychology, 62, 374–384. Smith, C. P., & Freyd, J. J. (2014). Institutional betrayal. American Psychologist, 69(6), 575–587. Stanton-Salazar, R. D. (1997). A social capital framework for understanding the socialization of racial minority children and youths. Harvard Educational Review, 67(1), 1–40. Stewart, T. J., & Quaye, S. J. (2019). Building bridges: Rethinking student activist leadership. In G. Martin & C. Linder (Eds.), Leadership learning through activism: New directions for student leadership (pp. 51–63). Jossey-Bass. Stewart, T. J., Linder, C., Evans. M. E., Quaye, S. J., & Lange, A. C. (2020). “You hired me to do this”: Power, identity, and educators’ support of campus activists. Journal of Student Affairs Research and Practice. https://doi.org/10.1080/19496591.2020.1778486

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Swank, E., & Fahs, B. (2014). Predictors of feminist activism among social work students in the United States. Social Work Education: The International Journal, 33(4), 519–532. Swank, E., Atteberry-Ash, B., Coulombe, S., & Woodford, M. F. (2020). Sexual identities and protesting among college students: Exploring political distinctiveness mediation factors. Social Justice Research, 33, 352–378. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11211-019-00346-4 Tanner, C. (2021, January 21). Here’s the timeline for replacing University of Utah President Ruth Watkins – And more on her departure. Salt Lake Tribune. https://www.sltrib.com/news/ education/2021/01/27/heres-timeline-replacing/ The Chronicle of Higher Education. (n.d.). Title IX: Tracking sexual assault investigations. http:// projects.chronicle.com/titleix/#recent_developments Trott, V. (2020). Networked feminism: Counterpublics and the intersectional issues of #MeToo. Feminist Media Studies. Advanced online publication. https://doi.org/10.1080/14680777.2020. 1718176 Turner Kelly, B., Gaston Gayles, J., & Williams, C. D. (2017). Recruitment without retention: A critical case of Black faculty unrest. The Journal of Negro Education, 86(3), 305–317. Vaccaro, A., & Mena, J. A. (2011). It’s not burnout, it’s more: Queer college activists of color and mental health. Journal of Gay & Lesbian Mental Health, 15(4), 339–367. https://doi.org/10. 1080/19359705.2011.600656 Walsh, K., Servant, A. L., Wall, M., Gilbert, L., Santelli, J., Khan, S., Thompson, M. P., Reardon, L., Hirsch, J. S., & Mellins, C. A. (2019). Prevalence and correlates of sexual assault perpetration and ambiguous consent in a representative sample of college students. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 1–22. https://doi.org/10.1177/0886260518823293 Weber, S. (2016). “Womanhood does not reside in documentation”: Queer and feminist student activism for transgender women's inclusion at women’s colleges. Journal of Lesbian Studies, 20(1), 29–45. Whaley, N. (2016, August 3). Why we can’t keep forgetting Black women are being harmed by police violence too. http://www.vh1.com/news/275984/black-women-police-violence/ Wheatle, K. I. E., & Commodore, F. (2019). Reaching back to move forward: The historic and contemporary role of student activism in the development and implementation of higher education policy. The Review of Higher Education, 42, 5–35. Willison, J. (2016). Supporting the success of students of color: Creating racial justice through student activism. Transformative Dialogues: Teaching & Learning Journal, 9(2), 1–18.

Stephen John Quaye is associate professor of higher education and student affairs at The Ohio State University; senior associate editor of the Journal of Diversity in Higher Education; and past president of ACPA: College Student Educators International. His research concentrates on engaging in and facilitating dialogues about difficult topics, student and scholar-activism, and healing strategies from racial battle fatigue. His work is published in different venues, including Teachers College Record, the Journal of College Student Development, and The Review of Higher Education. Chris Linder is an associate professor of educational leadership at the University of Utah where she studies student activism and relationship and sexual violence among college students. Chris engages in her own scholactivist work through her role as founder and inaugural director of the McCluskey Center for Violence Prevention. Chris’s work has been published in a number of higher education journals, and she serves on the editorial boards of the Journal of Diversity in Higher Education, The Review of Higher Education, Journal of College Student Development, and Journal of Women and Gender in Higher Education. Terah J. Stewart is an assistant professor of student affairs and higher education at Iowa State University and currently serves on the Governing Board of ACPA: College Student Educators International as the faculty member-at-large elect. His research interests focus on hypermaginalized and stigmatized identities including fat-body politics, sex work/erotic labor, and anti-Black racism

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perpetuated by communities of color. He also engages inquiry on student activism, resistance, critical qualitative methodologies, and creative qualitative methodologies. His research, writing, and commentary have appeared in the Journal of Student Affairs Research and Practice, Journal of College Student Development, and Diverse Issues in Higher Education. Erin M. Satterwhite is a third-year Ph.D. student in higher education and student affairs at The Ohio State University and a graduate research associate. Her research agenda focuses on institutional response in student activism, organizational equity, and women of color and racial battle fatigue.

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Mental Health in College Populations: A Multidisciplinary Review of What Works, Evidence Gaps, and Paths Forward Sara Abelson, Sarah Ketchen Lipson, and Daniel Eisenberg

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . What Is Known About College Student Mental Health . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Scope of Mental Health Problems and Growth over Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Importance of and Opportunity in Higher Education Settings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Variation Across Student Populations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mental Health Risk and Protective Factors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Review of Intervention Evidence for Addressing Student Mental Health . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Organization and Contribution of Review . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Individual-Level Interventions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Interpersonal Interventions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Community-Level Interventions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Institutional Interventions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Public Policy: The Enabling Environment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary of Intervention Evidence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recommendations for Strengthening the Use and Availability of Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recommendation #1 (Improving the Use of Research): Develop and Maintain a Centralized and Easily Accessible Database of Evidence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recommendation #2 (Improving the Use of Research): Provide Active Support for Decision-Makers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Nicholas A. Bowman was the Associate Editor for this chapter. S. Abelson (*) University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, MI, USA e-mail: [email protected] S. K. Lipson Boston University, Boston, MA, USA e-mail: [email protected] D. Eisenberg UCLA, Los Angeles, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 37, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3_6

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Recommendation #3 (Improving the Use of Research): Enhance Incentives for Using Evidence to Inform Practices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recommendation #4 (Increase the Supply of Evidence): Invest in Innovative Research to Address Major Gaps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recommendation #5 (Both Improve the Use of Research and Increase the Availability): Develop and Strengthen Networks of Practitioners and Researchers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary/Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

The mental health of students has become one of the top concerns in higher education. The number of students reporting distress and seeking services has dramatically increased, and colleges and universities are struggling to address these challenges. A rich and growing body of research documents the scope of the problem and potential interventions to address it, but this literature is scattered across a variety of academic fields. This chapter aims to bring coherence to this large volume of information through a detailed review of programs, services, practices, and policies that influence student mental health. The review is organized around a socioecological framework, considering interventions at the individual, interpersonal, community, institutional, and public policy levels. It highlights strengths, weaknesses, and gaps in the evidence. The chapter concludes with recommendations for enhancing how research and data can inform practice moving forward. A more evidence-informed approach is needed to address the growing challenges of student mental health in higher education. Keywords

Mental health · College · Postsecondary · Students · Review · Evidence base · Depression · Anxiety · Well-being · Belonging · Social support · Discrimination · Equity · Structural factors · Policy · Socioecological · Interpersonal · Institutional · Community · Public health · Prevention · Intervention

Introduction When college and university presidents are asked about their most pressing concerns, the mental health of students rates as the most common response (Turk et al., 2020). These concerns have been growing for a long time, well before the COVID-19 pandemic. The number of students reporting distress – such as suicidal thoughts and depressive and anxiety symptoms – approximately doubled from 2009 to 2019 (Duffy et al., 2019). Similarly, students are seeking mental health care at ever-increasing rates, and campus counseling and health centers are struggling to keep up (Center for Collegiate Mental Health, 2020; Lipson et al., 2019). Student mental health has implications not only for health and well-being but also for academic outcomes such as grades and retention (Eisenberg et al., 2009).

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To guide responses to these challenges, several national organizations have gathered input from experts and stakeholders. A Consensus Report from the National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine (2021) summarizes the situation and lays out broad principles for solutions. The Jed Foundation has developed a comprehensive framework for improving campus mental health systems (Jed Foundation, 2019), and the Steve Fund, in collaboration with Jed, has issued a framework with a focus on mental health equity and Students of Color (equityinmentalhealth.org). Other organizations including the American College Health Association (ACHA), NASPA, and the American Council on Education (ACE) have also produced a variety of reports addressing student mental health (e.g., Douce & Keeling, 2014; Wesley, 2019). These reports and frameworks generally emphasize a holistic, public health approach to student mental health, with attention not only to treatment and crisis services but also to prevention and promotion of mental health. This chapter aims to build on those foundational reports and frameworks by moving toward more specific, concrete actions in both research and practice and the intersection between the two. The chapter addresses the broad question, how can research and data inform practice more effectively, with the ultimate goal of addressing student mental health more effectively? Our central argument is that a more strategic, evidenceinformed approach is needed to guide the use of limited resources in addressing the growing challenges related to student mental health. The chapter offers a first step in that direction by compiling a detailed review of evidence regarding the effectiveness of a wide range of strategies to address student mental health. To clarify the scope of this chapter, we note our focus is primarily on mental health conditions such as depression, anxiety, eating disorders, and suicide risk, as well as positive mental health such as the concept of flourishing. Alcohol and other substance use have clear connections to mental health, but these are not an explicit focus of this chapter. We do believe, however, that our recommendations likely have relevance for addressing alcohol and substance use in college populations, and we note some of these connections throughout. This chapter is a commentary review that draws on our careful but not systematic review of the research literature, along with our knowledge of the field. We have each been focused on student mental health as a primary research area for 10 years or more, and together we lead the Healthy Minds Network, a national research initiative that has collected extensive data on student mental health since 2005. Our perspective is also greatly enriched by long-standing partnerships with colleges and universities (henceforth, colleges) and organizations such as Active Minds (where one of us was a Vice President for several years), the Jed Foundation, the Steve Fund, ACHA, the Center for Collegiate Mental Health (CCMH), the Mary Christie Institute (MCI), ACE, and many others. Our hope is that this review will help bring together a variety of threads that have often existed in relative isolation from each other in research and practice. Research in higher education draws from many different academic disciplines, and each discipline or even individual researcher tends to focus on certain levels of influence and intervention more than others (e.g., individual versus institutional) (Daenekindt & Huisman, 2020). Similarly, current practice to support student mental health is

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often fragmented across many areas of campus life, even if it is typically concentrated with counseling and health services. Our review draws deliberately from a wide variety of disciplines and levels that we could identify as relevant to understanding opportunities to improve student mental health. The next section of this chapter provides a brief overview of what is known about student mental health, such as the rising prevalence, key risk and protective factors, and variation across student populations. It provides context for the detailed review of evidence that follows. The review examines what is known about the effectiveness of programs, services, practices, and policies to address student mental health, using a socioecological framework that covers individual, interpersonal, community, institutional, and public policy levels of intervention. The review also comments on how the evidence aligns or misaligns with current practice for student mental health in higher education. In the final section of the chapter, we offer a set of specific recommendations for strengthening the use and availability of research and data in the interest of guiding practice toward a more effective response to the growing challenges in college student mental health.

What Is Known About College Student Mental Health A proliferation of research over the last two decades has documented (i) the prevalence of college student mental health symptoms and trends over time, (ii) the importance of and unique opportunities for mental health prevention and intervention in higher education settings, (iii) variation in mental health and help-seeking across student populations, and (iv) key correlates of student mental health. In the following four subsections, we offer a concise distillation of this information. We draw on a number of key studies, including our Healthy Minds Study (HMS), which is the only annual population survey that focuses specifically on student mental health (Healthy Minds Network, 2021). HMS has been conducted at over 400 colleges cumulatively since 2007 (participation varies each year). HMS is one of a handful of large-scale sources of data that contain measures of mental health in college populations. Others include the National College Health Assessment (NCHA) by ACHA, which addresses a full range of health issues, including student mental health (ACHA, 2021), and CCMH, which collects standardized data from counseling center clients at hundreds of schools nationwide (Center for Collegiate Mental Health, 2021). In addition to the reports described above, several books have sought to describe the state of college mental health; these include (presented in chronological order): College of the Overwhelmed: The Campus Mental Health Crisis and What to Do About It (Kadison & DiGeronimo, 2004), Stress and Mental Health of College Students (Landow, 2006), Mental Health Care in the College Community (Kay & Schwartz, 2010), and Promoting Behavioral Health and Reducing Risk among College Students: A Comprehensive Approach (Cimini & Rivero, 2018). There have also been reports describing campus mental health in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic, such as the American Council on Education’s, 2020 report

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Mental Health, Higher Education and COVID-19: Strategies for Leaders to Support Campus Well-being (American Council on Education, 2020). We list these publications so that readers have a sense of other key sources of information on the state of college mental health.

Scope of Mental Health Problems and Growth over Time High and Rising Prevalence of Mental Health Disorders Over the last 10 years, the prevalence of mental health problems has risen steadily among college students (Lipson et al., 2019). In HMS data, we have seen a particularly notable increase in symptom prevalence over the last 5 years (see Fig. 1). In 2016, 25% of students screened positive for symptoms of depression (>10 on the Patient Health Questionnaire-9 (Kroenke et al., 2001) and 21% for anxiety (>10 on the Generalized Anxiety Disorder-7 scale (Spitzer et al., 2006). In fall of 2020, prevalence had increased to 39% and 34%, respectively. As shown in Fig. 1, the overall trend has continued during the COVID-19 pandemic. In other words, we do not see a dramatic increase beginning in spring 2020 but rather a continuation of a troubling trend. Trends in Help-Seeking for Mental Health As prevalence rates have increased, so too have rates of mental health service utilization in college populations. In the two most recent years of HMS data, 53– 56% of students with a positive screen for depression and/or anxiety had received some form of mental health treatment in the past year. By comparison, this number was in the range of 19–26% during early years of our study. Consistent over the years, the most common source for therapy is the campus counseling center (Lipson, Lattie, & Eisenberg, 2019). Though rates of treatment have increased, there remains substantial unmet need for mental health services in college populations. This is often quantified as the “treatment gap” – the proportion of individuals with an apparent need for services who have not received treatment (Kohn et al., 2004). By this definition, the depression/anxiety treatment gap in fall 2019 was 44% (Healthy Minds Network, 2019). 50

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Though not all students with a positive screen require formal treatment, it is clear that many students are experiencing significant symptoms but not receiving services. While we see some inequalities in terms of prevalence, inequalities are even more pronounced for service utilization. This is particularly true for Students of Color and low-income, first-generation students who have, on average, lower rates of accessing mental health treatment (Lipson et al., 2018).

The Importance of and Opportunity in Higher Education Settings High and rising prevalence of mental health problems are not unique to college populations; available evidence reveals comparably high rates in adolescents and young adults writ large (Blanco et al., 2008). Though these problems are not unique to student populations, higher education does provide a unique setting to identify, prevent, and treat mental illness. First onset of mental health problems typically occurs before or during the traditional college years (ages 18–24); 75% of lifetime mental illnesses emerge by age 24 (Kessler et al., 2007). As such, many students will experience the first symptoms of mental health problems in college. The median delay from symptom onset to first treatment is about 10 years (Wang et al., 2005). Reducing this delay is critical to preventing the costly, negative consequences of untreated disorders on academics, career trajectories, lifetime earnings, physical health, and more. Student mental health is a significant predictor of many important functional outcomes, including social connectedness (Hefner & Eisenberg, 2009; Kawachi & Berkman, 2001), academic performance (Arria et al., 2013; Eisenberg et al., 2009), and future workplace productivity (Wang et al., 2007). Our research has shown that depression is associated with a twofold increase in the likelihood of dropping or stopping out of college without graduating (Eisenberg et al. 2009). National dialogues around retention in higher education and student mental health have been largely separate, siloed conversations. Given that the same students who have, on average, lower rates of college persistence and retention also have, on average, higher levels of unmet mental health needs – namely, Students of Color and firstgeneration, low-income students (Lipson et al., 2018) – there is an urgent need to bring together these two dialogues to advance equity in both domains.

Variation Across Student Populations As noted, mental health concerns are prevalent and rising in student populations. Here we describe what is known about variation in symptom prevalence and use of services. We discuss what is known about mental health inequalities in terms of which populations are experiencing worse mental health outcomes and/or reduced access to services and resources. In HMS, we have found a higher prevalence of mental health problems among undergraduate compared to graduate students;

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transgender and gender nonconforming students compared to cisgender students; cisgender females compared to cisgender males; lesbian, gay, bisexual, and queer students compared to heterosexual students; and students from low socioeconomic backgrounds compared to those from higher SES backgrounds (Backhaus et al., 2021; Eisenberg et al., 2013; Lipson, Raifman, et al., 2019). We also found that Arab/Arab American students, an understudied group, have a higher prevalence of mental health symptoms than other racial/ethnic groups (Lipson et al., 2018). Across fields of study, we found higher rates of mental health problems among students in the arts and humanities (Lipson et al., 2016). Among students with one or more mental health problems, we find that rates of mental health service utilization are, on average, significantly lower among cisgender males, international students, first-generation and low-income students, and Students of Color (Dong et al., 2020; Lipson et al., 2018). Lower rates of service utilization in these groups have also been noted in other studies (Sontag-Padilla et al., 2016). Across fields of study, the treatment gap is wider among students in business and engineering (Lipson et al., 2016). Community college students, particularly those from traditionally marginalized backgrounds, are significantly less likely to have used services compared to students on 4-year campuses, and cost was the most salient treatment barrier in an analysis of data from 23 community colleges (Lipson et al., 2021). There is a need for more intersectional research examining variations in symptoms and help-seeking, especially for students who hold multiple minoritized identities (e.g., first-generation Students of Color). It is important to note that these differences are due to context, differential treatment, and life experiences (rather than a biological predisposition). Inequalities are neither permanent nor immutable but rather changeable through altering risk and protective factors.

Mental Health Risk and Protective Factors This section describes key “risk” and “protective factors,” meaning those factors that are negatively or positively associated with mental health. We begin by examining factors that operate primarily on an individual level, followed by interpersonal, community, institutional, and public policy-level factors (to parallel our approach to reviewing interventions).

Individual Factors As noted, data reveal high and rising prevalence rates of mental health problems among adolescents and young adults writ large (regardless of college status) (Blanco et al., 2008). That said, there are some unique factors that shape mental health risk for college students (Landow, 2006). These include separation from the family unit, which can be especially challenging for students from certain cultures (Crockett et al., 2007; Rodriguez, 2018); “culture shock,” especially for first-generation students (Kish, 2003); academic pressures (Fang et al., 2010); student debt (Walsemann et al., 2015); and uncertainties about job prospects (Landow, 2006).

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Perhaps the most common risk factor is financial stress. In HMS, among students who report their financial situation as “always stressful” or “often stressful,” 60% and 45%, respectively, have apparent mental health symptoms relative to 29% of those reporting “never stressful” (Eisenberg et al., 2018). A substantial body of literature has shown that trauma and assault are also key risk factors for mental health disorders (Khadr et al., 2019; Lilly et al., 2011). For example, over two-thirds (67%) of students who have experienced past-year assault screen positive for one or more mental health conditions in HMS (Eisenberg et al., 2018). Additionally, substance use, particularly binge drinking and marijuana use, is a common risk factor in college populations. Unhealthy sleep habits, as measured in HMS by the Insomnia Severity Index (Morin et al., 2011), are a cause and consequence of mental health problems. Over half of students experience at least subthreshold sleep difficulties. While 16% of students with none/minimal sleep problems screen positive for mental health problems, 72% and 88% of students with moderate and severe sleep problems, respectively, meet criteria for one or more mental health problems (Eisenberg et al., 2018). Coping skills are well-established protective factors. In HMS, we administer the Acceptance and Action Questionnaire-II (Bond et al., 2011), which measures psychological flexibility and experiential avoidance. Students with high levels of flexibility have better mental health outcomes (17% prevalence) relative to students with low flexibility (91% prevalence) (Eisenberg et al., 2018). It is also important to understand individual-level risk and protective factors that correlate with use of mental health services. In general, mental health literacy and knowledge of available mental health services is high in college students (Eisenberg et al., 2012), though we do see lower levels of knowledge among Students of Color (Lipson et al., 2018). Rates of health insurance coverage are high; in the most recent wave of HMS data, 95% of students reported having insurance, 90% of whom indicated that their insurance provides sufficient coverage to meet their needs for mental health care (Eisenberg et al., 2012). The aforementioned increasing use of services is undoubtedly related to decreasing levels of stigma reported by students. In HMS, we focus on two forms of stigma: personal and perceived. While both forms have decreased over time, our research has shown that personal stigma, but not perceived stigma, is a significant predictor of service utilization (Golberstein et al., 2009). In 2007, 12% of students endorsed the personal stigma statement “I would think of less of someone who has received mental health treatment”; in spring 2020, less than 7% endorsed this statement.

Interpersonal Factors The college years represent an important developmental transition and a time of newfound autonomy over health behaviors and decision-making (including use of health services). Peers play a key role in shaping mental health and help-seeking attitudes and behaviors, positioning students as key “gatekeepers.” Students in distress are most likely to turn to their peers for support (Drum et al., 2009; Hennig et al., 1998). Relatedly, students with higher-quality social support are less likely to experience mental health problems than students with lower-quality social support

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(Hefner & Eisenberg, 2009). Additionally, having a supportive advisor is an important protective factor for mental health as well as other outcomes, such as academic performance (Hurtado et al., 2011; Hyde & Gess-Newsom, 2000; Kahveci et al., 2008). Similarly, loneliness and isolation are risk factors for poor mental health (Hefner & Eisenberg, 2009). In fall 2020, we added the three-item UCLA Loneliness Scale (Hughes et al., 2004) to HMS; over 60% of students endorsed feeling a lack of companionship, feeling left out, and feeling isolated from others (Healthy Minds Network, 2020). Discrimination is also a key risk factor for student mental health. Discrimination comes in many forms and is experienced differently across groups and settings. While it is important to understand the nuanced ways in which discrimination manifests, the evidence is consistent: experiencing discrimination negatively impacts mental health (Schmitt et al., 2014). For example, race-based discrimination has been linked to psychological distress, anxiety, and depressive symptoms among Students of Color (Schmitt et al., 2014; Wei et al., 2010). Being misgendered or deadnamed (referred to by the wrong pronoun or a former name) harms transgender and gender nonconforming student mental health (Seelman, 2016). Sense of belonging (the human need to belong to and be accepted within a community) is known to positively influence a wide range of outcomes (Baumeister & Leary, 1995), including mental health (Anderman, 2002; Gummadam et al., 2016; Hagerty et al., 1996; Hoyle & Crawford, 1994; Mounts, 2004; Shochet et al., 2006). In HMS, we ask students their level of agreement with the statement “I feel I am a part of the campus community.” Among those with the lowest levels of belonging, 51% screen positive for one or more mental health problems relative to 27% among those with the highest levels of belonging (Eisenberg et al., 2018).

Community Factors In HMS, we include several survey items designed to measure community norms around mental health. For example, students are asked the extent to which they agree “mental health is a priority at my school” and “we are a campus where we look out for each other.” In college communities supportive of metal health, students are less likely to experience mental health problems and more likely to access services (Sontag-Padilla et al., 2016). Learning environments also influence student mental health. Research into the practice of normalizing the distribution of grades (i.e., grading on a curve) suggests that it engenders social comparisons (Fines, 1996) and competition, which produces an extrinsic performance orientation to learning (Dweck, 2000). In this way, competition may also be related to depression and anxiety as a function of social comparisons about academic performance (Posselt & Lipson, 2016). Institutional Factors There is a small but growing body of evidence around institutional correlates of student mental health. In HMS, we have found considerable differences in prevalence across institutions, with some schools experiencing rates several times higher than others; we have also found that these variations cannot be easily explained by

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basic institutional characteristics (Eisenberg et al., 2013, 2011; Lipson et al., 2018). Figure 2 displays the prevalence of students screening positive for depression and/or anxiety (PHQ-9 and/or GAD-7 > 10) at each school (represented as bars) that participated in HMS in fall 2020: prevalence rates range from 25% to 62% of students. In general, we have found the following characteristics to be associated with higher prevalence: doctoral-granting, public, large enrollment, nonresidential, less academically competitive, and lower graduation rates (Lipson et al., 2015). Students on campuses with larger enrollment may have access to more social interactions but may feel more anonymous and less connected to their community. Similarly, students at nonresidential institutions spend less time on campus and may have fewer social ties. We have also examined mental health needs among community college students, finding that overall prevalence rates are comparably high for community college and 4-year students (Lipson et al., 2021). Though prior research has revealed differences in other key outcomes for Students of Color at minority serving institutions versus those at predominantly white institutions (e.g., for student retention) (Mcclain & Perry, 2017), relatively little is known about the mental health of Students of Color at MSIs relative to PWIs. Mental health problems appear to be highest and treatment utilization lowest at institutions that also tend to have fewer resources (Lipson et al., 2015). CCMH’s Clinical Load Index (CLI) provides counseling centers with a score representing the “standardized caseload” for the center. Low CLI centers are more likely to be at smaller institutions, while high CLI centers are more likely to be at larger institutions. Higher CLI scores were associated with substantially fewer appointments, longer delays between appointments, and significantly less improvement in clinical outcomes (CCMH, 2021). Research thus far has largely focused on immutable institutional factors that correlate with student mental health. As described in the second section of this chapter, we want to emphasize mutable drivers of mental health and inequalities therein, of which institutional sector (public vs. private) is not. In other words, even if we know that prevalence rates are higher and help-seeking lower at public institutions, it is more useful to understand alterable factors operating at a systemlevel that may be driving these differences (e.g., campus policies).

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For most students, their college years will be the only time when a single setting encompasses the main aspects of their daily existence – academic, residential, social, and health. These aspects of daily life are shaped by campus policies. Policies often influence mental health via a mediating factor, for example, financial aid policies influence students’ financial stress, which, as noted, is one of the most significant predictors of mental health (Eisenberg et al., 2018). Some policies may uniquely affect certain student groups. For example, transgender and gender nonconforming students are uniquely affected by policies that dictate whether or not students are allowed to change their name in campus records as well as policies around genderinclusive restrooms and residence halls. Studies have found that being denied access to restrooms or gender-appropriate housing in college is associated with a higher risk for suicidality (Seelman, 2016). Given that transgender and gender nonconforming students have significantly higher prevalence of mental health problems and suicide risk (Lipson, Raifman, et al., 2019), it is important to identify system-level opportunities for prevention.

Public Policy-Level Factors Student mental health is also affected by national, state, and local policies as well as broader sociopolitical events, particularly for groups specifically threatened by those events. For example, the 2016 presidential election was associated with a rise in antiMuslim rhetoric, policy, and hate crimes (Musu et al., 2019). In HMS data, we found that the election was associated with a significant rise in the proportion of Muslim students experiencing mental health symptoms in the 14 months postelection compared with the 14 months prior (Abelson et al., 2020). More recently, racism and acts of violence against Asian American/Pacific Islanders (AAPI) have increased. In HMS, over one-quarter of AAPI students reported experiencing discrimination due to their race/ethnicity as a result of the pandemic. Over two-thirds of respondents who endorsed this item met criteria for mental health conditions (Zhou et al., 2021 Working Paper). The pandemic has also increased some of the known risk factors for mental health, including financial stress and grief, likely widening inequalities given the disproportionate burden of disease among Communities of Color. The beginning of the pandemic coincided with well-publicized police killings of unarmed Black people. A 2020 study found that Students of Color experienced symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder after watching social media videos of unarmed Black men being killed by police (Campbell & Valera, 2020). It will be important to continue to collect and disseminate data to understand mental health needs in college populations with a particular eye toward identifying and addressing inequalities that may be exacerbated by the pandemic, economic stress, and racism. As described above, risk and protective factors across levels point to important opportunities for mental health prevention and intervention in college settings. The next section of this chapter describes the evidence base for a wide range of mental health interventions, many aiming to decrease the risk factors and enhance the protective factors described.

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Review of Intervention Evidence for Addressing Student Mental Health Organization and Contribution of Review We are not aware of an existing integrated review of interventions across all levels of the socioecological model (Fig. 3), to address college student mental health. We take a public health approach and broadly consider programs, policies, and practices to promote mental health, prevent mental health disorders, and support the growing portion of students in higher education experiencing depression, anxiety, eating disorders, suicidality, and other mental health disorders. Mental health is “a state of well-being in which every individual realizes [their] own potential, can cope with the normal stresses of life, can work productively and fruitfully, and is able to make a contribution to [their] community” (World Health Organization, 2002, 5). It exists on a dual continuum that includes positive mental health (flourishing) and poor mental health (languishing) on one axis and the presence or absence of mental illness symptoms on another axis (Keyes, 2007; Peter et al., 2011; Westerhof & Keyes, 2010). Promoting mental health and preventing mental illness are “essential and complementary steps” for reducing the burden of disease and for achieving the academic, social, and economic outcomes valued by higher education (Keyes, 2007; Winzer et al., 2018, 3; World Health Organization, 2002). A number of valuable sources review interventions that address specific mental health disorders (e.g., depression: Buchanan 2012), promote specific protective factors (e.g., sleep: Friedrich & Schlarb, 2018), reduce specific risk factors (e.g., stigma: Yamaguchi et al., 2013), or are delivered in a specific format (e.g., computerdelivered: Davies et al., 2014). Prior reviews examine a large volume of interventions and are located in a wide range of journals (e.g., Journal of American College Health, Journal of Sleep Research, Prevention Science, Journal of Affective Disorders, Journal of Medical Internet Research) representing numerous fields, including Fig. 3 Socioecological Model + Organizing Framework for Intervention Evidence

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Fig. 4 Behavioral Health Prevention Spectrum. Note. Figure depicts a prevention framework for addressing student mental health, as depicted by Cimini and Rivero (2018)

Treat Problems

Prevent Problems

Optimize Health

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Specialized Interventions • Treatment services • Support & recovery groups • Victim services Early Intervention • Screening interventions • Gatekeeper training • Skills training for students at-risk • Means restriction Behavioral Health Promotion • Social norms campaigns • Peer health education • Positive psychology curriculum

college health, public health, mental health, psychology, and sociology. Many methods for organizing and evaluating evidence are used, making it challenging for higher education researchers and practitioners to comprehensively assess the current state of evidence, gaps, and future directions for research. Below we outline some of these methods; we also clarify why we chose to organize our review based on the socioecological model. Several sources in the literature use a public health prevention framework to classify college student mental health interventions. For example, Cimini and Rivero (2018) describe the importance of behavioral health promotion, early intervention, and specialized interventions (see Fig. 4). Health promotion, sometimes referred to as primary or universal prevention, includes efforts to promote health and prevent problems across all students (O’Connell et al., 2009). Early intervention, sometimes referred to as secondary prevention, includes efforts to identify and address students at risk (O’Connell et al., 2009). Specialized interventions, sometimes referred to as indicated or tertiary prevention, aim to reduce severity and negative impacts among students who have developed mental health symptoms (O’Connell et al., 2009). We do not use a prevention framework to organize our review since intervention types and institutional efforts in higher education often cut across levels of prevention and intervention. We considered reviewing evidence for interventions according to who implements them: mental health providers, student affairs practitioners, faculty, or financial aid officers, for example. However, many evidence-based interventions are relevant and require coordination across offices and settings within higher education (student affairs, academic affairs, health, and wellness services) for adoption and evaluation. We aim instead to present information for cross-disciplinary teams of researchers and practitioners working to address student mental health. Likewise, we chose not to review intervention evidence by target outcome (e.g., depression, anxiety, eating disorders) because of the unique opportunity within colleges to broadly develop student strengths to face current and future stressors, enhance mental health, and prevent many types of mental health disorders (Conley, Durlak, & Dickson, 2013).

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We instead categorize interventions according to levels of the socioecological model, a framework for understanding varying factors influencing health and wellbeing (Bronfenbrenner, 1979; Mcleroy et al., 1988). This approach aligns with global Healthy University frameworks and initiatives (Dooris & Doherty, 2009; Orme & Dooris, 2010; Tsouros et al., 1998). We group interventions according to whether they target individual, interpersonal, community, or institutional factors or public policy (see Fig. 5). In each section below, we present what is known about changing individuals, relationships, community norms, institutional factors, and public policy to improve student mental health, with an eye toward what institutions have the power to influence. By reviewing interventions according to levels of the socioecological model, we aim to bring attention to the degree to which student mental health is influenced by multiple, interacting layers of context: intrapersonal/individual factors, interpersonal factors (family, friends, peers), school contexts, and distal social, economic, and political contexts. We call attention to the focus of existing research on intrapersonal factors and interventions, as well as higher education’s opportunities to enhance mental health through intervention at community, institutional, and policy levels. In reviewing current evidence regarding how colleges shape these factors to influence mental health, we acknowledge that pathways to mental health are not universal but vary across racial/ethnic, social class, citizenship, gender, and sexuality due to “differences in culture, family resources, school quality, community supports, and economic and social conditions” (Perna & Thomas, 2008, 32). We assess the degree to which the research literature has taken this into account. We focus on scientific evaluations of interventions, but we note there are additional bodies of evidence that address the context and conditions under which effective interventions can be developed, implemented, and sustained. We encourage higher education researchers and practitioners to also consider the evidence base from implementation science, prevention science, organizational change and development, and literature covering effective partnerships (e.g., community-based participatory research) when designing, implementing, and evaluating interventions to address student mental health. We do not cover clinical services such as psychotherapy and psychiatric medication. Though these are core components of current approaches to student mental health, their evidence base is extensively documented elsewhere, with wellestablished clinical guidelines from professional organizations (e.g., American Psychiatric Association, American Psychological Association) (Cuijpers et al., 2016; Francis & Horn, 2017; Huang et al., 2018; Kay & Schwartz, 2010; Riba & Menon, 2021). Analysis of data from the Center for Collegiate Mental Health has shown that routine psychotherapy care in college counseling centers is generally effective, although there is room for improvement (McAleavey et al., 2019). Providers skilled at serving students with marginalized identities are needed (Riba & Menon, 2021). Integration of primary care and mental health care in collaborative care models is a recent advancement, for college students, and others (Chung et al., 2011). Ongoing research on “traditional” care models is needed, but we focus here on public health interventions for addressing college student mental health.

+ Peer -Health education -Support + Family + Faculty & Staff + Social skills + Belonging Enhance interpersonal protective factors + reduce harms

INTERPERSONAL

PUBLIC-POLICY + Federal, state, local: -Offering protections -Providing funding -Creating barriers or facilitators to risk & protective factors

INSTITUTIONAL

+ Physical environment + Gatekeeper training -Means restriction + Screening -Health promoting + Post-crisis intervention + Learning environment + Policies -Substance use -Curriculum -Sexual assault -Reduce stressors -Leave of absence -Promote conditions -Equity & Inclusion for well-being -Financial aid + Public safety & policing

COMMUNITY

Fig. 5 Intervention Types to Address College Student Mental Health Across Socioecological Levels. Note. Figure presents a socioecological framework for understanding the diverse array of available interventions to address student mental health in higher education. Individual interventions address knowledge, attitudes, help-seeking, skills, and strengths. Interpersonal interventions enhance interpersonal protective factors (e.g., social support, belonging) and reduce harms (e.g., discrimination). Community interventions address norms and the environment. Institutional interventions alter physical spaces, policies, and investments under the control of colleges and universities. Public policy interventions shape colleges’ abilities to invest in and support student mental health

+ Psychoeducational + Coaching + Skill-training -Mindfulness -Cognitive-behavioral -Relaxation -Meditation + Identity-support

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Individual-Level Interventions The most common strategies employed by colleges to address student mental health are those that target individual students’ knowledge, attitudes, coping and helpseeking behaviors, risk and protective factors, and mental health symptoms. These are also the most commonly evaluated programs in the empirical literature. A robust and growing evidence-based supports the efficacy of such interventions (Buchanan, 2012; Cimini & Rivero, 2018a; Conley et al., 2015, 2016; Reavley & Jorm, 2010; Regehr et al., 2013; Rith-Najarian et al., 2019; Shiralkar et al., 2013; Yager & O’Dea, 2008). Many types of interventions target individual factors, each with a different degree of evidence. Key types include: • Psychoeducational interventions: provide information targeting students’ knowledge of and attitudes toward stress, coping, mental health symptoms, and mental health resources. • Coaching interventions: change behavior through goal-directed, collaborative strategies, often through motivational interviewing. • Skill-training interventions: teach students social, emotional, and coping skills. • Identity-support interventions: support students’ sense of identity, including but not limited to racial, ethnic, sexual, or gender identity. While there is potential for overlap across these intervention types (e.g., skilltraining interventions that include psychoeducation), they represent largely distinct categories in practice (e.g., mental health coaching interventions rarely focus on skill-training). We review evidence for these individual-level intervention types in the section that follows. Robust reviews by the Improving Mental Health and Promoting Adjustment through Critical Transitions Lab, led by Dr. Colleen Conley, contribute significantly to this section.

Psychoeducational Interventions Psychoeducational interventions are didactic programs focused on providing information (Durlak, 1997). Within mental health, their goal is increasing mental health literacy – students’ knowledge, attitudes, and beliefs about mental health disorders and treatments (Schwartz & Davar, 2018). They are based on the premise that providing information will motivate and enable individuals to act effectively to prevent or respond to various negative outcomes (Conley et al., 2015). For example, educating students about common pressures they are likely to encounter in college and healthy coping strategies is expected to help reduce future stress (e.g., Walker & Frazier, 1993). Providing symptom information on mental health disorders and where to turn for support is expected to facilitate help-seeking when a student experiences depression or anxiety (Xu et al., 2018). Although psychoeducation is common in higher education, the evidence for effectiveness is generally weak. Across studies, settings, formats, and populations,

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psychoeducational interventions for mental health are minimally effective in improving attitudes, changing behaviors, fostering skills, or preventing problems (Conley, Durlak, & Dickson, 2013; Conley et al., 2015, 2016; Corrigan et al., 2012; Durlak, 1997; Stice et al., 2007; Yager & O’Dea, 2008; Yamaguchi et al., 2013). One common approach addresses stigma surrounding mental health disorders. A meta-analysis of 72 interventions implemented in and outside of higher education to reduce mental health stigma found weak effects of traditional didactic education on changing attitudes (d ¼ 0.21) and behavioral intentions (d ¼ 0.10), assessed via randomized controlled trials (RCTs) (Corrigan et al., 2012). These findings were replicated in a systematic review of short-term anti-stigma interventions (three sessions or fewer) for college students (Yamaguchi et al., 2013). Yamaguchi et al. (2013) reviewed 35 RCTs, clinical controlled trials, and controlled before and after studies and found that improvements in knowledge and attitudes were sustained over medium-term (4 weeks or less) in only half of the studies. They concluded, as have others, that interventions involving exposure to someone with a mental health disorder are more effective than education-only interventions (Clement et al., 2013; Corrigan et al., 2012; Thornicroft et al., 2016; Yamaguchi et al., 2013). However, regardless of social contact, there was no evidence for effectiveness long-term or on actual behaviors and methodological weaknesses in the reviewed studies were common (Mehta et al., 2015; Yamaguchi et al., 2013). Finding only small short-term impacts on attitudes, little evidence for impact on behavior or behavioral intentions, and methodological weaknesses is common across psychoeducational anti-stigma interventions adopted in a wide range of settings with a wide range of participants (Clement et al., 2013; Corrigan et al., 2012; Mittal et al., 2012; Thornicroft et al., 2016). For example, while Corrigan et al.’s (2012) meta-analysis of 72 interventions found large effects of contact interventions in changing attitudes in the short term (d ¼ 0.63 compared to 0.21 for psychoeducation only), they found only small effects on behavioral intentions (d ¼ 0.27 compared to 0.10 for psychoeducation only). Indeed, multiple studies have found mixed or null associations between stigmatizing attitudes and mental health service seeking or use among college students (Eisenberg, Downs, et al., 2009; Golberstein et al., 2009; Gulliver et al., 2012; Han et al., 2006). As such, programs that target behavioral outcomes influenced by the stigmatization process are necessary for connecting individuals to care and ensuring the inclusion of students with a mental illness (Stuart, 2016; Yamaguchi et al., 2013). Psychoeducational interventions are also largely ineffective for developing social-emotional skills and improving mental health in college students. Conley et al. (2015) reviewed evaluations of 113 social-emotional learning-related prevention and promotion programs: of the 28 didactic-only (not skill-oriented) interventions identified, only 4 were successful (Jones, 2004; MacLeod et al., 2008; Mattanah et al., 2010; Walker & Frazier, 1993). In a systematic review of controlled universal mental health prevention programs (targeting students without any presenting problems), psychoeducation interventions yielded smaller average effects

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(effect size (ES) ¼ 0.13) and were effective for fewer outcomes than skill-based interventions with supervised skills practice (ES ¼ 0.45). In a meta-analytic review of technology-delivered mental health interventions for higher education students, psychoeducation programs were the least effective (Conley et al., 2016). Similar findings have been noted in reviews of interventions addressing factors related to student mental health such as sleep (Dietrich et al., 2016; Friedrich & Schlarb, 2018). For example, a systematic review demonstrated that interventions providing sleep hygiene education had small effect sizes on sleep and mental health, whereas cognitive-behavioral and relaxation techniques had medium to large effects on those outcomes (Friedrich & Schlarb, 2018). Eating disorders, like sleep problems, are common in college students, connected to additional mental health problems, and often specifically targeted for prevention. Available evidence (in and outside of higher education) suggests that psychoeducational content may be the least useful approach and in some cases might undermine relevant outcomes (Stice et al., 2007; Yager & O’Dea, 2008). Most reviews are critical of the methodological quality of included psychoeducational intervention studies and note a need for more RCTs, better and validated outcome measures, and longer-term follow-up (Clement et al., 2013; Thornicroft et al., 2016; Mehta et al., 2015; Mittal et al., 2012; Schachter et al., 2008; Stuart, 2016; Yamaguchi et al., 2013). They also note the poor quality of studied interventions, which often lack theoretical grounding, adequate training, manuals, or fidelity checks (Clement et al., 2013; Corrigan et al., 2012; Mehta et al., 2015; Mittal et al., 2012). Overall, there is enough evidence to conclude that psychoeducation is not effective as an independent or primary approach to mental health interventions in higher education (Conley et al., 2015, 2016, 2017; Conley, Travers, & Bryant, 2013; Durlak, 1997).

Coaching Interventions An emerging class of interventions involving motivational interviewing (MI) and coaching attempt to change behaviors related to mental health more directly. MI is a “goal-directed, collaborative form of counseling that leverages a client’s autonomy to strengthen [their] intrinsic motivation to change” (Hettema et al., 2005; Hom et al., 2015, 34; Lundahl et al., 2013). It is based on a participant-centered, empathetic approach that incorporates techniques – developing discrepancy between participant behaviors and values, reflective listening, supporting positive actions, and rolling with resistance – to guide the participant beyond ambivalence toward lifestyle changes (Rash, 2008). These might include increasing health behaviors (sleep, exercise) or decreasing risk behaviors (smoking). In higher education settings, MI has been implemented by both trained clinicians and peers (ACHA, 2020). The technique has primarily been used to address substance use (Carey et al., 2007; Samson & Tanner-Smith, 2015), but it is increasingly used in mental health, wellness, help-seeking, depression, and suicide interventions. For example, MI has empirical support for increasing treatment engagement for mental health disorders and suicide (Baker & Hambridge, 2002; Britton et al., 2011; Humfress et al., 2002; King et al., 2015). Incorporating MI principles in an online intervention for

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college students who screened positive for suicide risk was found, through a pilot RCT, to enhance readiness to engage in mental health treatment above and beyond a personalized feedback-only intervention (King et al., 2015). However, the researchers called for further testing of the intervention’s long-term effects. Researchers hypothesize MI may be a helpful approach for facilitating mental health help-seeking in men in particular (Sagar-Ouriaghli et al., 2019); this genderrelated pattern is also observed in studies of academic coaching and college student success (Bettinger & Baker, 2014). A pilot study of a single-session MI intervention for college men with internalizing symptoms found a significant effect on seeking help from parents and a trend for seeking professional help at 2-month follow-up (Syzdek et al., 2016). Interestingly, a systematic review and meta-analysis of 98 mental health help-seeking interventions (some implemented with college students) found that interventions using MI were only beneficial at long-term followup, indicating that it may take time for acquired motivation and skills to translate into real-life help-seeking decisions (Xu et al., 2018). In higher education settings, MI is increasingly being used as a key component of wellness coaching (ACHA, 2020). Wellness coaching is described as an “innovative approach for promoting mental health and academic achievement among all students” (Gibbs & Larcus, 2014, 23). The method is based on a holistic model of wellness, is grounded in positive psychology, and supports students’ ability to thrive academically, socially, and emotionally (Gibbs & Larcus, 2014; Schreiner, 2010) through the provision of resources, coping skills, and wellness-oriented goal-setting/ attainment opportunities (ACHA, 2020). Formal evaluations are needed to determine its effectiveness in promoting mental health, preventing mental health problems, fostering help-seeking, and supporting student wellness across multiple domains. The use of peers as coaches may make it a cost-effective, scalable model to implement (ACHA, 2020).

Skill-Training Interventions In addition to psychoeducation, skill-training is a primary strategy that has been used with college students to promote mental health and prevent problems. Extensive evidence suggests that skill-training interventions effectively promote positive adjustment and prevent negative adjustment in children, adolescents, and college students (Cimini & Rivero, 2018a; Conley et al., 2015; Durlak, 1997; Howard et al., 2006; McDonald et al., 2006; Stice et al., 2007; Yager & O’Dea, 2008). The approach is: “based on the premise that the behavioral skills that may be instrumental in preventing negative outcomes. . .must be systematically taught to participants along with training on how to apply new skills. Depending on their specific aims, interventions typically emphasize procedures such as cognitive restructuring, relaxation, mindfulness, conflict resolution, various coping strategies. . .” (Conley et al., 2015, 488).

Supervised practice – behavioral rehearsal and supportive feedback – is an essential, but not universally employed, component of skill-training interventions (Conley, 2015; Conley et al., 2015). Extensive research documents the importance of

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supervised practice over multiple sessions for learning new skills in college populations and adolescent, young adult, and adult populations more broadly (Conley et al., 2015). Reviews of college mental health interventions find 22–27% of skill-training programs do not include this component (Conley, 2015; Conley et al., 2015). While further research is warranted to understand the heterogeneity within supervised skill-training interventions, Conley et al.’s (2015) review of 103 controlled studies suggests they are demonstrably more effective (ES ¼ 0.45) than psychoeducational (ES ¼ 0.13) and skill-training without supervised practice (ES ¼ 0.11) universal prevention interventions. Overall, skill-training interventions with supervised skill practice have moderate effects on reducing depression (ES ¼ 0.39), anxiety (0.55), stress (0.55), and general psychological distress (0.32) and enhancing social-emotional skills (0.37), self-perceptions (0.35), and academic behaviors and performance (0.30) (Conley et al., 2015). Supervised skill-training interventions outperform other intervention types in terms of overall effect size, number of outcome areas with significant effects, and sustained impact over time (Conley et al., 2015). The effectiveness of skill-training interventions with supervised practice in preventing distress among college students is impressive compared to other universal prevention programs and treatments (Conley et al., 2015). For example, Conley et al. (2015) found supervised skilltraining interventions’ mean effect on preventing anxiety to be “comparable to results. . . in meta-analyses of treatment for anxiety problems” (500). These interventions have also been found to be effective for improving social-emotional skills and adjustment in higher education settings (Conley, 2015; Schwartz & Davar, 2018). In a review of 113 social-emotional learning-related prevention and promotion programs in higher education, Conley et al. (2015) found that skilloriented programs with supervised practice are effective for promoting socialemotional adjustment, whereas skill-training programs without supervised practice are ineffective. Several types of skill-training interventions exist, with varying degrees of effectiveness. First, cognitive-behavioral interventions focus on monitoring cognitions – replacing disruptive and irrational thinking with more adaptive patterns – and using these cognitions effectively to change behaviors and emotions (Conley et al., 2015; Howard et al., 2006). While somewhat variable in their methods, cognitive-behavioral interventions promote coping skills and skills such as identifying triggers of stress, restructuring cognitions, and managing stress (Conley, 2015). For example, a 6-week intervention focused on teaching college students self-awareness (of thoughts, bodily sensations, and their connection), selfmanagement (e.g., challenging cognitive distortions), and decision-making (e.g., goal-setting) skills through guided weekly practice and reminders, daily log keeping, and supervised practice; it reduced psychological distress, state anxiety, and perceived stress in an RCT (Deckro et al., 2002). Cognitive-behavioral interventions are relatively common: 36% of universal mental health prevention programs for higher education students identified by Conley et al. (2015) were classified as such.

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Meditation interventions involve a wide range of meditation techniques, including transcendental meditation and yoga, to enhance self-awareness and selfmanagement. These practices, which often involve focusing on a single item (e.g., breath, sound, body part) and disregarding distracting thoughts or sensations, are thought to enhance one’s ability to manage stress through physiological effects such as reduced arousal and increased relaxation (Conley, 2015). Nearly 10% of universal mental health prevention programs for higher education reviewed by Conley et al. (2015) were meditation interventions. Mindfulness interventions target similar outcomes but rely on a different set of techniques, such as those in the mindfulnessbased stress reduction program developed by Kabat-Zinn (1990), to train the mind to function in a nonjudgmental and present manner. Mindfulness interventions are somewhat less common (8.7% of universal prevention interventions reviewed by Conley et al., 2015) but are highly effective (Conley et al., 2015). Learning to Breathe is one example of an evidence-based multi-session mindfulness program that has improved psychological well-being among first-year college students (Dvořáková et al., 2019; Mahfouz et al., 2018; Tang et al., 2020). Relaxation interventions teach students (using tools like biofeedback) strategies such as progressive muscle relaxation, guided imagery, and breathing techniques to reduce emotional distress outcomes, including physiological indicators of stress (Conley, 2015). Almost 17% of universal prevention interventions reviewed by Conley et al. (2015) were identified as relaxation programs. Finally, some skill-training programs focus on interpersonal skills; these will be discussed below in the interpersonal section. Several reviews have compared effectiveness of various skill-training intervention types among college students. Mindfulness programs with supervised practice are the most successful. They most effectively improve social-emotional skills (e.g., coping, positive thinking, emotional and stress management) and enhance selfperceptions (e.g., self-esteem, self-actualization) (Astin, 1997; Conley, 2015; Oman et al., 2008; Rosenzweig et al., 2003; Sears & Kraus, 2009; Shapiro et al., 2007; Shapiro et al., 2008; Shapiro et al., 1998). Looking at interventions evaluated in at least three trials, mindfulness programs with supervised practice improved emotional skills 78% of the time (Conley, 2015). Mindfulness interventions are also highly effective at reducing emotional distress (Conley, Durlak, & Dickson, 2013; Conley et al., 2015; Regehr et al., 2013). Conley, Durlak, et al.’s (2013) review of universal promotion and prevention programs for higher education students identified 7 mindfulness interventions among the 83 controlled programs examined; all effectively modified assessed outcomes. Recent research suggests they also advance positive mental health (flourishing) (Long et al., 2021). While rare among indicated prevention programs for college students (1 of 79 controlled indicated interventions identified) (Conley et al., 2017), reviews indicate that mindfulness interventions have been effective in reducing mental health symptoms in clinical and medical populations (Hofmann et al., 2010; Keng et al., 2011) and reducing stress, enhancing well-being, and improving academic outcomes in a variety of settings (Chiesa & Serretti, 2009; Davidson et al., 2003; Eberth & Sedlmeier, 2012), including schools (Zenner et al., 2014). A review of psychological

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interventions to improve sleep in college students also found large positive effects of mindfulness interventions on mental health, suggesting they might be important for addressing comorbid mental health and sleep problems (Friedrich & Schlarb, 2018). For example, Greeson et al. (2014) found college students in the popular “Koru” mindfulness program (four 75-min sessions) had fewer sleep problems, less stress, and more mindfulness and self-compassion compared to those in the waitlist control group after 4 weeks. Research from outside of higher education provides guidance on the importance of and strategies for developing culturally responsive mindfulness interventions (Duane et al., 2021; Proulx et al., 2018; Watson-Singleton et al., 2019; Watson-Singleton et al., 2021). Cognitive-behavioral and relaxation interventions with supervised practice show promise for improving social-emotional skills and reducing distress in college students (Conley, 2015; Regehr et al., 2013). They improved social-emotional outcomes 33–66% of the time in Conley’s (2015) review of interventions evaluated in at least three trials. Cognitive-behavioral interventions impact similar social-emotional outcomes as mindfulness programs and also strengthen interpersonal relationships (Conley, 2015). Relaxation interventions reduce emotional and physiological distress outcomes (Conley, 2015). More common than mindfulness programs among indicated mental health interventions for college students, Conley et al. (2017) found social skill-training interventions (see below) yielded the highest effect sizes but cognitive-behavioral and relaxation interventions followed. Consistent with previous reviews and meta-analyses, cognitive-behavioral interventions have been identified as the most effective approach for treating sleep disorders in college students (Friedrich & Schlarb, 2018; Koffel et al., 2015), but relaxation interventions, like mindfulness interventions, had the largest effects on the mental health outcomes in these studies (Friedrich & Schlarb, 2018). In contrast to mindfulness, cognitive-behavioral, and relaxation interventions, meditation programs with supervised practice have minimal evidence for effectiveness (Conley, 2015; Conley et al., 2015, 2017), and they are ineffective at improving emotional skills in college students (Conley, 2015; Kindlon, 1983; Zuroff & Schwarz, 1978). Overall, further research is needed to understand heterogeneity and key elements for effectiveness within the skill-training intervention category. But, substantial evidence proves mindfulness, cognitive-behavioral, and relaxation skill-training interventions (with supervised practice) are powerful tools for promoting mental health and preventing metal health problems among college students.

Identity-Support Interventions Interventions targeting factors related to students’ identity are potentially powerful but mostly unexplored for impacting mental health. Experiencing interpersonal, communal, and structural harms, such as racism and discrimination, is unfortunately a common part of college for Students of Color, sexual and gender minorities, students with disabilities, and others. These harms negatively impact student mental health (Goodwill et al., 2021; Hwang & Goto, 2008; Pieterse et al., 2010; Woodford, Kulick, et al., 2014). College leaders have many opportunities to intervene to reduce such experiences; these interventions are discussed in the following sections.

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However, there is evidence that individual factors, such as racial and cultural socialization (e.g., cultural pride), private and public regard, and identity salience, moderate the relationship between discrimination and mental health consequences (Keels et al., 2017; Lee, 2005; Reynolds & Gonzales-Backen, 2017; Umana-Taylor et al., 2015). For example, research suggests that positive feelings about one’s racialethnic group (high private regard) and recognition of negative societal perceptions of one’s racial-ethnic group (low public regard) may protect Black and Latinx college students from the negative mental health repercussions of experiencing racial-ethnic discrimination (Sellers et al., 2003; Sellers et al., 2006). In samples of both adolescents and young adults, greater ethnic-racial socialization messages have been found to buffer against the negative effects of experiencing discrimination (Reynolds & Gonzales-Backen, 2017). In a longitudinal study, empowered racialization messages (warnings about discrimination combined with strategies for overcoming racial prejudice) received in late adolescence partially buffered respondents against the mental health consequences of racial discrimination at age 20–22 (Granberg et al., 2012). For lesbian, gay, bisexual, and queer college students, self-acceptance (selfesteem and internalized LGBTQ pride) mediates the pathway from discrimination to distress for heterosexism and microaggressions (Woodford, Kulick, et al., 2014). We are not aware of interventions evaluated in the empirical literature to promote these protective factors among college students, but scholars have suggested the value of doing so in clinical settings (e.g., Reynolds & Gonzales-Backen, 2017) and interventions with younger adolescents suggest the value of enhancing such identity assets (Anderson et al., 2019). Interventions in this arena might also aim to intervene with mediators between racism, discrimination, and mental health. For example, “internalized racial oppression, adopting the negative beliefs about one’s group, is one pathway through which racism affects mental health” (Banks et al., 2021, 89). Banks et al. (2021) piloted a group-based intervention for Black women (including eight college students) and found that employing techniques from Acceptance and Commitment Therapy decreased internalized racial oppression and shame and psychological distress. While priority should be placed on eliminating bias, racism, and discrimination, in the meantime, more work is needed to develop and test interventions to protect students from the mental health consequences of these harms.

Delivery Format Interventions targeting individual-level factors, as reviewed above, have been delivered in various formats: individually or in group-settings, in-person or online, through one or repeated sessions, and by trained individuals or self-administered. Not all intervention reviews delineate whether interventions were administered to individuals or in groups. However, Conley et al. (2017) found that across indicated face-to-face mental health interventions, “individual interventions (ES ¼ 1.08) yielded larger effects than group interventions (ES ¼ 0.60), although both were associated with positive effects” (133). Across studies and outcomes, face-to-face mental health interventions are generally more effective than technology-delivered interventions (TDI) in higher education for both behavior change and increasing help-seeking (Xu et al., 2018) and universal and indicated prevention (Conley et al.,

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2016, 2017; Rith-Najarian et al., 2019). The mean effect size for universal TDIs (0.21; Conley et al., 2016) is significantly lower than universal face-to-face interventions (0.45; Conley et al., 2015), and face-to-face interventions positively impact a greater number of outcomes. Similarly, the mean ES for indicated skill-training TDIs (0.39; Conley et al., 2016) is significantly lower than indicated skill-training face-to-face interventions (0.64; Conley et al., 2017), and face-to-face interventions positively impact a greater number of outcomes. The mean ESs for indicated face-toface interventions are 1.74 to 2.56 times higher than the respective ESs for TDIs (0.73 vs. 0.42 for depression, 0.67 vs. 0.30 for anxiety, and 0.46 vs. 0.18 for general psychological distress) (Conley et al., 2016). While face-to-face interventions are overall more effective than TDIs, there is growing evidence that both universal and indicated TDIs achieve some positive effects among higher education students (Conley et al., 2016; Davies et al., 2014; Harrer et al., 2019; Lattie et al., 2019). More research is needed to fully assess their overall impact, value, and adoption in real-world scenarios given their potential to be easily accessible, cost-effective, and appealing to students who otherwise might not seek formal help (Conley et al., 2016; Dunbar et al., 2018; Lattie et al., 2019; Ryan et al., 2010). The COVID-19 pandemic led to a dramatic increase in the use of TDIs, particularly the delivery of counseling sessions via videoconference technology (Gorman et al., 2020). We have not yet seen firm estimates of a parallel increase in use of other TDIs (e.g., self-guided therapy, mental health apps), but anecdotally it is obvious that colleges are increasing those offerings as well. Research to understand which TDIs are effective and how to engage students with those interventions will be enormously valuable in this new era. An overall strength of individual-level interventions in higher education is their effectiveness in a limited amount of time. Across reviews of universal and indicated programs targeting social-emotional skills, help-seeking, and mental health symptoms, interventions are noted as being brief. The median duration of universal mental health prevention programs in higher education is just 10 h (range: 1–46 h) (Conley et al., 2015). The success of higher education mindfulness programs in strengthening social-emotional skills is celebrated as “impressive given their brevity” (Conley, 2015, 204). These programs are longer, on average, than other prevention programs in higher education (30 h of intervention time over 3–10 weeks) but short compared to the multi-year programs for effectively addressing social-emotional skills in preschool and elementary students (CASEL, 2012). Furthermore, length is not a strong predictor of intervention success in higher education. Duration (number of hours) does not predict the effectiveness of TDIs (Conley et al., 2016), and brief indicated face-to-face interventions are as effective as longer ones (Conley et al., 2017). For instance, multi-session eating disorder programs (implemented in and outside of higher education) only produce significantly stronger intervention effects than single-session programs for one of six outcomes (Stice et al., 2007).

Future Research In summary, there is limited evidence of effective programs to sustainably reduce stigma, reduce stigma-related discrimination, and increase help-seeking but strong

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evidence for effective universal and indicated mental health prevention programs in higher education in terms of enhancing social-emotional skills and reducing mental health symptoms and distress. Research is needed to identify the active ingredients of interventions, the range of outcomes that can be expected for different student groups in the immediate and longer term, and how best to integrate preventive services at more institutions of higher learning so a greater number of students can benefit (Conley et al., 2015, 2017; Hom et al., 2015; Mann et al., 2005; SagarOuriaghli et al., 2019; Weisz et al., 2005). Some existing distillation research provides a starting point for identifying intervention active ingredients (see Table 1). Intervention studies would be strengthened through more objective and diverse outcome measures assessed over the long term (Christensen et al., 2010; Conley et al., 2015, 2016, 2017; Friedrich & Schlarb, 2018; Thornicroft et al., 2016; Winzer et al., 2018). Help-seeking, coping behaviors, sleep, mental health, and academic outcomes could and should be measured more objectively (Conley et al., 2015; Friedrich & Schlarb, 2018; Hom et al., 2015). Researchers have identified mismatches between outcomes targeted by and impacted through interventions, as well as broad potential outcomes from similar intervention techniques (Conley, 2015; Conley et al., 2017; Rith-Najarian et al., 2019). Widening the set of outcomes objectively measured (e.g., social and emotional skills, interpersonal relationships, physical health, academic performance, retention, substance use) will not only help to identify the interventions most effective for addressing the full range of desired outcomes in higher education (health and academic) but also enable calculating the cost-effectiveness of such programs (Conley et al., 2015; Thornicroft et al., 2016; Weisz et al., 2005). Furthermore, lack of follow-up and evidence of intervention durability limits current stigma, help-seeking, and universal and indicated Table 1 Common Intervention Ingredients of Evidence-Based Programs Intervention Type Adolescent Health Promotion

Children Mental Health Service Engagement Prevention Programs for reducing depression, anxiety and/or stress in university students Enhancing men’s mental health help-seeking

Active Ingredients in Effective Evidence-Based Programs Problem-solving, communication skills, & insight building

Assessment & accessibility promotion Physiologically oriented skills (e.g., relaxation, physical exercise, biofeedback) & cognitive monitoring/ restructuring Role models to convey information, psychoeducational material to improve mental health knowledge, assistance with recognizing & managing symptoms, active problem-solving tasks, motivating behavior change, signposting services, & content built on positive male traits (e.g., responsibility and strength)

Source (Boustani et al., 2015; Chorpita & Daleiden, 2009; Chorpita et al., 2005) (Becker et al., 2018; Lindsey et al., 2014) (Rith-Najarian et al., 2019)

(Sagar-Ouriaghli et al., 2019)

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prevention programs (Conley et al., 2015, 2016, 2017; Xu et al., 2018; Yamaguchi et al., 2013) and should be addressed. For example, Conley et al. (2015) found that just 30 of 103 reviewed universal prevention programs assessed outcomes at any follow-up; longer follow-up periods were associated with poorer outcomes. Across all types of individual-level mental health interventions in higher education, there is a need to better understand for whom the interventions work and to identify effective interventions for the full range of students and contexts in higher education. Multiple reviews identify mostly female samples in studies of higher education mental health programs (Conley et al., 2015, 2016; Davies et al., 2014; Farrer et al., 2013; Regehr et al., 2013; Rith-Najarian et al., 2019; Yamaguchi et al., 2013). The gender imbalance in reviewed studies is more extreme than the disproportionate rate of mental health symptoms observed among women compared to men (i.e., there is unmet need among men) (Lipson et al., 2016; Pedrelli et al., 2016). The binary treatment of male/female in reviews and evaluations also neglects gender diverse college students who face a disproportionate burden of mental health concerns (Lipson, Raifman, et al., 2019). While there is evidence that some higher education interventions are equally effective across genders (Conley et al., 2017), other research suggests that gender may moderate intervention acceptability and effectiveness, especially for stigma, help-seeking, and suicide prevention programs (Conley et al., 2016; Gronholm et al., 2018; Klimes-Dougan et al., 2013; RithNajarian et al., 2019; Sagar-Ouriaghli et al., 2019; Thornicroft, 2006; Yamaguchi et al., 2013). For example, a review of universal suicide prevention programs in high schools identified potential harmful effects in males (Klimes-Dougan et al., 2013). In addition to examining how gender moderates intervention acceptability and effectiveness, research is needed to understand the influence of other student characteristics. Far too many intervention studies in higher education do not report student characteristics (e.g., race, sexuality, first-generation status, primary language, citizenship, disability status) or conduct subgroup analyses (Conley et al., 2015, 2016, 2017; Yamaguchi et al., 2013). Conley et al. (2015, 2017) found that less than one-third of universal and indicated prevention intervention studies reported on student race or ethnicity. Encouragingly, among those that did, having a greater number of ethnic minority participants was associated with larger intervention effect sizes (Conley et al., 2015), which has not been found consistently in prevention research (Weisz et al., 2005). In addition, 35 percent of students in face-to-face indicated prevention studies were non-Caucasian, which is relatively close to the demographics in the US higher education system (Conley et al., 2017; NCES, 2019). Initial research suggests other moderators of intervention effectiveness, such as students’ year in school and degree program, should be explored further. For example, Yamaguchi et al. (2013) found stigma interventions with medical students were uniquely ineffective, raising the importance of specifically testing intervention effectiveness for students in helping professions (Yamaguchi et al., 2013). Other researchers have compared the effectiveness of mental health and stress reduction programs with undergraduates and graduates (Conley et al., 2015; Yusufov et al., 2018). Conley et al. (2015) found universal prevention interventions conducted with graduate and professional students appear to have the largest effects (ES ¼ 0.53),

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while those targeting first-year undergraduates are least successful (ES ¼ 0.11). Full reporting on student characteristics should be routine and researchers should compare benefits across groups whenever possible. Further research is also needed to understand the impact of who delivers individual-level mental health interventions. There is some evidence that program quality is closely tied to the training and preparedness of the individuals delivering it (Meiklejohn et al., 2012; Schwartz & Davar, 2018). But in their review of face-toface indicated interventions, Conley et al. (2017) found almost two-thirds of programs were facilitated by paraprofessionals (including university staff, graduate trainees, or peers) and that these programs were as effective as those delivered by fully trained mental health staff. On the other hand, eating disorder prevention programs led by trained interventionists are often more effective than those delivered by staff and faculty (Stice et al., 2007). Wellness coaching is currently being delivered by health promotion staff and trained students; research is needed to evaluate whether both are effective (ACHA, 2020). More research is also needed across settings in higher education. Community college students, for example, are grossly underrepresented in studies (Conley, 2015), despite the fact that they comprise 34% of the college population (NCES, 2019) and have greater needs but more limited access to mental health supports (Eisenberg et al., 2016; Katz & Davison, 2014; Lipson et al., 2021). Researchers should also evaluate other campus characteristics that may shape intervention effectiveness, such as the racial composition of faculty, staff, and students and the degree to which the campus is residential. Another important area for future research is identifying keys to successful adoption, implementation, scaling, and sustainment of individual-level mental health interventions in higher education. Most research to date has focused on outcome effectiveness (Cimini & Rivero, 2018; Conley et al., 2015; Lattie et al., 2019). Several reviews of individual-level mental health interventions note huge inconsistencies in how adherence is reported and measured (Conley et al., 2015, 2016; RithNajarian et al., 2019) and little attention to participant satisfaction (Conley et al., 2017). Better understanding satisfaction, adherence, and achieved implementation is important for interpreting studies of effectiveness (Conley et al., 2016). Further study of fidelity, dosage, adaptation, and quality is also warranted (Conley et al., 2017). For example, Rash (2008) explored the challenges of implementing MI interventions in the college setting and noted that many evaluations do not describe treatment manuals or provider intervention-delivery fidelity, leading to weak internal validity. Overall, greater understanding of the factors contributing to long-term successful intervention adoption and implementation in higher education is needed (Cimini & Rivero, 2018; Conley et al., 2017; Lattie et al., 2019).

Interpersonal Interventions Colleges actively employ many approaches that shape students’ interpersonal interactions, relationships, support, and skills (Kirsch et al., 2014). However, these are

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seldom evaluated for their impact on student mental health. In this section, we review the evidence regarding efforts to shape peer, family, and instructor relationships, as well as student social skills and sense of belonging, to enhance student mental health. We defer discussion of gatekeeper training programs, to the community intervention section that follows, since such programs are typically implemented community-wide with the aim of changing the culture of college communities.

Peer Interventions Peers impact student well-being in numerous ways, with well-documented effects on behavior, health, and academic outcomes (Astin, 1993; Kirsch et al., 2014; Kuh et al., 1991; Mayhew et al., 2016; Renn & Arnold, 2003; Tinto, 1993). Peers may be “the single most potent source of influence” on student affective and cognitive growth and development during college (Astin, 1993, 398; Kuh, 1993; Whitt et al., 1999). They have been the focus of interventions aiming to enhance knowledge sharing, referral, peer counseling, and social support. Peer Health Education Most colleges have a peer health education program (Salovey & D’andrea, 1984; Wawrzynski et al., 2011), which is commonly seen as a cost-effective strategy for health promotion despite rarely being evaluated (Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018; Fennell, 1993; Shook & Keup, 2012; Wawrzynski & Lemon, 2021; Wawrzynski et al., 2011; White et al., 2009). Nationally, peer educators increasingly receive mental health training and prioritize this topic in outreach (Wawrzynski & Lemon, 2021). Such training focuses on general mental health promotion more than suicide prevention, self-harm, or eating disorders (Wawrzynski & Lemon, 2021). In addition to sharing health information, peer educators also mentor, model healthy behaviors, promote positive decision-making, provide referrals, and offer personalized feedback to assist students in meeting health-related goals (Catanzarite & Robinson, 2013; Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018; Ebreo et al., 2002; Swarbrick et al., 2011; Wawrzynski & Lemon, 2019; White et al., 2009). This is thought to be uniquely effective coming from peers, resulting in positive peer pressure and attractive, approachable programming (Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018). Despite four decades of concern about the evidence base for peer health education (Fennell, 1993; Milburn, 1995; Salovey & D’andrea, 1984), it is growing slowly. There is evidence to suggest value in positively influencing substance use behaviors (White et al., 2009), but less work has directly examined mental health benefits (Dubovi & Sawyer, 2019). Perhaps most promising is a large, longitudinal study of students across 12 California colleges that found that increased familiarity and involvement with the peer organization Active Minds over the course of one academic year were associated with (a) increases in mental health perceived knowledge, (b) decreases in stigma, and (c) increases in helping behaviors (providing or enhancing access to emotional support and helping peers get professional help) (Sontag-Padilla et al., 2018). Active Minds uses a combination of peer education, support, modeling, and skill-training to shape student outcomes, but the research corroborates the benefits of having peers working actively to raise mental health awareness at colleges. Growing

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familiarity with Active Minds, even without involvement, was associated with reduced stigma and enhanced knowledge (Sontag-Padilla et al., 2018). Peer mental health organizations may have impact beyond directly involved students, perhaps by improving general student body views’ of mental health. This may be critical in increasing help-seeking (Sontag-Padilla et al., 2016, 2018). Other evidence suggests that training enhances peer educators’ health-promoting knowledge, attitudes, and behaviors (Badura et al., 2000; Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018; Heys & Wawrzynski, 2013; Newton et al., 2010; Sawyer et al., 1997; Wawrzynski & Lemon, 2021; Wawrzynski et al., 2011). Unfortunately, most evaluations of trainings’ effects on peer educators are not methodologically rigorous, lacking otherwise similar comparison groups and longer-term outcomes, thereby making definitive conclusions about efficacy elusive (Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018; Wawrzynski & Lemon, 2021). However, the growing evidence on peer education overall suggests some promise through these approaches, and student-run programs like Active Minds are not costly to institutions. Peer Support Interventions There is more research focused on an array of peer support programs. Across settings, significant research has demonstrated that peer counseling and group interventions are effective in improving a wide range of health outcomes among diverse populations (Davidson et al., 2012; Ramchand et al., 2017; Webel et al., 2010). There is a significant history of using peers to prevent the onset, reduce severity, or manage consequences of disease (Davidson et al., 2012; Ramchand et al., 2017), with perhaps particular importance for individuals with mental health conditions (Fuhr et al., 2014; Gidugu et al., 2015; Kirsch et al., 2014; SAMHSA, 2012). A review of trials evaluating use of paid peer supporters in noncollege mental health settings found that peer-delivered services were as good as those provided by staff, with perhaps greater enhancement of hope, empowerment, and quality of life (Bellamy et al., 2017). There is some evidence that peer counseling enhances social functioning, coping, and engagement with care (Chinman et al., 2014; Landers & Zhou, 2011). Other research, however, has found little or no evidence of positive effects on hospitalization, overall symptoms, or satisfaction with services (Lloyd-Evans et al., 2014; Min et al., 2007; Sledge et al., 2011). Mental health peer support programs at colleges vary in delivery methods, aims, training elements, and institutional “homes” (Caporale-Berkowitz, 2020; John et al., 2018; Kirsch et al., 2014). Some schools offer one-on-one counseling through training of selected students to provide unidirectional support to peer participants in-person or over the phone (Caporale-Berkowitz, 2020). Training length and form varies by institution but typically covers topics such as depression, anxiety, disordered eating, grief, substance use, and academic issues. Peer counselors are then available as a complement to counseling center services, via drop-in or appointment (Johnson & Riley, 2021). Some programs are closely affiliated with school counseling centers and marketed as such, while others are promoted as student-driven to

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increase perceived accessibility (Caporale-Berkowitz, 2020). Some take the form of peer coaching, with one-on-one assignments for an entire semester to improve academic and general performance (Caporale-Berkowitz, 2020). Despite the popularity of one-on-one peer support programs, evaluative research remains sparse. However, there are some promising findings. For example, comparison of matched universities in the UK with and without a peer program (which matched first-year students with upper-level mentors) showed that mentoring was associated with declines in negative affect and increases in social support over the first 10 weeks of the school year (Collings et al., 2014). As with peer health educators, there is more evidence for beneficial impact on those trained to provide peer support (Bernecker et al., 2020; Hatcher et al., 2014; Johnson & Riley, 2021). For example, after 6 weeks of work, students trained to provide mental health support through a student-run mental health chat line showed less avoidance coping and greater sense of belonging to a community relative to untrained workers (Johnson & Riley, 2021). There were no differential changes in flourishing. The causal agent here is unclear, but the study does show that, on balance, being a peer supporter enhances rather than taxes the well-being of those who help others (Johnson & Riley, 2021). An RCT demonstrated that an online course to teach psychotherapy skills to nonprofessionals, including college students, decreased advice giving and increased open-ended questions, time spent listening, and helpfulness (Bernecker et al., 2020). Scalable online training with one-on-one practice among peers may provide an avenue for disseminating peer support skills on campus (Caporale-Berkowitz, 2020). Group peer interventions are more commonly used and studied. They are led by peers or professionals and are both clinical and nonclinical in nature. Nonclinical examples include identity-based support groups that are not focused directly on mental health (e.g., LGBTQ support), preventive group interventions with peer leaders to support the transition to college, and peer-led support groups focused on identity, well-being, and day-to-day life. There are also traditional clinical support groups led by mental health professionals. High-quality studies of these programs in higher education remain limited (Caporale-Berkowitz, 2020; John et al., 2018), but some research has been conducted. Mostly qualitative research has identified ethnic, LGBTQ+, and minority-based student organizations as beneficial to student selfesteem, identity, integration, social support, belonging, and academic achievement (Baker, 2008; Conchas, 2001; Crisp et al., 2015; Fries-Britt, 1998; Guiffrida, 2003; Harper & Quaye, 2007; Museus, 2008; Nagasawa & Wong, 1999; Pitcher et al., 2018). Mental health benefits of such peer groups have not been examined at the collegiate level but have been identified by quantitative research in secondary schools. For example, gay-straight alliances are associated with less substance abuse, depression, and psychological distress and fewer suicide attempts (Davis et al., 2014; Goodenow et al., 2006; Heck et al., 2013; Poteat et al., 2012). One 9-week peer-led prevention group, focusing on transition to college and social support, has demonstrated metal health and academic benefits through rigorous evaluation (Lamothe et al., 1995; Mattanah et al., 2010; Mattanah et al., 2012; Pratt et al., 2000). An RCT showed that positive impacts on loneliness and GPA,

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which were unrelated to each other, did not vary by gender, race, or residential status (living on campus or commuting) (Mattanah et al., 2012). Another unusually wellevaluated group peer intervention for college students is the Body Project, a dissonance-based eating disorder prevention program for young women at risk for eating disorders due to body dissatisfaction (Stice et al., 2006). Also evaluated with RCTs, it has showed clear efficacy in reducing risk factors, eating disorder symptoms, functional impairment, and future eating disorder onset over a 3-year followup (Becker et al., 2005; Becker et al., 2008; Halliwell & Diedrichs, 2014; Matusek et al., 2004; Mitchell et al., 2007; Stice et al., 2008; Stice et al., 2006). Similar effects were seen in a more ecologically valid context (existing college counselors recruited participants and delivered the intervention to at-risk young women), with long-term eating disorder symptom reductions (Stice et al., 2011, 2013). Benefits were experienced by African American, Asian American, European American, and Hispanic female college students, regardless of participant-facilitator ethnic minority status match (Stice et al., 2014). In recognition of its unusually high level of evidence, the Body Project is listed as a model program in the Blueprints Programs for Healthy Youth Development (www.blueprintsprograms.org). The Support Network is a peer-led support group model that has been adopted by several schools, but it has yet to be formally evaluated (Caporale-Berkowitz, 2020). Trained, peer facilitators lead weekly groups of six to ten students. Groups remain intact throughout the semester and foster discussion about college life and emotional well-being. They aim to establish meaningful relationships that persist beyond the group and enhance well-being by allowing students to both provide and receive support (Hogan et al., 2002). Their impact has not yet been rigorously assessed, but scalability has been demonstrated by the number of school adopters, and students reached at participating institutions (e.g., 600 per semester at one large university). Online peer support interventions may also hold promise, particularly for student populations that are less likely to utilize mental health treatment (Watkins & Jefferson, 2013). For example, an online, social media-based intervention addressing mental health, manhood, and sustainable social support with Black college men and their peers reduced depressive symptoms among participants in a mixed methods pre-to-post study (Watkins et al., 2020). Evidence from clinical contexts outside of higher education provides strong support for the effectiveness of peer-led support groups. There has been enough work to support two meta-analyses in depression, where peer-run support groups significantly reduce depressive symptoms, performing as well as professional-led interventions and significantly better than no-treatment conditions (Bryan & Arkowitz, 2015; Byrom & Byrom, 2018; Pfeiffer et al., 2012). Peer-led support groups enhance positive outlooks, empowerment, hope, and self-efficacy more than traditional services alone (Repper & Carter, 2011). In an RCT, patients working with them felt more liked, accepted, and understood than patients enrolled in traditional care (Sells et al., 2006) and showed reduced depression relative to patients in typical group therapy (Pfeiffer et al., 2011). In conclusion, peer interventions appear to be a low-cost strategy with potential to contribute positively to college mental health efforts, benefitting peer leaders and

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participants alike. Further research is needed to fully investigate the benefits of the diverse ways to involve college peers in mental health promotion and intervention.

Family Interventions Families also impact psychosocial adjustment and remain an important source of social support in college (Drum et al., 2009; Hope & Smith-Adcock, 2015; Mattanah et al., 2015), though more work is needed to understand parental involvement and influence on college students (Harper et al., 2012; Kiyama & Harper, 2018; Wartman & Savage, 2008; Wolf et al., 2011). College parent programs have existed since the 1920s, and over 90% of schools offer some sort of family programming (Self, 2013; Wartman & Savage, 2008), but this is often just a session during orientation, a newsletter, or a website (Coburn & Woodward, 2001; Harper et al., 2019). Families are generally seen as outside the purview of colleges (Kiyama & Harper, 2018). We were unable to find higher education interventions focused on families that were evaluated for impact on student mental health; this remains an unexplored arena. Evidence outside of higher education suggests that it is worth investigating. For example, in suicidal adolescents, family-based intervention RCTs have consistently shown a reduction in suicidal ideation and suicide risk factors, an increase in protective factors, and a reduction in psychiatric hospitalizations and suicide attempts (Diamond et al., 2010; Hooven et al., 2012; Pineda & Dadds, 2013; Wharff et al., 2012). Higher education news and literature often describes parents in negative terms, characterizing them as hovering (Carney-Hall, 2008; Pizzolato & Hicklen, 2011; Self, 2013; Taub, 2008; Wartman & Savage, 2008). However, positive forms of parental involvement are acknowledged, including support and advocacy for mental health issues (Carney-Hall, 2008; Morris, 2021). This issue may take on a new complexion now, as prior stereotypes about parental involvement were shaped by reactions to privileged classes, but inclusive engagement of diverse families may carry particular benefits (Kiyama & Harper, 2018). In fact, growing evidence documents the importance of family support to first-generation and Students of Color (Crockett et al., 2007; Makomenaw, 2014; Nuñez & Kim, 2012; Strayhorn, 2010; Torres & Solberg, 2001; Torres et al., 2009). To support students coming from increasingly diverse backgrounds, family-focused programs should be as inclusive as possible. This includes providing services – such as those addressing housing, childcare, and working while in school needs – for the growing number of students supporting families (as parents, caregivers, or children), especially at community colleges (Ascend, 2020; Makomenaw, 2014; Nelson et al., 2013). Since many students, especially those of Color, are not being served by the campus mental health system (Lipson et al., 2018), family interventions might be a key avenue for increasing support systems and help-seeking. Program development and evaluation is urgently needed. Faculty and Staff Interventions Non-parental adults, such as faculty and staff who serve as advisors or mentors, are a promising, yet understudied source of social and mental health support for college

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students (Le et al., 2021). They serve as role models and sources of information, advice, practical help, and emotional support (Zimmerman et al., 2005). Students themselves focus on teachers and teaching practices when asked what can be done to support student well-being, emphasizing the importance of approachability, empathy, and communication skills (Baik et al., 2019). Correlational studies and reviews of school prevention programs highlight the importance of both protective, positive interactions and the opportunity for teachers to reduce stressors in the learning environment (Baik et al., 2019; Bowman, 2010c; Wells et al., 2003; Wyn et al., 2000). Recent evidence emphasizes the role of mentoring in improving student mental health (Le et al., 2021), by supporting broader exposure to nurturing relationships, career options, and various social identities (Hagler, 2018). Being able to name a natural1 mentor is linked to reduced psychological distress, less risk-taking, and better academic and vocational outcomes during the transition to adulthood (Hurd & Zimmerman, 2010; Zimmerman et al., 2005). As with family interventions, the impact may be greatest on marginalized groups. College students from traditionally underrepresented backgrounds who retained a greater number of natural mentors through their first year of college showed reductions in depressive symptoms across the year (Hurd et al., 2016), via enhanced self-worth that reduced psychological distress (Hurd et al., 2018). Students who felt more emotionally close to mentors reported less depression and worry at follow-up than students less connected to their mentors (Le et al., 2021). Mentors are recognized as being particularly important for retention, mental health, and well-being among graduate students, and, once again, this is particularly true for students with minoritized identities (Allen et al., 2020; Becerra et al., 2020; Charles et al., 2021; Goldberg et al., 2019; Hazell et al., 2020; Hyun et al., 2006; Jones-White et al., 2020; Posselt, 2021; Ryan et al., 2021; Tuma et al., 2021). The impact of mentoring and advising interventions on academic outcomes has been extensively studied (Bettinger & Baker, 2014; Glennen, 1976; King, 1993). Proactive advising and strong mentoring relationships with faculty can increase social and academic integration and success for Students of Color on predominantly White campuses (Sedlacek, 1987; Tinto, 1993). Potential impacts on mental health have not been assessed but can be expected based on the known benefits of integration and belonging (see section below). There is a large literature on mentoring programs for younger adolescents, which is beyond the scope of this review, with mixed but somewhat encouraging findings (DuBois et al., 2011; Dubois et al., 2002; McQuillin et al., 2020; Raposa et al., 2019; Rhodes, 2008). One comprehensive meta-analysis of 70 outcome studies on intergenerational youth mentoring programs revealed modest effectiveness for promoting numerous positive outcomes, including mental health (Raposa et al., 2019). Given the nonspecific and broad range of mentoring activities (McQuillin et al., 2020), sophisticated efficacy

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and implementation research designs may be needed to identify the specific factors within mentoring that impact particular segments of the student body. While postsecondary faculty and staff have the potential to enhance student mental health, they may also harm it through microaggressions and discrimination (Goldberg et al., 2019; Knutson et al., 2021; Nolan et al., 2018; Smith et al., 2007; Suárez-Orozco, Casanova, et al., 2015). Microaggressions based on race/ethnicity (Keels et al., 2017; Ogunyemi et al., 2020), gender (Capodilupo et al., 2010; Nadal, Rivera, & Corpus, 2010), sexual orientation (McCabe et al., 2013; Nadal et al., 2011; Platt & Lenzen, 2013), immigration status (Nadal et al., 2014), disability (Keller & Galgay, 2010), religious affiliation (Nadal, Issa, et al., 2010), social class (Broockman & Kalla, 2016; Jury et al., 2017; Walpole, 2003), documentation status (Suárez-Orozco, Katsiaficas, et al., 2015), and more are prevalent and perpetrated by a range of players (including health and counseling professionals) in higher education settings. For example, research documents that gender minority college students are “tokenized, misgendered, outed, and invalidated by faculty members throughout their academic day” (Knutson et al., 2021, 7; Matsuno, 2019). Such treatment definitively harms mental health (Blume et al., 2012; Hwang & Goto, 2008; Keels et al., 2017; Nadal, Rivera, & Corpus, 2010; Pieterse et al., 2010; Torres et al., 2010; Woodford, Kulick, et al., 2014). Interventions that train existing social network members to enhance their support or decrease perpetration of interpersonal harm have remained a rarely explored model of social support interventions since the 1990s (Lakey & Lutz, 1996). Ally training programs for faculty and staff reflect one strategy to increase support for and decrease harms toward stigmatized groups. They have been implemented in higher education to improve the collegiate experience of student veterans (Olsen et al., 2014), LGBTQ students (Poynter & Tubbs, 2007), and students in recovery from substance use disorders (Beeson et al., 2019). These programs are recommended (e.g., Beemyn, 2005; Rankin, 2005) and popular but rarely evaluated in the empirical literature (Draughn et al., 2002; Poynter & Tubbs, 2007; Woodford, Kolb, et al., 2014). There is some preliminary evidence from secondary schools that training educators may increase intervention in anti-LGBTQ language and behavior and action to create safe and supportive environments (Greytak & Kosciw, 2010; Greytak et al., 2013; Johns et al., 2019; Payne & Smith, 2010; Szalacha, 2003). Diversity trainings and racial dialogue workshops are another category of interventions to decrease interpersonal harms. Faculty sensitivity training to reduce racism and microaggressions is a leading demand of campus protesters (Berner, 2015; Byrd et al., 2021; Williams, 2019), but there is strikingly little evidence or agreement regarding effective interventions, desired outcomes, or even essential elements of such training (Ogunyemi et al., 2020; Paluck, 2006; Paluck & Green, 2009; Williams, 2019). Positive (Miller & Donner, 2000; Sue et al., 2019; WhiteDavis et al., 2018) and detrimental (Sue et al., 2009; Sue et al., 2010) effects have been demonstrated for higher education workshops and dialogues meant to combat racist interpersonal interactions. Meta-analyses of diversity trainings implemented in a range of settings suggest that they produce small-to-moderate improvements in attitudes and bias, with stronger effects if the training is mandatory and if dialogue

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lasts longer or occurs in a series rather than stand-alone (Bezrukova et al., 2016; Kalinoski et al., 2013). Interpersonal interventions to decrease harm perpetrated by faculty and staff receive greater attention in the unpublished literature (e.g., dissertation abstracts, conference proceedings). Investing the necessary resources to conduct and publish robust evaluations is recommended, especially as the demand for and popularity of such training surges in higher education. Further faculty opportunities to reduce stressors harming student mental health and enhance protective factors will be discussed below in the learning environment section of communitylevel interventions.

Social Skills Training Interventions Social skills training is another interpersonal intervention that can enhance relationships, social support, and mental health (Ando, 2011; Conley et al., 2015; Hogan et al., 2002; Lakey & Lutz, 1996). These interventions are relatively rare in higher education and have been evaluated with mixed results. They represented 3% of universal mental health prevention interventions reviewed by Conley et al. (2015); two out of five were successful. One focused on roommates and enhancing positive communication (Waldo, 1982), and one used a computer-based approach to improving romantic relationships (Braithwaite & Fincham, 2007). Both involved skill development and practice. The evidence suggests value for enhancing social and emotional competencies in higher education (Braithwaite & Fincham, 2007; Conley et al., 2015). A more recent intervention, evaluated through mixed methods, focused on developing social skills among first-generation students at an ethnically diverse, public university (Schwartz et al., 2018). It increased participant support-seeking, GPAs, and closeness with instructors (Schwartz et al., 2018). Advocates propose teaching students support skills at orientation, in a way that would help every student begin college connected to a peer group; expressed goals would be community building and leadership and skill development (Caporale-Berkowitz, 2020). A peer-based, “helping each other” approach would have compounding impact, given that helping others promotes happiness, mental health, confidence, and selfesteem (Repper & Carter, 2011), that giving and receiving support produces the most benefits (Hogan et al., 2002), and that reciprocal self-disclosure fosters social connections that improve health and academic outcomes (Walton & Cohen, 2011). Social skills training has documented efficacy when applied to psychiatric populations, with enhanced social functioning for as long as 6 months (Dam-Baggen & Kraaimaat, 1986; Finch & Wallace, 1977; Goldsmith & McFall, 1975; Hersen et al., 1984; Holmes et al., 1984; Lakey & Lutz, 1996; Monti, 1979, 1980; Stravynski et al., 1994). It is a critical component of peer support programs (Byrom & Byrom, 2018; Gidugu et al., 2015), and skill-focused efforts produce better outcomes than purely supportive approaches in treating depression in community mental health centers (Bryan & Arkowitz, 2015). Social skills training has been shown to add additional value in the context of social support interventions for a wide range of problems (e.g., cancer, loneliness, weight loss, substance abuse) and across individual and group interventions as well as peer- and professionally directed programs (Hogan et al., 2002).

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While social skills training interventions are relatively rare in colleges, numerous existing activities in college life help students gain and practice interpersonal skills – from group work in courses to involvement in student organizations and athletics (Schwartz & Davar, 2018). Some preliminary work suggests that extracurricular and political activity may counter negative psychological health outcomes stemming from underrepresented students’ experiences of discrimination (Billingsley & Hurd, 2019; Hope et al., 2018). Studies that assess mental health outcomes of existing social skill-developing programming in higher education and examine ways to costeffectively enhance such impacts are urgently needed.

Belonging Interventions Student belonging is another area ripe for intervention development and research, with much evidence already accumulated that belongingness enhances human health. Sense of belonging (the human need to belong to and be accepted within a community) influences a wide range of social, psychological, and academic outcomes for adolescents and young adults (Bensimon, 2007; Hausmann et al., 2009; Osterman, 2000; Pittman & Richmond, 2008; Shochet et al., 2006; Walton & Cohen, 2011). A weak sense of belonging is associated with poor mental and physical health and even suicide (Anderman, 2002; Baumeister & Leary, 1995; Gummadam et al., 2016; Hagerty et al., 1996; Hoyle & Crawford, 1994; Mounts, 2004; Shochet et al., 2006). Strong belongingness predicts flourishing (positive mental health) (Fink, 2014) and shapes positive emotional and behavioral adjustment (Georgiades et al., 2013; Hagerty et al., 1996; Pittman & Richmond, 2008). School belonging enhances educational outcomes for adolescents and young adults (Cham et al., 2014; Eccles & Roeser, 2003; Hughes et al., 2015; Hurtado & Ponjuan, 2005; Kember et al., 2001; Tovar et al., 2009), increasing student engagement, academic motivation and selfefficacy, and academic achievement (Cham et al., 2014; Eccles & Roeser, 2003; Freeman et al., 2007; Ostrove et al., 2011; Roeser et al., 1996; Zumbrunn et al., 2014). First-year college students (White and African American) with a strong sense of belonging develop enhanced institutional commitment and stronger intentions and success at persistence (Hausmann et al., 2009). Belonging should be a valuable target for intervention, and there is growing evidence that it is modifiable through intervention in students (Binning et al., 2020; Gilken & Johnson, 2019; Layous et al., 2017; Marksteiner et al., 2019; Stephens et al., 2014; Walton et al., 2015; Winkelmes et al., 2016). These interventions not only produce health and academic benefits but help reduce inequities, with strong support in a series of well-done RCT studies (Brady et al., 2020; Walton & Cohen, 2011). Specifically targeting first-year students, a belonging intervention changing attributional processes to decrease belonging uncertainty improved African American students’ self-reported health and well-being reduced their number of doctor visits 3 years post-intervention (Walton & Cohen, 2011), and 7–11 years later had large positive effects on their general psychological well-being (Brady et al., 2020). The intervention eliminated Black-White differences in psychological well-being in the treatment group that persisted in the control group (Brady et al., 2020). These benefits were mediated by greater college mentorship, so fostering belonging via

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brief intervention at the beginning of college enhanced mentorship during college and led to better social and psychological life outcomes postcollege. The same intervention also worked in Germany, with impact on depressive symptoms (Marksteiner et al., 2019). An RCT of a similar intervention, using real-life stories from senior students to help incoming students understand how social class backgrounds shaped college experiences and strategies for success, documented reduced stress and anxiety, improved adjustment to college life, and enhanced academic and social engagement (Stephens et al., 2014). The intervention eliminated achievement gaps for first-generation students by enhancing their resource utilization (e.g., meeting with professors) and improving end-of-year grades (Stephens et al., 2014). Given the consistent association between belonging and academic and mental health outcomes, as well as evidence (produced through robust RCTs) that even brief interventions can produce sustained psychological benefits, researchers should examine the feasibility of scaling such interventions as well as continue to assess psychological outcomes using validated measures as they investigate academic benefits of such programs. Existing brief interventions are likely only the forerunners of what is possible for belonging interventions (Murdock-Perriera et al., 2019). For example, Jedi Public Health highlights the promise of comprehensive efforts to “remove and replace discrediting cues in everyday settings” for disrupting the “repeated physiological stress process activation that fuels population health inequities” (Geronimus et al., 2016, 105). The model’s developers identify specific opportunities to adjust “subtle and pervasive features of the social, psychological, and physical surround” in schools to create identity-safe, mental health-enhancing environments (Geronimus et al., 2016, 106).

Opportunities to Reach Underserved Populations Interpersonal interventions may play a unique role in addressing mental health inequities at institutions of higher education and reaching marginalized and underserved students (Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018). Many aspects of interpersonal interventions may lead them to be effective with underserved populations: they allow for more time and informal interactions than clinical relationships; they can occur outside of institutions that have historically been tainted by racism, homophobia, and transphobia (e.g., medical systems); and similarities between supporters and the supported individuals can foster mutual respect, cultural competency, and support tailored to identity and context (Fisher et al., 2014; Nicolazzo et al., 2017; Rosenthal et al., 2010; Sokol & Fisher, 2016). Given the role of stigma in perpetrating inequities in mental health services receipt, interpersonal interventions can play an important role in normalizing help-seeking among diverse students and their social circles (Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018). Across a wide range of populations and health concerns, peer support and mentorship have been identified as a “robust strategy for reaching groups that health services too often fail to engage” and improving outcomes for those facing minority stressors; it may, in fact, may be most effective among these populations (Graham & McClain, 2019; Nicolazzo et al., 2017; Sokol & Fisher, 2016, e1). As colleges become increasingly diverse with regard to gender, race, ethnicity, generational

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status, ability status, and sexual orientation (Espinosa et al., 2019; Smith, 2015), peer-led programs may provide an avenue for developing and delivering culturally sensitive and responsive mental health prevention and intervention (Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018; Heys & Wawrzynski, 2013). If peer educators and leaders are recruited in such a way that they are representative of the student body, they may be more likely to be perceived as culturally inclusive than campus staff or professionals (Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018). A diverse group, alone, of course is insufficient for addressing power and privilege, multiculturalism, and stigma, but research should investigate whether mental health interventions delivered by peers representing the student body and trained in multicultural competence enhances the effectiveness, impact, and reach of such programs (Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018). In one study from the 1980s, a counseling program training ethnic minority students to be support agents and referral resources was not successful beyond promoting professional development among the student leaders (Stokes et al., 1988). Another program training multicultural peer advisors (through two sequential three-credit courses) at a diverse commuter college provides a model of peer training focused both on counseling techniques and multicultural sensitivity but was not evaluated (Frisz, 1999). Further research is needed to confirm the promise of interpersonal programs for promoting mental health and preventing and treating mental illness among diverse and historically marginalized student groups (Dubovi & Sawyer, 2018). Overall, there is robust evidence that interpersonal strategies can be highly effective – particularly peer-based and belonging interventions – in enhancing student mental health, but little evidence exists regarding which specific programs or interventions are most effective in college populations. There is a particular dearth of interventions developed and tested for decreasing interpersonal harm. A challenge for future interpersonal intervention development is that relevant literature is widely dispersed and uses varied terminology for describing similar constructs. Developing shared understanding and terms for interpersonal intervention types and constructs may help to advance research.

Community-Level Interventions We conceptualize community-level interventions as those created to influence how college community members perceive mental health and respond to students in distress. These interventions are intended to reach a substantial portion of the school community and change norms. Different from institutional interventions, which focus on factors within institutions’ control (e.g., policies, building design, budgets), community-level interventions aim to shift community members’ behavior across campus to improve the school’s culture and students’ mental health. In this section, we review evidence related to mental health gatekeeper trainings (GKTs), screening interventions, school-wide programs combining these approaches, crisis-response interventions, and interventions designed to alter the curriculum and learning environment.

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Gatekeeper Trainings GKTs are universal, primary prevention programs that seek to (a) increase knowledge about mental health disorders along with gatekeepers’ abilities to intervene, thereby (b) promoting help-seeking among the target population (Lipson, 2014). GKTs are typically brief; the most well-known programs run from 1 to 3 h. Students (particularly resident advisors [RAs]), faculty, staff, and coaches are trained as gatekeepers in higher education.2 GKT impact studies commonly consider trained gatekeepers only (e.g., like peer health education studies) (Lipson, 2014; Wolitzky-Taylor et al., 2020). Specifically, campus-based GKT research often involves pre-post surveys measuring trainees’ self-perceived and objective knowledge, attitudes, self-efficacy, and intervention skills, intentions, and behaviors (Lipson, 2014). In college settings and elsewhere, evidence of GKTs’ positive outcomes in target populations remains thin; trainingrelated effects on help-seeking behavior and mental health in general student communities are largely unknown (Wolitzky-Taylor et al., 2020). A comprehensive review of GKT research published through 2013 revealed no studies in the college context that had evaluated GTKs’ impacts within the general student population (Lipson, 2014). However, at least one study (summarized below) measured these effects since (Lipson et al., 2014). Many GKT studies have identified intervention effects on trainees’ self-perceived and objective knowledge (Lipson, 2014). Most research on trainee attitudes (e.g., levels of stigma) has documented improvements from baseline to initial follow-up (Lipson, 2014). This pattern aligns with recent GKT investigations in college settings (e.g., Shannonhouse et al., 2017). Likewise, studies on self-efficacy (e.g., one’s perceived ability to persuade someone to get help) suggest that GKT has a significant positive effect for trainees from pretest to posttest. For example, in a cohort study of campus community members trained as gatekeepers (students, staff, and faculty), researchers found that the GTK program Question Persuade Refer (QPR) enhanced trainees’ self-perceived ability to connect at-risk students with mental health services (Mitchell et al., 2013). Coleman et al. (2019) examined Kognito and discovered that undergraduate students trained as gatekeepers scored 84% higher on measures of gatekeeper self-efficacy (e.g., aware of suicide warning signs) than students in the control condition. Relative to the aforementioned outcomes, few studies have evaluated gatekeeper skills. In this context, skills refer to expertise in GKT objectives as assessed by a person other than the trainee. A cohort study of university employees (faculty, staff, and coaches) and undergraduate RAs showed that QPR improved gatekeeper skills: merely 10% of participants met criteria for acceptable skills at baseline, whereas 54% 2

GKTs are similar in many ways to bystander interventions, a term applied in prevention efforts involving mental health and sexual assault, substance abuse, discrimination, and other contexts. Bystander interventions focus on recognizing a potentially harmful situation or interaction and training individuals to respond in a way that could positively influence the outcome. The book chapter “The Role of Active Bystander Training Within a Comprehensive Prevention Framework” provides an overview of bystander interventions in college settings (Jacobsen, 2018).

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met criteria post-GKT (Cross et al., 2010). Notably, however, these effects were measured immediately after training and likely represent the “best case scenario” (Cross et al., 2010, 156). Furthermore, although suicide-specific intervention skills (i.e., QPR) increased significantly, no changes were observed in general skills (e.g., active listening) (Cross et al., 2010). Another program, the Student Support Network – a 6-week training – was also found to improve students’ crisis-response skills (Morse & Schulze, 2013). To our knowledge, between publication of Lipson’s (2014) comprehensive review and now, few campus-based GKT studies have evaluated gatekeeper skills. In one pre-to-post study, graduate students trained to offer GKTs showed improvement in crisis communication skills (Morris et al., 2015). Similarly little research has considered behavioral intentions (i.e., likelihood of intervening) or actions (i.e., actually intervening or making a referral to professional mental health care). An example of a behavioral intention item is “How likely is it that you would talk with someone you know about their feelings if you thought they needed help?” (Pearce et al., 2003, 5). From baseline to initial follow-up, GKT has been shown to increase behavioral intentions in three of four studies measuring this outcome (Indelicato et al., 2007; Pearce et al., 2003; Tompkins & Witt, 2009). Yet such improvement did not translate to behavior, exemplifying the disconnect between intentions and behaviors. GKT also had no effect on trainees’ actual behaviors (intervening or referring to care) in three campus-based studies of this outcome (Indelicato et al., 2007; McLean & Swanbrow Becker, 2018; Tompkins & Witt, 2009). Empirical evidence indicates that GKTs can positively influence trainees’ knowledge, attitudes, self-efficacy, and intentions but not skills or actual behaviors. Further, most GKT studies have measured effects related to trainees’ selfreported outcomes without assessing actual helping behavior or population-level service utilization and well-being. Only one college GKT study appears to have considered intervention effects within the target population. In the most comprehensive evaluation of a GKT program to date, Lipson et al. (2014) assessed the effectiveness of Mental Health First Aid (MHFA) delivered to RAs on 32 college campuses through an RCT. Residence halls were assigned to the intervention (MHFA plus preexisting trainings) or control condition (preexisting trainings only) using matched pair randomization. MHFA was found to increase RAs’ subjective knowledge and self-efficacy (i.e., selfperceived ability to identify students in distress and confidence to help). However, no effects manifested for help-seeking or other outcomes among student residents. Lipson et al. (2014) thus concluded that “GKTs may need to be revised, and entirely new strategies may need to be considered” since they appear “insufficient for promoting intervention behaviors among gatekeepers or help-seeking and wellbeing in student communities” (618). In summary, the evidence base for GKTs on college campuses is dominated by assessment of trainees’ knowledge, attitudes, and self-efficacy. Less attention has been given to population-level outcomes, such as objective measures of target populations’ help-seeking behavior (i.e., at-risk students in the community). More research is also needed to understand weak associations between gatekeepers’ knowledge, attitudes, self-efficacy, intentions, and actual intervention behaviors

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(i.e., referring students to professional care). Scholars examining mental health interventions have cautioned that attitudes and intentions are generally poor predictors of future behavior (Glasman & Albarracın, 2006). Many studies have revealed positive effects of trainees’ knowledge, attitudes, self-efficacy, and intentions, yet these improvements are insufficient in enhancing mental health. Additional RCTs are needed to unravel the causal impact of GKTs on outcomes such as gatekeeper skills, gatekeeper referral patterns, student help-seeking, and student well-being. Finally, researchers must investigate the sustainability of GKT effects; many relevant studies only measured immediate post-training outcomes – a limitation hindering most intervention evaluations reviewed in this chapter. Longer-term follow-up thus far suggests that positive effects can diminish over time. For instance, in a cohort study evaluating QPR delivered to university staff, faculty, and students, Indelicato and colleagues (2011) identified positive training effects on self-perceived knowledge, attitudes, self-efficacy, and behavioral intentions from pre- to posttest. At 3-month follow-up, however, participants mentioned needing additional information about available resources, listening skills, how to express concern, and how to persuade someone to get help. Subsequent research should address gatekeepers’ long-term abilities to identify, intervene, and refer at-risk students to appropriate care. Measurement over time is needed to allow trainees to apply what they have learned and for effects to mature. Colleges invest time and resources into GKT implementation; to protect this investment, institutions could offer refresher sessions to preserve gatekeepers’ knowledge and skills. For instance, RAs could meet regularly to discuss their experiences with mental health concerns in their residential communities.

Screening Interventions Screening interventions, in addition to gatekeeper interventions, can change how the college community responds to students experiencing mental health symptoms. The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration’s Comprehensive Systems Framework and the US Preventive Services Task Force both recommend depression screening, specifically when linked to effective treatment options (Horowitz et al., 2009; Siu et al., 2016; Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, 2019). Colleges are widely implementing screening interventions (Fedorchak & Cimini, 2018; Schwartz & Davar, 2018). Helping campus health centers identify and respond to students with mental health symptoms is especially important (Chung et al., 2011; Schwartz & Davar, 2018; Shepardson & Funderburk, 2014). Although many college students access on-campus health services (Eisenberg et al., 2007), most students with mental health symptoms – and more than 80% of those who die by suicide – do not use school-based mental health services (Lipson et al., 2015; Lipson, Lattie, & Eisenberg, 2019). Several studies have shown that screening for mental health symptoms and suicidal thoughts and behaviors in school settings holds promise for detecting and linking at-risk individuals to care (Eisenberg et al., 2012; Hom et al., 2015; Michelmore & Hindley, 2012; Peña & Caine, 2006). For example, an intervention increased mental health service access through screening for suicide risk and using

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motivational interviewing in an RCT (King et al., 2015). An evaluation of the National College Depression Partnership indicated that providing screening in primary care on eight campuses enhanced students’ treatment engagement and clinical outcomes (Chung et al., 2011): 12 weeks after initial screening, 86% of students identified as having clinical depression were in active treatment, 58% had agreed upon a self-management goal with their clinician, and 52% exhibited functional improvement (Chung et al., 2011). Other university screening programs have led students (i.e., 13.5–48% of those screening positive) to accept referrals, enter mental health treatment, and attribute their entry to screening (Haas et al., 2008; Moutier et al., 2012). Several studies of school-based suicide screening programs with younger adolescents have reported follow-up referral rates greater than 50% (Brown & Grumet, 2009; Gould et al., 2009; Hallfors et al., 2006; Husky et al., 2011; King et al., 2012; Robinson et al., 2013). A systematic review demonstrated that college suicide screening programs improved identification of at-risk students; however, the positive predictive value of subsequent suicidal behavior in school settings was relatively low in some reports (range: 6–33%) (Peña & Caine, 2006). These findings coincide with data on adult populations suggesting that although suicide screening may enhance referral to treatment, it does not necessarily reduce suicide risk (LeFevre & U.S. Preventive Services Task Force, 2014; O’Connor et al., 2013; Zalsman et al., 2016). Further research is ultimately needed to understand how, when, where, and for whom screening programs are effective (Peña & Caine, 2006). Several questions remain unanswered in college settings. Are screening programs most cost-effective when administered with the general student body or at-risk students (Mann et al., 2005; Zalsman et al., 2016)? Are standard screens equally effective, valid, and reliable across different student populations (Mann et al., 2005; Zalsman et al., 2016)? Low response rates on screening surveys may mean that participants are more likely to seek help, underscoring the need for strategies to support students least likely to access care (Larzelere et al., 2004). These interventions are infeasible for schools with long mental health service waitlists and limited community treatment options.

School-Wide Interventions Combining Gatekeeper Training, Screening, and Other Components Most gatekeeper and screening studies have not measured the impacts of community-wide implementation on the student body’s mental health. A few school-wide interventions, often involving a combination of these activities, have been assessed accordingly. The best-known model for changing community norms to enhance mental health help-seeking and reduce suicide was devised outside higher education (AFMOA/SGZP, 2001; Knox et al., 2003; Knox et al., 2010): the Air Force Suicide Prevention Program has inspired campus-wide approaches to mental health promotion and suicide prevention (Jed Foundation, 2019), but it has not been formally evaluated within the college context. A 2-year campus-wide intervention, MindWise, was assessed in Australia (Reavley et al., 2014). This multifaceted intervention involving mental health first aid training, emails, posters,

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and campus events was evaluated through a cluster randomized trial in which campuses were randomized to an intervention or control group. Although no effects were detected on students’ mental health literacy or well-being (Reavley et al., 2014), the intervention increased staff’s knowledge and recognition of depression and risky alcohol consumption (Reavley et al., 2014). Nonetheless, the study’s risk of bias was high due to contamination between the intervention and control groups (i.e., students could attend different campuses during the same year) and high attrition (Fernandez et al., 2016; Reavley et al., 2014). Despite MindWise being ineffective with college students, school-wide interventions involving middle and high school students indicate that such programs can reduce suicidal behavior and increase service referrals by changing school norms (Ahern et al., 2018; Aseltine & DeMartino, 2004; Ciffone, 2007; King et al., 2011; Schilling et al., 2014; Wasserman et al., 2015; Wyman et al., 2010). For instance, the Sources of Strength intervention builds “socioecological protective influences” through peers (trained leaders from diverse social cliques, including at-risk adolescents) conducting well-defined messaging activities and altering school norms over 3 months, ultimately enhancing students’ (especially those at-risk) perceptions of the acceptability and effectiveness of seeking help from adults (Wyman et al., 2010, 1654). Students receiving the intervention were over four times more likely to refer suicidal friends to adults versus students in schools that had not received the intervention (Wyman et al., 2010). As another example, the Signs of Suicide Prevention Program combines gatekeeper training curricula – teaching students to recognize and respond to signs of suicide and depression in themselves and others – with a brief screening for depression and suicide risk (Aseltine & DeMartino, 2004). RCTs reveal significantly lower rates of suicide attempts, coupled with greater knowledge and more adaptive attitudes about depression and suicide, among students in the intervention group (Aseltine & DeMartino, 2004; Aseltine et al., 2007; Schilling et al., 2014). Students’ race/ethnicity, grade, and gender did not influence the intervention’s impact, highlighting its benefits for diverse youth (Aseltine et al., 2007). Additional research is needed to determine whether school-wide mental health interventions that change community norms are only effective in the more closed environment of middle and high schools or are relevant in postsecondary settings as well.

Post-crisis Interventions (Postvention) Some community-level interventions aim to improve the college community’s response during and after mental health crises. A suite of evidence-based interventions exist to help K–12 schools prevent and reduce distress symptoms among students after traumatic events (Kataoka et al., 2012). For instance, school-based interventions after Hurricane Katrina reduced such symptoms in students (Jaycox et al., 2010). At colleges, faculty and administrator responses to hate crimes, White supremacist violence, and bias incidents can inform students’ stress, anxiety, fear, and longer-term responses (El-Amin, 2016). Proactive activities to promote healing and reduce risk (i.e., contagion) following a suicide – “postvention” – are recommended (Higher Education Mental Health Alliance, 2018; Miller & Mazza,

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2018). However, there is limited evidence for effectiveness: a systematic review of post-suicide intervention programs, including school-based ones, revealed no protective effect against suicide attempts or deaths (Szumilas & Kutcher, 2011). Outreach at the scene of suicide, however, was effective in encouraging survivors to attend a support group and seek help in dealing with their loss (Szumilas & Kutcher, 2011). Additionally, contact with a counselor for recent familial survivors of suicide has been found to reduce psychological distress in the short term (Szumilas & Kutcher, 2011).

Learning Environment Interventions A large category of community-level interventions are those seeking to change responses to mental health within the college curriculum and learning environment (Dooris et al., 2014; Newton et al., 2016; Orme & Dooris, 2010). According to a systematic review of “setting-based” postsecondary interventions to promote mental health, most programs focused on “modifying the way students are taught and assessed” (Fernandez et al., 2016, 805). Redesigning learning environments to become health-promoting is challenging; however, mounting evidence suggests that changes to syllabi, courses, and the classroom culture can help address college students’ mental and general health (Baik et al., 2019; Bowman, 2010c; Knutson et al., 2021; Orme & Dooris, 2010; Slavin et al., 2014). Institutions, schools, departments, and instructors have opportunities to (1) integrate mental healthpromoting content and skills training into curricula, (2) reduce classroom and learning stressors that interfere with students’ mental health (Robotham, 2008), and (3) adopt pedagogical practices that support students’ well-being (Bowman, 2010c; Harper & Neubauer, 2021; University of Texas, 2020). Course content that emphasizes mental health and coping can combat stigma and normalize caring for one’s mental health (Howard et al., 2006). Higher education institutions have created mental health-focused courses and incorporated class content related to student mental health (Conley, Travers, & Bryant, 2013; Riley & Mcwilliams, 2007). Mental health interventions that provide students skills training through routine curricula appear useful. Conley, Durlak, et al. (2013) reviewed universal promotion and prevention programs for beneficial effects on college students’ social-emotional skills, self-perceptions, and emotional distress. The authors found that interventions “delivered as a class were more effective than small-group programs (e.g., workshops outside of class; interventions conducted in residence halls)” (296). They hypothesized that students might be accustomed to learning course content and become invested in instructor-led interventions. Although the interventions did not differ in preintervention equivalence or sample attrition, class interventions were longer on average (M ¼ 25.3 hours, SD ¼ 12.5) than small-group programs (M ¼ 8.6 h, SD ¼ 3.8; p ¼ 0.004). An academic semester may afford students sufficient time to acquire new skills. Evaluations of mental health-related courses or curriculum integration are generally methodologically weak. Most involve simple pretest-posttest assessments without a control group or adequate follow-up (Hood et al., 2021; Wasson et al., 2016). Many include small, self-selecting samples that overrepresent women and students

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pursuing health-related degrees, raising questions about generalizability (Hood et al., 2021; Regehr et al., 2013; Wasson et al., 2016; Young et al., 2020; Yusufov et al., 2018). For instance, a pre-post assessment of a mandatory two-credit, active learning, and general education course “Health in Modern Society” revealed a statistically significant increase in students’ mental health knowledge and a nonstatistically significant increase in mental health wellness behaviors (Becker et al., 2008). A mandatory Health Enhancement Course (eight lectures + six 2-h tutorials focused on the link between mental and physical health, behavior change strategies, mindfulness-based therapies, and more) delivered to first-year medical students led to pre-to-post improvements in quality of life, depression symptoms, and global mental health (Hassed et al., 2009). A mandatory leadership course on student wellbeing enhanced pre-to-post connectedness, hope, and general positive youth development qualities (Shek et al., 2012; Shek et al., 2013). Brief lectures integrated in a medical school curriculum were associated with stress reduction (Bughi et al., 2006). However, consistent research conclusions remain elusive due to high attrition (e.g., Bughi et al., 2006) and lack of a randomized control group. Several institutions, such as Georgetown University and the University of Washington, have incorporated mental health content into academic courses via curriculum infusion (Dobkin & Hutchinson, 2013; Lo et al., 2018; Riley & Mcwilliams, 2007), but such efforts have yet to be evaluated. As an example of a more robust evaluation, a prospective quasi-experimental study indicated that a psychosocial wellness seminar for first-year college students improved students’ psychosocial well-being and stress management (Conley, Travers, & Bryant, 2013). Additionally, a non-randomized controlled trial of a brief mindfulness-based stress reduction elective course for psychology students led to greater mindfulness and self-compassion (but not anxiety) after 6 weeks (Bergen-Cico et al., 2013). A growing number of colleges are offering courses on positive psychology with encouraging results (Hood et al., 2021; Oades et al., 2011; Parks, 2011; Young et al., 2020). In a quasi-experimental study that included an active, non-randomized control group, psychology students who initially scored low on mental well-being and high on valuing happiness benefited most from a courseintegrated positive psychology program (Young et al., 2020). A class on the science of happiness improved first-year undergraduates’ mental well-being compared to wait-listed controls, whether the content was delivered live or online, amid the isolation of COVID-19 (Hood et al., 2021). Additionally, a quasi-experimental longitudinal study showed that an online course involving self-directed mental health behavioral interventions for public health graduate students led to improvements in general and mental health at 12-week follow-up (Brett et al., 2020). These studies highlight the benefits of mental health courses and curricular infusion, both in-person and online. Findings also suggest the value of assessing cost-effective, scalable courses and curricula through rigorous research designs with diverse student populations. Further studies are warranted to test the mental health effects of diversity-related courses. Institutional LGBTQ course offerings (for credit) and taking more than one “diversity course” have been associated with lower psychological distress among sexual minority students (Woodford et al., 2018) and

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psychological well-being among first-year students, respectively (Bowman, 2010a, 2010b, 2010c). In addition to adopting mental health-promoting curricula, colleges have striven to reduce stressors associated with students’ learning, testing, and the classroom environment. Structured and transparent assessment practices can limit anxiety and equitably improve students’ learning, retention, and testing performance (Chiou et al., 2014; Cross & Angelo, 1988; Murphy & Destin, 2016). Shiralkar et al. (2013) reviewed controlled trials of stress management interventions for medical students, which included changes in the length and type of curricula and grading systems; pass/fail grading reduced students’ stress and anxiety. A few studies indicated lower perceived stress and higher well-being, without declines in academic performance, among medical students given a pass/fail grading system versus a multi-interval grading system (Bloodgood et al., 2009; Reed et al., 2011; Rohe et al., 2006). Saint Louis University School of Medicine instituted several changes to address structural conditions contributing to students’ stress and mental health problems: the school moved to a pass/fail grading system, reduced contact hours in students’ first and second years by 10%, introduced longitudinal electives, and established learning communities of faculty and students. The school also added a required course on mindfulness and resilience. Slavin et al. (2014) identified lower levels of depression, anxiety, and stress among students exposed to these changes compared to older cohorts, but another study detected no effects (Tucker et al., 2015). Research on nursing students showed that a student-centered, problem-based curriculum was associated with lower distress and fewer academic, clinical, and personal concerns than a traditional curriculum (Jones & Johnston, 2000). More investigation is needed into the mental health effects of problem-solving and student-centered teaching, as well as other pedagogical methods such as “flipped teaching.” Current evidence remains “scarce, contradictory, and ultimately inconclusive” (Fernandez et al., 2016, 805). Beyond changing curricula and practices to reduce stressors, schools and instructors have implemented pedagogical activities to enhance protective factors and support students’ mental well-being. Enhancing conditions for well-being in the classroom is important since not flourishing (a measure of positive mental health) is associated with academic impairment among students (Keyes et al., 2012). Relevant foci include social connectedness, mindfulness, a growth mindset, resilience, gratitude, inclusivity, self-compassion, and life purpose (University of Texas, 2020). These factors have well-documented positive associations with mental health (Dvořáková et al., 2017; Emmons & McCullough, 2003; Johnson et al., 2015; Neff, 2011); faculty have hence been encouraged to foster them in the classroom (Simon Fraser University, 2017; University of Texas, 2020; University of Washington, 2021). However, the mental health impacts of related classroombased interventions have not been formally examined. A growing number of institutions have begun including a syllabus statement emphasizing the importance of mental health and use of resources as needed (Cimini & Rivero, 2018). Such statements normalizing help-seeking can influence students’ intentions to contact instructors for assistance (Gurung & Galardi, 2021). Incorporating inclusive content

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and resources for marginalized students into syllabi may have mental health benefits as well (Knutson et al., 2021). The evidence base for community-level interventions to enhance college student mental health is small. Learning environment and screening interventions currently show the greatest promise. However, correlational research in higher education (e.g., Sontag-Padilla et al., 2016) and research in other settings, such as secondary schools (e.g., Ahern et al., 2018), suggests the value of designing and evaluating interventions to improve community norms – around identifying, supporting and referring students in distress, responding to crises, and fostering well-being in the classroom – to advance mental health at colleges and universities.

Institutional Interventions Student success, mental health, and public health empirical literatures are dominated by a focus on microlevel (e.g., individual and interpersonal) interventions and critiqued for “corresponding mitigated results” (Cohen et al., 2000; Harper, 2012; Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995; Ladson-Billings, 2005; O’Connell et al., 2009; Richard et al., 2011, 314; Strayhorn, 2012; Titus, 2004; Trickett, 2009). Evaluated interventions largely aim to “fix the person” (i.e., student, patient) instead of “fixing the system” (Dooris, 2009; McNair et al., 2016). While there is increasing attention to the importance of schools in addressing the health, there is limited understanding of how schools themselves – including their physical environments, policies, and budgets – impact student mental health (Anderman, 2002; Eccles & Roeser, 2003; Strayhorn, 2012). Colleges do not just provide avenues for reaching students and delivering interventions; they dramatically shape students’ lives during a period of significant development (Dooris et al., 2014; Newton et al., 2016). Rates of depression, anxiety, and help-seeking vary considerably across postsecondary institutions, but relatively little research has examined what accounts for this variation. Two studies that investigated impact of school characteristics, such as sector (public/ private), size, and selectivity, were inconsistent and could not fully account for the variation across campuses (Cress & Ikeda, 2003; Lipson et al., 2015). Many, including the National Institutes of Health, have called for greater understanding of how school contexts and institutional factors impact health and health disparities (Eccles & Roeser, 2011; Palmer et al., 2019). Evidence suggests institutional transformation, rather than isolated interventions, is the most promising path to enhancing the health of members (Eckel & Kezar, 2003; Hawe et al., 2009; Newton et al., 2016). Healthy structures foster healthy interpersonal processes, which foster healthy students (Fernandez et al., 2016). Changing the “surround” to reduce student stressors and increase student resources has considerable potential for improving mental health (Geronimus et al., 2016; Hatzenbuehler et al., 2014; Pearlin & Bierman, 2013). As the prevalence of mental health problems on college campuses continues to rise (CCMH, 2016; Twenge et al., 2010) and counseling services cannot keep up with demand (LeViness et al., 2017), changing institutions to promote mental health, prevent mental illness, and reduce

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levels of distress among students is essential and financially advantageous (Eisenberg, Golberstein, & Hunt, 2009). While the limited research on institutional interventions has rarely employed the quasi-experimental methods needed to reveal causal linkages (DuPont-Reyes & Villatoro, 2019; Fernandez et al., 2016), below we review the evidence regarding institutional opportunities – through the physical environment, policies, public safety investments, and other avenues – to shape student mental health.

Physical Environment Attention to the impact of the built environment on mental health is growing (Evans, 2003; Ferguson et al., 2013; Sullivan & Chang, 2011). Means Restriction A primary pathway to mental health risk reduction via the built environment is through restricting means for suicide. Extensive evidence documents means restriction as one of the few suicide prevention strategies with proven effectiveness (Cimini & Rivero, 2018; Hawton, 2007; Mann et al., 2005; Sarchiapone et al., 2011; Zalsman et al., 2016). Restricting gun access can lead to major declines in adolescent suicide (Miller & Hemenway, 2008). Reducing access to a lethal dose of acetaminophen reduced analgesic-related suicide in the UK (Hawton, 2007). Bridge barriers (e.g., safety nets) reduce suicide deaths from bridges (Beautrais, 2001; Cantor & Hill, 1990; Reisch & Michel, 2005). Means restriction is particularly critical for young people, whose time from first thought to suicide attempt is so short (Deisenhammer et al., 2009; Hawton, 2007; Schwartz & Davar, 2018; Williams et al., 1980). Those who are obstructed in their initially selected means generally do not seek alternatives and survive for decades (Daigle, 2005; Gunnell et al., 2007; O’Donnell et al., 1994). Common suicide methods used by college students include jumping, hanging, poisoning or overdose, and shooting (Schwartz, 2011), warranting review of institutional policies on gun possession, access to laboratories and/or toxic substances, and high-risk substance use (Washburn & Mandrusiak, 2010). By securing rooftops, bridges, and parking lots with barriers and alarms, colleges can limit jump opportunities. Installing breakaway closet rods in dorms and limited weight-bearing shower components can prevent hangings. Hosting drug take-back programs can decrease access to prescription drugs (Schwartz & Davar, 2018; Stratford, 2012). Studies examining the effectiveness of such strategies for college suicide prevention are hard to find (Fernandez et al., 2016), but their documented effectiveness elsewhere suggests they should be utilized and studied in higher education contexts. Health-Promoting Physical Spaces Colleges and universities can also enhance emotional well-being through the built environment. Best designs for healthy physical spaces are being developed (i.e., WELL Building Standard, Whole Building Design Guide) and applied in higher education settings (Worsley et al., 2021). These include connecting buildings to nature and providing access to natural light, opportunities for social interaction, and control over furniture choices. Research has begun

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on college stress reduction spaces (Klainberg & Ryan, 2010), “healing gardens” (Lau & Yang, 2009), and the use of windows and “digital windows” (plasma displays showing real-time outside scenes) to reduce stress and increase sense of belonging, connectedness, and mental restoration (Friedman et al., 2008). Issues of accessibility have been raised as important stressors impacting the lives of students with disabilities, gender minority students, and others (Goldberg et al., 2019; Nolan et al., 2018; Seelman, 2014, 2016). Efforts to enhance accessibility beyond ADA guidelines should be evaluated for mental health impacts.

Policies Studies of mental health effects of higher education policies (or school-level policies more broadly) are rare (Brubaker & Mancini, 2017; Byrd & McKinney, 2012; Dooris, 2006; Fernandez et al., 2016), despite evidence to suggest many mechanisms through which they may affect student mental health. Policies pertaining to substance use, sexual assault, leaves of absence, financial aid, and diversity, equity, and inclusion (including protection from discrimination) can influence student mental health by shaping behavior (e.g., help-seeking and interpersonal harm) and improving campus climate (Goldberg et al., 2018; Rhodes et al., 2005; Schwartz & Davar, 2018; Streng & Kamimura, 2015; Woodford et al., 2018). Medical amnesty policies, for example, improve perceptions of campus climate (Martinez et al., 2018) – which is linked to enhanced student mental health (Byrd & McKinney, 2012; Charles et al., 2021) – and increase help-seeking in substance use emergencies (Haas et al., 2018; Oster-Aaland & Eighmy, 2011; Oster-Aaland et al., 2011). Benefits, however, may not be conferred equitably across race and gender (Carroll et al., 2020). Alcohol policies can foster student behavior that benefits mental health. At HBCUs, for example, male students who are aware of campus alcohol policies are less likely to binge drink than unaware peers (Rhodes et al., 2005). Sexual Assault Policies The prevention of college sexual assault through strong policies and programs is essential for student mental health (Carey et al., 2018; Dilip & Bates, 2021). Yet, detrimental aspects of these policies persist (Hoffmann & Mastrianni, 1992; Holland et al., 2018; McGregor, 2016). For example, college sexual assault investigation and adjudication processes can traumatize survivors (McGregor, 2016). “Compelled disclosure” policies following sexual assault have been widely implemented, but evidence suggests negative consequences for survivors, employees, and institutions (Holland et al., 2018). Large variation in sexual assault policies (e.g., in definitions; identified points of contact; access to confidential, anonymous, third-party, or 24-h reporting) across schools provides an opportunity to investigate differential impacts on student mental health (Potter et al., 2020; Sabina & Ho, 2014; Streng & Kamimura, 2015). Leave of Absence Policies Empirical research has also identified detrimental aspects of college leave of absence policies (Hoffmann & Mastrianni, 1992), attracting considerable media attention in recent years (e.g., Anderson, 2021; Farrow, 2016; Giambrone, 2015; Jancer, 2019). Clinicians, lawyers, mental health organizations,

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students, and the US Department of Education have issued guidance for leave policies to best support student mental health and civil rights (e.g., Active Minds Inc., 2017; Bazelon Center for Mental Health Law, 2007; Kafka, 2020; Meilman, 2016; Mezey, 2021; Tan, 2019). Existing policies, while varied (Hoffmann & Mastrianni, 1992), have been criticized when they force leave or withdrawal and undermine treatment access (National Council on Disability, 2017; Schwartz, 2016). A time series study assessed changes in suicide rates before and after a university implemented a policy mandating four sessions of professional assessment, instead of leave, for students making a suicide threat or attempt (Joffe, 2008). In contrast to increasing suicide rates at similar institutions without this policy during the same time period, rates of suicide dropped from 6.91 to 3.78 per 100,000 enrolled students pre-to-post policy implementation (Joffe, 2008). Concerningly, the rate declined 72.2% among undergraduates but rose 94.6% among graduate students, emphasizing the need to assess policy effectiveness among different student populations (Joffe, 2008). Readmission requirements are also a concern (National Council on Disability, 2017). A policy survey found that many colleges require stipulated time away from campus prior to reentry, documented evidence of “behavioral change” through completed coursework or employment elsewhere, and a screening interview by counseling center staff for return (Hoffmann & Mastrianni, 1992), but a review of empirical evidence suggests that these requirements do not predict successful reintegration (Hoffmann & Mastrianni, 1992). Interruptions in academic work for psychiatric reasons do not preclude continued academic engagement, and, in fact, such engagement may facilitate treatment and recovery (Hoffmann & Mastrianni, 1992). Legal cases since 1992 have likely led to revision of these policies (Kafka, 2020; Meilman, 2016). Research is needed to determine their current state and the degree to which institutions are accommodating flexible reintegration and benefitting student health and well-being. Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion Policies Policies pertaining to diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) are also relevant to student mental health. The presence of identitysupport centers (i.e., women, multicultural, and LGBTQ centers), DEI strategic plans, a Chief Diversity Officer or lead DEI administrator, diversity enhancement policies, gender-neutral bathroom options, preferred name and pronoun policies for campus records, and inclusive nondiscrimination policies all appear to influence mental health (Elharake et al., 2019; Heck et al., 2011; Hurtado et al., 1999; Leon, 2014; Poteat et al., 2012; Seelman, 2016). DEI efforts that are multilevel, multicomponent interventions can influence campus climate, student experiences of discrimination and marginalization, and social integration and support – all of which have significant implications for student mental health (Banks, 2015; Chia-Chen et al., 2014; Gummadam et al., 2016; Hawe et al., 2004; Pittman & Richmond, 2008; Stebleton et al., 2014; Woodford, Han, et al., 2014). Their impact needs to be better studied. The limited research on mental health effects of school DEI policies has largely focused on sexual and gender minority students. In qualitative studies, gender

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minority students stress the importance of inclusive school policies for their health and well-being and note valuing gender-inclusive restrooms, the ability to change one’s name on campus records without legal name change, and nondiscrimination policies that are inclusive of gender identity (Goldberg et al., 2018, 2019; Pitcher et al., 2018; Sausa, 2005). Transgender college students who are aware of transaffirming school policies endorse greater belonging and positive perception of campus climate (Goldberg et al., 2018), which are linked to better mental health (Gower et al., 2018; Woodford et al., 2015). The effects of gender-inclusive restrooms have not been formally evaluated, but higher rates of lifetime suicidal ideation have been reported among gender minorities who recall a lack of genderinclusive restrooms during their college days (Seelman, 2016), and state bills that prevent people from accessing bathrooms consistent with their gender identity undermine their health (Reisner et al., 2015; Wang et al., 2016). Likewise, psychosocial impacts of policies allowing students to identify their name and pronouns on school records have not been evaluated, but chosen name use in multiple contexts, including school, is linked to reduced suicidal behavior among gender minority youth (Russell et al., 2018). Policies that enumerate protections for sexual and gender minorities can improve school safety and benefit student mental health (Kull et al., 2016). For example, lesbian, gay, and bisexual college students experience fewer verbal threats at schools with sexual orientation-inclusive nondiscrimination policies versus not (Hong et al., 2016). Nondiscrimination policies inclusive of gender identity (in addition to sexual orientation) are directly associated with reduced discrimination experiences among sexual minority students, which is associated with less psychological distress (Woodford et al., 2018). Among younger LGBT adolescents, those who perceive their school to have sexual and gender minority-inclusive policies report less victimization, more positive school climate, greater safety in school, and better metal health (Goodenow et al., 2006; Hatzenbuehler, 2011; Hatzenbuehler & Keyes, 2013; Kosciw et al., 2014; Kull et al., 2016; O’Shaughnessy et al., 2004). As DEI efforts continue to expand and vary across colleges and universities (Espinosa et al., 2016; Gagliardi et al., 2017), research is needed to identify causal pathways so that policy can be designed and employed to enhance student health and well-being. Research should investigate policy impact on undocumented, firstgeneration, sexual, gender, and racial/ethnic minority students and others. There is also evidence that school composition and racial diversity influence mental health and well-being (Bellmore et al., 2004; Elharake et al., 2019; Graham, 2018; Graham et al., 2014; Juvonen et al., 2018). For example, underrepresented minority diversity within medical residency programs is associated with reduced risk for depression for both minority and majority racial groups (Elharake et al., 2019), so policies and initiatives that alter the makeup of the student body should be evaluated as an avenue for improving student mental health. Financial Aid Policies Institutional decisions regarding the form, timing, and distribution of financial aid are a relatively unexplored but likely powerful lever for enhancing student mental health. A robust research and funding enterprise has

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focused on assessing their impact on student enrollment, persistence, and retention (Dynarski & Scott-Clayton, 2013; Goldrick-Rab et al., 2009; Herbaut & Geven, 2020; Hossler et al., 2009; Nguyen et al., 2019; Page & Scott-Clayton, 2016). However, researchers should also investigate psychological effects given that financial stress taxes mental health (Adams et al., 2016; Cadaret & Bennett, 2019; Gonzales et al., 2013; Raza et al., 2019), and aid may impact academic, social, financial, and psychological pressures. For example, qualitative research shows that access to financial aid through the California Dream Act reduced undocumented students’ anxiety and mental health burdens (Raza et al., 2019). On the other hand, financial support can increase academic pressure due to associated academic requirements, social pressure for students in unfamiliar environments, and financial pressure if provided in the form of loans or if insufficient to cover all costs (Corredor et al., 2020; Nora et al., 2006). Negative psychological effects of student loans and debt have in fact been demonstrated. Debt broadly impacts psychological functioning (Brown et al., 2005; Selenko and Batinic, 2011), anxiety (Cooke et al., 2004; Drentea, 2000), and mental disorders (Jenkins et al., 2008; Sweet et al., 2013) and poses psychological burdens for college students (Dowd & Coury, 2006; Robb et al., 2011). A merit-based, forgivable loan program was associated with higher depressive symptoms and lower social support and academic self-efficacy for first-year college students, likely at least in part due to the pressure to graduate in order to receive the promised aid (Corredor et al., 2020). Student loans also undermine psychological functioning after graduation, in early adulthood (Walsemann et al., 2015). Further research is needed to understand how institutional choices regarding the timing and form of aid distributed to students impacts their mental health, as it does their academic outcomes and retention (DesJardins et al., 2002).

Public Safety Investments College and university public safety policies and investments in policing are an almost entirely ignored aspect of how institutions of higher education shape student mental health. There is frequent student and police interaction around mental health (Bauer-Wolf, 2018; Margolis & Shtull, 2012) and robust evidence indicating that both direct and vicarious contacts with police pose a threat to mental health, especially for People of Color (Devylder et al., 2018; Feldman, 2015; Geller et al., 2014; Nordberg et al., 2016, 2018; Smith Lee & Robinson, 2019). Specific policing budgets, policies, and practices (e.g., use of military-style armament; Bauman, 2014; McWilliams, 2020) are strikingly absent from guidelines, evidence reviews, and literature on opportunities to enhance student mental health (e.g., Cimini & Rivero, 2018; Jed Foundation, 2019; Kirsch et al., 2014; National Academies of Sciences Engineering & Medicine, 2021). Opportunities are there since over 90% of the 4-year institutions of higher education that have more than 2500 students employ their own campus law enforcement agency (Reaves, 2015). There are many avenues through which campus police presence, numbers, and arms shape student mental health. Even in the absence of direct encounters, police can be a source of racialized aggression, arousing fear and psychological distress for Black students and other Students of Color in particular (Jenkins et al., 2020;

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Landers et al., 2011; Mbuba, 2010; Nordberg et al., 2018; Smith et al., 2007; Solorzano et al., 2016). Representative, generalizable research is needed, but this work must recognize racial and gender differences in attitudes toward and experiences with police (Mbuba, 2010; Nordberg et al., 2018). For example, college men express more distrust, fear, and stress regarding police encounters than women (Landers et al., 2011; Mbuba, 2010; Nordberg et al., 2018). In addition to mental health impacts of the local police climate, repeated exposure to nationally publicized police killings of unarmed Black men is traumatic for racially underrepresented college students and contributes to anxiety and fear regarding future police encounters (Campbell & Valera, 2020). PTSD symptoms have been documented among Black people who identify with victims and perceive these deadly encounters as racist and discriminatory (Aymer, 2016; Smith Lee & Robinson, 2019). Perhaps in response to local and national exposures and negative perceptions of police, college students in mental health and substance use crises often avoid seeking assistance (Hollister et al., 2014), yet campus police are commonly among the first and primary responders to students experiencing such crises (Kase et al., 2016; Margolis & Shtull, 2012). Officers often determine whether a student is directed to support services, campus disciplinary processes, and/or the criminal justice system (Margolis & Shtull, 2012). A growing number of incidents of college police violence (murder, in more than one case) toward individuals experiencing mental health crises have received public attention (Bauer-Wolf, 2018; Harvard Law Review, 2016). California trained campus law enforcement professionals to more effectively identify, assess, and respond to students in psychological distress (Kase et al., 2016). Participants largely reported that the 4-h Interactive Video Simulation Training (IVST) increased their likelihood and confidence to respond and refer (Kase et al., 2016). Programs to revise who responds to mental health crises or to better prepare police for these situations should be formally evaluated within higher education settings, as they’ve shown effectiveness elsewhere (Compton et al., 2008; Hails & Borum, 2003).

Other Institutional Interventions Many other aspects of colleges – their finances, staffing, reward structures, hiring practices, mission statements, strategic plans, guiding documents, and more – no doubt influence student mental health but are strikingly absent from the empirical literature. These components of institutional infrastructure are recognized as key to shaping school culture and climate and to supporting and sustaining institutional transformation (Hurtado et al., 1998; Kezar, 2019; Kezar & Eckel, 2002; Mayhew et al., 2016; Milem et al., 2004, 2005; Pascarella, 2006; Smith, 2015). As such, aligning them to prioritize and invest in advancing student mental health is critical. And yet, the empirical literature offers little guidance on the specifics of how to do so. For example, college budgetary decisions have not been evaluated for their effects on student mental health. If and how much schools charge for counseling sessions, bill insurance companies for third-party payments, include a mandatory health fee for all students that provides free counseling sessions, and limit the number of available sessions varies across institutions and time (Gallagher, 2012).

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These financially-based considerations likely influence help-seeking and treatment receipt, but they have not been evaluated within higher education. Limited research on the relationship between higher education expenditures and student academic outcomes has produced contradictory results (Pike et al., 2006), suggesting complex relationships that are contingent on school sector (public vs. private). Further research is needed to fully elucidate how institutions of higher education, themselves, through their physical environments, policies, finances, and human resources shape student mental health. Nonetheless, the documented value of (a) institutional infrastructure alignment for goal attainment and (b) low-cost, equity-enhancing policies for student well-being warrants acting now and partnering with researchers to measure impacts over time.

Public Policy: The Enabling Environment Postsecondary institutions present a critical avenue for preventing the onset and severity of mental health disorders, closing treatment gaps, and reducing the 10-year span it typically takes to receive treatment. Harnessing this relatively untapped opportunity provided by colleges would significantly contribute to addressing a major source of disease burden globally (Abbafati et al., 2020), the leading cause of disability nationally (Michaud et al., 2006; The World Health Organization, 2004), and the $2.5 trillion annual cost of the disorders to the world economy (The Lancet Global Health, 2020). Local, state, and federal policies and budgets act to restrain or enhance colleges’ ability to address student mental health and achieve the aims of prevention and treatment. A full discussion of every factor – external to colleges – currently or potentially enabling them to advance student mental health is beyond the scope of this review, but we briefly describe some important levers shaping higher education’s ability to contribute to addressing our large and growing global mental health crisis.

Federal Policies The National Council on Disability provided an overview of federal policies relevant to serving college students with mental health disabilities (National Council on Disability, 2017). These include the Higher Education Act, laws mandating accommodations for individuals with disabilities – The Americans with Disabilities Act, Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act, and the Fair Housing Act – and privacy laws, the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act (FERPA) and Health Insurance and Portability Accountability Act (HIPAA). The American with Disabilities Act (ADA) mandates nondiscrimination in schools for individuals with physical and mental disabilities (including those with mental health disorders), but it is less commonly employed to protect the rights of those with mental disabilities (Hinshaw & Stier, 2008). FERPA and HIPAA shape schools’ ability to communicate with parents regarding mental health concerns (Eells & Rockland-Miller, 2011). Several federal funding policies directly shape student mental health and colleges’ ability to provide mental health services. Federal funding for college student

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mental health, such as that provided through the Garrett Lee Smith Memorial Act (GLSMA), likely reduced suicide mortality and suicide attempts among 10- to 24-year-olds (Walrath et al., 2015). Researchers further demonstrated that savings from avoided hospitalizations associated with the averted suicide attempts outweighed the GLSMA cost to fund multifaceted community-based suicide prevention strategies through colleges (Garraza et al., 2015). Recently, federal stimulus and relief funds following the COVID-19 pandemic have shown direct impacts on mental health and are being used by colleges to invest in mental health services (Cooney & Shaefer, 2021; Department of Education, 2021).

State Policies State policies impact college student mental through many avenues. There is evidence that structural mental illness stigma in the form of state laws (e.g., requiring disclosure of mental health diagnoses and treatment to become a lawyer, apply for a driver’s license, and seek child custody) interferes with student help-seeking and colleges’ ability to address the treatment gap (Corrigan et al., 2004; Hinshaw & Stier, 2008; Organ et al., 2016). Revisions to these laws, such as states removing mental health questions from their bar applications, should be evaluated as potentially costeffective interventions for increasing student help-seeking (Holcombe, 2019; Working Group on Attorney Mental Health, 2019). Growing evidence indicates that protective state policies (e.g., extending rights or prohibiting discrimination) can improve mental health and healthcare seeking among gender and sexual minorities (Gleason et al., 2016; Goldenberg et al., 2020; Hatzenbuehler & Keyes, 2013; Perez-Brumer et al., 2015; Raifman et al., 2018). For example, living in states with more protective and less discriminatory laws for gender minorities is associated with reduced discrimination, victimization, psychological distress, mental health days, and lifetime suicide attempts among gender minority adults (Du Bois et al., 2018; Gleason et al., 2016). Research has also identified a connection between state antibullying laws and increased K–12 school safety (Kull et al., 2016). How state laws influence students’ college experiences at more and less inclusive institutions within the state warrants investigation. Other state legislation, such as bans on Affirmative Action – known to be negatively associated with campus psychological climate and to increase Black, Hispanic, and Native American adolescent cigarette and substance use (Garces & Cogburn, 2015; Glasener et al., 2019; Kidder, 2012; Venkataramani et al., 2019) – and laws known to improve outcomes for undocumented students through providing in-state tuition (Flores, 2009; Gonzales et al., 2013) should also be evaluated for their mental health impacts. Statewide funding and initiatives, for example, through California’s Mental Health Services Act, have resulted in major investments benefitting college student mental health and taxpayers (Ashwood et al., 2015; Clark et al., 2013; SontagPadilla et al., 2017; Stein et al., 2012; Woodbridge et al., 2014). In 2016, House Bill 28 was enacted by the State of Ohio requiring each public institution of higher education to provide incoming students with information on mental health resources. A similar bill (SB 1624) was passed in Texas in 2015. More recently, the Governor

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of Ohio designated $16 million to be distributed to colleges to support the increased demand for mental health services for students ($13.5 million in direct aid to schools, $5 million from CARES Act Coronavirus Relief Funds, $8.5 million from the Governor’s Emergency Education Relief Funds). State and federal laws pertaining to health insurance and clinical practice influence the mental health care that colleges are able to provide and students are able to access. Laws restricting the provision of therapy across state lines interfere with students remotely seeing providers from home if they attend college in another state, as well as colleges’ ability to provide counseling to students residing in other states. The need for remote healthcare during the COVID-19 pandemic has led to rapid loosening of many of these restrictions (National Academies of Sciences Engineering & Medicine, 2021), and it remains to be seen whether and how these changes will become permanent. The Affordable Care Act increased the proportion of young people with health insurance but resulted in more college students remaining on their parent’s insurance and limiting colleges’ ability to bill insurance companies for mental health services provided. Only a small proportion of college and university counseling centers accept insurance (LeViness et al., 2019); although there are challenges related to parent-child privacy and administrative burdens, increasing the reimbursement from insurance plans is an important opportunity for more adequately funding student mental health services (National Academies of Sciences Engineering & Medicine, 2021).

Local Policies Local policies pertaining to the sale and advertising of alcohol shape college students’ drinking behaviors (Kuo et al., 2003). Specifically, the availability of large volumes of alcohol, low sale prices, and frequent promotions is associated with higher binge drinking rates, and the number of on- and off-campus establishments positively correlates with number of drinks consumed (Kuo et al., 2003). Advocacy for healthy local alcohol policies and the study of them serve as a model for student mental health. Local policies and marketing potentially shaping healthpromoting behaviors, such as sleep and exercise, should be investigated for mental health effects.

Summary of Intervention Evidence Multilevel intervention is most effective for improving population health (Sallis et al., 2008). Our review reveals that colleges and universities have evidence-based interventions to adopt and implement at every level of the socioecological model to enhance student mental health. Supervised skill-training (especially but not only focused on mindfulness and social skills), peer support, belonging, screening, mental health curriculum, means restriction, and inclusive policy interventions stand out for quality evidence demonstrating their effectiveness with college students. Other areas urgently warrant intervention design and evaluation: coaching (with motivational interviewing); family interventions; interventions to reduce interpersonal harms and

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bias; school-wide interventions to address community norms, climate, stigma, helpseeking and referral; school policies; and public safety and policing practices. Our review also demonstrates that funders, policy-makers, and leaders outside of colleges and universities have many avenues and mechanisms for strengthening colleges’ ability to support student mental health.

Recommendations for Strengthening the Use and Availability of Research Having reviewed the evidence on what works to support student mental health, we turn to how to improve the use of evidence to inform practice. When considering that question, we can categorize the opportunities for improvement under two main themes: improving the use of available research and evidence, and increasing the supply of high-quality, useful research. We can think of high-quality evidence as a product or service (Neuhoff et al., 2015); as in the market for any product or service, there is a demand and a supply side that mutually reinforce each other. From the demand and consumer side, if we improve the use of available research – i.e., the enthusiasm, skill, and support by which decision-makers consume research – that can be motivating to researchers and other stakeholders to increase the supply of such research. Similarly, if we increase the supply of high-quality and useful research, decision-makers will be more motivated to use research in guiding their decisions. We conclude by offering a series of recommendations, based on our review and our knowledge of the field, about priorities for improving the use of and the supply of high-quality evidence.

Recommendation #1 (Improving the Use of Research): Develop and Maintain a Centralized and Easily Accessible Database of Evidence The review in this chapter reveals that there is already a rich base of evidence that can and should be used to inform practice. This evidence base, however, is spread across many different disciplines (e.g., education, psychology, public health) and contains a wide variety of strategies and evidence types. Thus, it is challenging for decision-makers to make sense of it and apply it to their needs and questions. Not surprisingly in light of these challenges, the evidence is only used sporadically and haphazardly, as far as we can tell from our long-standing discussions and partnerships with practitioners, administrators, and other stakeholders. An important step to address this problem is to synthesize available evidence from academic reports and other sources and to make this information easily accessible. This type of resource is typically referred to as a registry, repository, or clearinghouse for evidence and best practices. A registry focused on college student mental health does not yet exist, but there are many registries in related areas from which we can learn.

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A notable example is Blueprints Programs for Healthy Youth Development (www.blueprintsprograms.org). Blueprints reviews a wide range of social, educational, and health-related programs for children, adolescents, and young adults. It is known for its high standards of evidence; to be rated as a model program, a program must have multiple randomized trials with clear evidence of positive effects. Out of more than 1500 programs reviewed, only 18 have been rated as model and only an additional 80 as promising, meaning that over 90% of reviewed programs do not have sufficient evidence to be included in the registry. If we were to impose this type of standard to the area of student mental health, there would be hardly any programs in the registry. In fact, only a few programs focused on college student mental health have been included in Blueprints to date. Therefore, a registry that is more lenient in its inclusion criteria is needed initially to provide a thorough picture of the current state of evidence. It will be important for this registry to differentiate clearly between levels of evidence, highlighting those programs that attain higher standards. Another useful example is CollegeAIM, a registry focused on alcohol interventions in postsecondary settings. This registry rates programs and policies in terms of evidence of effectiveness and cost of implementation. It is sponsored by NIAAA and was created by a panel of research experts. The registry differentiates between individual-level and environment-level strategies, and it includes over 60 interventions. Developing and maintaining a useful registry of evidence for college student mental health will require overcoming several significant challenges. First, distilling the large and diverse data and evidence requires considerable time, resources, and expertise. And because the evidence is evolving steadily (and even rapidly in some areas such as digital health programs), there must be a sustained, continuous effort to update the information. Thus, while the workload and expertise can and should be distributed across many experts and partner organizations, there will need to be a core group of people who spearhead the effort and maintain their involvement over time. This will require some funding for the effort, although we believe it would be a modest amount relative to the value of such a registry. Second, the registry must secure the trust of relevant communities and stakeholders who will use the information, such as campus leaders and administrators. This means the registry creators must have a high level of expertise related to data and program evaluation, and they must avoid potential conflicts of interest or favoritism toward particular stakeholders or disciplinary perspectives. Third, as mentioned previously, the registry should uphold and promote high standards of evidence but not to the point at which very few programs are included. By including programs with less evidence, the registry has the potential to highlight gaps in the evidence and push the field toward higher levels of confidence in what works. Relatedly, the registry will be too sparse if it only includes programs that are ready for dissemination, as Blueprints does. Many of the most effective interventions that we found in our review have not yet been packaged for wider dissemination. That process often requires a purveyor organization that supports training and quality assurance (Neuhoff et al., 2017). An inclusive registry has the potential to highlight effective programs that require additional support to scale up.

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Fourth, the registry should ideally provide both information about which specific programs are most effective and broader information about which categories of programs are generally more effective than others. For example, in our review of individual interventions, we saw that skill-based programs were generally much more effective than purely psychoeducational programs, but there may still be a small number of effective programs in the latter category. Thus, the registry should provide both a general sense of the most effective strategies as well as specific information about the effectiveness of programs within each type of strategy. Lastly, the registry should address diversity and equity. In particular, the registry should provide the demographic and socioeconomic characteristics of the students and the contextual characteristics of institutions (e.g., minority serving institutions, community colleges, etc.), in evaluation studies to date, and highlight gaps and opportunities to extend the evidence to more diverse populations and settings. In addition, the registry should help clarify which components of interventions are core ingredients that are necessary to replicate the effectiveness from previous evaluations and which components are potentially adaptable for culture and context.

Recommendation #2 (Improving the Use of Research): Provide Active Support for Decision-Makers An evidence registry can be even more impactful if it is supplemented with active support for the decision-making and implementation process. This support could elevate the registry from a passive source of information to an interactive, responsive resource. Specifically, there would ideally be a panel of experts or coaches who are available to discuss with decision-makers their needs and how to use the information in the registry. This same panel, or another panel, would then be available to help troubleshoot during and after the process of implementing the programs that are selected. In addition, there could be a peer component to provide additional guidance and motivation to users of the registry. That could take the form of a database of contacts who have previously implemented programs in the registry or a learning collaborative, in which cohorts of campus decision-makers participate alongside each other in the process of using the registry to select and implement programs. Learning collaboratives have been used successfully to address student mental health in the National College Depression Partnership (Chung et al., 2011), for example. Organizations such as the Jed Foundation and the Steve Fund already serve the role of helping campus administrators understand and apply research evidence to their needs in the area of student mental health. In parallel, organizations such as Active Minds guide student advocacy for the adoption of evidence-based practices. Thus, these organizations would ideally be involved in the efforts to provide support for using the information in the registry. The presence of a comprehensive and updated registry could greatly enhance these organizations’ ongoing efforts to provide technical assistance to campuses. The challenges in providing active support around the use of the registry are similar to those noted for the creation and maintenance of the registry. Funding will

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be required for the time and expertise of those who provide support around decisionmaking using the registry. And those experts or coaches will need to maintain a high level of credibility and trust among campus stakeholders, by avoiding conflicts of interests and other potential biases.

Recommendation #3 (Improving the Use of Research): Enhance Incentives for Using Evidence to Inform Practices University leaders and other funders of college services and programs should consider requirements to use evidence-based programs or else conduct a rigorous evaluation in tandem with promising but unproven programs. Families First and MIECHV are examples of federal policy with this type of approach in the contexts of child welfare and home visiting programs, respectively. Each of those policies is affiliated with a registry of evidence-based programs. Only those programs in the registries can be funded through the policy, except that a portion of funds under MIECHV can go toward promising but unproven programs if the implementation is accompanied by rigorous evaluation. This is a tiered approach to evidence-based policy-making that prioritizes programs with the highest evidence while also promoting innovation and new knowledge about other programs (Baron, 2018). This type of policy could be enacted through national policies and organizations as well as state and regional initiatives. As an example of the latter, the University of North Carolina system has set up a system for implementing new academic programs with an emphasis on evidence and evaluation, the Student Success Innovation Lab. This initiative funds promising programs, accompanied by rigorous evaluations, and then shares results across the system and supports the scaling of the most beneficial programs. These types of initiatives would ideally be complemented by a bottom-up approach, whereby individual colleges and their stakeholders, such as presidents, provosts, deans, and counseling and health center directors, make their own decisions to focus on only implementing programs with a certain standard of evidence or promising programs accompanied by rigorous evaluations. This type of commitment could be facilitated and promoted through regional and national networks and organizations. The buy-in and engagement may be greater if campus stakeholders arrive at this decision through their own process, rather than only being encouraged or mandated through higher-level policies. Balancing high standards of evidence with flexibility is crucial in the context of funding policies, just as it is in the design and support of the registry. An overly rigid focus on programs with high levels of evidence runs the risk of stifling innovation and failing to meet the needs of schools and student populations for whom the current evidence is not sufficiently relevant. As noted above, one key aspect of the flexibility is to provide funding for new and promising programs as long as they are evaluated rigorously. In addition, there needs to be clear guidelines about how evidence-based programs can be adapted for local context. This requires an understanding of the distinction between core components of the programs that must be

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maintained in order to achieve the expected impacts, as opposed to features that can be adapted. Substantial adaptations of evidence-based programs will need to be evaluated for their outcomes.

Recommendation #4 (Increase the Supply of Evidence): Invest in Innovative Research to Address Major Gaps Our review has highlighted several important gaps regarding evidence on the effectiveness of interventions to address student mental health. Each of these gaps will be important to address in order to move toward more evidence-informed and impactful strategies. Here, we highlight specific areas that will be especially important to address, and we offer some initial ideas for the types of studies that could be most helpful.

Reach and Engagement of Students at Scale The overall health impact of population-level interventions is the reach– the number of people who participate or are exposed to the intervention – multiplied by the per-person effectiveness among those who are reached. Whereas evaluation research often focuses on the effectiveness among those who are reached, achieving a wide reach is often the challenge that campuses need to solve. For example, many digital health programs have demonstrated good efficacy in trials with motivated or compensated participants, but it is difficult to reach large numbers of people with these programs in real settings. Furthermore, at the intersection of reach and effectiveness is engagement, which can be thought as the quantity and quality of participation or exposure to an intervention, among those who are reached at all. Thus, research and evaluation on student mental health need to pay more attention to understanding and improving how to reach and engage students at a large scale, with attention to the diversity of student characteristics and institution types. Continuing with the example of digital interventions, we see an opportunity for expanding reach and increasing engagement by leveraging the in-person resources that students have in campus communities. With so many options for digital media, it is difficult for beneficial programs to stand out. Campus personnel such as resident advisors, academic advisors, and health professionals could help promote engagement with specific digital programs that have strong evidence. These strategies need to be evaluated carefully and the resulting information should be shared widely. More Rigorous Evaluation of Community-Level and Organization-Level Interventions In addition to improving our understanding of reach and engagement, there is a broader need to increase the rigor of evidence regarding the effectiveness of public health strategies for mental health in postsecondary settings. As we saw in our review of community-level and institutional-level interventions, the evidence is especially uncertain in these areas. This is understandable to some degree, because it is difficult to conduct rigorous evaluations of these types of interventions. Because

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the unit of analysis is a large segment of a college community or even an entire college population in many cases, an adequately powered trial requires a large number of colleges or at least a large number of relevant units such as schools or residences within campuses. A simple pre-post analysis of outcomes for one campus is unlikely to be credible unless the changes in outcomes are striking and clearly specific to the intervention targets. Given these challenges, there needs to be a concerted effort by researchers and colleges together to conduct large-scale evaluations that include reasonable control groups. This will require considerable efforts and funds in some cases, but it is the only path toward a more evidence-informed approach to public health strategies for student mental health.

Evaluation of Practices and Policies, Not Just Programs and Services As part of the move toward more complete and rigorous evidence regarding population-level interventions, evaluations should focus on not only programs but also practices and policies that affect student mental health. Our review found perhaps the smallest amount of evidence in that area. Because policies and practices typically operate at the college level, in most cases evaluations will need to compare outcomes over time across a large number of campuses. The feasibility of such evaluations is enhanced by the presence of population-level survey studies such as the ACHA-NCHA and the Healthy Minds Study, particularly for institutions that participate repeatedly in these studies over time. There will also need to be new data collection and additional coordination between these national surveys and evaluation efforts. Standardization of Outcome Measures Greater consistency in outcome measures across evaluations will allow for more meaningful comparisons across the interventions that college decision-makers are considering. Pursuing and evaluating interventions for both academic and mental health benefits may help. The registry that we have previously described can also assist this standardization by compiling and sharing information about the strengths and limitations of outcome measures in evaluations to date. As noted previously, however, there must be enough flexibility to accommodate the particular contexts of each evaluation and the corresponding schools and student populations. Cultural Adaptation and Core Components To achieve an optimal balance of consistency and flexibility in the application of evidence to campus decision-making, the research and evaluation field needs to improve the understanding of which features of intervention are essential for effectiveness (core components) and which can be potentially adapted for local context without losing (and perhaps gaining) effectiveness (adaptable features). As noted above, a registry of evidence can highlight the interventions for which we do and do not have this type of information. The gaps can be filled through a combination of systematic reviews (which identify features consistently present in effective interventions) and primary studies that test multiple variations of interventions.

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Implementation and Sustainability Research One final priority for research and evaluation is to increase attention to strategies for implementing and sustaining interventions in the context of student mental health. This type of research would include descriptive analyses of factors that facilitate or impede the uptake, high-quality implementation, and long-term sustainment of programs, policies, and practices. The research would also include comparative trials of alternative strategies to support implementation and sustainment, such as learning collaboratives, facilitators providing technical assistance, and alternative training models. There have been very few examples of this research to date with a focus on student mental health interventions.

Recommendation #5 (Both Improve the Use of Research and Increase the Availability): Develop and Strengthen Networks of Practitioners and Researchers A crosscutting theme of our recommendations is the importance of collaborations across research and practice for student mental health. To elaborate on this theme, we recommend the strengthening of regional and national networks bringing together college practitioners and researchers. These networks would ideally have a few key features, as described below. First, the registry of evidence described earlier should involve partnerships with colleges that contribute evidence to the registry. A key limitation of most registries is that they generally only include results from published articles and reports. This approach might help ensure a minimal level of quality and rigor for the evaluations, but it probably misses a large amount of potential evidence that could be useful. In the context of student mental health, colleges frequently conduct internal evaluations of their programs without any attempt or intention to publish the results. Ideally a registry would partner with colleges to collect and share evaluation results widely. Second, these networks should integrate and collaborate across fields of research and areas of practice. Relevant fields of research include higher education, public health, sociology, and psychology among others, and relevant areas of practice include counseling, health centers, health promotion, academic affairs, residence life, financial aid, multicultural centers, and LGBTQ centers. These research fields have traditionally operated in separate silos, as noted in our review of evidence, and the areas of practice are also somewhat fragmented at many schools. A more integrated network is necessary to leverage fully the strength of collaborations between research and practice, which will yield richer and more relevant evaluation data in the effort to improve the evidence base guiding practice. Third, stronger research-practice networks are needed to facilitate large-scale evaluations of programs, practices, and policies. As noted previously, multicampus evaluations are often needed to understand the effectiveness of community-level and institutional-level interventions. Current networks, such as Healthy Minds, CCMH, and ACHA/NCHA, are largely focused on descriptive data. There is a need to build

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on these initiatives with networks that focus on program implementation and evaluation. In our own experience, we have found that it is challenging to put together a multicampus randomized trial, as we and our collaborators have done in the context of a gatekeeper program (Lipson et al., 2014), suicide prevention screening (King et al., 2015), and digital mental health therapy for depression, anxiety, and eating disorders (Fitzsimmons-Craft et al., 2021). Each of these projects has required extensive effort to recruit and coordinate colleges. A robust researchpractice network of colleges could make it significantly easier to conduct these types of studies.

Summary/Conclusion Mental health problems among college students are prevalent, increasing, and inequitably burdensome. There is a rich, dispersed evidence base indicating important opportunities for colleges and universities to intervene at every level of the socioecological model. And yet, there is also significant need to improve the evidence base. Enhancing the evidence base and its use is in the best interest of students, institutions, and society. Doing so with all students in mind is essential for reducing inequities in mental health. The task is urgent due to long-standing rising trends in symptoms and service use and the likelihood of further worsening as we emerge from the global pandemic (Ettman et al., 2020; Galea et al., 2020; Liu et al., 2020; Rudenstine et al., 2021). Given the link between mental health and academics, identifying and implementing effective interventions to enhance mental health may be an underutilized strategy for eliminating thus far intractable academic inequities (Espinosa et al., 2019). In conclusion, better addressing student mental health in higher education is an area ripe for research, innovation, and action. A more strategic, evidence-informed approach is needed to make the best use of limited funding.

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therein, particularly in college student populations. She is Principal Investigator of the Healthy Minds Network. Sarah’s research has been funded the National Institute of Mental Health and William T. Grant Foundation, among others. Sarah completed a dual PhD at University of Michigan in the Schools of Public Health and Education. Daniel Eisenberg (he/him) is a Professor of Health Policy and Management in the Fielding School of Public Health at the University of California, Los Angeles. Previously he was a faculty member at the University of Michigan School of Public Health. His broad research goal is to improve understanding of how to invest effectively in the mental health of young people. He is a Principal Investigator for the Healthy Minds Network (www.healthymindsnetwork.org) and is writing a book about investments in children’s mental health.

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Emotions in Postsecondary Teaching and Learning Rebecca D. Cox

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Why Explore Emotions in Postsecondary Teaching and Learning? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conceptualizing Teaching and Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Guiding Questions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Scope of this Review . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Organization of This Chapter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Challenges of This Exploration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Complication 1: What Constitutes Inquiry into Emotions? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Complication 2: The Tendency to Focus on Cognition Rather Than Emotion . . . . . . . . . . . . Complication 3: Discipline-Specific Terminology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Complication 4: The Role of Researcher Emotions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Emotions from an Individual-Level Perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Defining and Categorizing Emotions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Research on Achievement Emotions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Underlying Concern with Emotional Control . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Discussion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sociocultural Approaches to Emotions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Emotion Management . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Emotional Rules in Postsecondary Contexts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Racialized Emotions of Teaching and Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Discussion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Orientations Toward Emotion in the Practice of Teaching . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Acknowledging Emotion as Instrumental to Meaning-Making . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Making Space for Complex Emotional Experiences . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Working with Racialized Emotions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Discussion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Anna Neumann was the Associate Editor for this chapter. R. D. Cox (*) Simon Fraser University, Surrey, BC, Canada e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 37, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3_8

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Implications for Further Inquiry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 264 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266 References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266

Abstract

The role of emotions in postsecondary teaching and learning is an unruly subject of inquiry. Spread across relevant fields of study are multiple, competing approaches to describing, theorizing, and studying emotions. This chapter represents a preliminary foray into the scholarship on emotions in postsecondary teaching and learning. In this chapter, I identify some of the complications involved in exploring emotions in postsecondary settings and describe two broad approaches to conceptualizing emotions. In addition to reviewing research focused primarily on students’ emotional experiences, I consider studies that describe the role of teachers and pedagogies in relation to students’ emotions. After discussing how emotions are conceptualized and investigated in this literature, I consider the implications for future explorations of emotions in postsecondary teaching and learning. Ultimately, this chapter illuminates the complexity of inquiry into emotions while offering suggestions for research that recognizes the potential of emotions—and inquiry around emotions—to disrupt inequalities in higher education. Keywords

Achievement emotions · Affect · Emotions · Emotion management · Feelings · Postsecondary classrooms · Postsecondary teaching and learning · Higher education · Racialized emotions

Introduction During my earliest research studies of community college classrooms, I observed the powerful role of one particular emotion in the academic lives of students I interviewed: fear of failure. Attending to the reasons for and nature of students’ fears helped explain behavior that faculty members might otherwise attribute to lack of motivation, inadequate preparation, or other individual deficits. In my role as a researcher, I came to realize how much of what faculty members might interpret as disengagement or resistance to their instructional goals resulted from students’ efforts to avoid negative judgments from their instructors and therefore manage their self-doubts and anxiety. Significantly, in the classrooms I observed, students’ self-doubts and fears did not align with or derive from their instructors’ judgments of students’ ability to succeed in the course. Knowing that faculty had the power to assign grades and, in turn, potentially disrupt their educational goals raised the stakes for students enrolled in required introductory courses. I found that some faculty members recognized this emotional undercurrent and worked at alleviating students’ fears. In other instances,

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faculty members unintentionally exacerbated students’ anxiety. In either case, students’ experiences of instruction and the emotional aspects of those encounters were integrally related to their eventual success or failure in the course (Cox, 2009, 2011). Although subsequent studies I have conducted consistently reveal students’ fears, I have not pursued additional inquiry into the emotional aspects—for students or faculty—of the classroom-level interactions that constitute teaching and learning. I have, nonetheless, taken note of conversations around fears of failure in postsecondary contexts. For example, Inside Higher Ed’s (2020) report on Strada’s survey caught my eye: For the first time that I can remember, the cost of higher education appeared as the second rather than the number one barrier to postsecondary enrollment. Those surveyed were more likely to identify their own selfdoubt about their ability to succeed as the biggest obstacle. I have also been struck by the extent to which the term “imposter syndrome” has become part of the lexicon among faculty members and graduate students. Clance and Imes’s (1978) initial research on the imposter phenomenon explored the feelings of incompetence and self-doubt among high-achieving women. The concept now manifests as a condition that is both common (see, e.g., Chakraverty 2020; Ferguson & Wheat, 2015; Haskins et al., 2019) and in some sense pathological, in that it merits the label “syndrome.” These examples center on fear and self-doubt. But, as Boler (1999) pointed out, teaching and learning form a “complicated emotional terrain,” evoking a full range of emotions, not just fear of judgment (p. 2). It feels like a good time to explore scholarly discourse on the range of emotions that arise in higher education.

Why Explore Emotions in Postsecondary Teaching and Learning? There are few reasons for focusing this exploration specifically on classroom-level teaching and learning. First is the continuing, burgeoning interest in noncognitive aspects of learning. Researchers have documented the increasing concern with a variety of skills and competencies that extend beyond the “cognitive,” the aspects of learning typically associated with academic content knowledge or skills that can be measured on standardized tests (Almeida, 2016; Rowan-Kenyon et al., 2017). At the same time, they have also noted the nebulous character of the range of competencies and behaviors variously termed noncognitive or meta-cognitive skills (see, e.g., Almeida, 2016; Bowman et al., 2019; Rowan-Kenyon et al., 2017). Given that cognitive skills have been defined so narrowly, noncognitive factors compose a large, amorphous category, ranging from “soft skills” like teamwork and communication skills (Rowan-Kenyon et al., 2017) to emotional intelligence (Parker et al., 2018) to the forms of perseverance and academic mindsets that make up the concept of grit (Almeida, 2016; Bowman et al., 2019; Duckworth et al., 2007). Emotions appear within this category of noncognitive skills, particularly in the form of socio-emotional skills or the ability to regulate one’s emotional state. But, on the whole, emotions are implied rather than explicitly discussed. To a certain extent, the increased attention to noncognitive factors in learning reflects the quotidian

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recognition that learning—and, by extension, teaching—resists purely cognitive explanations or approaches. But it may also signal the need to take stock of the current discourses around emotions in postsecondary educational contexts. If a crucial aspect of learning involves emotional regulation, then the emotional aspects of teaching and learning merit further inquiry in a more direct and explicit manner. A second reason for this focus is the central role of emotions in fundamental brain functioning. Summarizing the evidence from neurobiology, Immordino-Yang and Damasio (2007) explained that cognitive processes related to learning, such as attention, memory, and decision-making, are “both profoundly affected by emotion and in fact subsumed within the processes of emotion” (p. 7). Calling attention to the vast overlap between emotions and cognition, they proposed the term “emotional thought” and articulated the array of processes located squarely within that overlap, as well as the two-way interactions between “purely” rational thought and emotional thought. More recently, the National Academies’ (2018) consensus study report How People Learn II noted the centrality of emotional processing in brain development, brain functioning, and learning, suggesting the need for further exploration of the role of emotion. A third and final reason for focusing on emotions inside postsecondary classrooms is the centrality of classroom-level teaching and learning to students’ postsecondary experience (Mayhew et al., 2016; Pallas & Neumann, 2019). Research on students’ experiences in higher education more broadly underscores the role of students’ emotions in persistence and success. For instance, feelings are central to concepts like sense of belonging (Hurtado & Carter; Hurtado et al., 2012) and validation (Rendón, 1994; Rendón Linares & Muñoz, 2011), which are also particularly important for minoritized students’ success. However, a disproportionate amount of research on students and student learning explores their experiences outside rather than inside classrooms.Teaching and learning

Conceptualizing Teaching and Learning In this chapter, I conceptualize the interplay of teaching and learning as I have discussed in earlier work (Cox, 2015). At its core, teaching practice is “what teachers do, say, and think with learners, concerning content” (Cohen et al., 2003, p. 124). In the most basic configuration of teaching and learning (one teacher and one student), a teacher engages in teaching something to someone (Lampert, 2001). The practice of teaching is therefore constituted as the teacher interacts with what the learner does, says, and thinks. Inside a classroom with multiple students, the practice of teaching and learning is constituted through multiple, iterative relationships over time among instructor, students, and content. The instructor maintains responsibility for planning what and how students will learn and structuring the learning environment within which the dynamic interplay among instructor, students, and content evolves. In Pallas and Neumann’s (2019) phrasing, this is convergent teaching, in part because it requires attention to the overlaps and disconnects among students, subject matter, and setting.

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It is within the classroom setting that the actual curriculum—rather than the intended curriculum—is enacted and the interplay between instruction and learning emerges (Engeström & Sannino, 2012; Erickson, 1986). Teaching and learning are integrally linked, although as Engeström and Sannino point out, the processes will never completely align; what is worth exploring are “the gap, struggle, negotiation and occasional merger between the two” (p. 46). Yet, a great deal of research in higher education examines student learning without attending to instruction, indicating the need for more integrative inquiry (Lattuca, 2021). As Cox and Dougherty (2019) noted in their study of developmental math outcomes, gaps in the extant literature indicate: the need to explore student learning in context; to clearly connect evidence of what students learn from particular courses to the instructional environment constituted inside those classrooms. Key components of the instructional context include the curriculum enacted within the classroom as well as students’ experiences of that curriculum, both of which play a critical role in what students can and do learn from taking the course. (p. 6)

A final aspect of this conceptualization of teaching and learning is recognition that the classroom is located at the center of multiple, embedded contexts (Talbert & McLaughlin, 1999). The practices that unfold inside the classroom are shaped— albeit in uneven and sometimes indirect ways—by organizational and institutional contexts. The relevant organizational contexts may include departmental, collegelevel, and state-level policies and practices. Salient institutional contexts include traditions and norms of the field of study, as well as broader sociopolitical arrangements (Cox, 2005; Nasir & Hand, 2006; Talbert & McLaughlin, 1999). In sum, concern with the interplay of teaching and learning suggests the value of focusing on classroom-level research. In focusing my review on emotions in postsecondary classrooms, I used the following three questions to guide my exploration.

Guiding Questions • What is the landscape of the current scholarly conversations about emotions in postsecondary classrooms? • How are emotions conceptualized and investigated within these conversations? • What are the implications of these current conversations for future explorations of emotions in postsecondary teaching and learning?

Scope of this Review In exploring the scholarly landscape, I made an initial set of decisions about the parameters of my review. These decisions derived from two concerns. The first was my desire to review the scholarship that speaks most directly to an integrated understanding of teaching and learning. The second was my interest in focusing on a manageable subset of the wide-ranging and diffuse array of extant scholarship.

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Based on the first criterion, I excluded scholarly inquiry into the emotional lives and experiences of faculty members in relation to their teaching, unless the discussion also incorporated explicit discussion of students. This excluded research like Kordts-Freudinger (2017), and Myyry et al.’s study of teachers’ emotions about assessment (Myyry et al., 2020). Similarly, I excluded research on students’ emotional lives outside of the classroom learning context (see, e.g., Tichanvakunda, 2021). Finally, I excluded studies that focused on teaching emotions as a disciplinary topic, such as the teaching of expressivity and emotion in music instruction (Zorzal, 2020; Karlsson & Juslin, 2008) and teaching the rhetoric of emotion (Stenberg 2011). Based on the second criterion, I focused on studies of emotions in undergraduate classrooms. Although I do include a few relevant examples of studies conducted with graduate students, there is a larger body of research at the graduate level that merits review. In a further winnowing of the review, I excluded studies concerned with teaching online, although the topic of emotional presence in virtual environments certainly deserves attention as well. As I accomplished the review, these initial parameters proved somewhat porous or at least difficult to enforce strictly. Surveying the landscape involved an unexpected set of complications, confounding my efforts to trace a clear path through the terrain. Ultimately, though, this foray identifies some of the key conversations and suggests a path for continued inquiry.

Organization of This Chapter In what follows, I offer preliminary answers to the questions that guided my review. First, I describe the overall landscape, summarizing the answer with a single word: unruly. To elaborate this answer, I outline a set of four interrelated complications that I encountered in my foray into the topic. As a whole, these complications raise questions about what constitutes inquiry into emotions, how to grapple with the complexity of concepts and terminology generated across different disciplinary subfields, and the extent to which the traditional norms of dispassionate social science research shape inquiry into a topic that challenges those norms. While I offer preliminary thoughts about these challenges, they raise questions for future exploration. In answering the second guiding question, I describe two contrasting approaches to conceptualizing emotions: the individual-level perspective, largely driven by psychological research, and sociocultural perspectives, which include multiple disciplinary traditions, including social anthropology, interpretive sociology, literacy studies, and cultural studies and feminist studies (Greco & Stenner, 2008; Zembylas, 2016). In the context of postsecondary teaching and learning, the research that illuminates these two approaches focuses largely on students’ emotions; accordingly, in this section, I, too, focus largely on students. Next, I continue my discussion of how emotions have been investigated by highlighting scholarship that more explicitly identifies the role of teachers and instruction in relation to students’ emotions.

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Much of this literature reflects sociocultural perspectives on emotions and suggests the need to better understand the role of racialized emotions inside classrooms. Finally, I outline a few implications of this extant scholarship for future inquiry on emotions in postsecondary classrooms. Recognizing that my foray into the scholarly literature has illuminated, but not resolved some of the fundamental complications, I offer a few suggestions for research going forward, with hope that future researchers might travel new paths in this relatively uncharted terrain.

The Challenges of This Exploration The role of emotions in postsecondary teaching and learning is an unequivocally unruly subject of inquiry. Surveying the scholarly landscape raised a number of questions around identifying relevant studies, analyzing the scholarly conversations, and synthesizing the results. While I offer preliminary answers to some of these questions, I also suggest that these complications merit further consideration.

Complication 1: What Constitutes Inquiry into Emotions? What exactly constitutes the taking up of emotions in higher education research? Does the use of specific keywords (i.e., emotion or feelings) qualify? Or must the work draw on a conceptual framework which centers emotion? The answers to each of these questions could (and did) lead to different sets of literature. Ultimately, one might decide that emotions are embedded in every study about learning, in one way or another. Taking seriously the neurobiological evidence means recognizing that perceptions, beliefs, and mindsets are all connected to emotions. Yet scholars may explore and describe these phenomena without explicit references to feelings. Ultimately, my search for relevant literature involved multiple approaches, and I cast a wide net in order to get a sense of the landscape in the broadest way.

Complication 2: The Tendency to Focus on Cognition Rather Than Emotion One of the consequences of the presumed supremacy of rational thought is that processes involving emotional dimensions may be researched and discussed in ways that ignore, dismiss, or otherwise avoid the emotional aspects. The concept of empathy offers an instructive example. As Hen and Goroshit (2011) pointed out in their investigation of social work students’ learning, empathy might be considered an emotional competency. But, as they explain, empathy as a concept has been conceptualized as comprising both an affective aspect and a cognitive aspect. While researchers acknowledge that these aspects are mutually interdependent, the dualism remains, in the form of the distinction between an emotional awareness of another person’s experience and the intellectual understanding of that person’s experience

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(Hen & Goroshit, 2011). The teaching of empathy, as well as research on the teaching of empathy, therefore, might focus on the intellectual aspects to the exclusion of the affective. Distinguishing between these orientations requires reading the text and making a determination about its relevance. It might be argued that a purely cognitive approach to empathy indeed reflects a particular orientation toward emotions and should be incorporated into the discussion; alternatively, one might deem it out of scope.

Complication 3: Discipline-Specific Terminology How might someone undertaking a foray into this wild terrain make sense of the various terms that appear across different disciplines? For instance, psychological researchers and math educators share a common concern with the emotions that arise for students as they engage in academic activities and the causal mechanisms associated with students’ fears and academic outcomes. Yet research across the two disciplines relies on different constructs, and the terms like belief and attitude used in one field mean something different in the other (McLeod, 1992). Similarly, while psychologists and math researchers have investigated the Feelings and feelings that comprise students’ academic identities (in this case, the terminology is from math research), the insights from one field have not been incorporated into the other (Graven & Heyd-Metzuyanim, 2019). I have made an effort to find common ground among the concepts, even when the terminology is different. “Affect” represents another contested term across disciplinary boundaries. For some researchers, emotion and affect are synonymous. For others, the term affective may include emotions but is a broader concept (Jackson, 2018). In psychoanalytic traditions, affect and emotion are distinct; Deleuzian post-structural theorizing also clearly distinguishes them but in a different way and based on different theoretical underpinnings (Greco & Stenner, 2008). For this review, I use the terms emotion and affect as roughly equivalent. That said, there may be good reasons to consider researching “affective practices,” rather than emotions, in order to move beyond some of the limitations of psychological conceptualizations and inquiry into emotions (Jackson, 2018; Wetherell, 2012). Finally, there are other complications around the use of language to identify individuals’ subjective experiences, as well as the extent to which language itself shapes individuals’ experiences of emotions. Some of the research undertaken from an individual perspective is concerned with the first of these issues (as I discuss below); the second issue proved beyond the scope of this review.

Complication 4: The Role of Researcher Emotions How do researchers’ emotional experiences affect their inquiry? In delineating approaches to defining attitude in mathematics research, Di Martino (2016) suggested that observations of a student’s “attitude” might say less about the student

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and more about the observer. A frustrated teacher, for instance, might assess a student’s attitude as negative, calling into question the basis for the assessment. This suggestion raises a meta-level research issue: what are the implications when those observing and identifying emotions are themselves embroiled in their own emotionally charged dilemmas? Just as a teacher’s feelings may shape their interpretation of students’ behavior, a researcher’s emotional state may complicate their inquiry into others’ emotions. Generally, this question remains unanswered in the extant literature, but Cabrera (2014) raises the issue in relation to his study of White males’ racial emotions. Cabrera writes that in designing the study, he was initially interested in participants’ thoughts rather than their feelings about race. The affective aspects of his interviews proved to be particularly illuminating but only after he grappled with his own emotions. As he explained in his methodological discussion, his own emotional experiences during the interviews “clouded” his ability to analyze the interview data (p. 775). Ultimately, attention to the emotional aspects of conducting research troubles the traditional norms of dispassionate social science inquiry, calling into question traditional research approaches as well as the results of those approaches. As Greco and Stenner (2008) explained, “an engagement with affective life has the potential to transform the ways in which social science disciplines conceive their own way of knowing and their objects of research. Where this has happened, we might say that the social sciences themselves are being moved or affected” (p. 5).

Emotions from an Individual-Level Perspective The study of emotions from a personal, individual perspective draws on an extensive body of literature in cognitive science and psychology. Researchers in these fields describe emotions as episodic and comprising multiple components, including subjective feelings, physiological responses, expressive displays, and cognitive appraisals (Hannula, 2020; Pekrun & Stephens, 2010; Shuman & Scherer, 2014). Central to this line of inquiry are efforts to define and categorize discrete emotions and to delineate the processes by which students’ emotions affect their academic performances.

Defining and Categorizing Emotions Plutchik’s (2001, 2003) work offers one of the most elaborated and referenced categorizations of emotions. His flower petal schematic identifies eight primary emotions: anger, anticipation, joy, trust, fear, surprise, sadness, and disgust. These primary emotions, he posited, serve fundamental biological survival imperatives, and each one is associated with a useful physiological response, such as getting small and hiding when fearful and jumping back when surprised. Variations on each of these eight emotions result from different levels of intensity, with discrete names for less or more intense emotions, such as boredom, the less intense level of disgust, and

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loathing, the more intense level. Finally, he identified secondary emotions (love, optimism, aggressiveness, contempt, remorse, disappointment, awe, and submission) as combinations of primary emotions. Submission, for example, emerges at the intersection of trust and fear. Overall, this scheme defines emotions as a response to external stimuli and as integrally linked to some level of cognitive understanding of the stimulus prior to the feeling and corresponding physiological reaction. As part of the appraisal component (Shuman & Scherer, 2014), a person’s judgment of an experience, even if unconscious or fleeting, shapes the emotion. It is not the event itself that causes the emotion but the person’s appraisal of the event. Postsecondary researchers working from a psychological orientation have focused attention on emotions they have deemed particularly important to academic learning. Such work has relied on the same underlying appraisal theory. While recognizing that both faculty and students experience a variety of emotions inside classrooms, these researchers have focused primarily on students’ emotions and more specifically on negative emotions, particularly fear. Examining the cognitive appraisals that precede feelings offers an ostensibly systematic way of categorizing and investigating emotions. For example, Martínez-Sierra and García-González (2016) drew on Ortony et al.’s (1988) cognitive structure of emotions, which classifies emotions in reference to an initial triggering incident and a series of variables that affect an individual’s judgment of the incident. Using this schema to analyze undergraduate math students’ focus group conversations, Martínez-Sierra and García-González identified and categorized emotions based on students’ descriptions of the triggering incidents and their cognitive appraisals of those events. Consequently, the researchers’ analysis of students’ emotions did not rely solely on students’ words for the feelings themselves. Instead, the emotions they identified as most salient to students’ experiences connected to the network of relevant variables in Ortony et al.’s taxonomy. Satisfaction, for instance, the one positive emotion Martínez-Sierra and García-González identified in the focus group conversations, is the term they associated with “being pleased about the confirmation of the prospect of a desirable event” (p. 98). The emotion words that Martínez-Sierra and García-González employed to present their findings (disappointment, satisfaction, fear, distress, and self-reproach) did not represent the language that students themselves used to describe their feelings but instead reflected their analysis of students’ judgments about the triggering incidents in question. Another categorization scheme focuses on what Pekrun (2006) designated achievement emotions. Achievement emotions, according to Pekrun, are distinct from epistemic emotions and social emotions in their “object” focus. The object foci of achievement emotions are academic activities (e.g., studying and test-taking) and performance outcomes (typically grades). The focus of epistemic emotions, such as surprise, curiosity, or emotion, is knowledge or information (Vogl et al., 2020). A few studies have explored the discrete category of epistemic emotions (see, e.g., Quinlan, 2019a), but most explore achievement emotions, including Vogl et al.’s (2020) study of the relationship between epistemic and achievement emotions. Finally, the focus of social emotions is other people. In this classification system, social emotions might be related to learning but would need to be directly linked to

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achievement emotions, such as a student’s feelings about others’ performances (Pekrun & Stephens, 2010). Efforts to further delineate and measure achievement emotions have resulted in a three-dimensional taxonomy and a measurement tool (Pekrun & Stephens, 2010). The first dimension distinguishes between negative (unpleasant) and positive (pleasant) feelings, while the second identifies the emotional intensity as either physiologically activating or deactivating. The third dimension involves three distinct achievement foci: an academic activity, past success or failure, or the prospect of future success or failure. Based on this taxonomy, the emotional experience when a student feels bad about a past failure might be activating (shame or anger) or deactivating (sadness or disappointment).

Research on Achievement Emotions Higher education researchers working within this psychological framework have focused attention squarely on achievement emotions in order to clarify the specific role that emotions play in students’ academic success or failure. By concentrating on the judgments that students make about academic activities and performance outcomes, researchers have identified two fundamental appraisals that shape students’ emotional responses: the extent to which students perceive that they have control over academic outcomes and the value they place on the activities and outcomes under investigation (Pekrun, 2006). This control-value theory provides an explanatory mechanism for how students’ achievement emotions are related to other psychological constructs considered important for academic success, such as motivation and self-efficacy (Hall et al., 2016; Jacob et al., 2019; Klassen & Usher, 2010; Putwain et al., 2013). Anxiety, located in the taxonomy of achievement emotions as an intense (activating), negative emotion in relation to anticipated failure, is one of the most studied of the achievement emotions, both in relation to students’ test-taking (for a review, see von der Embse et al., 2018) and in relation to mathematics more specifically (see, e.g., Quan-Lorey, 2017; Condron et al., 2018). Researchers within the field of mathematics education tend to foreground the subject matter to a greater extent than psychological researchers; nonetheless, studies in both fields share a concern with negative emotions and how emotions potentially impede learning. Di Martino and Gregorio’s (2019) study of first-year students at an Italian university illustrates these two concerns. Di Martino and Gregorio surveyed and interviewed students, all of whom who had been high achievers in math upon entry to the prestigious university math program. The researchers collected data from students who persisted, as well as those who dropped out, finding that both groups of students reported an array of negative emotions associated with first time that they struggled with math. Categorizing these feelings into five categories, the researchers described them as anxiety/distress/anguish, inadequacy/insecurity, sadness/sorrow/depression, frustration/despondency/hopelessness, and fear/apprehension (pp. 833–844). The results of this study flesh out the causal mechanisms identified in the controlvalue theory of achievement emotions. Analyzing students’ own descriptions of their

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emotions and experiences, the researchers identified a common trajectory in students’ transition. First, students met with unexpected challenges in their study of math. The unanticipated difficulties evoked various kinds of negative feelings; at the same time students often initially attributed their difficulties to causes beyond their control (e.g., lack of innate ability). Continued persistence in the program required them to change their beliefs about math as a subject of study and their selfassessments of their math abilities—in other words, to forge a new mathematics identity. Doing so enabled students to overcome emotions like shame. The findings of this study also highlight the benefits of examining emotions in relation to the subject matter and of exploring changes in students’ academic identities. The findings also point to the need to understand students’ identities in relation to other students. As Di Martino and Gregorio noted, “The shift from viewing oneself as part of a competitive student community to a part of a sharing community emerged as a crucial passage in the overcoming of difficulties” (p. 839). This, in turn, suggests a path for further inquiry, regarding the instruction. However, this study’s focus on individual students foreclosed that exploration.

Underlying Concern with Emotional Control Two consistent themes emerge from the individual-oriented research: a concern with emotions that might interfere with learning and the accompanying need to control or overcome emotions. Representing this perspective in their study of emotions in online learning, Cleveland-Innes and Campbell (2012) concluded, “Emotion may constrain learning as a distracter but, if managed, may serve as an enabler in support of thinking, decision-making, stimulation, and directing” (p. 285). The implicit theories of learning (and the concomitant role of emotions) embedded in many individual-level studies of student emotions align with the initial phases of Mezirow’s (2009) model of adult learning. Mezirow’s model identifies a role for emotions as part of a ten-phase process leading to transformational learning. The process starts with the learner’s encounter with a disorienting dilemma, which in turn leads the individual to grapple with feelings of “fear, anger, guilt, or shame” (p. 94). In this model, the student’s success in grappling with those emotions is the precursor to subsequent learning. In most cases, researchers focus on negative emotions, but studies also reveal the potential for positive emotions to interfere with learning. In one of the rarer studies focused on positive emotions, Volet et al. (2019) investigated pre-service teachers’ emotions in response to three collaborative science activities. Volet et al. found that the majority of students’ positive emotions were related to the social aspects of the activities and that enjoyment of the activities themselves did not necessarily connect to interest in the scientific knowledge itself. This finding, the authors concluded, suggests the need for caution regarding students’ positive emotions. Not only is the concern with emotional control and regulation embedded in the literature discussed above, but it also appears in studies that focus explicitly on the topic of emotional self-regulation (e.g., Leedy & Smith, 2012). For example,

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researchers have considered the kinds of emotional self-regulation strategies that postsecondary students rely on in the context of group work (Järvenoja et al., 2019) and assessed students’ emotional competence at the start and the end of the course, in the hopes of seeing improvement. The extant research also reflects a large concern with emotional regulation among pre-service teachers, suggesting the importance of emotions in the practice of K-12 teaching and, in turn, the necessity for K-12 teachers to be well equipped to address emotion in the classroom (e.g., Corcoran & Tormey, 2012; DeCuir-Gunby et al., 2020; Turner & Stough, 2020).

Discussion Scholarship conceptualizing emotions from an individual perspective has highlighted some of the mechanisms by which individuals experience and respond to emotions. However, research subscribing to this conceptualization suffers from limitations. As Wickham (2017) pointed out in his synthesis of neuroscience, cognitive science, and mainstream psychology approaches to the study of emotions, this perspective has resulted in “a blind spot” in understanding how emotion is also constituted through social processes. Individuals’ beliefs, feelings, and goals arise in relation to the subject matter and in interaction with other classroom participants (faculty and students). These, in turn, are also shaped by the embedded contexts of teaching (Nasir & Hand, 2006; Talbert & McLaughlin, 1999). Many of the psychological studies of emotion treat the specific subject matter or students’ program of study as a background variable (see, e.g., Hall 2016). The focus on individuals’ emotional experiences and the underlying assumption that achievement emotions and epistemic emotions are distinct phenomena reflect a conceptualization of learning that isolates student performances from instruction. Ultimately, the findings are not necessarily contextualized within or connected to the instructional activities of the course.

Sociocultural Approaches to Emotions Framing emotions as fundamentally social and cultural in nature offers an alternative to understanding emotions primarily as private, individual responses to various stimuli (Ahmed, 2004, 2014; Boler, 1999; Hochschild, 2012; Zembylas, 2016). Sociocultural approaches illuminate how individuals’ experiences of and with emotions emerge in the context of specific social contexts, in relation to other people, and in interaction with individuals’ membership and status in salient social groups. Emotions, in the ways they are constituted, expressed, and interpreted, are therefore connected to social structures and relations of power (Ahmed, 2004, 2014; Boler, 1999; Greco & Stenner, 2008; Winans, 2010; Zembylas, 2016). As Boler (1999) put it, “emotions, which reflect our complex identities situated within social hierarchies, ‘embody’ and ‘act out’ relations of power” (p, xii). More specifically, how individuals experience and express their emotions is informed by the socially constructed

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rules they learn as members of families, within formal schooling contexts, and in interaction with other social institutions (Worsham, 1998; Trainor, 2006; Winans, 2010). In connecting to broader social structures, these emotioned and emotional rules are gendered, classed, and racialized. They operate as a form of social control, functioning as “the bottom side of ideology” (Hochschild, 1979, p. 566), regulating individuals’ perspectives and behavior in ways that produce a particular social order.

Emotion Management Particularly generative perspectives on emotions emerge from the sociological scholarship on emotion management and theorizing around racial and racialized emotions. Hochschild’s (1979, 2012) conceptualization of emotion management offers the foundation for understanding emotions as a sociocultural phenomenon. In Hochschild’s account, people, in both their personal and professional lives, conform to established “feeling rules” in the process of experiencing and expressing emotions. These feeling rules are socially constructed norms that regulate participants in specific social situations. They provide parameters for the types and intensity of emotional expressions that will be interpreted as appropriate by other participants in a given social encounter. Individuals internalize these expectations, and when they sense a discrepancy between what they feel and what they should be feeling, or have the right to feel, they engage in emotion work. For Hochschild, managing one’s emotions is, at least in part, a process by which individuals regulate themselves and conform to social expectations. Emotion management may require effort to reshape both the display of emotion and the underlying emotions themselves. In the world of work, emotion management—both of one’s own emotions and of others’—is a form of labor. Like other forms of labor, emotional labor is subject to exploitation and inequities. Hochschild’s formative scholarship on feeling rules and emotion management highlighted the classed and gendered aspects of emotional labor, providing a generative foundation for continued theorizing and research on the emotional labor demanded of postsecondary faculty members (e.g., Harlow, 2003) and the feeling rules that shape interactions within postsecondary classrooms (e.g., Winans, 2010). This foundation has also provided the basis for continued work about how social identities and emotional stereotypes shape people’s experiences of emotions, including individuals’ perspectives on their own emotions, and how they interpret others’ emotional expressions (Robinson et al., 1998; Shields, 2005; Shields & Warner, 2008). Individuals’ understandings of different social groups and types of people shape their own sense of who they are and connect to the emotion work they accomplish in interaction with others (Wilkins & Pace, 2014). As Wilkins and Pace point out, emotion management proceeds not from the question “is this how a person should feel?” but rather from wondering “is this how a person like me should feel?” (p. 393, italics added). The answer to that question informs the individual’s thinking about, feeling of, and display of emotion. While much of the research on emotions and inequality has focused on gender (Wilkins & Pace, 2014), the role of race-related and racialized emotions has emerged

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as another important line of inquiry. Articulating the essential role of emotion in racial domination, Bonilla-Silva (2019) suggested that embedded in the structural components of systemic racism is an “emotional skeleton” (p. 2). Like class and gender, race “come[s] to life” by “being infused with emotions” (p. 2), and how individuals “feel” race depends on their location in the racial order. Maintaining racial inequality—indeed any system of inequality—requires that potentially disruptive emotions be kept in check (Wilkins & Pace, 2014; Schwalbe et al., 2000). This perspective highlights the role of emotional rules in regulating behavior inside classrooms. It also underscores the salience of racialized emotions in maintaining inequality.

Emotional Rules in Postsecondary Contexts Scholars who have explored the gendered culture of the academy assert the continued dominance of the idea that higher education is dedicated to the pursuit of purely rational thought (Leathwood & Heyn 2009; Lynch, 2010). Within this historically derived social construction, intellect and emotion are fundamental and gendered binaries, such that intellect is associated with the mind, the masculine, and the public sphere, while emotion is associated with the body, the feminine, and the private sphere (Leathwood & Hey, 2009; Walkerdine, 1994). Inside postsecondary organizations, expectations for faculty and students are shaped, in part, by the gendered (and classed and raced) construction of higher education. At the classroom level, these sociocultural norms shape participants’ understandings of appropriate academic behavior and discourse. The emotional rules of postsecondary contexts are also racialized. Wingfield’s (2010) exploration of contrasting emotional rules for White and Black employees across various professions included examples shared by university professionals. Participants, including university employees, noted that White employees could at times express anger. In contrast, expressions of anger were never considered appropriate for Black employees. Similarly, Harlow (2003) explored the emotional labor required of Black faculty members to manage their physical and emotional displays inside classrooms and to suppress feelings of frustration and anger that arise when challenged to prove their professorial authority because of their race. Overall, this scholarship suggests some of the emotional rules that play out inside postsecondary classrooms, highlighting the role they may play in differentially regulating students and faculty with different racial/ethnic identities.

Racialized Emotions of Teaching and Learning Sociocultural perspectives presume that the emotional experiences of classroom participants are integrally linked to broader sociopolitical structures of racism, sexism, economic stratification, and colonialism. Stereotypes about the intellectual deficits of particular groups form the basis of such emotional experiences, and the

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extant research points to the emotions involved when students, as a consequence of their membership in a particular social group, are confronted with negative assumptions about their abilities and likelihood of success (Solórzano & Yosso, 2001; Sue et al., 2009). Researchers have identified the salience of such negative stereotypes for Black, Latinx, and Indigenous students across educational settings and for particular groups of students in relation to specific academic domains, such as racialized women in science, technology, engineering, and math fields (e.g., McGee & Bentley, 2017) or minoritized students placed in remedial coursework (e.g., Acevedo et al., 2015; Casanova et al., 2018; Suárez-Orozco et al., 2015). There is no doubt that facing stereotypes about one’s inferior intellectual ability in the classroom causes anxiety and self-doubt. Experimental studies of this phenomenon (from an individual-level perspective) have demonstrated that the activation of such stereotypes, or stereotype threat, causes anxiety and impedes academic performances of students who are academically capable and value the academic domain under investigation (Beilock et al., 2007; Johns et al., 2008; Spencer et al., 1999; Steele & Aronson, 1998). The immediate consequence for students in problemsolving or test-taking activities is that the anxiety reduces working memory processing, which can, in turn, affect additional performances in different domains, even if unrelated to the original stereotype (Beilock et al., 2007). In the longer term, these researchers suggest stereotype threat undermines minoritized students’ motivation and confidence and, if unaddressed, can lead highly capable minoritized student to disengage entirely.

Stereotype Management and Microaggressions The recognition that racial stereotypes affect students’ learning provides a powerful basis for understanding how racial domination plays out in postsecondary classrooms and how racially minoritized students’ postsecondary experiences are informed by their subordinate status in the racialized social order. This perspective aligns with a sociocultural approach to exploring the emotional aspects of minoritized students’ classroom encounters. Although research on stereotype threat tends to take a psychological approach, researchers have also pursued a sociocultural approach to the topic, in an area of inquiry that McGee and Martin (2011) identified as stereotype management. Stereotype management presumes that stereotypes of racial inferiority are always present in educational contexts (McGee & Martin, 2011). These stereotypes include exaggerated beliefs about Black, Latinx, and Indigenous students’ lack of intelligence, as well as generalized beliefs about each group’s personal character (Solórzano & Yosso, 2001). Racial stereotyping about people’s intelligence, character, and physical appearance justifies particular judgments and behavior toward them (Solórzano & Yosso, 2001). In this way, negative assumptions about racially minoritized students form the basis of insulting comments and discriminatory behavior from peers and faculty members (Johnson-Ahorlu, 2013; Marom, 2019; Roberts, 2020). Scholarship on the less overt and unconscious examples of racial discrimination refers to such hostile, demeaning, or otherwise negative insults connected to racial stereotypes as microaggressions (Solórzano et al., 2000; Smith et al., 2006; Sue

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et al., 2007, 2009). Higher education researchers have explored the array of stereotypes that underlie racial microaggressions (Clark et al., 2014; Shotton, 2017; Suárez-Orozco et al., 2015; Sue et al., 2009; Watkins et al., 2010) and have broadened investigations beyond racial microaggressions to gender and gender identity microaggressions (see, e.g., Lester et al., 2016; Nadal, 2013; Miller, 2015). Ultimately, researchers agree that microaggressions cause distress that manifests physically, psychologically, and emotionally (Franklin et al., 2014; Nadal, 2013; Hill et al., 2010; Smith et al., 2011). Emotions are therefore fundamental to stereotype management in several ways. Drawing explicitly on the concepts of stereotype threat, stereotype management, and racial microaggressions, researchers have explored a range of feelings that Black, Latinx, and Indigenous students experience as they navigated racial stereotyping and racial microaggressions, including anger, self-doubt, frustration, isolation and invisibility, powerlessness, mistrust, disappointment, and sadness (Bailey, 2016; Clark et al., 2014; Johnson-Ahorlu, 2013; Marom, 2019; Masta, 2018; Shotton, 2017; Solórzano et al., 2000; Sue et al., 2009; Tachine et al., 2017). Researchers have also delineated the emotions involved when students engage in efforts to prove to themselves (and others) that the negative stereotypes do not apply to them (Fries-Britt & Griffin, 2007; Johnson-Ahorlu; Sue et al., 2009). From interviews with high-achieving Black and Latinx students in STEM majors, for example, McGee (2016) identified the emotional fatigue associated with stereotype management, as well as students’ efforts to numb themselves to the feelings. McGee’s analysis demonstrates how negotiating Whiteness in the STEM fields of study involved different nuances depending on students’ intersecting gender, racial/ ethnic identity, and socioeconomic state. Nonetheless, students across the sample relied on emulating stereotypical performances of Whiteness in their appearances, accents and dialects, and behavior as part of a broader strategy that students called “frontin.’” The emotional cost of this strategy is high, McGee noted, as it generated “personal agony and the devaluation of parts of one’s racial or ethnic identity” (p. 1634). In a more focused exploration of three high-achieving Black women in STEM fields, McGee and Bentley (2017) traced the women’s differing responses to stereotyped expectations while highlighting the level of distress they each grappled with. By explicitly connecting this strain and distress to Smith et al.’s (2006) concept of racial battle fatigue, McGee and Bentley underscore the underlying emotional strain that each student faces by virtue of their racial identity. Microaggressions and racial battle fatigue—as concepts and as emotionally laden terms related to stereotype management—provide an opening for exploring the embodied and emotioned experiences of systemic racism. Smith et al.’s (2006) model of racial battle fatigue locates racial microaggressions at the center of shortterm and prolonged stress responses. Embedded in this model is an array of likely emotions, ranging from frustration, defensiveness, and anger to disappointment, hopelessness, and fear. By drawing on a martial metaphor, the term racial battle fatigue underscores the sustained pain, trauma, and exhaustion, surfaces the subtext of violence and aggression, and legitimates the range of strong emotions associated with racialized students’ experiences.

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Research on stereotype management also serves to highlight the emotional resilience that racialized students demonstrate as they pursue postsecondary education. Exploring students’ approaches to stereotype management over time, McGee and Martin (2011) found that students’ initial approaches to stereotype management gave way to new strategies as they developed more self-affirming views about themselves as racialized students of mathematics. These more fully defined identities united their racial identity with a discipline-based academic identity and enabled students to pursue more personally meaningful goals and expend less energy on responding to stereotypes. In this study, McGee and Martin also noted the importance of students’ feelings toward the academic discipline, stating that for many of the students pursuing mathematics study, “unconditional love of mathematics” provided motivation for them to work in the field (p. 1374). These findings add nuance to Di Martino and Gregorio’s (2019) conclusions about mathematics identity (discussed earlier), by highlighting the dynamic interplay between students’ academic and social identities. Finally, the emotional experience of stereotype management is further complicated by racialized emotional stereotypes. Basic stereotypes of Black men as violent or criminal (Solórzano et al., 2000; Sue et al,. 2009) or Indigenous people as savages or Indian princesses (Shotton, 2017; Solórzano & Yosso, 2001) intersect with the assumptions of intellectual inferiority and irrational or unjustifiable emotionality, particularly anger and hostility. Consequently, stereotype management inside classrooms incorporates efforts to avoid appearing angry or hostile, even during encounters when anger, disapproval, and even mere disagreement are central aspects of the experience (Fries-Britt & Griffin, 2007). Researchers have documented incidents when racialized students’ efforts to voice their perspectives or correct misinformation are interpreted as confrontational and angry (e.g., Shotton, 2017). At the same time, studies have highlighted the extent to which students work hard to avoid such interpretations. Various participants in Sue et al.’s (2009) focus groups, for example, underscored the risks of coming across as the “angry Black woman” and asserted the need to suppress emotions in order for other students to hear what they had to say.

Methodological and Ethical Considerations The concepts of racialized emotional rules and stereotype management suggest several difficulties in exploring the role of racialized emotions inside postsecondary classrooms. Racialized students’ efforts to suppress their emotions and modulate their emotional expressions might affect their willingness to share their emotional experiences with researchers. As I read Roberts’ (2020) analysis of interviews with Black students who successfully completed developmental math coursework at 2-year colleges, I was struck by the vivid examples of biased comments and discriminatory behavior that students either witnessed or experienced directly. Only one participant, however, directly discussed some of the anger, resentment, and frustration he experienced in those encounters. In contrast, the accounts shared by other participants merely hinted at the depth of emotion they may have felt. Thus, the feelings that may have accompanied students’ experiences and their resulting efforts to manage stereotype threat are suggested but not explicitly considered.

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I also wonder about the ethics of mining and representing racialized students’ painful emotional experiences. Robert’s analysis intentionally disrupts the dominant narrative of Black students’ failure and individual deficiencies and respectfully presents the perspectives that were shared with her. But, as Tuck and Yang (2014) pointed out in their critique of social science research, “much of the work of the academic is to reproduce stories of oppression in its own voice” (p. 227). Additionally, they warn, academic research on minoritized populations (particularly Indigenous peoples) may not benefit the research participants and may instead serve to reify the metanarrative of damaged communities. They raise an essential question: Is it responsible to engage in research that does not actively work toward eliminating the inequitable educational experiences and outcomes engendered by racism, sexism, and colonization?

Discussion A sociocultural approach offers several significant implications for inquiry into emotions inside postsecondary classrooms. First, conceptualizing emotions from this perspective renders a purely individual-level approach woefully incomplete. Although emotions do involve an individual experience, they also involve social aspects that shape and inform the experience. Consider the contrast between the psychological concept of emotional regulation and the sociological notion of emotion management. From a psychological perspective, emotional regulation is a “noncognitive” competency associated with academic learning. Deploying the skill enables students to control the feelings that arise in relation to trying to accomplish their desired academic goals. From an emotion management perspective, the emotional experience itself, as well as the classroom norms shaping students’ navigation of the experience, is informed by the students’ social identities relative to a social structure stratified by race/ethnicity, gender, and class. Focusing solely on individuals’ emotional regulation obscures the extent to which the norms around appropriate emotional expressions reproduce social inequalities. Similarly, an individual perspective on the imposter phenomenon (or syndrome) calls attention to the problem for the individual rather than considering the social conditions that generate the self-doubts among high-achieving women and women of color. A sociocultural perspective adjusts the lens to consider the individual experience as well as the systemic inequalities that shape the individual experience. Second, the sociocultural conceptualization of emotions highlights a meta-level research concern. How emotion is researched—as well as broader discourses about the role of emotions in higher education—reflects and is informed by the same socially constructed rules that are embedded in classroom practices. The dominant norms of higher education research may reify underlying ideologies and deficitbased narratives. Consider, for example, the many studies of math anxiety among pre-service teachers. Researchers have investigated prospective teachers’ levels of confidence in their ability to teach math and the related notion of math teaching

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anxiety (Stoehr, 2017; Malinsky et al., 2006; Mizala et al., 2015; Patkin & Greenstein, 2020; Gresham, 2008). Still others, out of concern about math teaching anxiety, have studied the effects of teacher education courses or programs on teachers’ attitudes toward math (Jong & Hodges, 2015; Galligan et al., 2019). Many of the studies focus on elementary school teachers, who are more likely to be women. The resulting research narrative focuses attention on the emotionality of women teachers and their potential unfitness to teach math.

Orientations Toward Emotion in the Practice of Teaching Although the psychological literature on emotions maintains implications for student learning, it is largely silent on the interplay between instruction and learning as enacted in specific postsecondary settings. In articulating the above two conceptualizations of emotions, I focused most of my discussion of the sociocultural perspective on students’ emotions, in order to point out how it contrasts with the psychological perspective. In the next section, I consider scholarship that attends more explicitly to the role of instructor and teaching practices. Within this literature, I have identified three distinct orientations. The first orientation explicitly recognizes emotions as fundamental to learning and in turn posits the importance of attending to students’ emotions in the practice of teaching. The second orientation suggests the benefits of holding space for complex emotional experiences inside classrooms while acknowledging the potentially disruptive nature of such a pedagogical approach. Finally, the third orientation considers the pedagogical implications of working with racialized emotions inside postsecondary classrooms.

Acknowledging Emotion as Instrumental to Meaning-Making Overall, this orientation toward emotions highlights the value of engaging students’ emotions as part of the teaching process but glosses over the challenges. Nor is it clear if or how the pedagogical approaches associated with this orientation disrupt students’ expectations of postsecondary teaching. To a certain extent, this scholarship reflects the novelty of exploring the role of emotion in teaching, by positing that emotions need to be considered as an essential aspect of pedagogical practice. The research in this category views emotions as playing an essential role in the underlying structuring of meaning-making and learning experiences. Not only does this perspective identify the importance of emotions in learning, but it also recognizes the role of the instructor in orchestrating the learning process. The perspective that emotions are integral to intellectual engagement aligns with Immordino-Yang and Damasio’s (2007) discussion of “emotional thought” and their related insights about the essential role of emotions in processes typically labeled cognitive. For instance, premised on the idea that meaning-making processes are simultaneously cognitive and emotional, Marmur (2019) explored the concept of “key memorable events.” Such classroom events are memorable because students connect them to

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strong emotions, whether positive or negative. In the context of large, lecture-driven undergraduate math courses, Marmur identified particular moments that elicited cognitive and affective engagement of the students in relation to the subject matter. Similarly premised on the idea that meaning-making processes are simultaneously cognitive and emotional, Judson et al. (2021) described their goals as teacher educators as “constantly seeking to identify the emotionally-charged dimensions of what we are teaching” in order to deepen student learning (p. 1). In doing so, they draw on Egan and Judson’s (2015) conceptualization of cognitive tools, “the emotion-laden, mediational means that human beings employ to make meaning in the world” (Judson et al., 2021, p. 4). The authors recognize that grappling with new ideas and knowledge requires affective engagement, and they highlight the role of the instructor in intentionally accomplishing emotional connections with the subject matter. The recognition that emotionally charged experiences can lead to profound learning also underlies studies of experiential learning (see, e.g., Zeivots, 2018). Recent research on service learning in international contexts (Larsen, 2017; Marvell & Simm, 2018) suggests that the emotional aspects of service-learning experiences have not received much attention. Although the pedagogy of experiential learning incorporates student reflection (and perhaps reflexivity), reliance on Mezirow’s theory of transformative learning in international service learning generally foregrounds cognitive reflective processes (Larsen, 2017). Accordingly, encouraging students to come to terms with and document the emotional aspects of their learning requires carefully crafted assignments. Marvell and Simm (2018), for instance, found that the most revealing data on students’ emotional geographies came from the interviews conducted during the service-learning trip. Even students’ fieldnotes revealed limited emotional responses, despite their being relatively more descriptive of emotions than the more refined and considered writing that students submitted after the trip. Similarly, in Larsen’s study of an international, service-learning experience in East Africa, drawing from multiple data sources allowed her to conclude that students’ emotional experiences constituted an important form of understanding in and of themselves. The evidence included pre- and post-surveys, emotional mind maps, and interviews. In both studies, program participants engaged in emotionally charged experiences, but they also minimized their emotional responses in the more traditional academic assignments. On the whole, this orientation toward emotion asserts the essential role of affective engagement for student learning, as well as the need for instruction (including assessment opportunities) that facilitates students’ emotional experiences with the course content.

Making Space for Complex Emotional Experiences This orientation toward emotions in the practice of teaching leans toward the view that Dirkx and Espinoza (2017) labeled the “manifesting” approach: a school of thought that is less interested in controlling or manipulating emotions and more interested in connecting with emotions. Relying on terms like inner work and soul

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work, Dirkx (2006, 2012) noted that his perspective embraces emotions as integral to transformative learning, distinguishing his approach to transformational learning from that of Mezirow. Transformative learning experiences, Dirkx explained, “foster radical shifts in one’s consciousness, in one’s ways of being” (Dirkx et al., 2006, p. 132). The result is change, at a fundamental level, in prior assumptions, beliefs, and feelings. Transformative learning then evokes “deeply emotional evoking powerful feelings, such as fear, grief, loss, regret, and anger, but also sometimes joy, wonder, and awe” (p. 132). For Dirkx, emotional experiences are expressions of inner forces, at times unconscious or subconscious, contradictory, and incoherent. Noting his reliance on Jungian and post-Jungian thought, Dirkx (2001) proposed an “imaginal method,” which connects students with unconscious aspects of their inner lives that are evoked in instructional encounters. Ultimately, Dirkx suggested that this “soul work” offers transformative potential not only in relation to one’s inner self but also in relation to others—in relation to individuals within the classroom, to groups, and to society. Other scholars working within an explicitly psychodynamic approach share this perspective (Clancy & Vince, 2019; Vince, 2016). Clancy and Vince (2019), for instance, in the context of an experiential leadership course, asserted the value of directly addressing difficult emotions, including the emotional aspects that arise in the dynamics of teaching and learning but are often avoided or ignored by the instructor. In the case of the leadership course, the authors suggested the instructional value of attending to the emotions as they arose. Applying psychodynamic strategies, they noticed how students projected feelings onto others, conflated emotions from past experiences with those of the present situation, and masked uncomfortable emotions with sarcasm or passive aggressive comments. They describe the role of the professor as providing space in the classroom to “hold” the emotional experiences. As they put it, “Staying in the midst of this discomfort and commenting on its value rather than fleeing from distress is a core feature of the delivery of a psychodynamic approach to experiential learning” (p. 177). The ultimate outcomes, they suggest, are more profound learning for students, including transformative shifts in their understanding of leadership and the role of emotion in organizational life. Clancey and Vince’s account of classroom encounters demonstrates how destabilizing this pedagogical approach can be. The instructional activities violated the feeling rules of the classroom and the subject matter itself (leadership) as students understood them. This, in turn, evoked powerful emotions among students, and the instructor recounts her experience of those emotions as aggressive and violent. Such research suggests the need for a high level of emotional awareness, as well as the capacity to challenge socially constructed norms around emotional expression in the classroom. Vacarr (2001) underscored the need for emotional awareness on the part of faculty, asserting: Within the range of human experience there are numerous events that catalyze transformation and growth. These moments happen daily in our classrooms. Often we don’t know how to enter into them fully and vulnerably. Yet this is exactly what is required of us if we truly want to teach diversity and bridge the gaps that divide us. (p. 294)

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According to Vacarr, her training as a transpersonal psychologist afforded her the skills to be “mindfully present” in the classroom, and she offers a vision of pedagogy that is integrated with training “that focuses on the dynamics of an empathetic presence in inter- and intrapersonal relationships” (p. 293). Such as approach, she suggests, offers the potential for faculty members to address their own fear, particularly the fear of revealing one’s authentic self. In the end, she argues, “the potential for this work resides inside of us. It lives in our fear of being seen, and in our conflicting desire to also (somehow) be fully seen” (p. 294). The pedagogical approaches described in this subset of the scholarly literature offer more holistic visions of teaching practice, theorizing teaching as integrating embodied, emotional components. Kerr and Parent (2015), for instance, rely on holistic pedagogies that emerge from Indigenous ways of knowing and learning. They articulate the emotional dimension of Indigenous pedagogies and define the specific principles guiding their own teaching. Exploring a specific incident of student resistance in their work with pre-service teachers, Parent describes her feelings of anxious fretting but also her realization that she could draw on the theory underlying her teaching practice. This allowed her to understand the underlying emotions of the students’ resistance and to work with the resistance to restore balance, both for herself and for her students. Notably, Kerr and Parent discuss student resistance in the context of instruction intended to disrupt prospective teachers’ assumptions about Indigenous curricular content. The resistance they describe aligns with other researchers’ analyses of racialized emotions and reflects a third orientation toward teaching with emotions, which I describe below. In sum, this line of scholarship demonstrates the value of pedagogies with holistic theoretical underpinnings. In elaborating the difficulties that arise in practice, these scholars highlight the emotions of students’ resistance, the emotional consequences for the instructor, and the complex dynamics of attempting to hold space for deep and potentially preconscious emotions as part of the learning process. The disruptive nature of this orientation hints at the possibility of transformative learning but also suggests the need for a well-elaborated pedagogical theory of emotions for instructors to draw on as they navigate the challenges. In these examples, psychoanalytic theories and Indigenous teachings offer the foundations for emotionally embodied pedagogical practices.

Working with Racialized Emotions Working with racialized emotions is an orientation toward teaching practice that recognizes the complexities of students’ racial/ethnic identities in relation to classroom-level interactions and attends to students’ racialized emotional experiences. This orientation is most likely to emerge in research when the subject of instruction is considered emotionally charged and when students are asked to critically examine the unquestioned values and beliefs that form their moral investments (Boler, 1999). For instance, in sociology classrooms, where instructors aim to develop students’ critical understanding of systems of inequality (e.g., Bryan, 2016; Castillo-Montoya,

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2018; Connelly & Joseph-Salisbury, 2019), the potential for emotionally charged classroom encounters becomes heightened (Chivers & Smyth, 2011). CastilloMontoya’s (2018) exploration of deep, equity-based learning in sociology classrooms makes reference to the emotional experience of such instruction for racialized students. In particular, Castillo-Montoya highlights the emotional experience of Stacy, one of the Black women enrolled in the course. During an interview, Castillo-Montoya delved into Stacy’s learning, and Stacy expressed feelings she experienced in coming to terms with particularly meaningful course content. For Stacy, the primary emotions she experienced were relief and frustration: relief at finally coming to terms with the systemic issues affecting her family and frustration with the injustice. Elsewhere, Castillo-Montoya et al. (2019) propose an initial framework for a racially liberatory pedagogy. Guided by Black Lives Matter’s epistemology, this pedagogy comprises four core principles, including centering emotions and relationships. Consideration of emotions therefore shares space in the pedagogical framework with the development of critical consciousness and understandings of intersectionality (with an emphasis on race). This framework offers a potential example of the kind of pedagogies that Boler (1999) called for: “pedagogies that invite emotions as part of critical and ethical inquiry” (p. 22). Scholarship on classrooms dominated by White students identifies a different set of racialized emotions that arise in classrooms where students examine systems of inequality. Research on the teaching of sociology, for instance, identifies the teaching of empathy as essential to increasing students’ understanding of sociological issues (e.g., Connelly & Joseph-Salisbury, 2019; Gardner & McKinzie, 2020; Walker & Palacios, 2016). Often, sociology classrooms comprise a White professor and largely White student enrollment. In these settings, faculty confirm the importance of cultivating students’ emotional understandings of social inequalities; at the same time, scholars document students’ struggles with the emotional content and students’ efforts to disconnect from unsettling emotions (Bryan, 2016; Connelly & Joseph-Salisbury, 2019). Researchers consistently identify the primacy of fear, anger, and guilt among White students in these instructional encounters (Boler, 1999; Cabrera, 2014; Winans, 2010). This is particularly true of scholarship focused on White students’ racial attitudes (how student think and feel about race), as well as their experiences of learning about systemic racism (Colón et al., 2021; DeCuir-Gunby et al., 2020; de Novais & Spencer, 2019; Spanierman & Cabrera, 2015). Faculty members working inside these classrooms have delineated the conflicting emotions that students express when asked to reconsider strongly held assumptions, noting that the process challenges students’ core identities as ethical or “good” people (Boler, 1999; Colón et al., 2021; Winans, 2010). Students might struggle to maintain feelings of innocence by holding tight to “racial ignorance” (Colón et al., 2021, p. 13) or “defensive anger” (Boler, p. 190), emotions that compose part of the emotional skeleton of systemic racism (Bonilla-Silva, 2019). According to Sue et al. (2009), conversations in these classroom settings may rise to the level of what they described as difficult dialogues, “potentially threatening conversations among members of different racial/ethnic groups,” when contrasting

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worldviews and associated biases “trigger strong emotions among participants” (p. 184). Likewise, Harlap (2014) identified junctures at which the level of emotion can overwhelm or derail classroom instruction as “hot moments” (p. 217). These researchers agree that microaggressions are frequently the starting point for difficult dialogues or hot moments. From their focus groups with racialized students, Sue et al. found that White students’ defensiveness exacerbated racialized students’ feelings of invalidation. Thus, a professor’s ability and willingness to acknowledge the emotional content proved crucial to a productive instructional outcome. The research on emotions expressed through microaggressions inside postsecondary classrooms provides evidence that faculty members may not be well equipped to recognize or respond to classroom encounters that invalidate racially minoritized students (e.g., Acevedo-Gil et al., 2015; Casanova et al., 2018; SuárezOrozco et al., 2015; Sue et al., 2009). Indeed, research on both racial and gender microaggressions suggests that both faculty members and students may perpetrate microaggressions (e.g., Bailey, 2016; Lester et al., 2016, 2017; Suárez-Orozco et al., 2019). Furthermore, students take their cues from faculty members when responding to classroom microaggressions (Casanova et al., 2018; Sue et al., 2009). Researchers who have explored students’ perspectives and experiences consistently recommend the need for increased racial (and racial emotion) literacy among faculty members (e.g., Bailey, 2016; Harlap, 2014; Sue et al., 2009). Additionally, scholars point out the gap between faculty members’ conceptual understanding of the issues and their ability to respond to hot moments when they occur, as well as the role of faculty members’ own feelings of vulnerability and fear of losing control in shaping their pedagogical decisions in those moments (e.g., Harlap, 2014; Vacarr, 2001). In sum, this portion of scholarship underscores the pedagogical complexity of working with racialized emotions. It also points to the detrimental consequences when faculty members have not developed to competencies to do so (e.g., Marom, 2019; Masta, 2018; Sue et al., 2007). It suggests several important topics for further inquiry, including questions about how faculty members work with racialized emotions while facilitating productive learning experiences, as well as how faculty members learn to do so (both intellectually and emotionally) in relation to the particular subject area domains in which they teach.

Discussion As a whole, the scholarship that explores emotions in relation to instructional practice offers some fundamental insights. Recognizing that emotion is instrumental to meaning-making processes suggests the value of examining the emotional orientations embedded in specific instructional approaches, as well as the extent to which those orientations (and the underlying theorizing of emotions) facilitate the kind of discipline-specific learning that faculty members intend. Although faculty members’ default orientation toward emotions may be avoidance, whether out of inattention or a desire to control disruptive emotional episodes, emotions—including emotions

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integrally related to intersectional identities—are fundamental to classroom participants’ perspectives and experiences. Scholars who have explored instruction that intentionally manifests or works with emotions, including racialized emotions, highlight the risks and challenges. Their work suggests the need for faculty members to draw on pedagogies that integrate theorizing around the role of emotions in teaching and learning. Examples of such pedagogies include those informed by psychoanalytic theories, Indigenous pedagogies, Boler’s (1999) pedagogy of discomfort, and Castillo-Montoya et al.’s (2019) framework for a racially liberatory pedagogy. Notably, Castillo-Montoya et al.’s framework builds on existing traditions of asset-based, culturally sustaining pedagogies, thereby highlighting such pedagogies’ contributions to a more inclusive and caring vision of education (see, e.g., Alim et al., 2020; Center for Urban Education, 2020; Kirkness & Barnhardt, 1991; López et al., 2019; Rendón, 2012).

Implications for Further Inquiry In reviewing this cross-disciplinary body of research on emotions in postsecondary teaching and learning, one can see how extant studies have laid the groundwork for future inquiry. In particular, sociocultural perspectives highlight the need to examine individual-level experiences of emotions in relation to broader sociocultural contexts and systems of inequality. There is room for future research to explore emotions, including racialized emotions, in relation to the intersecting identities that classroom participants embody. Furthermore, there is a role for synthesizing and applying scholarship from across disciplinary silos. There is, of course, much more in the extant literature that differently focused reviews can pursue. This includes research focused on graduate-level classrooms, the broader array of research on students’ and faculty members’ academic experiences outside of classrooms, and scholarship that fits more neatly into disciplinespecific scholarly traditions. Taking a close look at the existing scholarship on emotions outside of classrooms may yield different insights given the potentially more restrictive emotional rules in operation inside classrooms. It is important to keep in mind that the extant research has been shaped by the same sociopolitical arrangements that govern socially constructed rules around which emotions are “appropriate” to experience and express inside postsecondary classrooms. A more comprehensive review of the literature could reveal the spaces within the field of higher education research where emotions are deemed particularly relevant. This review has suggested some of these spaces (e.g., elementary math teacher preparation), but more systematic exploration is warranted. As Ahmed (2014) pointed out, there are processes by which “‘being emotional’ comes to be seen as a characteristic of some bodies and not others, in the first place” (p. 4). Understanding which bodies and in which specific contexts researchers have tended to consider emotionality may illuminate more of the gendered, raced, classed, and (dis)abled subtexts embedded in higher education discourses.

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Ultimately, this chapter as a foray into the literature on emotions in postsecondary teaching and learning has illuminated, but in no way resolved, a number of complications that require consideration. At this juncture, it would be worthwhile for researchers to pursue inquiries that directly respond to the gaps, questions, and dilemmas highlighted in the preceding sections. A fundamental complication revolves around how researchers recognize emotions. How researchers “see” or “feel” emotions is contingent on the conceptual tools they apply, as well as their emotional identities. These contingencies intensify the complexity of even naming and describing emotions, whether one’s own or others.’ This issue also connects to the larger ethical question of how researchers understand and respect the emotioned identities of differently positioned and privileged participants in higher education. I imagine that future inquiry might recognize a much wider and deeper range of emotional experiences than what has currently been documented and studied by researchers. Consider disgust, for example. In studies of achievement emotions, students described a range of emotions, but disgust was the one notable absence (Pekrun & Stephens, 2010). In contrast, Matias and Zembylas (2014) suggested that emotions of care, sympathy, and love—often performed in teacher education classrooms—may mask feelings of disgust for racialized “others.” In their attempt to understand how emotions operated in an urban teacher education program, Matias and Zembylas argued that disgust and pity, while opposite in terms of social acceptability, function in similar ways, to objectify and diminish. This argument suggests that some level of social acceptability underlies the emotions that classroom participants express, as well as the emotions that researchers might recognize. This leads me to wonder whether researchers might reconsider fear and selfdoubt, feelings that have been studied extensively, particularly among students. What if fear, self-doubt, and anxiety have been the socially acceptable labels for more complicated, overlapping emotions, including anger, or even disgust? It may be generative to explore fear in particular instructional settings with a concomitant focus on trust. Also worth understanding in specific classroom contexts are the ways in which students’ fears intersect with faculty members’ emotions and how faculty members’ fears shape classroom interactions. A final dilemma, ethical in nature, for future researchers to address pertains to representation. Current research norms may not offer authors adequate guidance on how to represent emotions. The ethical concern here is that research findings need to be conveyed in ways that respect research participants and do not reify damaging emotional stereotypes. Also of concern is the question of whether traditional scholarly discourses represent the depth and range of emotionally suffused phenomena. Scholars have offered alternative forms of representation, in the form of fictionalized accounts (Gibbs & Lehtonen, 2020), composite counternarratives (Anthym & Tuitt, 2019), and poetic cases (Quinlan, 2016, 2019b). A still wider range of representations may be called for as researchers undertake more nuanced explorations in postsecondary learning.

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Conclusion In my efforts to make sense of this unruly subject of inquiry, I fear I may have imposed too much order. I began the chapter by articulating some of the complexities of the reviewing process and then synthesized various conceptualizations of emotions into two categories: the individual-level perspective and sociocultural approaches. Sociocultural approaches highlight the emotional rules that govern individuals’ experiences and displays of emotion, as well as the role of emotion (and emotional rules) in maintaining social inequalities. This perspective illuminates the potential role of research in reifying socially constructed norms and in disciplining potentially disruptive emotions. This perspective also highlights the need for research on emotion in teaching and learning that does not perpetuate the control mechanisms underlying social inequalities. Although scholars have identified emotions as a site of social control, they have also identified emotions as a site of resistance and transformation (e.g., Boler, 1999). BonillaSilva, for instance, identified anger, love, and empathy as emotions that have the power to disrupt racial domination. This leads me to wonder whether (and how) further inquiry into emotions might disrupt the norms that serve to maintain inequality. At the same time, I wonder whether shifts in research on emotions may provide a path forward toward more integrative research on teaching and learning. It is possible that centering emotions in research on teaching and learning might create more space for exploring the instructional interplays among students, faculty, and content in specific settings, as well as the forms of learning that result for various participants in those settings.

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Rebecca D. Cox is an associate professor in the Faculty of Education at Simon Fraser University, in British Columbia. She received her Ph.D. from University of California, Berkeley, an M.A. from the University of Texas at Austin, and an A.B. from Princeton University. Her research interests revolve around issues of postsecondary access, opportunity, and equity, with attention to teaching and learning, organizational and institutional contexts, and the enactment of educational reform. She has conducted extensive research inside community college classrooms and is the author of The College Fear Factor: How Students and Professors Misunderstand One Another (Harvard University Press).

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Leveraging Nudges to Improve the Academic Workplace: Challenges and Possibilities KerryAnn O’Meara, Dawn Culpepper, Courtney Lennartz, and John Braxton

Contents Conceptual Framework: Behavioral Economics and Nudge Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nudges in Organizations and Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kinds of Nudges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Potential Limitations of Nudges in the Academic Workplace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Limitations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leveraging Nudges to Improve the Academic Workplace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hiring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Teaching and Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Promotion and Tenure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Work-Life Integration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Workload . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aligning Time and Priorities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Discussion and Implications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leveraging Nudge and Behavioral Design Thinking in Faculty Affairs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

Nudges, or changes in the contexts within which people make decisions, can increase the likelihood of better decision outcomes. Although higher education institutions and researchers have used nudges to improve decision-making in

Ann E. Austin was the Associate Editor for this chapter. K. O’Meara (*) · D. Culpepper · C. Lennartz University of Maryland, College Park, MD, USA e-mail: [email protected] J. Braxton Vanderbilt University, Nashville, TN, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 37, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3_9

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postsecondary settings, most nudge interventions focus on students, rather than on faculty members and their workplace. In this chapter, we review the literature to understand how nudges might be used to reshape key aspects of faculty work and decision-making. We first define the key concepts of nudges and choice architecture from behavioral economics and consider how and why nudges have been shown to improve thinking, decisions, and outcomes. We then consider different kinds of nudges, with whom they work best, and why, including the conditions and contexts within faculty and academic affairs that may be the most receptive to and most resistant to nudges. We explore six areas of faculty work where nudges have and may improve or enhance decision-making. In particular, we imagine using behavioral design techniques to study the influence of nudges in faculty hiring, promotion and tenure, teaching and learning, work-life integration, scholarly productivity, and distribution of work. For each of these areas of faculty work-life, we consider (a) the ways in which cognitive errors and social biases, and organizational “sludge,” keep faculty from meeting personal/institutional goals; (b) established/studied nudges; and (c) nudges that could potentially work in each area but have not been tested using behavioral design. We end the chapter with observations regarding nudges in the academic workplace and provide implications for research, policy, and practice. Keywords

Faculty · Nudges · Choice architecture · Academic workplace

Faculty members make many decisions in the higher education workplace. Often those decisions do not reflect individual or institutional goals. For instance, our review of decades of research suggests that: • Graduate admissions decisions are heavily shaped by test scores, letters of recommendation, and networks that tend to disadvantage candidates from historically marginalized groups. • Promotion and tenure decision-making advantage more traditional forms of scholarship over newer forms, and there is little structure to effectively evaluate work in diversity, equity, and inclusion. Candidates from historically marginalized groups receive greater scrutiny within these evaluative contexts. • Many faculty members do not adopt best practices in teaching and learning and are not rewarded for improving their teaching. • Faculty workloads are not designed strategically, and gendered and racialized expectations around service and teaching shape how faculty work is taken up, assigned, and rewarded. • Managing the demands of academia with personal obligations leads to burnout and stress and pushes out talented faculty members seeking greater work-life integration. • Many faculty members face a mismatch in how they spend their time and how they would prefer to spend their time, undercutting their opportunities for promotion and advancement.

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If we consider the contexts surrounding each of these decision-making areas from the perspective of behavioral economics, we see design flaws. That is, just as an architect designs the blueprints for a new building and thinks about whether the layout and supports are appropriately placed to meet the needs of those who will reside in the building, it is possible for academic leaders and faculty members to consider the design of these decisions. We can examine whether the contexts surrounding decision-making are set up to help faculty members make decisions that meet individual goals and institutional goals. Such an examination must include those contexts propelling us toward decisions that help us meet goals and those contexts making it more likely our decisions will be the result of cognitive errors and social biases. Although the COVID-19 pandemic has forced higher education to quickly adapt in some areas (e.g., virtual instruction), the academic profession is famously resistant to change. Traditional, risk-averse ways of thinking and making decisions remain omnipresent, despite much evidence that change is needed. In this chapter, we consider how concepts from behavioral economics, and specifically the idea of “nudges,” might help the academic profession disrupt some of the challenges discussed above, moving institutions toward more agile, efficient, and equitable academic workplaces. We link together studies from behavioral economics with studies from other social science disciplines (e.g., psychology, organizational decision-making, and higher education research) to understand how nudge theory might reshape aspects of how faculty members are recruited and advanced, how they teach and manage their time, how they integrate their work and lives, and how work is taken up, assigned, and rewarded. Such nudges could be employed to improve overall faculty performance and achievement of institutional and career goals and could be employed to improve equity and full participation in the academic workplace (O’Meara, 2020). In the next section, we introduce the concept of nudges and examine how choice architects in governments and educational organizations design and enact nudges. We draw on work by Damgaard and Nielsen (2018) to consider different kinds of nudges in education, with whom they work best, and why. We then move beyond what has been done, to consider places in the academic workplace where institutional arrangements might be improved or enhanced by nudges. Finally, we consider the conditions and contexts within which faculty and academic affairs are likely to be the most receptive and most resistant to nudges and why. We identify areas for future research and behavioral design to test the efficacy of nudges.

Conceptual Framework: Behavioral Economics and Nudge Theory Behavioral economics revolutionized the way we understand decision-making within organizations. Foundational work conducted by Amos Tversky and Daniel Kahneman (1973, 1974) challenged the notion that individuals make decisions rationally. For example, Tversky and Kahneman (1973) showed that people are inherently loss averse and prefer avoiding losses to acquiring equivalent gains. Loss aversion causes decision-makers to lose out on potential gains because they are not

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willing to take reasonable risks. Instead, decision-makers will often favor the status quo or lower risks in order to preserve what they have. Why does this happen? In part it is because people make some decisions unconsciously and automatically, which Kahneman (2011) subsequently called System 1 thinking. For example, if we flip a coin three times and each time it comes up heads, and someone asks us quickly to say what the next flip will be, we answer automatically: most individuals would quickly guess tails. We have an expectation for variety shaping our prediction, we are looking for a pattern, and it seems like tails will come next (Kahneman, 2011). However, if we gave the individual a few minutes to think about it, they would likely realize the chance of coming up heads is the exact same as the chance of coming up tails, regardless of the previous flips. This second, slower, and more deliberative form of decision-making is what Kahneman (2011) called System 2 thinking. System 1 thinking happens very quickly, like a gut reaction, much like ducking when a ball is thrown at you (Thaler & Sunstein, 2008). As a way to organize that process, human beings adopt and/or act using heuristics or simplifying strategies (Simon & Newell, 1974; Tversky & Kahneman, 1974). These “rules of thumb” inform quick decisions and tend to lead to biases that spur irrational decisions. One example of such bias is the tendency of decision-makers to use availability heuristics, where they interpret the likelihood of current or future events based on what information they can recall in memory and/or how emotionally charged the memories are (Tversky & Kahneman, 1973). This causes a bias wherein the information the decision-maker can recall is more important than it should be in the overall judgment. Based on availability heuristics, if an individual sees a car accident on the way home and then later has to guess whether accidents are increasing or not, they are inclined to guess accidents are increasing based on that memory (Kahneman, 2011). There are many such shortcuts, rules of thumb, and/or heuristics that cause individuals to make suboptimal decisions without even realizing they are doing so. In addition, a great body of social science work shows that human beings enact social norms and social role expectations that disadvantage women and BIPOC individuals in evaluation without even realizing they are doing so (Banaji & Greenwald, 2013; Glick et al., 1988). Although System 1 thinking can also allow decision-makers to bring creativity, humor, and intuition to a decision context, like reading body language or emotions in a room (Norris & Epstein, 2011), most efforts to reduce racial and gender biases in organizations and society focus on getting individuals to do more System 2 thinking. Promoting System 2 thinking is not easy because many of the decisions we make in organizations are done quickly and without complete information. Decisionmakers are more likely to engage in automatic, System 1 thinking when they have incomplete information and/or are rushed in deciding (Banaji & Greenwald, 2013; Kahneman, 2011). Also, when there is little accountability or feedback surrounding the decision and/or uncertainty in the decision-making process, our System 1 “shortcut” thinking is more likely to take over (Selinger & Whyte, 2011; Thaler & Sunstein, 2008; Tversky & Kahneman, 1974). In addition, people are more likely to make decisions that are easy rather than hard. They may unconsciously be

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influenced by the choices peers make, even if those choices do not produce optimal outcomes (Service & Gallagher, 2017; Thaler & Sunstein, 2008). Such conditions are routinely present in faculty decisions regarding admissions (Milkman et al., 2015; Posselt, 2016) and hiring (Steinpreis et al., 1999), divisions of labor (O’Meara et al., 2017a, b), and in attribution of credit on research projects (Sarsons, 2015), among other examples. Realizing the tendency for decision-makers to enact heuristics and engage in System 1 thinking that causes suboptimal decisions, behavioral economists consider how to alter the contexts within which individuals make decisions. Like an architect who draws blueprints for a new building and considers how a window or wall will affect the light in a room, choice architects examine how contexts around a decision shape individual choice(s) (Thaler & Sunstein, 2008). For example, how might an email from a beloved principal reminding a family that the FAFSA form is due in a week influence the likelihood the form will be completed? The choice architecture is the set up around that action, and without the reminder, the family might forget. Individual decision-making is responsive to the design of choices and to “nudges” that encourage us in one direction or another. Thaler and Sunstein (2008) are the authors of nudge theory, which they popularized in their book, Nudge: Improving Decisions about Health, Wealth and Happiness. In the next section we explore the nature, kinds, limitations, and possibilities of nudges.

Nudges in Organizations and Education What exactly is a nudge? Nudges are small changes made in the context surrounding a decision that help individuals voluntarily make better decisions and promote better choices (Damgaard & Nielsen, 2018; Selinger & Whyte, 2011; Thaler & Sunstein, 2008). One of the ways nudges do this is to remove barriers in the way of the better decision. In the example above, the family may not have someone who attended college before, and/or the family may be worried about completing the form correctly and therefore procrastinated doing it. They are busy, and completing this form is not as important as other things happening in their environment. The reminder nudge brings the deadline into view, and with some urgency, making it more likely to grab their attention and be completed. Also, because the form was sent by someone the family respects, the task takes on different salience. Behavioral design is a process of designing such alterations in the environment around a task or decision and then empirically testing whether it has the intended outcome (e.g., more families complete the FAFSA if they received the nudge than if they did not; Bohnet, 2016). Governments, organizations, nonprofits, and individuals use nudges to improve overall performance toward goals and to reduce the enactment of implicit biases (Service & Gallagher, 2017; Thaler & Sunstein, 2008). For the purposes of this chapter, it is helpful to outline characteristics of successful nudges and distinguish what nudges are and what they are not (Table 1 summarizes these key characteristics of nudges). First, nudges by definition protect free choice. Thaler and Sunstein (2008) further defined nudges as “alter[ing] people’s behaviors in a predictable way without

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Table 1 Successful and unsuccessful nudges Nudges are successful when. . . Targets have a choice to accept or reject the nudge

Targets receive a clear benefit (e.g., reducing economic or social scarcity) from accepting the nudge The problem the nudge addresses is somewhat simple and/or binary (e.g., save for retirement or do not) Nudge is low cost and easy to implement

Targets view the nudge architect to be part of their group and/or is respected or valuable The nudge lessens/reduces the barriers that produced poor decision-making

Nudges are less successful when. . . Targets perceive the nudge as a paternalistic reform or pressure that undermines free will and intrinsic motivation (or in higher education, faculty autonomy and academic freedom) The nudge goes against strong norms, values, or beliefs (or in higher education, socialization) The nudge is too complicated, creates confusion for the target audience, or is trying to change “hearts and minds” The efficacy of the nudge is counteracted by other onerous tasks or processes (i.e., “sludge”) Targets perceive the nudge architect to be from an outgroup The nudge architect assumes a decision will change subconscious/passive decision-making when in fact that decision was made actively (i.e., misdiagnoses the barriers)

forbidding any options or significantly changing their economic incentives” (Thaler & Sunstein, 2008, p. 6). Nudges differ from policy mandates, laws, and requirements in that they are intended to “steer people in particular directions” but still allow them to go their own way (Sunstein, 2014, p. 583). The protection of free choice in nudges aligns with the idea of intrinsic motivation (Deci et al., 1989). Research shows that better performance on complex tasks (McGraw, 1978), greater job satisfaction (Deci et al., 1989), and greater creativity (Amabile, 1987) emerge from self-determined behavior rather than from extrinsic motivators (e.g., punishments; Amabile et al., 1976; Deci et al., 1989). In addition, communications that connote control through the use of words such as “should” can negatively affect motivation (Ryan, 1982; Ryan et al., 1983). In contrast, expressions of appreciation and positive feedback as forms of extrinsic reward may result in fostering motivation to engage in a task (Ryan et al., 1983). As such, if a provost requires faculty members to give students the option of pass/fail grading at the end of a semester where courses were taught online, it is not a nudge. That is, any faculty member who does not offer the pass/fail option could be potentially punished for noncompliance, and they would have to take conscious actions to resist. Second, nudges operate under the assumption of liberal paternalism (Thaler & Sunstein, 2003, 2008), which is the notion that a nudge must have clear benefits to the target(s). This idea assumes that there are some “simple rules-of-thumb about how to lead a good life,” (Mills, 2020), even if the precise benefits of the nudge for each individual are not determined. For instance, nudges may steer faculty members toward adopting high-impact pedagogies generally speaking but may not specify

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how many practices an individual faculty member adopts. Furthermore, we can imagine many ways advertisers might leverage concepts from nudges to encourage people to purchase unproven or ineffective products that have little to no benefits. These are not nudges. The main point here is that nudges are aimed toward things that align with people’s existing values, beliefs, or desires to make better decisions (e.g., be effective teachers) but are often difficult to do given the immediate choice environment (e.g., lack of training). Nudges are not intended to manipulate or bamboozle individuals into doing things that they clearly do not want to do and that are not beneficial. Third is the idea that nudges seek to tweak the design of smaller choice sets and thus lead to “small wins” (Correll, 2017). That is, nudges are successful when the problem they are trying to address is simple and/or binary (e.g., completing or not completing a FAFSA), not complex or overly complicated (e.g., changing the entire culture of a department). Nudges are not generally about changing hearts and minds toward a new goal, though their outcomes can have big impacts and ultimately shape long-term behaviors. For example, nudge advocates often cite the success of blind orchestra auditions, wherein musicians perform behind a screen so that evaluators would not know their gender, in increasing the rate at which women were hired into orchestras (Goldin & Rouse, 2000). The purpose of this intervention was not to make the evaluators themselves less biased, but rather to remove the extent to which their bias could play a role as they evaluated performers. Fourth, Thaler and Sunstein (2008) point out that nudges should be low cost and easy to implement. For example, implementing an intensive leadership development program for faculty members that meet weekly is not a nudge. Although such a program would likely shape faculty members’ thinking and their choices and behavior in the future, it is more expensive in effort and time and requires a series of recurring agreements. It is not cheap and easy to pull off. In contrast, sending faculty information on the average time to degree of their doctoral students versus the average time to degree among doctoral students in the department could be a nudge because it is a one-time event meant to inform future thinking and behavior. Such information-sharing is not that expensive, and the faculty member could technically decide to ignore the information. Fifth, the most successful informational or norming nudges come from authorities respected and valued by the participants (Supiano, 2019; Thaler & Sunstein, 2008). Mols et al. (2015) argued that people will respond differently to nudge messages depending on whether the source of the nudge shares some aspect of their social identity. For example, one study found that public safety messages targeted at young drivers were ineffective when recipients perceived that the source of the message was not a young person (McGarty et al., 1994). In other words, social group categorizations such as gender, race, disciplinary affiliation, or employment status may shape the efficacy of nudges and make them more or less useful in different contexts. For instance, given the decentralized nature of many universities and reward systems geared toward researchers, nudges meant to encourage faculty teaching sent by a central administrator may not be accepted. In contrast, a nudge that is endorsed by a disciplinary society, department chair, or dean may be better received.

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Sixth and finally, nudges assume a choice architect has fully diagnosed the heuristics, biases, and other factors shaping a particular decision, so that the nudge can effectively decrease “frictions” and make it easier to make the better decision (Castleman & Page, 2014; Thaler & Sunstein, 2008; Mills, 2020). Frictions in this case refer to what is keeping someone from the desired decision (Mills, 2020). When a choice architect puts a nudge in place to reduce frictions for taking the desirable option, they simultaneously will almost always increase “sludge” around the less desirable options (Mills, 2020). Said another way, sludge is the stuff that makes good decisions harder (Mills, 2020; Sunstein, 2019; Thaler, 2018;). Thus, an effective nudge diagnoses and lessens the strength of sludge or changes the conditions that activate a social or cognitive bias. A commonly used example is when you have to take ten steps to unsubscribe from a magazine. In this scenario, the choice architecture is arranged to make it hard for a person to get out of the subscription. The person is more likely to default to the easier route, which is to just keep the magazine subscription (Rajamäki, 2018; Soman, 2015). In this case, the “sludge” is the steps to unsubscribe, and frictions are the frustrations associated with the steps. Returning to faculty affairs, if a university wanted to encourage a faculty member to rely less on GRE scores in graduate admissions, they could place candidate GRE information in a different file (i.e., the sludge) that is harder to get to than other candidate application materials, thereby creating more work (i.e., friction) to find that information. This would be a nudge toward using a holistic admissions approach, by enacting sludge around use of the GRE as the deciding factor. The faculty member, however, could still look up the scores if they so choose. Having further defined what is and is not considered a nudge and how nudges work, we turn next to kinds of nudges.

Kinds of Nudges An extensive literature review by Damgaard and Nielsen (2018) provides an overview of 13 different kinds of nudges that have been used and studied within educational contexts (primarily K-12): defaults, framing, peer group manipulations, deadlines, goal setting, reminders, information, assistance, boosting skills, social comparison, extrinsic motivation (nonfinancial), social belonging and identity activation, and mindset nudges (see Table 2). As a reminder, we refer to the individual creating a nudge as a choice architect because they are designing new contexts within which someone is making decisions (Thaler & Sunstein, 2008). Take the example of promoting healthy eating. Imagine that a large grocery store chain has partnered with a local public health agency. Both organizations want to encourage shoppers to buy more fruits and vegetables, with the goal of promoting better health and reducing obesity in the community. They want an intervention that is low cost (not just giving away the food), relatively low effort (not a cooking class), and scalable (easy to implement for all people who come into the store). They also want a strategy that could potentially encourage participants to eat healthy in the long-term. Leaders from both organizations consider several different ways they might change a

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Table 2 Nudges and examplesa

Type of nudge intervention 1. Defaults: Alter the “automatic” option with which participants are presented, change the order in which information is presented

Promoting good health by nudging people toward buying more fruits and vegetables at the grocery store When shoppers arrive at the grocery, they receive a cart that already has fruits and vegetables in it. They can remove the items if they choose

2. Framing: Manipulate the way information is presented or how information is labeled

Fruit and vegetables are presented at eye level in displays throughout the store, with unhealthier option in places that are more difficult to reach (Adams et al., 2016), or fruits and vegetables are placed at the checkout counter instead of candy

3. Peer group manipulation: Increase peer interactions to improve individual sense of belonging, norm certain sets of behaviors, or facilitate the transfer of skills

Shoppers who typically purchase more unhealthy foods shop at the same time as shoppers who typically purchase more fruits and vegetables

4. Deadlines: Create interim deadlines and implement commitment devices

Shoppers are prompted to schedule the fruits and vegetables they will eat with each meal, and then those fruits and vegetables are added to their shopping list Before entering the store, shoppers are asked to commit to buying a certain number of fruits and vegetables

5. Goal setting: Set goals as a way to change internal reference points and promote internal commitment

6. Reminders: Refocus attention to certain decisions or tasks

At the checkout, shoppers receive a reminder if they have not purchased any fruits or vegetables

Higher education example Prior to 1997, the ACT allowed students to send their scores to three institutions at no cost. After 1997, students were allowed to send their scores to four schools at no cost, thereby widening the number of colleges students applied to and decreasing the likelihood of undermatching (Pallais, 2015) Financial aid packages were framed in two different ways: one as a loan and one as tuition waiver (though the monetary value and stipulations for accepting either the loan or waiver were the same). Students were more likely to accept the tuition waiver and more likely to enroll (Field, 2015) Researchers found students with lower SAT scores and lower class ranks had higher than expected GPAs when they were randomly assigned roommates who had higher SAT scores and higher class rank (Sacerdote, 2001) Students were asked to schedule the time they would view course content each week (Baker et al., 2016b)

Researchers asked students to set task or performance-based goals. Students who set taskbased goals performed better on exams compared to those who set performance-based goals (Clark et al., 2017) Families received text message reminders about FAFSA filing deadlines (Castleman & Page, 2014) (continued)

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Table 2 (continued)

Type of nudge intervention 7. Information: Add information to give context or promote positive behaviors

Promoting good health by nudging people toward buying more fruits and vegetables at the grocery store On a sign in front of the fruits and vegetables, information related to the benefits of healthy eating (e.g., for energy, mental health, weight loss) are prominently displayed

8. Assistance: Provide oneon-one assistance or coaching

Shoppers are assigned a oneon-one coach who helps them select fruits and vegetables while they are in the store

9. Boosting skills: Raise awareness of possible biases and teach skills that might reduce their impact

Shoppers receive a one-page guide on the quantity and variety of fruits and vegetables to buy for different family size(s) and dietary preferences (e.g., a vegetarian family of 4 versus a meateating family of 8) On a sign in front of the fruits and vegetables, there are statistics that indicate the percentage of people who bought fruit and vegetables (e.g., 95% of shoppers bought these apples last week)

10. Social comparison: Provide information that allows individuals to compare and benchmark themselves to others

11. Extrinsic motivation: Tie behaviors to rewards/ disincentives (nonfinancial)

Shoppers who purchase fruits and vegetables receive a reusable grocery bag

Higher education example To reduce the tendency for students to “undermatch” and enroll at less selective institutions, high achieving, low-income students received fee waivers and information on selective colleges (Hoxby & Avery, 2012) Students were randomly assigned to a student coaching service that provided them with guidance and skillbuilding (e.g., time management). Students who were assigned a coach persisted at higher rates during the treatment period and were more likely to be enrolled at college 1 year after the coaching program ended (Bettinger & Baker, 2014) Students received a primer on how to set realistic goals related to academic their performance (Morisano et al., 2010)

To increase the number of college graduates who accepted positions with Teach for America, researchers added a line to admissions letters that said “last year more than 84% of admitted applicants made the decision to join the corps,” which increased the likelihood of acceptance (Coffman et al., 2017) N/A

(continued)

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Table 2 (continued)

Type of nudge intervention 12. Social belonging and identity activation: Activating sense of belonging, typically around some aspect of group identity

13. Mindset nudges: Altering participants orientations (e.g., growth mindset) toward the behavior

Promoting good health by nudging people toward buying more fruits and vegetables at the grocery store As shoppers move around the store, video testimonials from people who have successfully improved their health by eating more fruits and vegetables play

Shoppers are given information that emphasizes the role of diet (rather than genetics) in health

Higher education example To increase the number of women majoring in economics, women students who received grades at the median distribution received messages that acknowledged their success and encouraged them to major in economics (Li, 2018) College students receive messages that normalize the struggle to fit in in early college and highlight older students who have successfully established a sense of belonging at their institution (Yeager et al., 2016)

a

Taxonomy of nudges slightly. Adapted from Damgaard and Nielsen’s (2018) review of nudges in education

shopper’s experience to facilitate the purchase of healthy foods (each of these nudges is summarized in Table 2, column 2). For example: • They consider changing the way the food is presented, placing healthy foods at eye level, and putting unhealthy foods in harder to reach places (a framing nudge) (Adams et al., 2016). • They consider having checkout clerks inform shoppers if they have not purchased any fruits and vegetables (a reminder nudge). • They consider giving shoppers a handout when they enter the store about the quantity and variety of fruits and vegetables needed to feed a family of four, six, or eight within different budgets for a week (a boosting skills nudge). • They consider placing a sign in front of certain heathy products that indicate the percentage of shoppers who brought the product in the last week (e.g., 90% of shoppers bought apples; a social comparison nudge). Ultimately, the grocery store and public health agency decide that one of the biggest biases that shape shopper’s purchases is that the healthy foods are not displayed front and center (Adams et al., 2016). They need to make it easier and more enticing to buy healthy foods. Having identified this as the bias shoppers have,

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they decide to go with the framing nudge. They reorganize the shelves to place healthy foods at eye level and put the unhealthy foods in harder to reach places. Although the grocery store example is a simplistic story of how nudges might be identified and put in place, the example illuminates that for any given problem, there are multiple nudges that could be implemented. The key for researchers is identifying the key biases at play and the context-driven elements that might make a nudge work, or fail, in a given environment. Furthermore, choice architects ideally use behavioral design techniques such as randomized control trials to test whether putting the food at eye level is any more successful in getting people to buy fruits and vegetables than if they were not at eye level (Bohnet, 2016). Before this nudge would be scaled up, choice architects would want to make sure it was having the desired effect. In addition, before a government or educational organization invested time and human resources in this intervention, they might also do a follow-up study to make sure the individuals who brought home more fruits and vegetables actually ate them, or if they were instead left to spoil because the consumer did not really want them. Different kinds of nudges also activate different kinds of behavioral changes. Nudges accomplish goals by either inducing active or passive decision-making or changing the decision environment and/or adding to the decision environment (Damgaard & Nielsen, 2018). For example, the first three kinds of nudges in Table 2 (defaults, framing, and peer group manipulation), which are among the more popular nudges, work subconsciously to change the decision environment in small ways rather than promoting active decision-making. In comparison, deadlines, goal setting, and reminder nudges add something to the existing environment. Participants react to this new content, thereby engaging in active decision-making. Informational nudges, assistance, and boosting skills likewise add something new to the environment that was not there previously and encourage active decisionmaking. Social comparison nudges and extrinsic motivation add something to the decision environment (e.g., a reward or desire to be consistent with another group). Finally, psychological nudges, like increasing social belonging and reshaping mindset, try to change behavior subconsciously not just in the immediate context but often into the future. Damgaard and Nielsen (2018) pointed out which of these different kinds of nudges tend to focus more on active versus passive decisionmaking and note whether each kind of nudge changes or adds something to the environment. However, they also pointed out a nudge can often do several things simultaneously. For example, in some cases a single nudge could enact subconscious decision-making and conscious decision-making. A nudge could alter existing conditions and add to the decision-making environment. A nudge could bring new information into an environment and try to shape behavior through a social comparison. For the purposes of this paper, we employ Damgaard and Nielsen’s (2018) typology to help us think about the range of nudges that could be used by choice architects to shape faculty affairs and work. Because nudges are designed to mitigate people’s use of heuristics that are unhelpful in making decisions (e.g., loss aversion, status quo bias, mindlessness; Kahneman, 2011; Tversky & Kahneman, 1973,

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1974), we will reference heuristics that may be at play, as relevant, in discussing nudges throughout the chapter. Who in higher education might enact nudges? Typically, social scientists will partner with academic and student affairs leaders and/or faculty members to design and test nudges. For example, an admissions office might partner with behavioral economists to design and test a nudge related to completion of financial aid forms. A counseling center might partner with colleagues to design and test a social norms nudge related to reducing student binge drinking. Unfortunately, to date only a limited number of higher education nudges have been fully tested for their efficacy using behavioral design techniques.

Potential Limitations of Nudges in the Academic Workplace Within higher education, the most common nudges employed and studied have focused on improving student-related outcomes such as increasing the use of financial aid or improving educational performance. For example, researchers sent college freshman a series of personalized text message reminders related to FAFSA refiling (Castleman & Page, 2014). Text recipients were nearly 12 percentage points more likely to persist into the fall of their sophomore year of college compared to students who did not receive a message (Castleman & Page, 2014). Likewise, institutions use nudges to improve student grades via roommate selection (Sacerdote, 2001; Zimmerman, 2003), increase student use of peer tutoring (Pugatch & Wilson, 2018), provide support for nontraditional students through advising (Arnold et al., 2015; Bettinger & Baker, 2014), and influence good borrowing decisions (Marx & Turner, 2017). Recent reviews of behavioral economics interventions in education overall suggest that such nudges offer much promise within higher education settings (Castleman et al., 2015). However, there has been work showing that nudges do not work equally in all student sectors. Oreopoulus and Petronijevic (2019) conducted a study with nearly 25,000 undergraduate students using promising online supports and text messages. Though they found some improvement in mental health and study time, they found no improvements in college achievement. Likewise, when some nudges were “scaled up” to larger groups of students, the positive effect was not as strong or disappeared. For example, the College Board attempted to replicate the success of an earlier effort by Hoxby and Turner (2013), who had experienced success in getting high-performing low-income students to apply to universities with high selectivity. Yet, done at scale, the intervention did not render the same positive results (Supiano, 2019). Although research suggests nudges hold promise in changing faculty behavior and decisions made in the academic workplace, most of the research to date has been done with college students. There are aspects of the academic workplace that may make faculty members less amenable to nudges. Perhaps the most important backdrop or context shaping whether or not nudges will be useful with faculty are norms and autonomy. Norms represent shared beliefs within a particular social or

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professional group that define expected or desired behavior in a given situation or circumstance (Gibbs, 1981; Rossi & Berk, 1985). Put differently, norms prescribe and proscribe patterns of behavior (Merton, 1973), and as such, they provide guidelines for appropriate and inappropriate faculty role performance(s). Norms set goals and values of leadership positions and provide moral boundaries for professional choices (Braxton, 2010). Normative structures exist for both research (Merton, 1973; Zuckerman, 1988) and teaching role performance at the undergraduate (Braxton & Bayer, 1999) and graduate levels (Braxton et al., 2011). Norms within disciplinary fields influence faculty members as members of a profession. Norms specific to an individual college or university may exist because of its distinct organizational culture (Broom & Selznick, 1973; Homans, 1950;). Because organizational culture influences the behavior of organizational members (Kuh & Whitt, 1988), norms unique to a given college or university shape decision outcomes. Norms may operate as a form of sludge that cause faculty members to reject nudges. Studies show that when individuals have strong antecedent preferences, they may overcome their tendency toward inertia and reject nudges (Bovens, 2010; Sunstein, 2017). Because faculty members possess considerable autonomy in the performance of both their teaching and research roles, they are free to enact new institutional policies and practices according to their own preferences (Braxton & Bayer, 1999; Braxton et al., 2011). If extant norms do not support the decisions institutions are trying to nudge forward, then nudges may be ineffective (Sunstein, 2017; Tagg, 2012). For example, imagine there is a norm for faculty members to teach a math problem in a certain way in an engineering classroom. This way of teaching was how the faculty member themselves was taught and is how other faculty members in the department tend to teach it. Even if there is a presentation to faculty members about a new, more effective method to teach the math problem, faculty members may default to what they know (e.g., a status quo bias) and not use the new method. In such a case, the sludge, or factors inhibiting use of the new teaching method, is stronger than the strength of the nudge that was designed to support it (Mills, 2020; Thaler, 2018). In all, researchers should consider several issues in designing effective nudges for faculty. First and foremost, it is important to remember how faculty members carry out their roles in academic settings. Faculty members have a great deal of discretion in many of their roles and decision-making (O’Meara, 2020), and faculty socialization to disciplinary logics and institutional norms shape their behavior (Posselt et al., 2020). Second, irrespective of that backdrop, as well as in interaction with it, faculty members are human beings who bring their own social biases and social role expectations to decision-making. Third, and relatedly, some decisions and work settings are too complex to be affected by nudges. Consider two examples. In the first example, a college president learns that new adjunct faculty members have not been signing up for a particular benefit the university offers that is free and would benefit them. The college president works with some colleagues in behavioral economics to study the issue, and they find out that this benefit is not explained very well to adjunct faculty. Not understanding the benefit is free, and what it does, they do not check the box. They decide to change the

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default so that every new faculty member gets the benefit, and the only faculty members who do not get the benefit are those who check a box to opt out. This does not go against any disciplinary logics, it is a fairly simple and binary decision, and the solution reduces the friction caused by not understanding the benefit. However, in the second example, the provost decides that because it has been a difficult semester for students, she is encouraging faculty members to get rid of final exams. However, many faculty members were socialized to see such a decision as one that they should make and one that should not be interfered with by the provost and refuse. The issue is also not a simple one as the nature of some courses includes multiple final exams, and it is not clear which ones to cancel. Furthermore, in some disciplines that value quantitative skills and brilliance, there is resistance because faculty members feel the student will not really have demonstrated excellence and their grades will be meaningless. In this case, the nudge does not work. With these contexts in mind, we began our examination of how these two unique worlds, the academic workplace and the world of nudges, might work together.

Methods The purpose of this chapter is to explore how nudges might help reshape some key areas of faculty careers and decision-making. Consequently, we used both integrative (Cooper, 1982; Torraco, 2016) and narrative approaches (Baumeister & Leary, 1997) to search for, select, and organize the literature in the chapter. Our review was primarily conceptual, that is, we evaluated places where nudges may be useful for improving faculty decision-making and outlined possible nudges that may be effective within and across different faculty contexts. We chose six areas of faculty careers, work, and decision-making to focus on for this review: hiring, promotion and tenure, teaching and learning, work-life integration, workload, and aligning time and priorities. We chose these six areas to focus on because they met several criteria. First, we chose areas where there is significant faculty autonomy and discretion (O’Meara, 2020) built into this aspect of academic work – thus independent decision-making is common. Said another way, we chose areas replete with discretionary space (Ball, 2018; O’Meara, 2020), wherein faculty judgment might be leveraged to better achieve institutional goals and to be equityminded. Thus, if nudged, faculty members have the ability to make different choices, and those choices could have an important impact. Second, we chose areas where social science has revealed System 1 thinking, and shortcut heuristics shape suboptimal decisions. Third, we selected faculty work areas where certain conditions, known to invite biases, such as incomplete information, missing standards, a lack of information, and lack of accountability, are commonplace. Fourth and finally, we examined faculty work areas where the nature of (at least some) the decision-making process seems appropriate for nudging. That is, there are decisions being made in this area wherein nudges are possible and could be influential in shaping more optimal decisions for individual faculty careers and for higher education goals.

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Our research team undertook a multistep literature review process to search for and collect articles about how nudges have been, or might be, used within these faculty work settings. As discussed, we drew from Damgaard and Nielsen’s (2018) literature review of 13 nudges in education to understand the kinds of nudges that could be applied to faculty contexts (Table 2). With these 13 nudges in mind, we looked for articles conducted within the academic workplace wherein researchers specifically named interventions as nudges. One example of such a study is O’Meara et al.’s (2019) examination of a faculty workload intervention which used nudge strategies to promote equity in how department teaching and service tasks are taken up, assigned, and rewarded. The authors found nudges improved perceptions of workload equity (O’Meara et al., 2019). We also looked for studies that described interventions that could be considered nudges but were not explicitly named as such. For instance, some institutions have put in place an “automatic” delay of the tenure clock for faculty after the birth or adoption of a child (Antecol et al., 2018), which is a classic default nudge. Yet such policy reform has rarely been discussed in higher education literature as a nudge. However, we also realized that many nudge-like faculty interventions have not been empirically examined. Thus, to capture recent interventions and strategies, we included reports and institutional practices and policies that have not yet been examined in the peer-reviewed literature (e.g., discussed in Inside Higher Ed, The Chronicle of Higher Education, institutional reports, or other higher education popular press sites). For example, we included a description by Supiano (2019) of a nudge attempted by California State University wherein professors were sent information about success rates of their students by demographic categories. We categorized these interventions and strategies into the kinds of nudges they could be considered (e.g., information nudge, social comparison nudge) and explored outcomes that institutions that have deployed such nudges have experienced. Last, we considered the future and promises of nudges in each work category. To do so, we drew from innovative practices, reforms, and nudges that have not yet been applied to faculty contexts. For example, one nudge study found that voters who receive messages that voter turnout was expected to be high were more likely to vote compared to voters who received messages that turnout was expected to be low (Gerber & Rogers, 2009), an example of a positive social comparison nudge. Insight from this nudge could be translated into faculty interventions that promote the uptake of positive faculty behaviors (e.g., the uptake of high-impact practices in teaching). Thus, in each section of the chapter, we described potential nudges that may facilitate positive outcomes.

Limitations We imposed a few limitations on the scope of this review. First, there is a clear bias in the literature toward understanding the experiences of full-time faculty members. Thus, the nudges explored and suggested in this review are likely more relevant for faculty members in these types of roles. However, given that many faculty members

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are in part-time roles, we also make specific recommendations for how nudges might be differentially applied or deployed to groups of faculty members based on employment status throughout the review and return to these differences in the discussion. Second, because the purpose of our review is conceptual, we do not include effect sizes or analyze methods of past studies of nudges in depth. Third, we recognize that most social biases are reflective of deeply entrenched systems of power, including but not limited to racism, sexism, heterosexism, ableism, and rankism (e.g., de Welde & Stepnick, 2015; Kattari, 2015; Patton et al., 2007; Ray, 2019; Renn, 2010). Nudges represent a “small wins” (Correll, 2017) approach to reforming higher education to be more effective and inclusive and should be considered complementary to, not exclusive of, structural and systematic changes.

Leveraging Nudges to Improve the Academic Workplace Each academic workplace section is organized in the following way. We first introduce each area of the academic workplace and synthesize the literature on the ways in which faculty decision-making may be shaped by shortcut, System 1 thinking and social and cognitive biases. We pay particular attention to cognitive errors that prohibit effective performance and to social biases that constrain the full participation of a diverse faculty. Next, we discuss the extent to which nudges have been used in each area and describe the associated results to date. Last, we identify potential nudges that could be applied in each academic workplace area and consider aspects of the academic workplace (e.g., norms, values, culture) that could constrain faculty uptake of nudges and the contingencies (e.g., employment status, disciplinary paradigms, institutional mission) that should be accounted for when studying the effectiveness of each nudge (Table 3 summarizes the kinds of nudges that have been, or could be, used in the academic workplace). The overall goal of this chapter is to provide a roadmap for researchers hoping to experiment with “what works” (Bohnet, 2016) in behavioral design as applied to the academic workplace. However, identification of these nudge-like reforms is also practical. Academic leaders, those in faculty development positions, and faculty members themselves may find nudges to be useful tools to address pressing problems.

Hiring Although hiring is often studied within organizational and social psychology, only in the last 20 years have researchers applied theories of cognitive and social bias to studies of faculty hiring. Research shows numerous cognitive biases influence how evaluators judge job candidates (Glass & Minnotte, 2010). For instance, anchoring bias (O’Meara et al., 2020b) can play a role in the preliminary hiring stages. Search committees may evaluate curricula vitae (CVs) and observe that the first candidate has four publications. The number four then becomes the “anchor” around which all

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Table 3 Proven and promising nudges in the academic workplace Area of the academic workplace Hiring

Teaching and Learning

Proven nudges or nudge-like interventions Skills boosting: Implicit bias trainings (Devine et al., 2017; Fine et al., 2014; Jackson et al., 2014; LaVaque-Manty & Stewart, 2008; Sheridan et al., 2010; Smith et al., 2015; Stewart et al., 2004; Stewart et al., 2007) Information: Decision-supports tools/ rubrics (Devine et al., 2017; Fine et al., 2014; Moody, 2012; Stewart et al., 2016; White-Lewis, 2020; WhiteLewis et al., 2020) Reminder: Decision-supports tools/ rubrics (Devine et al., 2017; Fine et al., 2014; Moody, 2012; Stewart et al., 2016; White-Lewis, 2020; WhiteLewis et al., 2020 Assistance: Diversity coaches/ advocates; work-life coaches and family advocates (Fine & Handelsman, 2012; Liera, 2018, 2020; Liera & Ching 2020; Liera & Dowd, 2019; Posselt et al., 2020; Smith, 2020; Smith et al., 1996; Smith et al., 2015) Information: Provide students with information regarding the role of bias in teaching evaluations (Boring & Philippe, 2017; Peterson et al., 2019); Providing faculty with data on the performance of students disaggregated by gender and race (Bensimon, 2007; Supiano, 2019)

Promising nudges Framing: Diversity statements and language in job statements Information: Diversity statements and language in job statements; using data as context for search committee decision-making Reminders: Equity charges Defaults: Blind review of CVs, rubrics, and decision-support tools

Information: Provide faculty with data on student meetings with academic advisors, feedback on assignments; provide faculty with data on how other faculty use teaching practices Peer group manipulation: Create teaching development programs that pair highly effective teachers as mentors with lower teaching evaluation scores Social comparison: Provide faculty with data on how other faculty use high impact practices Reminders: Send push notifications to faculty reminding them of teaching workshops Mindsets: Highlight the process by which faculty changed their teaching process, emphasizing growth (continued)

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Table 3 (continued) Area of the academic workplace Promotion and tenure

Proven nudges or nudge-like interventions Goal setting: Annual and third-year reviews Information: Annual and third-year reviews

Work-life integration

Defaults: Automatic parental leave and delay of tenure (Antecol et al., 2018)

Workload

Information: Work activity dashboards (Athena Forum, 2018; O’Meara et al., 2018, 2021a) Social comparison: Work activity dashboards (Athena Forum, 2018; O’Meara et al., 2019) Deadlines: Creating syllabi for workload reform plan (O’Meara et al., 2021a) Skills boosting: Implicit bias trainings (O’Meara et al., 2018) Defaults: Planned workload rotations (Erez et al., 2002; O’Meara et al., 2018)

Promising nudges Information: Instructions for reviewers; decision-support tools/ rubrics Reminders: Equity charges; decisionsupport tools/rubrics Assistance: equity advocate Boosting skills: Equity charge Framing: Altering the way faculty members input information about impact of their research on CVs Defaults: Standardizing CV process Information: Provide faculty with information on the benefits of using parental leave and tenure-delay or the number of faculty who have accessed such policies; include a familyfriendly message in department handbooks Social comparison: Highlight faculty who have used parental leave policies Assistance: Faculty work-life coaches Boosting skills: Department chair and academic leader trainings Defaults: Automated systems wherein faculty who request certain family-related accommodations automatically receive information regarding other work-life resources; automatically enroll faculty members in campus gym membership Social belonging: Invite faculty members to put up pictures of family, hobbies on their office doors or in their Zoom backgrounds Information: Workload dashboards

(continued)

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Table 3 (continued) Area of the academic workplace Aligning time and priorities

Proven nudges or nudge-like interventions Goal setting: workshops (Culpepper et al., 2020a) Information: Tracking time use (Culpepper et al., 2020a) Peer group manipulation: Accountability groups (Brandon et al., 2015; Files et al., 2008; Fleming et al., 2017; Grisso et al., 2017; Noone & Young, 2019; Petrova & Coughlin, 2012; Rickard et al., 2009; Rees & Shaw, 2014; Skarupski & Foucher, 2018; Steinert et al., 2008) Assistance: Writing coaches (Baldwin & Chandler, 2002; Heinrich et al., 2009; Rickard et al., 2009; Sanderson et al., 2012)

Promising nudges Reminders: Text message reminders of writing times and writing goals Information: Provide faculty with periodic information on the benefits of daily writing and information on the habits of highly productive faculty members

other candidates are evaluated, even though the search committee had not previously established that four publications was the standard on which candidates should be judged. Another kind of cognitive bias that shapes faculty hiring is the halo effect (Moody, 2012). That is, a faculty search committee may realize that a candidate comes from a highly ranked doctoral program or was mentored by someone they consider to be highly productive (Posselt, 2016, 2018; Posselt et al., 2020). The search committee may then view this candidate more favorably (i.e., give them a “halo”), even if their qualifications are not as strong. Gender and race-related bias can also influence hiring. There is substantial literature showing faculty members’ perceptions of “hireability” and competence are both gendered and racialized, such that women and Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty are more harshly scrutinized in faculty selection (Eaton et al., 2020; Moss-Racusin et al., 2012; Phelan et al., 2008; Steinpreis et al., 1999). Similar gender and race-related social bias is present in letters of recommendation (Dutt et al., 2016; Madera et al., 2009, 2019; Schmader et al., 2007; Trix & Psenka, 2003), interview evaluation (Blair-Loy et al., 2017), and the evaluation of scholarship (Antonio, 2002; King et al., 2018; Knobloch-Westerwick et al., 2013; Settles et al., 2019). Cumulatively, research in this area shows that many of the factors by which faculty search committees might evaluate candidates are prone to social bias. Such analysis suggests that hiring is an area where decision-making could be improved through the introduction of nudges. With such research in mind, many institutions now implement nudge-like hiring interventions with the aim of reducing the role of implicit social and cognitive biases in the hiring process and increasing the rates at which institutions hire women and Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty members. The most prevalent and well-studied nudge is implicit bias training (Devine et al., 2017; Fine et al., 2014;

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Laursen & Austin, 2020; LaVaque-Manty & Stewart, 2008; Sekaquaptewa et al., 2019; Sheridan et al., 2010; Smith et al., 2015; Stewart, et al., 2004, 2007), which can be considered a skills boosting nudge intended to increase faculty awareness of the prominence of bias within faculty hiring and thus reduce its impact during the search. Several institutions found search committees that participate in implicit bias trainings are more likely to hire women candidates than those who did not participate in training (Devine et al., 2017; Smith et al., 2015) or in comparison to pre-intervention hiring outcomes (Stewart et al., 2004), which suggests this mindset nudge can be effective in reducing bias among search committees. On the other hand, there is emerging evidence that implicit bias trainings, under certain circumstances, do not result in long-term behavior change (Forscher et al., 2019) and can exacerbate rather than mitigate bias in evaluative contexts (Schnabel et al., 2016). For example, Schnabel et al. (2016) found that majority group members exhibited backlash to diversity trainings that presented inequality as a violation of fairness or rights. In other words, the framing used within implicit bias training matters a great deal for its effectiveness. Another nudge that has been applied to faculty hiring is the use of decisionsupport tools or rubrics to structure candidate evaluation – a kind of information and reminder nudge (Devine et al., 2017; Fine et al., 2014; Moody, 2012; Stewart et al., 2016; White-Lewis, 2020; White-Lewis et al., 2020). When evaluators write down, commit to, and are reminded of evaluation criteria prior to reviewing candidate evaluation materials, they are more likely to rely upon the criteria (and not bias) in their evaluations (Uhlmann & Cohen, 2005). Emerging research within faculty hiring suggests that rubrics can be effective to reduce bias and improve efficacy of search committees, but only under certain circumstances (White-Lewis et al., 2020). For example, one qualitative study found rubrics did not mitigate existing biases favoring White and men candidates among search committees because the rubric had criteria regarding publications that advantaged these groups (White-Lewis et al., 2020). In contrast, search committees that gained consensus among members about what each criterion meant and embedded diversity, equity, and inclusion criteria into their rubrics did not show the same bias toward White and/or male groups. Such results indicate that rubrics may be a promising nudge but also suggest that larger studies that compare the presence of certain variables (e.g., types of criteria included, search committee agreement upon criteria) associated with different outcomes (i.e., the diversity of hires) are needed to comprehensively understand how this nudge impacts hiring. Another nudge that institutions use within hiring is the placement of a faculty diversity coach or equity advocate on search committees (Fine & Handelsman, 2012; Laursen & Austin, 2020; Liera, 2018, 2020; Liera & Ching 2020; Liera & Dowd, 2019; Posselt et al., 2020; Smith 1996; Smith et al., 2015) – an assistance nudge. Typically, this advocate is a faculty member who has been trained on issues of diversity, equity, and inclusion in the search process who acts as a kind of equity “checkpoint” (Laursen & Austin, 2020; Posselt et al., 2020) when bias influences the search committee’s evaluation of candidates. For instance, UC Irvine reported that departments who worked with equity advocates experienced a growth in the number

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of women hired (Laursen & Austin, 2020). At the same time, extant research indicates that equity advocates can be undermined because of their identity and/or rank (e.g., junior faculty who are women of color; Liera, 2018). This is consistent with the literature that shows bystanders who intervene as a response to bias/ discrimination are more effective if they are from the majority group as compared to a bystander from the target group (e.g., a White person intervening when someone makes a racist joke is “more effective” than a Black person intervening; Czopp & Monteith, 2003; Kutlaca et al., 2020). More research on the effectiveness of equity or diversity advocates is needed to determine the wide-scale efficacy of this nudge and the potential impacts. Some new hiring practices could be considered nudges but have not yet been thoroughly tested. For example, some institutions request that job candidates submit diversity statements as part of their application package (Baker et al., 2016a; Carnes et al., 2019; Schmaling et al., 2015, 2019) or require that candidates show they have experience with diversity in their job advertisement (Smith et al., 2004). Such statements could serve as a kind of framing nudge, wherein institutions that request diversity statements signal to candidates that diversity is an important institutional value, thereby enticing candidates with such experiences to apply (Tuitt et al., 2007). Alternatively, diversity statements and diversity qualifications could serve as an information nudge targeted at search committee members, designed to give them specific information about the ways in which candidates will contribute to departmental diversity. Second, many institutions, as part of affirmative action requirements, require search committees to receive an “equity charge,” wherein they are reminded about the institution’s commitment to diversity as well as federal, state, and local guidelines for fair interviewing practices (e.g., University of Michigan, 2018). Such charges may be considered a reminder nudge, asking committees to refocus their attention on these aspects of their work. Third, several institutions provide search committees with an information nudge in the form of demographic data on past hiring trends at the institution, the department’s past hiring pools, and/or the field/discipline (Laursen & Austin, 2020; Sturm, 2006; University of Michigan, 2018). This information nudge is intended to provide a benchmark for committees about whether their recruitment efforts garner less, similar, or more diversity than past searches. Such information nudges moreover give department chairs and hiring officials information on whether the search committee has done its due diligence in recruiting diverse candidates. While promising, there is not enough evidence to definitively establish the efficacy of these nudges in changing hiring decisions and outcomes (O’Meara et al., 2020a). Several proven nudges that have been used outside of higher education may be promising for improving faculty hiring decisions to be more effective and equitable. For example, when evaluators do not know the gender or race of job applicants, they are less likely to engage social biases in their evaluation of candidacy as was the case in an often-cited study of masked orchestra interviews (Goldin & Rouse, 2000). In more recent practices, technology companies in Silicon Valley, known for their lack of diversity, have deployed similar masked resume evaluation strategies and found they are more likely to increase the diversity of those hired (Kuncel et al., 2014).

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These results therefore suggest that institutions could reduce bias in hiring by changing the default settings around curricula vitae review, such that search committee members review “masked” curricula vitae (i.e., names, doctoral institutions removed). Still, there are challenges with this intervention that are unique to the academy. Peer-reviewed publications are, of course, not masked. Disciplinary networks in many fields are relatively close-knit, such that search committees may be able to discern who a candidate is based on their collaborators or topic of inquiry. Changes to the default settings for masked review would therefore require substantial thought. Several factors limit the deployment of nudges on faculty hiring decisions. Of course, hiring decisions are largely determined by relevant federal, state, local, and institutional human resources and equal employment practices. Researchers may have limited ability in gaining access to search committee deliberations and systematically ensuring that nudge interventions are taken up in the same way by all search committees participating in the intervention. Also, more and more faculty are now hired into contingent roles where they are less likely to be hired within the “traditional” process (Lounder, 2015) but instead by a single hiring official. Search committees and department may be particularly resistant to nudges that they perceive to interfere with their autonomy (Isaac et al., 2016; Laursen & Austin, 2020; Sensoy & DiAngelo, 2017) or threaten their ability to hire in the future (Laursen & Austin, 2020; Wolf-Wendel et al., 2003). Nudges that leverage faculty predisposition toward using evidence and information to spur behavior may therefore be the most effective in improving hiring. Furthermore, given the role of disciplinary norms in hiring (Laursen & Austin, 2020), nudges should also be customized to leverage, rather than subvert, disciplinary practices. For instance, it may be useful to have equity coaches who trained in the physical sciences to work with search committees in certain STEM fields, rather than have an advocate from a social science field who is less familiar with disciplinary norms. Overall, our review indicates there is significant research on the ways that biases undermine effectiveness and equity in faculty hiring contexts. Moreover, hiring is an area in which many institutions have deployed nudge-like interventions – but results are mixed. Often, hiring nudges are deployed alongside other strategic faculty recruitment initiatives, making their efficacy difficult to isolate (O’Meara et al., 2020a; White-Lewis et al., 2020). We need more studies that examine the effectiveness of a single hiring nudge (e.g., a search committee that uses a rubric compared to a search committee that does not) using behavioral design methods. Furthermore, most hiring nudges to date focus on adding something new to the choice environment to promote active decision-making (e.g., adding rubrics so that faculty members will actively use the criteria to evaluate candidate rather than passively use their gut reactions). However, faculty members could still avoid such active nudges and/or operationalize their biases within said nudges (i.e., a rubric could include criteria that are more often associated with candidates from the Ivy League, not HBCUs). Thus, greater attention could be paid to altering the choice architecture to nudge at a more subconscious level. For instance, given that most institutions use technological platforms to collect application materials and track application

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processes, institutions might consider altering the default settings (e.g., removing candidate names from CVs for first level review) that surround how search committees evaluate candidate materials. Such an intervention could also be easily scaled up, across an institution, if proven effective. In all, hiring represents an area primed for more nudge-liked interventions on both large (i.e., institutional level) and small scales (i.e., department or search committee level). Also, consideration could be given to altering the choice architecture so that bias is mitigated automatically or subconsciously (i.e., removing candidate information) rather than relying upon more active approaches (i.e., asking individual faculty members to use rubrics).

Teaching and Learning A persistent problem facing higher education and faculty work is that we now know much more about what constitutes good teaching and learning than ever before, but faculty do not adopt much of what we have learned (Kuh et al., 2013; Tagg, 2012). There are several factors that contribute to a lack of progress in this area. Organizational cultures, environments, and rewards systems often do not place a high value on teaching, particularly within the context of promotion and tenure (Paulsen & Feldman, 1995). Disciplinary paradigms may make faculty more or less inclined toward certain teaching methods or reform in undergraduate education (Braxton, 1995; Braxton et al., 1998; Kilgo et al., 2017). To elaborate, faculty members affiliated with academic disciplines with an affinity to improve undergraduate education are more likely to be “primed” for nudges than faculty members in other academic disciplines. Academic disciplines with an affinity to improve undergraduate education include those disciplines classified as soft in their level of paradigmatic development according to Biglan’s (1973) classification schema, such as English, economics, history, political science, and sociology. Such soft disciplines also exhibit a proclivity toward and tend to value student character development, the development of critical thinking skills, student-centered teaching practices, and the use of program review and student assessment to improve undergraduate education (Braxton et al., 1998; Kilgo et al., 2017). Moreover, soft academic disciplines show an inclination to respect the diversity of their students and diverse ways of knowing (Braxton et al., 1998), and not coincidentally some faculty are more comfortable integrating aspects of diversity into their courses and display more or less cultural competence (Milem & Hakuta, 2000; Park & Denson, 2009). Given this, faculty from some academic disciplines may be more receptive to teaching and learning nudges and nudges related to diversity as they align with preexisting disciplinary values. Furthermore, faculty can be targets of (Alberts et al., 2010; El-Alayli et al., 2018; MacNell et al., 2015; Mitchell & Martin, 2018; Rosen, 2017; Storage et al., 2016) and perpetuators of (Solorzano et al., 2000) bias in the classroom, thereby shaping student-faculty interactions in ways that potentially undermine student learning and faculty efficiency. In recent years, academic leaders and faculty developers have attempted several nudges to affect how faculty think about their students and teaching. For example,

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California State University leaders sent faculty a link to student success dashboards. Faculty could click and see the courses in their major with the largest GPA gaps between first generation and non-first generation students (Gold et al., 2020). This informational nudge sought to shape faculty interest in student success and commitment to reduce equity gaps. In another study, researchers sent students a brief statement that acknowledged the reality of implicit bias, which students read before completing faculty teaching evaluations (Peterson et al., 2019). Although this reminder nudge targeted students, not faculty, this nudge was effective in reducing the gender bias that typically shapes teaching evaluations for women faculty. Although the Equity Scorecard Project described by Bensimon (2007) is a much more extensive process of socializing educators to become equity-minded, there are parts of their efforts that are quite nudge-like. The Equity Scorecard Project leaders engage small groups of faculty and other practitioners in teams to examine student data disaggregated by race and ethnicity and other identities (Bensimon, 2007)). Bensimon (2007) observed that a critical aspect of this project is getting faculty to look at data from their own classes and programs and see differences in experiences they did not see before, a sort of informational nudge. Likewise, Bombardieri (2019) described an equity-minded teaching nudge wherein faculty from Pasadena City College changed late work policies and saw better student outcomes shortly after – another kind of information nudge. Nudges also hold some salience in institutional efforts regarding teaching conditions and student-faculty interactions. Contingencies for the efficacy of nudges include supportive norms and the disciplinary affiliation of faculty members. For example, research has shown norms exist on many campuses that are supportive of good academic advisement (systematic program of advisement), classroom climate (fostering of an egalitarian and tolerant classroom climate), and faculty assessment of student performance (feedback on student performance; Braxton et al., 1996). We can therefore imagine teaching and learning nudges working synergistically with some of these existing norms. For example, imagine a new college president comes into an institution and strengthens already strong norms of student centeredness. In such a case when the teaching and learning center nudges faculty to participate in professional development to improve student advising skills, the nudge is riding a wave that already supports and values this activity. Moreover, another potential foci of nudges pertains to motivating faculty members to adopt high-impact teaching practice. To elaborate, Chickering and Gamson (1987) delineated the seven principles of good practice in undergraduate education, based upon a strong body of research on effective teaching (Sorcinelli, 1991). These high-impact practices include the encouragement of faculty-student interactions in and out of the classroom, the encouragement of active learning in their students, the communication of high expectations for students, demonstration of respect for diverse talents and ways of knowing of students, encouragement of cooperation among students, provision of prompt feedback, and time on task (Chickering & Gamson, 1987). Many centers for teaching try to nudge faculty members to use highimpact practices. For instance, institutions create teaching dashboards (information and social comparison nudges) that contain data on high-impact practices faculty use

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in different colleges and across the institution. Likewise, institutions engage in teaching development programs wherein faculty members who have adopted such practices and were evaluated as effective are paired as peer mentors with faculty who were not yet successful in doing so, a kind of peer manipulation nudge. However, the efficacy of these nudges may vary across faculty members in different academic disciplines. Faculty members in disciplines with an affinity to improve undergraduate education tend to follow four of the seven principles to a greater degree than faculty members in other academic disciplines (Braxton et al., 1998). These four principles include the encouragement of faculty-student interactions in and out of the classroom, the encouragement of active learning in their students, the communication of high expectations for students, and faculty demonstration of respect for diverse talents and ways of knowing of students. Nudges designed to motivate faculty members to use these four high-impact teaching practices will likely experience more success with faculty members in disciplines with an affinity to improve undergraduate education such as English, economics, history, political science, and sociology. In addition to the disciplinary affiliation of faculty members, the teaching culture of a college or university may also affect the efficacy of nudges. Paulsen and Feldman (1995) observed eight defining characteristics of supportive teaching cultures. In supportive teaching cultures, senior administrators of the college or university espouse a high value and a commitment to teaching. There is frequent interaction among faculty about teaching and a relationship between the evaluation of teaching and tenure and promotion decisions (Paulsen & Feldman, 1995). If these defining characteristics of a supportive teaching culture prevail at a given college or university, the efficacy of nudges to motivate faculty to improve their own teaching seems more likely. Although college and universities with strong teaching cultures may be in less need of nudges that encourage better teaching practices, faculty in these institutional settings may also be more receptive to nudges, should they be deployed. For example, emails to encourage faculty members to engage in professional development to improve student learning, a reminder nudge, might be deployed. Faculty members might be invited to attend teaching colloquia by their faculty colleagues, a peer comparison nudge. Likewise, testimonials that highlight the process in which faculty members changed classroom practices might also nudge faculty members toward adopting a growth perspective toward teaching, a mindset nudge. At the beginning of this section we asserted that we now know much more about what constitutes good teaching and learning than ever before. One source of this knowledge of good teaching and learning stems from the scholarship of teaching and learning (SoTL) given its goal of improving pedagogical practices (Braxton et al., 2002). The scholarship of teaching involves the study of student learning, pedagogical processes, and practices and the sharing of those findings to improve their practice (Hutchings & Shulman, 1999). College faculty might be nudged to study student learning in their own classrooms. For example, some college and university faculty members publish articles in SoTL-focused journals. Nevertheless, most faculty members across the spectrum of 4-year colleges and universities

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(Braxton et al., 2002) and in community colleges (Braxton & Lyken-Segosebe, 2015) do not publish the outcomes of their SoTL-focused work, even though they are active in this area (Braxton et al.; Braxton and Lyken-Segosebe, 2015). Encouraging faculty members to publish their efforts in this area in both disciplinary-based and SoTL-focused journals could serve two different purposes. One, publication could be a kind of social belonging and identity nudge, in that articles could activate among faculty readers a sense that studying teaching and learning is something that faculty do. Two, publication might also be considered a mindset nudge, giving faculty readers a sense of empowerment to know that their peers have also undertaken self-study of teaching practice. Colleges and universities seeking to improve the publication levels of their faculty as well as improvements in teaching and learning might offer faculty development workshops designed to assist faculty members in developing manuscripts that describe their unpublished SoTL efforts. Reminder nudges directed toward encouraging faculty members to attend such faculty development workshops might prove efficacious especially for faculty in teaching-oriented colleges and universities as they exhibit a higher level of activity in unpublished SoTL activities than their counterparts in research universities (Braxton et al., 2002). In summary, several backdrops and contingencies make it more likely nudges in the area of teaching and learning will be successful. These contingencies take the form of extant norms supportive of efforts to improve undergraduate education, academic disciplines with an affinity to improve teaching and learning, the strength of an institution’s teaching culture, and the proclivity of faculty members to engage in the scholarship of teaching and learning. The matching of nudges to these contingencies constitutes a challenge to colleges and universities seeking to improve teaching and learning at their institution. The existence of a strong teaching culture constitutes a contingency unto itself as institutions vary in the extent to which they prioritize teaching and learning. We need further research on the kinds of nudges that work best in institutional types with greater and lesser support for teaching.

Promotion and Tenure The tenure and promotion process is one of the most important, but also most criticized, evaluative processes within the academic workplace. Researchers have long identified equity issues within tenure and promotion processes that undermine efforts to diversify the faculty, with fewer women and Black, Brown, and Indigenous at higher ranks across fields and institutional types (e.g., Bilimoria et al., 2008; Carnes & Bairey, 2017; Perna, 2001, 2005; Turner, 2002; Turner and González 2011). In addition, faculty members who have negative experiences with tenure and promotion (no matter the result) may also experience losses in productivity and job satisfaction and may be at greater risk for departure (August & Waltman, 2004; Blackburn & Lawrence, 1995; Jayakumar et al., 2009; Olsen, 1993; Prottas et al., 2017). As such, interventions that reduce biases within these contexts may increase faculty diversity, in addition to making decision-making process more effective.

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Based on this research, our review revealed multiple ways that tenure and promotion processes invite social and cognitive biases. Because promotion and tenure decisions are confidential and researchers typically do not observe the decision-making processes in the “room where it happens,” much of what we know is based on the retrospective experiences of academic leaders and faculty members who are being evaluated. Formalized standards for tenure and promotion are rare and often intentionally vague (Banerjee & Pawley, 2013; Beddoes et al., 2014; Britton, 2010; Buch et al., 2011; Gardner & Blackstone, 2013; Fox, 2015; Laursen & Austin, 2020; Lennartz & O’Meara, 2018; Lisnic et al., 2018; Long et al., 1993; Marshall & Rothgeb, 2011; Tierney & Bensimon, 1996; Rice, 1996; Rice et al., 2000; Wolf-Wendel & Ward, 2006; Williams & Williams, 2006; Youn & Price, 2009). For those on the tenure track, stated tenure and promotion criteria typically require faculty to demonstrate achievement in the areas of research or scholarship, teaching, and service (Clark, 1987; O’Meara 2011), with different emphasis on each varying by institutional type (Chan & Burton, 1995; Diamond, 1993; Wolf-Wendel & Ward, 2006). Yet, criteria often lack specific metrics by which faculty may demonstrate their achievements, and the interpretation of vague criteria may vary widely from unit to unit and even from department member to department member. For instance, in one study, a pre-tenure faculty member described being told by colleagues that she needed 12 publications to achieve tenure, while other colleagues indicated that she needed only a handful (Beddoes et al., 2014). Likewise, institutions may ask that faculty members provide evidence of a national or international reputation when they are submitting dossiers for full professorship but often do not specify the metrics that might indicate that one has achieved such a reputation (Gardner & Blackstone, 2013; Link et al., 2008). Such ambiguity is even more prevalent for contingent faculty members, as many institutions lack formal evaluation processes for renewal of contracts (Baldwin & Chronister, 2001; Hoeller 2014; Kezar & Sam, 2013, 2014; O’Meara, 2015). While all faculty members may find ambiguity surrounding tenure and promotion problematic, women and Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty members are more likely to report lack of clarity in the tenure and promotion process as barriers to success (Austin & Rice, 1998; Beddoes et al., 2014; Fox, 2015; Johnsrud & Atwater, 1993; Johnsrud & Des Jarlais, 1994; Lennartz & O’Meara, 2018; Lisnic et al., 2018; Menges & Exum, 1983; Rausch 1989). A number of factors contribute to these differences. When formal criteria are not available, faculty members may be reliant upon knowledge of departmental and institutional norms regarding what will be considered acceptable (Gonzales, 2013; Youn & Price, 2009). Women and Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty, particularly women of color, often lack access to the networks or mentors that facilitate learning these norms (Bowie, 1995; Carlson, 2008; Essien, 2003; Grant & Simmons, 2008; González, 2007a; Lisnic et al., 2018; Niehaus & O’Meara, 2015; Ponjuan et al., 2011; Schrodt et al., 2003; Warde, 2009). Faculty from these groups are also more likely to experience isolation and negative workplace interactions that may undermine their progress toward tenure and promotion (Atwater, 1995; Bronstein, 1993; Croom, 2017; Grant & Simmons, 2008; Tillman, 2001; Turner et al., 1999).

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Likewise, the social biases of tenure and promotion committee members are more likely to emerge within such ambiguous and foggy contexts. Social bias related to gender and race has been frequently demonstrated in the language evaluators use when reviewing the qualifications of women. For instance, studies show evaluators are more likely to use negative language when evaluating the materials of women candidates (e.g., “she does not have a bad curriculum vitae” as opposed to “he has a good curriculum vitae”; Marchant et al., 2007; Vinkenburg, 2017). Committee members may use vague terms such as “brilliance,” “talent,” or “excellence,” which are more likely to be associated with White and men candidates (Helgesson & Sjögren, 2019; Leslie et al., 2015; Lundberg & Stearns, 2019; Vinkenburg, 2017). Bias related to social role expectations and stereotypes (e.g., women associated with nurturing, White men associated with leadership; expectations that Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty members do diversity-related service) also shapes tenure and promotion decisions (Baez, 2000, 2003; Croom, 2017; Gregory, 2001; Turner, 2002; Turner et al., 1999). For example, institutions that include “leader” in their tenure criteria have fewer women in tenured roles (Marchant et al., 2007). Other studies show that faculty of color, and especially women of color, are expected to do more service and are penalized for “saying no” to service asks, even though the tenure and promotion process rarely rewards such service (Antonio, 2002; Baez, 2000; Griffin et al., 2011a, b, Griffin et al., 2013). Cognitive biases also undermine the effectiveness of tenure and promotion processes. When committee members review curriculum vitae, they may observe that the first candidate has five publications and engage in anchoring, wherein all other candidates are negatively or positively evaluated based on their ability to meet the threshold of five (Gonzales & Griffin, 2020; O’Meara et al., 2020a), regardless of the stated criteria or quality of scholarship. Given the substantial evidence that women and Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty members often have fewer publications (Bendels et al., 2018; Eagan and Garvey 2015; Hopkins et al., 2013; Lubienski et al., 2018; Mendoza-Denton et al., 2017; Pezzoni et al., 2016) and are less likely to have their research funded (Erosheva et al., 2020; Ginther et al., 2011, 2012, 2016; Kolehmainen & Carnes, 2018; Lerchenmueller & Sorenson, 2018) due to structural biases (e.g., access to mentoring and networks, bias related to research areas, etc.), committees may often view the achievements of White men candidates as the “anchor” and more harshly evaluate women and faculty from historically minoritized groups. Finally, tenure and promotion committees are more likely to advance faculty members who have accrued achievements in so-called traditional areas of research and scholarship, demonstrating a bias toward the status quo. Scholars who do community-engaged (Antonio et al., 2000; Antonio, 2002; Glass et al., 2011; Doberneck et al., 2011; O'Meara 2002; O’Meara et al, 2011) and interdisciplinary (Barringer et al., 2020; Benson et al., 2016; Fitzgerald et al., 2018; Holley, 2009; Klein, 2010, 2018; Lattuca, 2001; Lindvig & Hillersdal, 2019; Lyall, 2019; McCoy & Gardner, 2012; Millar, 2013; Pfirman & Martin, 2010; Sá, 2008) research are often disadvantaged within tenure and promotion processes. For example, interdisciplinary scholars often work collaboratively (Benson et al., 2016; Lee & Bozeman, 2005;

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Pfirman & Martin, 2010) and may have fewer single-authored publications, which may be scrutinized in fields wherein single-authored publications are the norm. Furthermore, historically minoritized faculty members, whose research agendas are often deemed to be on the margins of their field or less legitimate by traditional standards, often encounter greater scrutiny or harsher evaluation (Bernal & Villalpando, 2002; Bronstein, 1993; Croom, 2017; Daukas, 2006; Villalpando and Delgado Bernal 2002; Harris, 2007; Dotson, 2012, 2014; Fenelon, 2003; Garza, 1993; Medina & Luna, 2000; Modica & Mamiseishvili, 2010; O’Meara et al., 2018; Settles et al., 2019; Thomas & Hollenshead, 2001; Turner, 2002; Williams & Williams, 2006). Studies show that faculty members of color, especially those who studied issues of racial marginalization, are frequently devalued by colleagues because their scholarship was not well represented in “mainstream” journals, despite having achieved external recognition (e.g., from funders) (Settles et al., 2019; Stanley et al., 2007; Womble, 1995). Furthermore, tenure and promotion structures often do not reward faculty members who have focused their efforts on teaching or service (Fairweather, 1993, 2005; Misra et al., 2011; O’Meara, 2002). Yet those who have emphasized teaching, mentoring, and service are more likely to be women and Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty members (Antonio, 2002; Baez, 2000, 2003; O’Meara et al., 2017a, b). Overall, many of the structures and culture surrounding promotion and tenure decisions invite cognitive and social biases and do not contribute to optimal decision-making. Promotion and tenure is therefore an area of academic workplaces where nudges may be useful for reducing bias against faculty from certain social groups and improving transparency in the process for all. However, promotion and tenure decision-making includes review of many different kinds of data, occurs at multiple institutional levels, and has many facets, such as also knowing the person over 6 years as a colleague. As such, the most effective nudges will focus on particular moments in the review process. Our review uncovered few interventions that might be considered nudge-like and target critical incidents and smaller decision-making points in the process. There are many nudges that could target the context within which tenure and promotion committee members evaluate candidates. Although some institutions have made significant progress in modifying criteria such that promotion and tenure policies better reward multiple forms of scholarship, diversity and inclusion work, and teaching or service (Braxton, 2006; Bunton & Mallon, 2007; Bowers, 2017; Chait, 1998; Klein & Falk-Krzsesinski, 2017; Glassick et al., 1997; Jaeger et al., 2012; O’Meara, 2003, 2006; O’Meara et al., 2011; Saltmarsh et al., 2009; Seifer et al., 2012), policy change alone is not considered a nudge. However, alterations to the way such policy is communicated to committee members and reviewers could be considered nudge-like. First, faculty reviewers could be given concrete information about the criteria they should, and should not, use to evaluate candidates right before they vote (Lennartz & O’Meara, 2018), for instance, within an equity charge. Transparency around standards of evaluation “mitigate the operation of prejudices” and inequity (Beddoes et al., 2014, p. 5; Lennartz & O’Meara, 2018). Such reminder nudges steer committees to use the salient criteria instead of relying upon their

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instinctual reactions to candidate materials or the evaluation context. Other informational nudges also direct reviewers to salient criteria. For example, some institutions instruct reviewers to disregard information about external reviewers who said “no” to serving as letter-writers, as this information is not salient to the promotion and tenure criteria (O’Meara & Lennartz, 2018). Information nudges can also be given to external reviewers. For example, some institutions now give external reviewers explicit instruction that faculty cannot be penalized for taking parental leave. Second, reviewers could use rubrics and decision-support tools, or information nudges, to structure their evaluations (Babcock & Laschever, 2003; Fox et al., 2007; Moss-Racusin et al., 2014; O’Meara et al., 2019). Drawing insight from the research on faculty hiring, rubrics would be developed using the tenure and promotion guidelines given to the candidate and be discussed among committee members (White-Lewis, 2020; White-Lewis et al., 2020). For example, to avoid the tendency of reviewers to focus on the quantity (rather than the quality) of publications as a metric of scholarly productivity or impact, institutions could consider using rubrics that reframe the way committees evaluate a candidate’s “impact.” By requiring reviewers to provide reasons for their assessment of scholarly impact, instead of a more general overall evaluation, there may be less bias in the evaluation (Nadler et al., 2014). Skills boosting, reminder, and assistance nudges may also be effective in reducing bias in promotion and tenure evaluation. For example, it is common practice for tenure and promotion committees to receive an equity charge, wherein committee members are reminded of the rules and procedures that ensure fairness within the review. Yet our review revealed no studies that examined the extent to which such charges promoted better decision-making among committees or shaped decision outcomes. Similar to the hiring studies discussed in the previous section, implicit bias trainings, used in tandem with other interventions, may produce similar positive results within promotion and tenure. By boosting the skills committee members bring to the task of seeing bias, some trainings may lead to fairer evaluation. Similarly, an equity advocate could be placed on a tenure and promotion committee as an assistance nudge. Such advocates could prompt and/or remind committees when criteria are applied in unequal or abstract ways. Likewise, to encourage better evaluation of interdisciplinary scholarship, some institutions now require representatives from multiple departments to be present on review committees (Pollack & Snir, 2008). However, as in hiring, equity advocates may have limited impact on decisions if they are not positioned as having valuable context and contributions to make to committee deliberations (Liera, 2018; Posselt et al., 2020). The format and structure in which faculty members submit tenure and promotion materials could also be enhanced to reduce evaluators’ bias. For example, there are many different ways faculty members may structure their curriculum vitae, often based on disciplinary conventions and institutional norms (Corley et al., 2003). However, because there is a lack of uniformity, tenure and promotion committee members may find it difficult to find certain kinds of information needed for their evaluation and instead rely upon their instinctual, biased responses instead of the

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candidate’s qualifications. Thus, institutions might consider changing the default setting on the way candidates submit CVs by putting in place systems that require more standardized entry of CV data (e.g., number of publications and grants). Likewise, tenure and promotion dossier templates could be amended such that faculty members are automatically given space to explain aspects of their research that evaluation committees may not understand (a framing nudge). For instance, faculty members could be automatically prompted to include in their dossiers a paragraph explanation of how their research has been translated or applied to commercial settings, why their research is not accurately captured within traditional citation indices, or why community-engaged research projects have taken longer to get off the ground compared to faculty with more traditional research agendas (Boardman & Ponomariov, 2007; Cummings & Kiesler, 2005; Klein & FalkKrzesinski, 2017; Pfirman et al., 2011; Pfirman & Martin, 2010). Such framing nudges would provide faculty reviewers with the salient information needed to fairly evaluate the impact and significance of scholarship. This nudge may be of particular importance for faculty members who engage in interdisciplinary, engaged, or other forms of nontraditional research, thereby reducing the “epistemic exclusion” noted by many researchers (e.g., Settles et al., 2019). Other nudges might enhance clarity for faculty members as they work to become tenured or promoted. To give junior faculty members a better sense of their progress toward tenure, most institutions put in place yearly reviews and a formal, third-year review. These reviews are intended to provide pre-tenure faculty members with feedback on their performance, thereby facilitating their ability to successfully move toward tenure (Ambrose et al., 2005; Gmelch et al., 1986; Lawrence et al., 2014; Norman et al., 2006; Seldin, 1987). Such reviews might be considered an information nudge, wherein pre-tenure faculty are given information about the areas on which they need to focus (e.g., getting research funding) to make successful bids for tenure. Reviews might also be considered a goal setting nudge, creating concrete areas of development toward which pre-tenure faculty will move. However, much research suggests that pre-tenure faculty members find third-year and annual reviews to be unstructured and lacking in constructive criticism or concrete feedback (Ambrose et al., 2005; Gmelch et al., 1986; Lawrence et al., 2014; Norman et al., 2006; Seldin, 1987), thereby undermining the purpose of providing valuable information to candidates. Adding structure such as rubrics to guide pre-tenure reviews and providing candidates’ feedback in a more systematic way may improve the utility of third-year review. A number of factors should be considered as researchers design nudges in the area of promotion and tenure. The confidential nature of personnel decisions and multiple variables shaping promotion and tenure decisions make it difficult to test the efficacy of interventions employed. Tenure and promotion criteria vary substantially by discipline, institutional type, ranking, and prestige (Gardner, 2013; Gonzales, 2013; Gonzales & Terosky, 2016; Massy & Wilger, 1995; Jackson et al., 2017; Sanford, 2011; Volk et al., 2001; Véliz & Gardner, 2019; Youn & Price, 2009), meaning there are a number of different settings in which interventions would need to be tested. Moreover, tenure reform is, at times, a deeply politicized issue

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(McLendon et al., 2009; McPherson & Schapiro, 1999; Robinson et al., 2012), meaning that state and local contexts (e.g., the presence of unions, contract laws) may also need to be considered when studying interventions. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the extent to which nudges can shift disciplinary values and logics embedded in promotion and tenure remains to be seen. Long-standing institutional and disciplinary cultures, norms, and scripts often inhibit tenure and promotion reform (Tierney & Rhoads, 1993; O’Meara, 2011). Although nudges may change the choice architecture surrounding particular kinds of decisions in the tenure and promotion process, nudges may be likely less effective at changing overall beliefs and values that shape the larger process of faculty evaluation. Overall, we uncovered a great deal of research on the ways bias emerges within tenure and promotion. Relatively few interventions in this area could be considered nudges or nudge-like. Most nudges focused on adding to the choice architecture and promoting active decision-making on the part of evaluators, for instance, information nudges that give reviewers concrete guidelines about what should be counted, made visible, or ignored in the evaluation process. Similarly, most of these nudges have been implemented as policies, rather than studied and evaluated as nudge interventions per se. That is, our review did not uncover any pre-post or quasiexperimental studies that showed evaluators who used rubrics or who were given equity charges were more likely to award tenure to women or Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty members. Moreover, relatively few nudges have focused on nudging at the subconscious level, for instance, changing the defaults in the way which information is automatically displayed on a CV or in a personal narrative. As in hiring, the danger of relying on “active” nudges is that faculty members can still routinely resist the nudge (e.g., disregard the equity charge). Greater attention could therefore be paid to subconscious alteration of the choice architecture surrounding promotion and tenure, rather than relying on more active approaches. It may be that relying on more passive or subconscious alteration of evaluation choices through the framing of information will lead to more inclusive decision outcomes in the short term.

Work-Life Integration Enhancing faculty work-life integration, or the ability of faculty to successfully manage professional and personal demands, has been a focus of much higher education reform in the last 20 years (for an extensive review of the work-life literature in higher education, see Sallee & Lester, 2017). Although some institutions put in place practices and policies to enhance faculty ability to attain the work-life integration they desire, biases embedded within academic cultures and norms continue to undermine interventions in this area of the academic workplace, with differential impacts on faculty members by aspects of identity like gender, race/ ethnicity, appointment type, and partner status (Castañeda et al., 2015; Culpepper et al., 2020b; Drago et al., 2005; Lester & Sallee, 2009; Mason et al., 2013; O’Meara & Campbell, 2011; Reddick et al., 2012; Sallee, 2012, 2013; Williams, 2000).

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Promoting work-life integration enhances faculty productivity, satisfaction, and retention for all faculty members (Bozeman & Gaughan, 2011; Callister, 2006; Eagan and Garvey 2015; Feeney et al., 2014; Johnsrud & Rosser, 2002). Thus, behavioral design interventions may prove to be particularly useful for improving faculty work-life integration and mitigating the role of ideal worker biases that often undermines reform in this area. In general, academic culture and rewards systems are biased toward faculty members who conform to the norm of the ideal worker (Acker, 1990; Williams 2000). In academe, the ideal worker is a faculty member who devotes themselves entirely to their work, is on-demand at all times, and is “single-minded” in their commitment to work (Fox et al., 2011; Gonzales & Terosky, 2016; Kachchaf et al., 2015; Lester, 2015; Sallee, 2012, 2016; Sallee et al., 2016; Williams, 2005; WolfWendel & Ward, 2006; Ward & Wolf-Wendel, 2012). Ideal worker norms are intertwined with biases against caregiving (Drago et al., 2005, 2006), in that the ideal worker does not allow personal obligations, such as caring for children or parents, to interfere with their work. Biases toward ideal workers and against caregiving also intersect with larger social role expectations. Social norms cause to us expect that women who are mothers will be less dedicated to their work and preemptively penalize them, whereas men often receive economic rewards for becoming fathers but are penalized for attempting to access work-life policies (Reddick et al., 2012; Sallee, 2012; Williams, 2005). There are many ways that the academic workplace perpetuates ideal worker norms and therefore undermines work-life integration. Ideal workers norms are reinforced when academic leaders lack information about how to access work-life policies or make it difficult for faculty members to access them (Gappa et al., 2007; Lundquist et al., 2012; Mason et al., 2013; Shauman et al., 2018; Quinn, 2010). Department meetings scheduled for the late afternoon or the expectation that faculty members will be responsive to emails late at night or on the weekends sends the signal that faculty should work around the clock (Gibbs et al., 2016; Mason et al., 2013; Sallee, 2012). Senior faculty members who keep their personal lives “invisible” tacitly endorse the rigid separation of work and life for early-career faculty and graduate students (Gibbs et al., 2016; Mason et al., 2013). Evaluation processes may penalize faculty members who take advantage of work-life policies (e.g., faculty members who utilize 1-year delay of tenure policies are sometimes still evaluated based on the traditional tenure timeline) (Lundquist et al., 2012; Sallee, 2012), thereby de-incentivizing their use for future faculty members. Although the issues and biases associated with work-life integration are well studied within higher education, relatively few institutions have put in place systematic work-life interventions that can be considered nudges. Most reform in worklife integration has been in the form of policy change (Laursen & Austin, 2020), which in and of itself is not a nudge. However, changes in the structure of policy and benefit provision intended to foster work-life integration could be considered nudgelike. One of the most common ways institutions have nudged faculty members toward greater work-life is by changing the default settings around benefits usage. Many institutions have changed the default setting around tenure delay policies, such

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that faculty are automatically granted these benefits, rather than needing to negotiate with department chairs or opt into them (Antecol, Bedard, and Stearns 2018; Laursen & Austin, 2020; Gonzales & Griffin, 2020). Similar to nudge interventions wherein individuals are automatically opted into retirement saving plans (Thaler & Sunstein, 2008), this nudge-like intervention intends to promote the usage of tenure delay and could be applied to other work-life benefits (e.g., automatically opt in to reduced gym membership, parental leave). A handful of institutions have provided similar opt-out defaults to faculty duty modification, wherein faculty members are automatically relieved of teaching after the birth/adoption of a child or other personal conditions (Laursen & Austin, 2020). However, even with such default nudges in place, many faculty members do not use said policies because they fear career consequences (Drago et al., 2001; Drago & Colbeck, 2003; Laursen & Austin, 2020; Lundquist et al., 2012; Mayer & Tikka, 2008; O’Meara & Campbell, 2011; Sallee, 2012; Shauman et al., 2018; Quinn, 2010). Another way some institutions attempt to promote faculty work-life integration is by appointing a faculty or staff member to be a work-life advocate, leave specialist, or dual-career support specialist (Laursen & Austin, 2020; Smith et al., 2015). For example, one institution appointed a work-life advocate to consult with faculty candidates during the hiring process (Smith et al., 2015). The advocate met with faculty candidates to answer questions about institutional work-life policies (e.g., partner employment assistance, questions about schools; Smith et al., 2015). Such advocates and coaches might be considered as assistance nudges, intended to provide resources to candidates to facilitate their decision-making. However, advocates in this scenario also change the default setting. In a scenario wherein there is no work-life advocate, candidates may need to ask search committee members involved in evaluation about work-life policies, thereby activating bias against caregiving. The advocate therefore changes the choice architecture by giving the candidate an alternative avenue to receive such information, reducing the extent to which bias may creep into evaluation. Indeed, Smith et al. (2015) found that departments were more likely to hire women candidates after putting in place a work-life advocate compared to the pre-intervention period, suggesting this nudge reduced caregiving bias against women candidates. Of course, such advocates would likely be useful outside of hiring contexts, for example, as faculty members need guidance in navigating leave or other scenarios in which their productivity may be undermined. More research is needed to understand the effectiveness of work-life coaches across evaluation contexts (e.g., hiring versus promotion decisions, institutional types, disciplines). There are a number of nudges that might be useful for promoting faculty worklife integration, and in particular, that nudge faculty members to use work-life policies (Laursen & Austin, 2020). For example, many studies point to the important role of academic leaders (e.g., chairs, deans, provosts) in establishing cultures that are more receptive to work-life integration (Campbell & O’Meara, 2014; Laursen & Austin, 2020; Lester, 2013; Lundquist et al., 2012; Mason et al., 2013; Morimoto et al., 2013; O’Meara, 2015; Shauman et al., 2018; Su & Bozeman, 2016). Indeed, studies show that faculty members are more likely to utilize work-life policies if their

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unit heads are aware of them (Campbell & O’Meara, 2014). Thus, institutions might consider implementing building nudges that target academic leaders and train them on the use and benefits of work-life policies. Department chairs might be shown data on outcomes like policy usage and employee retention and department cost savings. Though many institutions offer training to academic leaders to encourage policy use in public messages, we did not uncover studies examining the extent to which such workshops improved particular measures of faculty work-life integration (e.g., using pre-to-post evaluation). Studies outside of higher education provide a potential framework for how such a skills boosting nudge might be put in place and tested (Hammer et al., 2011; Kossek & Hammer, 2008; Kossek et al., 2011). There are a variety of informational nudges that might promote greater work-life integration. Ensuring that information about work-life policies and benefits are widely available and easy to find is a simple, yet often overlooked, information nudge (Laursen & Austin, 2020). Institutions could provide faculty members with information nudges on the benefits of taking parental leave from public health studies (e.g., Huang & Yang, 2015; Misra et al., 2007). Departmental handbooks and faculty orientations could include a commitment to work-life that norms certain behaviors (e.g., states the expectation that faculty members will not answer emails on weekends or evenings; states that no department meetings will be held before 8 a.m. or after 4 p.m.). These information nudges are similar to the practice of adding “family-friendly” policies to course syllabi (Amour, 2020). Institutions could also change the “default settings” to better inform faculty members of the work-life resources available to them. For example, faculty members who use family leave policies could be automatically sent information on campus childcare resources (e.g., campus daycare enrollment) or eldercare resources (e.g., seminars). Other types of nudges might focus on social comparison and belonging. Institutions could provide aggregate data (e.g., via a dashboard) on the number of faculty who have utilized work-life policies like family leave or tenure delay – a nudge that would leverage both the power of social comparison and information (i.e., norming the usage of policies and providing data on usage). Institutions could share videos or short testimonials from faculty who have taken leave, a kind of social comparison nudge (Laursen & Austin, 2020). Gaining insight from studies that show the role of environmental cues in social belonging (Cheryan et al., 2009, 2011), units could invite faculty members and graduate students to put up pictures of their families, hobbies, or friends on their doors or in their Zoom backgrounds, a social belonging nudge. There are several potential roadblocks or contingencies that researchers, administrators, and faculty developers should attend to when designing work-life nudges. Acceptance of work-life nudges will vary from discipline to discipline, department to department, and institution to institution (Campbell & O’Meara, 2014; Lester & Sallee, 2009; Lundquist et al., 2012; Mason et al., 2013; Ward & Wolf-Wendel, 2012; Wolf-Wendel & Ward, 2006). The kinds of nudges that work in the natural sciences, where faculty members work on teams and are in physical proximity to team members on a daily basis, will likely be different than the kinds of nudges that are useful in the humanities, where work tends to be more solo. For instance, using environmental cues like putting up pictures of families or outside of work hobbies

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will likely work better in disciplines or departments where there is more interaction, whereas they might not be as effective in units where faculty members rarely interact. Similarly, it may not be realistic for faculty members with clinical duties to join meetings during regular business hours and evening meetings may be necessary. That is, nudges needed to be implemented in context-specific ways, and these contexts should be taken into account as researchers study their effectiveness. In all, our review suggests that nudges are somewhat underutilized in the area of faculty work-life integration. In part, this is because most institutional work-life strategies focus on policy implementation (e.g., adopting parental leave or tenure delay). There is some evidence that changing a policy’s “default settings” (e.g., opt out versus opt in) can positively influence uptake (Gonzales & Griffin, 2020; Laursen & Austin, 2020). However, this is an area in which more research in higher education contexts is needed. For instance, researchers could evaluate policy usage rates before and after an institution implements an “opt-out” structure. Researchers might also consider creating experimental studies that evaluate how policy uptake differs from institution to institution based upon their policy structure (opt in versus opt out). This is an area particularly ripe for research during the pandemic, given that institutions have widely adopted COVID-19 tenure delays but varied substantially in whether the policy was opt in or opt out. On the other hand, policy alone will not create the widespread cultural change needed to make the academy friendly to worklife integration (Laursen & Austin, 2020). Nudges offer an untapped resource for faculty developers and researchers interested in enhancing work-life integration. More attention should be paid to nudges that normalize (through social comparison, information, or sense of belonging) the reality that facilitating faculty work-life integration is not just in the best interest of faculty members as individuals but in the best interest of departments and universities as a whole.

Workload Another area primed for the use of nudges is faculty workload. Implicit bias can shape how faculty take up certain kinds of discretionary tasks (O’Meara et al., 2019) such as campus and department service and mentoring (Babcock et al., 2017; Misra et al., 2011; Mitchell & Hesli, 2013; O’Meara, 2016; O’Meara et al., 2017a, b; O’Meara et al., 2018; Pyke, 2011, 2015). The allocation of faculty work allows for significant ambiguity, as many work activities are not counted within reward systems and so there are no benchmarks for performance (O’Meara et al., 2019). This creates a set of conditions in which bias can permeate decision-making in who can or should take on work for the department. Such conditions are problematic because research shows women are asked more often than men to complete unskilled or unrewarded tasks because of social expectations that they will say yes or will be more helpful (Babcock et al., 2017; Mitchell & Hesli, 2013; O’Meara et al., 2017b). Though there are many influencing factors, research finds that women are asked more often to participate in service or teaching activities because administrators and colleagues want to add diversity to a committee, anticipate that women will say yes, perceive

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women as being good at teaching and service, and know that many women tend to be deeply committed to these types of work activities (O’Meara et al., 2017a, b; Tierney & Bensimon, 1996; Turner, 2002). Thus, women and Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty may be invited to do different tasks than male and White peers and that work may be resourced and rewarded differently, based on implicit social biases (Babcock et al., 2017; Mitchell & Hesli, 2013). Women and historically minoritized faculty also tend to volunteer for more mentoring and service activities because of communal orientations (O’Meara, 2015, 2016), a commitment to teaching and mentoring (Winslow, 2010), and a desire to make a difference in diversity and social justice-related issues (Baez, 2000; Griffin, Bennett, and Harris 2013; Turner & González, 2011). Unfortunately, these types of work activities tend to be valued less highly in academic reward systems than research (Creamer, 1998; Misra et al., 2011), and less time spent on research can have negative implications for faculty promotion and advancement. There are a few tested nudges that can improve how teaching, mentoring, and service work is taken up, assigned, and rewarded in academic spaces. Specifically, two studies utilized social comparison nudges and framing nudges to improve equity in faculty workload. O’Meara et al. (2018) conducted a randomized control experiment aimed at improving equity in how work is taken up, assigned, and rewarded in academic departments. The interventions included implicit bias training (skills boosting nudge), creating department workload dashboards (a social comparison and informational nudge), facilitating department equity action plans, and implementing policies or practices to promote more equitable workload outcomes (default settings nudge). The implicit bias training acted as a skills boosting nudge by increasing faculty awareness of how and why women and BIPOC faculty may be assigned or asked to do different types of work than male or White faculty. Department workload dashboards served as an informal and social comparison nudge wherein faculty could benchmark their workload against others in the department and use that information to (1) make more informed choices regarding new work requests and (2) create action plans to improve equity in faculty workload within the department. Likewise, the Athena SWAN project (Athena Forum, 2018) in the United Kingdom found that departments where faculty work activity data were disseminated to everyone in the department were viewed as “significantly and substantially fairer than those systems in which only individual data or no data was distributed” (p. 1). Work activity dashboards therefore serve as a social comparison and information nudge where individual faculty can benchmark their individual work tasks vis-à-vis others and academic leaders can use the same to monitor equity in workload assignments (O’Meara et al., 2019). A few other nudge-like workload interventions are emerging in practice. Departments can alter default structures guiding departmental work assignment by implementing planned rotations of time-intensive service, mentoring, and administrative roles (Erez et al., 2002; O’Meara, et al., 2018, 2019, 2021). This default position creates an environment where faculty do not choose to volunteer, or opt in; rather, they have to opt out of planned rotations, which is more difficult to do. It forces faculty to provide a justifiable excuse for opting out of a rotation and increases

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transparency into why some faculty are not taking on their fair share of work. Studies have suggested rotating department chair positions can also improve women’s representation in academic leadership (Callier et al., 2015; Niemeier and González 2004). By changing the default system to one where most members of the faculty share each time-intensive role for some period of time, the tendency for some faculty to abdicate responsibility and for others to do more than their share is reduced. Informational nudges could also help department leaders and faculty members to monitor workload assignments. When the department chair, or the individual faculty members, enters their research, teaching, and service commitments into a workload dashboard, a flag could be enabled to compare the number of committees (or hours spent on service activities) to the number of courses they are teaching or number of research projects they are engaged in. When this ratio is too great, a flag could be raised alerting the faculty member or department chair that that individual is taking on a greater share of the workload than others or that is advised. This type of nudge already exists in course registration, wherein students are alerted when they register for too many courses in a given semester. The same concept or technology could be applied to workload and serve as a social comparison and informational nudge to reassess the assignment of a particular work activity to individuals within a department. One especially important use of such a system could be requests to serve on search committees wherein Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty, and especially women of color, are over-invited. To our knowledge, such a system has not yet been implemented or tested at institutions or within departments, but we believe some variation of such a system could promote workload equity within academic departments and across a university. Our review suggests nudges can help reduce inequities in faculty workload by changing the contexts surrounding how new work is taken up, assigned, and rewarded. Through the use of social comparison and informational nudges, such as work activity dashboards, individual faculty can benchmark their individual work tasks against others and make informed decisions with regard to taking up new work tasks. Armed with this information, faculty can make choices that can improve equity, transparency, and accountability in workload decisions for themselves and for other faculty in the department (O’Meara et al., 2019). The research also demonstrated the effectiveness of using nudges to change default settings in decision-making processes such as planned rotation policies. Such policies reduce the activation of biases by adding information and clarity to workload decisions. However, workload decisions are made daily, and it is easy to see how local contexts can change quickly making systems put in place no longer effective. For this reason, reminder nudges and information might be especially useful as guardrails to keep departments aware of how they need to adapt to ensure equitable distribution of labor.

Aligning Time and Priorities As noted before, biases related to race and gender shape how faculty spend their time. Research shows women and Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty members

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spend more time on teaching, mentoring, and service – tasks that are not as highly regarded in academic reward systems – and thus struggle to find time for research (Acker & Armenti, 2004; Baez, 2000; Barrett & Barrett, 2011; Griffin et al., 2011a; Misra et al., 2011; O’Meara, 2016; Rosser, 2004). Increased time spent on teaching and service activities, at the expense of research, can lead to lower satisfaction and productivity and can negatively impact career advancement and retention (Aguirre, 2000; Gardner, 2012; Turner et al., 1999). Multiple studies show women and Black, Brown, and Indigenous faculty members can experience discrimination and stress that harms research productivity (Bellas & Toutkoushian, 1999; Eagan and Garvey 2015; Sax et al., 2002). Research suggests several aspects of faculty work environments exacerbate a lack of alignments between how work time is spent. A lack of clarity around priorities, a lack of understanding of the consequences of pursuing one option versus the other, and feelings of being rushed or stressed when making such choices can produce a foggy choice environment that can produce or exacerbate this problem (Kahneman 2011). In other words, the choice architecture (Thaler & Sunstein 2008) surrounding faculty decision-making in areas such as time use can produce suboptimal results for an individual (Culpepper et al., 2020a). Thus, faculty time management is an area ripe for using nudges. Nudges can be helpful to time management. For example, one group of researchers created a 4-week program called the Terrapin Time Initiative (TTI) to change the choice architecture surrounding how participants make decisions about their time-use through goal setting and information nudges (Culpepper et al., 2020a). Goal setting functions as a behavioral nudge by changing internal reference points and promoting internal commitment (Damgaard & Nielsen, 2018). The TTI program asked faculty members to set goals around how they wanted to spend their work time. The faculty members were then asked to record the types of work requests they received, who made the work request, their response to the work request, their primary reason for saying yes or no to the work request, and their stress level during decision making over a 4-week period. By recording their work requests, the individual faculty were nudged into strategically deciding which tasks were in alignment with their career priorities and which were not (Culpepper et al., 2020a). The faculty members also participated in four webinars that emphasized time-use tools that participants could use on a daily basis and provided guidance on how to make the strategies, or nudges, long-term behaviors and part of their decision-making process. The time-use strategies shared in these webinars functioned as a type of informational nudge that equipped the individual faculty members with useful time management tools and practices. Through the TTI program, participants were nudged into making better decisions about their time-use that aligned with their priorities and career goals and equipped them with strategies to preserve this learned decision-making process. The authors posited that the intervention had potential to improve productivity, advancement, and professional satisfaction among faculty (Culpepper et al., 2020a). Many other studies have documented the efficacy of peer mentoring and writing accountability groups in increasing the writing and research productivity of

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individual faculty (Brandon et al., 2015; Files et al., 2008; Fleming et al., 2017; Grisso et al., 2017; Noone & Young, 2019; Petrova & Coughlin, 2012; Rickard et al., 2009; Rees & Shaw, 2014; Skarupski & Foucher, 2018; Steinert et al., 2008). Such interventions can be viewed as a form of peer group manipulation or social comparison nudges, wherein faculty members come to norm their own productivity with others, thereby increasing their effort. For instance, a group of physicians facilitated peer mentoring and examined its outcomes on research productivity and advancement. Through participating in the program, all of the junior physicians increased scholarly activity in the form of published papers and promotion in academic rank, skills acquisition, and enthusiasm for continuation of the program (Files et al., 2008). In another example, five clinical-track radiology faculty members formed a “Writers’ Circle” to promote scholarly productivity and reflection on writing practices (Brandon et al., 2015). All five of the participants characterized the program as worth their time, increasing their motivation to write, their opportunities to support scholarly productivity of colleagues, and their confidence in generating scholarship productivity (Brandon et al., 2015). In a similar study, 24 faculty members participated in a half-day workshop, 3 peer writing groups, and an independent study (Steinert et al., 2008). The workshop evaluations and 1-year follow-up demonstrated that participants valued the workshop small groups, self-instructional workbook, and peer support and feedback provided by the peer writing groups. Thus, peer writing groups can act as a peer group and social comparison nudge to facilitate writing productivity among individual faculty (Steinert et al., 2008). Faculty writing coaches and senior mentors can also serve as an assistance nudge wherein junior faculty are connected to a highly productive senior faculty member who can give direct advice and feedback on their writing products (Baldwin & Chandler, 2002; Heinrich et al., 2009; Rickard et al., 2009; Sanderson et al., 2012). This type of assistance nudge provides junior faculty with needed guidance and skill building to support productivity. Coaches and mentors can create a support network for junior faculty that provides the opportunity for microaffirmations, or small acts of support, and recognition (Cohen et al., 2006; Rowe, 2008). Common microaffirmations documented in the social psychological literature are receiving helpful feedback, receiving recognition for accomplishments, and being made to feel like an insider by virtue of inclusion in professional networks (Meara et al., 2020; Scully & Rowe, 2009). Thus, coaches and mentors can provide the support structure and types of microaffirmations faculty may lack and serve as assistance nudges to improve faculty productivity and sense of belonging at an institution or in a field. Another way nudges can be used to tweak individual behavior is through reminder nudges. Similar to studies that examine the link between text message reminders and student financial aid and persistence (Castleman & Page, 2013, 2014), institutions could put in place reminder nudges to help faculty align their time and priorities. For instance, researchers could randomly select faculty members among volunteers to participate in an intervention where they commit to writing at certain times of the week, potentially requiring them to block off time on the calendars for completing writing, and then receive automated text message reminders about their

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writing goals. Researchers could then compare the results to a control group of faculty who did not receive text message reminders or committed to writing at certain times each week. In a similar vein, a reminder and information nudge could be used to send faculty information about the benefits of daily writing or provide data on the writing habits of highly productive faculty members. This type of nudge would function as a reminder to spend time writing each day and provide relevant information that encourages the behavior. Such interventions would need to be voluntary, in that it is easy to see how nudges to write could be resisted, and resented, by those who already consider themselves to be very productive or prolific. Although such nudges have not been empirically tested among faculty, future research could assess the adoption of these type of interventions and their impact on faculty productivity. In sum, nudges can help faculty make better decisions on how to use their work time that aligns with their priorities and career goals. Our review of the research found many types of nudges to be useful in changing the choice architecture of individual faculty decisions around time use including behavioral nudges, information nudges, assistance nudges, and social comparison nudges. By employing and/or pairing these types of nudges together, faculty can be nudged into making better decisions around time management and ensure time-use that is aligned with their priorities and career goals. While the studies presented in this chapter equipped individual faculty with strategies to employ this learned decision-making process, the long-term impact of these nudges in altering the choice architecture of faculty time use is largely unknown. Looking across the six areas of faculty work reviewed, we can make several observations about bringing the world of faculty affairs, work, and decision-making together with the world of nudges and behavioral design. First, faculty have a great deal of discretion in many areas of their work-lives (O’Meara, 2020). Throughout any given work day, a faculty member might make dozens of decisions that have the potential to impact both the mission of their institution and the full participation of students, faculty, staff, and community members. The decision to contact a student to check in on progress, to spend an hour on a research project, and/or to ask a colleague to sit on a search committee comes routinely and often appears in ways consistent with automatic, default responses. Second, the decisions faculty make are influenced by their socialization to their disciplinary fields, institutional types, department cultures, and their own social identities. Because of the strength of disciplinary norms and logics, and norms of faculty autonomy and discretion, nudges that seem to actively take discretion away from faculty are less likely to be successful than those that more passively attempt to change what faculty see or understand about a particular decision (e.g., sharing information, framing, reminders). Third, there are large areas of faculty work-life and decision-making that arguably require reform but are unlikely to be well-suited to nudges. In particular this will be the case if the contexts surrounding the decision are multifaceted, complex, and will require sustained engagement. Alternatively, there exist somewhat small, binary decisions that seemed well primed for nudges. In the next section, we explore these observations and others to a greater degree.

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Discussion and Implications As noted in the first part of this chapter, more nudges have been applied to students and their access, retention, and success in higher education than to faculty members in higher education. Among those limited nudges that have been applied, tested, and found successful with faculty members, we see the following characteristics. First, the nudges take on smaller choice sets, often binary decisions. The nudges do not try to change broader faculty socialization, disciplinary logics, ideal worker norms among faculty members, conceptions of excellent scholarship, and/or changing overall racist, sexist behaviors long-term. Such nudges do not try to change complex structural and systemic oppression. The nudges take on smaller, particular issues embedded in these larger backdrops. Examples here are Peterson et al.’s (2019) nudging students who are about to evaluate faculty members, priming them with information and framing regarding gender bias. The intention is not to change all aspects of gendered or sexist behavior, only mitigate it in the one act of completing a student evaluation of a specific course. Providing a default option wherein faculty members automatically save some portion of their salary when signing up for benefits unless they opt out is another example of a somewhat simplistic, binarytype decision that can help faculty choose to save. Providing faculty members data on workload so they can benchmark their own performance against others (O’Meara et al., 2018) or providing them data on student success in their courses is a relatively straightforward nudge that does not have to cost a lot of money and meets the criteria of allowing the faculty member free choice. Alternatively, there is not a nudge for overall communitarian or individualist approaches to faculty careers, as faculty members are socialized to have inclinations and goals that shape mindset and priorities that go beyond one decision. Furthermore, although faculty members may be nudged to be more attentive to student success through informational nudges, they still need professional development to identify the tools necessary to address many of the equity gaps they observe. Thus, nudges will be most effective for what Correll (2017) called “small wins.” A second observation is that we saw very few faculty nudges that have been adopted and tested at a large scale. What might it take to go beyond relatively simple nudges implemented at a department or college level to ones enacted across institutions, systems, or disciplines? With the advent of big data and machine learning, there are many ways in which researchers could create and study nudges on a larger scale. For instance, let us focus on three areas in which faculty data are already routinely collected and analyzed: faculty hiring, faculty work activities reporting, and faculty citation indices. In the University of California system, researchers are using big data to test the efficacy of diversity statements as a potential nudge for increasing faculty diversity. We could imagine similar experiments that test the efficacy of blinding candidate names or doctoral-granting institutions during the initial hiring stages. Researchers could account for contingencies like discipline, critical mass, and geographic location. Similarly, many institutions have moved toward institution- or system-wide digital faculty activities reporting. We could imagine studies wherein researchers deploy certain workload equity interventions

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in different departments across a system (e.g., rotations of time-intensive roles or service credit systems; O’Meara et al., 2019, 2021) and then evaluate real-time and long-term changes in faculty work activities as reported in digital systems. Furthermore, these kinds of faculty activities reporting systems could be linked to faculty citations databases to better understand interventions at the nexus of workload, productivity, and work-life integration. For instance, researchers could use these big data sets to understand whether the introduction of an opt-out parental leave or tenure delay policy had a long-term impact on faculty productivity and demographics. Third, as we look across the range of nudges that Damgaard and Nielsen (2018) identify and apply that typology to those we described and those we imagined, we see most of the nudges that seem most promising with faculty members and in the academic workplace fall into the categories of adding information, framing information, peer group manipulation, and social comparison. We see this pattern emerging primarily because of the power of norms in dictating faculty behavior. Many faculty members, by way of their research training, are socialized to use data and information to analyze findings. Thus, information nudges serve as a way to tap into existing faculty norms (i.e., using empirical data) to enhance decision-making. Likewise, peer group manipulations and social comparison nudges allow faculty members to see or understand how other faculty members behave, again normalizing certain actions (i.e., using parental leave) that can produce better outcomes. Defaults for benefits, reminders, and deadlines are often used in organizations, including higher education, to nudge behavior, and will likely continue to be used – so they are perhaps less a growth area. Our review of the literature on faculty socialization, disciplinary and field norms, and motivation suggest that nudges focused on social belonging, identity activation, and mindset are possible, but only if the desirable choice the intervention is nudging toward is not too out of step with faculty members’ identities, values, and training. And these nudges may require multiple touches and may be working with more “sludge” and thus be harder to pull off. Given the extensive work on intrinsic motivation in the academic career, nudges that change incentives should be wary of activating resistance. Such nudges could be perceived as removing choices, or more of a “shove,” as has occurred in some cases where financial incentives were created for faculty retirement. Some faculty members have reported not being ready to retire but also experience the incentive or “shove” in the way of a cash payment too difficult to turn down. Nudges will work best if there are individual or disciplinary norms consistent with the desirable option, such that the nudge is more paving the way than working against the current. Likewise, assistance and goal setting nudges in the form of professional development for using high impact practices or writing productivity show promise but also require multiple touches. By multiple touches we mean that rather than the intervention operating at a single decision point, like signing benefits paperwork, it occurs in multiple time periods and thus has to be made in a recurring way. Although some coaching nudges and assistance nudges attempt to nudge in multiple reinforcing ways, in the larger literature we see the most successful nudges have more often been single time period decisions. Additionally, there are often a complex

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set of factors shaping such factors as writing productivity. For example, over a 4-week period, faculty members may actually have six different time saboteurs keeping them from finding time to write. A nudge would likely best be developed to address a one-time saboteur such as procrastination, but not to simultaneously target other saboteurs like reading email all day. We turn now to implications for future research and for academic leaders and faculty members considering becoming choice architects to design and test nudges in faculty affairs. First, as academic researchers and scholar-practitioners attempt to become choice architects and design nudges to shape faculty behavior, it is critical that there is a clear, transparent, and evidence-based identification of the desirable choice. There is a moral obligation to not make a particular option more desirable and likely to be chosen without fully understanding and communicating to faculty members why that is so, whether in the realm of equity or effective role performance. For example, before the global pandemic, some campuses provided discounted parking to those who carpooled or used a hybrid car to get to work. They did so based on clear evidence that this would be helpful to cutting down the campus carbon footprint and would not be harmful to faculty members. However, we can imagine a situation in which financial planners created default options for employee retirement investments where there was some kind of kickback to the campus, without faculty members knowing. Transparency and evidence of benefit are critical aspects of implementing nudges. As we engage in design and peer review of nudges in the academic workplace, it is critical to ask ourselves if these conditions are there and compelling enough to move forward. Poorly designed nudges that are not created with these conditions in place could do significant harm to trust between faculty members and administration and do more harm than good. Relatedly, nudges that are trying to address equity gaps by increasing faculty members’ awareness of differences in student performance need to be very careful to not create and reinforce stereotypes that become self-fulfilling prophesies. Research shows that if differential performance is presented as inevitable, it can reduce the sense the receiver has that there is anything that can be done to address it, and that information can feel like a microaggression to participants from that marginalized identity. As such, it is critical to design nudges with some kind of education component that provides tools for faculty members to act to mitigate biases and address equity gaps. Second, as nudges are designed, we need greater attention to the sludge preventing the faculty member from making the desirable choice. Sludge can come in the form of discouraging behavior (e.g., when the process for claiming a rebate is so onerous that individuals fail to complete the required steps) or self-defeating behavior (e.g., investing in things that are too good to be true; Thaler, 2018). For instance, faculty members could be “automatically” granted parental leave, but in order to do so, they are asked to complete a detailed, online form requiring them to attach medical records. Sometimes, the submit button on the form does not work, and they must get the form signed by multiple administrators in different units (e.g., department, dean’s office, human resources). In this scenario, changing the default setting around parental leave would have limited effect because of the sludge that still permeates the process.

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There are some faculty decision-making contexts that have multiple kinds of sludge interacting simultaneously that could make it hard to identify and remove. For example, promotion and tenure decisions are complex. They often involve situations where the decision-maker knows the individual and could have social biases, anchoring performance, and herd mentality all at play. Likewise, faculty members who choose not to utilize high-impact practices may be operating with a status quo bias, and mindlessness, teaching as they have always taught their subject, or could be afraid of using high-impact practices wrong in the “spotlight” of class for the first time. Thus, choice architects need to carefully diagnose sludge in designing a nudge. Much like operating a seesaw, choice architects need to be simultaneously pushing down on the sludge, or removing it mostly, to allow the nudge to be lifted up and successful. But this will only work if the problem does not have too many complicated and intersecting kinds of sludge. Thus, researchers and practitioners need to carefully identify aspects of processes and contexts that hinder good outcomes, such that they can be addressed by reform. Third, we need to better understand which faculty members may already be, or could be, “primed” for particular nudges. For example, there are clear differences in disciplinary paradigms, cultures, and demographics. Researchers need to consider how differences in knowledge paradigms (e.g., high/low consensus), cultures (e.g., tight and loose), norms (e.g., single authors vs. thousands of authors on papers), and demographics (e.g., critical mass, fields with higher/lower diversity) impact the likelihood a faculty member will respond positively to a particular nudge. Likewise, we need to test nudges in different institutional types to see how institutional culture interacts with different kinds of nudges. We anticipate some nudges may differentially impact faculty based on characteristics such as gender, race, and rank/appointment type, but more research is needed to understand these effects. Some of the most effective informational and framing nudges are dependent on saliency – both of the issue and of the person sending the nudge. For example, if an email encouraging faculty members to cancel exams is sent by an activist student group that faculty members do not respect, it will have less salience. Likewise, faculty members are not likely to think the issue was carefully considered as much as reactionary and from the viewpoint of students alone – they will likely ignore or resist the message. Understanding how to prime the situation to make the nudge most likely to be successful is therefore critical. Likewise, when nudges fail, it is important that researchers understand why. To that effect, it is helpful to see articles such as those reviewed in the area of student success where there was some postmortem on exactly what went wrong when nudges do not have their desired effect. Fourth, future research needs to test nudges for pre and post outcomes and against control groups. Although there are randomized controlled trials (RCTs) on nudge interventions in some areas of faculty work (e.g., Carnes et al., 2015 on hiring and O’Meara et al., 2018 on workload), RCTs on faculty nudges remain rare. This is especially so with following up on the impact of informational nudges wherein faculty members are sent dashboards with student data. Often dashboards are intended to very generally shape behavior to be more equity-minded, but specific behaviors or actions are not tracked, and there is no comparison to faculty members

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who did not receive the informational nudge. Furthermore, many of the RCTs that do exist tend to deploy multiple nudges at the same time (e.g., implicit bias trainings, assistance, and changes to default settings all applied to faculty search committees at the same time), thereby making the effectiveness of a particular nudge vis-à-vis another difficult to isolate. Before a nudge is widely employed and scaled up, it is important that to the degree possible, the nudge be tested using tenets of behavioral design. Fifth, one important and ongoing conversation in the field of behavioral economics and nudge theory and science is the degree to which some nudges can dampen creativity and/or encourage actors to make automatic and passive choices, like moving through a checklist, when in fact doing the longer-term work of changing hearts and minds and/or engaging judgment and conscious choice may be more desirable in the long term. For example, many campuses require faculty searches to move through an equity checklist to ensure inclusive hiring practices were put in place. Some faculty members may resent this requirement and in fact simply move through each step automatically without stopping to think what is happening in each step and why it matters. Instead of this kind of procedural nudge, other types of interventions might engage faculty judgment and good will. Having considered implications for future research and practice more generally, we speak next to provosts, deans, department chairs, and faculty leaders. Such leaders play a critical role in organizational change, and we believe that nudges and behavioral design can play an important role in how leaders diagnose the need for change in higher education and go about creating solutions.

Leveraging Nudge and Behavioral Design Thinking in Faculty Affairs To this point, we have tried to be careful in how we presented the idea of nudges and its potential application to faculty careers and workplaces in at least three ways. First, we have used extant literature to define nudges and place clear parameters around what is and is not a nudge. This is important because there are many kinds of structural, human resource, cultural, and political change or reform strategies that leaders have at their disposal but are not nudges. Second, we have tried to recognize that many of the problems facing higher education are complex, systems problems and will require more cultural, long-term, multi-touch solutions. We provided multiple examples suggesting that the most successful nudges work to address relatively simple and often binary decisions. Third, we have noted many that factors that impact faculty careers and work, such as racial and gender identities, discipline, institutional type, and career stage, serve as backdrops that influence the creation and efficacy of a nudge. One could imagine such backdrops differing even within these groups. For example, a nudge could be deployed to faculty members in two research universities, one unionized and the other not. The same nudge message is sent from the provost’s office to faculty members in both institutions. However, in one institution, the provost is beloved and thought of as an advocate for faculty. In the other, there is a contentious relationship wherein the provost is distrusted. In the first

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case, the nudge might be easily accepted and move faculty members in the desired direction; in the other, there might be calls to the union to litigate the provost’s jurisdiction in the matter at question. Context matters to the implementation of nudges. Although we find the promise of nudges to achieve small wins compelling, we have tried to not oversell its uses and reach in improving higher education. Now, however, we would like to do the opposite. We want to argue less specifically, and more generally, for how nudges and behavioral design as concepts might be useful to academic leaders seeking to make short- and long-term change. In doing so, we ask the reader to suspend disbelief and enter into the realm of imagining possibilities. By this, we are asking readers to acknowledge that nudges and behavioral design may not be the definitive answer but also assume that nudges could help academic leaders frame the various steps to the main answer. Nudges and behavioral design can help us achieve small wins on the way there. Here we make three assertions. First, nudges and behavioral design thinking can help academic leaders better identify discretionary spaces where faculty members make suboptimal decisions for themselves and for university missions. Second, nudges and behavioral design can help academic leaders do a more precise diagnosis of the specific sludge causing suboptimal judgment and decisions. Third, behavioral design thinking and designing and creating nudges could force academic leaders and faculty members to reexamine why they are doing what they are doing in particular areas. In doing so, they may realize that there is not sufficient evidence to continue a practice long thought to be nudging them toward desired goals and therefore adopt new routine policies and practices that are more effective. We discuss of these possibilities in turn. The first potential value of behavioral design and thinking creatively about nudges is that it can help academic leaders see new spaces for reform within academic affairs. Behavioral design thinking may allow academic leaders to break down the process they are trying to change, such as admissions, hiring decisions, or the sequencing of courses, into smaller parts and see the discretion that faculty members have to act in more effective and equitable ways in those environments (O’Meara, 2020). In doing so, academic leaders might hone in on discretionary space within which they could change the conditions and positively nudge the issue forward. This focus can enhance the agency of academic leaders and faculty to act. Take, for example, the issue of professional interactions at work and the degree to which faculty members feel affirmed or experience microaggressions. O’Meara et al. (2020b) conducted a time diary study, which found that faculty of color were more likely than White faculty to report being spoken over or interrupted at a meeting. This finding is likewise consistent with work by Blair-Loy et al. (2017) regarding more interruptions of women candidates than men candidates in job talks. Given the tendency for interruptions to occur in different academic affairs environments, such as department meetings, promotion and tenure decision-making, university senate meetings, and doctoral defenses, there is clearly a need for faculty members leading such meetings to be trained on this form of implicit bias and microaggression and tools to mitigate it. Such efforts might include ways to reengineer meetings to ensure equal speaking time, randomizing speaking order, and/or the deployment of allies

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who call attention to interruptions. These might be considered changes in default rules for how the meeting is to run and/or reframing of information nudges. Breaking gendered and racialized professional interactions into smaller decisions allows academic leaders to more clearly isolate ways to mitigate bias. That is, by focusing attention on the choice environment and the backdrop surrounding decisions, we see how the default setting of everyone talking whenever they want shapes those interactions. Other examples already provided in this chapter include work done by the Equity Score Card project to help faculty see new areas under their discretion, such as hiring undergraduate research assistants, the way homework is counted, and/or how syllabi are constructed that can become new places for improving their practice and studied and tested with new practices. Likewise, El-Alayi et al. (2017) showed us the tendency for students to ask women faculty for special favors in discretionary teaching and learning situations. By framing faculty-student interactions as a discretionary space, we see how student thinking might be further leveraged to become more aware of the biases they possess and adjust their interactions with faculty. Cheryan and Markus (2020) discussed similar work within computer science classrooms. They identified “masculine defaults” in how precollege skills are integrated into freshman computer science classes or in the physical classroom environment shaped ambient belonging for women students, driving them away from computer science (Cheryan and Markus 2020). Likewise, Harvard’s MBA program became aware of ways in which participation grades systematically disadvantaged women students and designed a new process for grading (Kantor, 2013). Nudges and behavioral design thinking help us approach the areas we want to change with more curiosity and a more laser-like focus on how a particular discretionary space might shape suboptimal outcomes. The second potential value of thinking like a choice architect designing a nudge is that it helps us identify where sludge, or barriers, occur, for whom, and in what contexts. For example, Bohnet (2016) observed that “there is no design-free world” (p. 5). In any judgment and decision context, there are factors that influence those decisions. Often, part of the problem in making important change in academe is that we do not understand the particular “sludge” that keeps the optimal outcome from occurring. For example, work by Sarsons (2015) showed that faculty members devalue collaborative work completed by a woman scholar when she has male coauthors. Behavioral designers might look at that problem and surmise that one of the key factors leading to bias in these kinds of evaluations is ambiguity about intellectual contributions. They might then put in place an informational and/or framing nudge that clearly identifies percentage at which each collaborator contributed to a coauthored manuscript (Rahman et al., 2017). They could then test the intervention by having evaluators review coauthored work completed with this designation and without it to see if the nudge reduces or eliminates gender bias in review of coauthored work. They might find out that this intervention works to reduce bias in about 60% of the cases but works in 100% of the cases when paired with another intervention (e.g., an information nudges indicating the department values collaborative work), reducing sludge associated with a bias against collaborative work altogether.

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There are other examples of places where department chairs, deans, and provosts might work with faculty members to identity sludge preventing inclusive outcomes. For example, as mentioned earlier, the University of Michigan STRIDE program has integrated work by Settles et al. (2019) on epistemic exclusion into their training for search committees. They seek to increase awareness of ways in which we can be biased against fields or topics or methods with which we are unfamiliar. O’Meara et al. (2021b) have likewise identified the area of perceived risk as sludge in equitable hiring processes. Search committees frame candidates into different kinds of risk categories as they evaluate them during the search processes. Committee members perceive candidates are risks if they seem unlikely to accept an offer, engage in research that differs from that of their department, and/or may be in need a dual-career hire (O’Meara et al., 2021b). The search committee therefore does not advance these risky candidates. Thinking like a behavioral designer, a provost’s office might create an exercise that allows committees to see more clearly what they are framing as “risks” and whether those areas disproportionately advantage some groups over others. Altogether, nudges and behavioral design help us parse between different kinds of sludge and push us to test our assumptions and narratives. It forces us to pinpoint where in the process our thinking is flawed, biased, or uninformed. The third potential value of thinking like a behavioral designer is it will allow us to rethink routine policies and practices. That is, behavioral design strategies help us to determine if existing policies and practices serve their intended purposes. For example, many universities have put in place equity charges before faculty searches and promotion and tenure committee decisions with the goal of improving fairness in evaluation. However, we lack evidence that charges make a difference in decisions and, indeed, suspect they become yet another checked box, not unlike Equal Employment Opportunity messaging required at the bottom of a job advertisement. Likewise, many universities have processes that prevent the search committee members from learning the racial identities of candidates who apply for faculty positions. Inevitably, however, some of the candidates and their racial identity are known to committee members by virtue of being in a small field, and/or the committee makes assumptions about racial identity based on name. We lack evidence that a search committee that knows the racial identity of candidate, and discusses race as a matter of fact, is less fair than a process wherein a committee makes assumptions about the candidate’s race. Furthermore, although there is some evidence that when women and faculty of color serve on search committees there is greater diversity in hiring outcomes (Smith et al., 2004), we do not know if this is always the case. It may be that the rank and appointment type of that individual influence hiring outcomes more directly (Liera, 2020), or the manner in which the search chair manages the discussion and leverages different perspectives makes a bigger difference (White-Lewis et al., 2020). Behavioral design would allow searches to test those routine processes to see if they are affording the outcomes intended. As Correll (2017) wisely observed: “understanding a problem is necessary, but not sufficient for affecting positive change. . .the changes we can realistically make in any one instance are often small and imperfect. I have decided I can live with that. We have to start somewhere” (pp. 726–727). Correll (2017) went on to

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note that if we engage those we work with, such as faculty members in designing the tools (or nudges) we use to affect change, we create allies and networks that will have a ripple effect on the overall change effort. We believe that the more curious academic leaders become about diagnosing small slices of bigger issues they want to take on, unpacking the potential sludge in that decision, and then testing rival interventions, the closer they will get to the bigger change they want to see.

Conclusion In this literature review, we examined the nature of nudges and how they might reshape faculty decisions toward more effective and equitable choices. Although nudges have more often been used to support student access, retention, and completion, we considered six areas of faculty work where redesign of some of the choice architecture, the contexts and structures around decisions, could be beneficial. Future research is needed to test such nudges, see if they have the intended consequences, and examine in what context and backdrops they are the most effective. Nudges have the potential to leverage many benefits for faculty and higher education institutions as they try to achieve their institutional mission and create a more equitable and inclusive workplace. To harvest the benefits of nudges, academic leaders need to think like choice architects, carefully considering the contexts surrounding particular decisions, and how those contexts can be shaped to achieve more desired outcomes.

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KerryAnn O’Meara, PhD, Professor of Higher Education and Distinguished Scholar Teacher, University of Maryland College Park. KerryAnn’s research examines faculty careers and academic rewards systems with a particular focus on organizational practices that support and limit the full participation of women and BIPOC faculty and engaged scholars. Current funded projects examine equity in hiring, workload, promotion and tenure policy reform, and equity-minded reform of discretionary spaces in academic affairs. O’Meara served as 2020 President of the Association for the Study of Higher Education (ASHE) and serves as Special Assistant to her President for Strategic Initiatives. Dawn Culpepper, PhD, Research Assistant Professor, University of Maryland. Dawn’s research examines diversity, equity, and organizational change in higher education. Recent projects consider the strategies and actions institutions can use to enhance equity for faculty and graduate students in domains such as work-life, hiring, workload and rewards, and tenure and promotion. As a practitioner, Dawn applies her scholarship to her work with the University of Maryland ADVANCE Program, where she leads faculty development programs and education and training initiatives across campus. Courtney Lennartz, PhD, Senior Consultant at PricewaterhouseCoopers LLC, People Analytics Practice. Courtney manages employee listening programs and provides consulting, survey design, and data analytics expertise. She has her PhD in Higher Education from the University of Maryland, College Park. Her research is focused on inequities in academic leadership and faculty workload and reward systems in higher education. John M. Braxton, PhD, Professor Emeritus Higher Education Leadership and Policy Program Peabody College of Vanderbilt University. John has two programs of research, one of which centers on college and university faculty members with attention to the normative structure of undergraduate and graduate teaching and different forms of faculty scholarship. He is a recipient of the Research Achievement Award bestowed by the Association for the Study of Higher Education and the Contribution to Knowledge Award given by the American College Personnel Association (ACPA)-College Student Educators International. Both awards are for outstanding contributions to knowledge that advance the understanding of higher education. He is also a past president of the Association for the Study of Higher Education.

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Applying Cultural Historical Activity Theory (CHAT) Perspectives Toward Equity in Higher Education Organizations and Systems Anne-Marie Nu´n˜ez

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CHAT and Its Historical Origins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Qualities and Distinctions of CHAT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rationale for Applying CHAT in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Background and Framework of CHAT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . First- and Second-Generation CHAT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Third-Generation CHAT: Activity System, Its Components, and the Triangle Heuristic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Expansive Learning as Third-Generation CHAT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Third-Generation CHAT and Engaging Cultural Diversity in Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Typical Methodological Approaches of CHAT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CHAT as a Dynamic Scholarly Enterprise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Applications of CHAT to Research on Higher Education Organizations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CHAT and the Capacity to Address Equity in Higher Education Organizations and Systems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bligh and Flood’s (2017) Synthesis of How Higher Education Research Has Applied CHAT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Expanding the Potential of CHAT to Understand and Transform Higher Education . . . . . . The Migrant Student Leadership Institute: CHAT and Cultivating Cultural Diversity as a Resource to Expand Learning in College-Going and College Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Equity Scorecard Intervention: CHAT and Engaging Higher Education Faculty and Administrators to Advance Equity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . MSLI and ESI as Applications of CHAT Toward Higher Education Research on Equity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Adrianna Kezar was the Associate Editor for this chapter. A.-M. Núñez (*) Department of Educational Studies, The Ohio State University, Columbus, OH, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 37, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3_10

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Exploring Implications of CHAT on Inquiry About Equity in Science . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Case of Research and Intervention in a Geoscience Fieldwork Course Activity System . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2017 Initial Course Activity System: Being Tough as the “Top of the Mountain Mentality” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2018 Intervention as Mirror Data: “I Think You Really Don’t See It Until It’s Like, Right in Your Face” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2019 Course Redesign Activity System to Challenge Toughness: “We Got Rid of the Mountain!” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One Science Professor’s Expansive Learning as a Change Agent Toward Equity . . . . . . . . Applying a CHAT Perspective Versus Other Higher Education Perspectives to Analyze Data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Implications for Higher Education Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Methodological Implications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conceptual and Theoretical Implications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Practical and Change-Oriented Implications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

In this chapter, I demonstrate how Cultural Historical Activity Theory (CHAT) perspectives can extend inquiry and practice to transform higher education in equity-oriented directions. My aims are to (1) show CHAT’s affordances to enhance research and practice about equity-oriented organizational and systems change and (2) provide tools for researchers to apply CHAT to study (in)equity in higher education organizations and systems. After a brief orientation to CHAT, I examine how studies of two interventions identified organizational dynamics and possibilities for equity-oriented transformation to advance migrant students’ postsecondary opportunities and to build the capacity of postsecondary personnel to promote equitable student outcomes. Subsequently, I employ CHAT to analyze primary ethnographic data about undergraduate geoscience fieldwork that also involved an intervention to promote equity and inclusion in this setting. My ethnographic analysis shows how, compared with more common higher education conceptual perspectives, the application of CHAT offers a finer-grained analysis of cultural practices, how they are generated, and how they are sustained or transformed over time. Therefore, a CHAT analysis of these organizational practices provides more specific ways to understand and transform systemic dynamics of exclusion and power. I conclude with implications about CHAT’s potential to enhance expansive learning, equity-oriented inquiry, and transformation of higher education organizations and systems. Keywords

Cultural Historical Activity Theory · Sociocultural theory · Organizational change · Organizational behavior · Higher education organizations · Learning · Diversity · Equity · Inclusion · Geoscience · Fieldwork · Qualitative research · Ethnography · Intervention · Ecology · Activity systems · College access · College success · Postsecondary opportunity · Expansive learning

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Introduction To illustrate how Cultural Historical Activity Theory (known as CHAT) perspectives can offer new ways to conduct equity-oriented research in higher education, I begin with my experience as a participant observer in a study that addressed inclusion and exclusion in geoscience fieldwork, with an incident that I will call my “cactus fall.” The instructors in a geoscience fieldwork course had exhorted the group of undergraduates (and by extension, me) to be back at the van by 5:00 PM every day. However, at the end of one long day in the (geoscience and qualitative) field, after hiking for 8 hours with two undergraduates on rocky terrain to make observations for their assignments, the students realized at 4:55 PM that we were going to be late to the van. Knowing they were going to be late, they ran ahead, not once looking back for me. As I rose out of a gully, I fell back and landed on a cactus. As I felt the cactus needles stick into my bottom and thighs, I looked up to see that the students had run ahead, were almost out of sight, and still had not looked back for me, even when I called for them. Not knowing where we were, I was at least able to run fast enough to keep them just in my eyesight, until I saw the vans. When I arrived as the last group member at the van, a few minutes after the designated 5:00 PM departure time, I felt shame for violating the instructors’ rule of not being on time. On the bumpy hour long bus ride back to the dorms where we were staying, I tried not to sit too hard on the van’s seat, so as not to settle further into the painful needles that prickled my bottom and thighs. Looking out the van window at the mountainous landscape, I began to reflect on what this incident could reveal about the dynamics of inclusion and exclusion in geoscience fieldwork. My prior 8 hours of participant observation hiking that day with the students indicated that we shared the same pace and that they had no intentions to leave me behind until 4:55 PM that day. What, then, was going on in the course dynamics that resulted in my nearly being left behind and on my own, that afternoon? In these reflections, I recalled two other guidelines that, in addition to being on time, the course instructors had made explicit to students. From the first night of the course, the instructors had also set forth explicit guidelines for the students to always be together and to be safe. After all, we were out in the wilderness, in miles and miles of mountainous open land with difficult terrain (and no hiking trails), where it could be easy to lose track of where we were, fall during the difficult hiking, or be bitten by a rattlesnake. As I took field notes that evening, I wondered more about the dynamics that led to the cactus fall. Interpreting the incident using the lens of Cultural Historical Activity Theory (CHAT) (Cole, 2010), I wrote about how the course constituted a collective set of activities, or an activity system (Engeström, 1987/2015) that involved relationships between specific participants (i.e., instructors and students), shared explicit guidelines (i.e., be timely, be together, and be safe), disciplinary tools for learning (e.g., conceptual knowledge of rock types, field notebooks), and different responsibilities carried out by participants (i.e., by instructors, TAs, or students). All of these components were organized around the goal of developing geoscience field skills (Goodwin, 2018).

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In the activity system of this geoscience course, the guidelines to be timely, to be together, and to be safe in the group were not inherently contradictory. However, the cactus fall revealed how particular conditions in the geoscience course could manifest a tension between being on time, versus being together and being safe. My prior observations of students getting left behind, and then nearly getting left behind myself through the cactus fall, revealed unintended, yet exclusionary, consequences in the course dynamics (Núñez et al., 2021). These consequences could compromise the safety of and collective engagement for those less able to keep up with others in the group, whether it be due to an accident (e.g., cactus fall), difference in ability (e.g., level of physical fitness), ongoing condition (e.g., asthma), illness, or disability (Núñez et al., 2021). In my notes that evening after the cactus fall, as the pain in my seat was wearing off, I wrote in my field notebook that, in CHAT terms, I was literally and conceptually sitting in a disturbance (Engeström, 1987/2015) that manifested a tension between the course’s three guidelines: to be on time, to be together, and to be safe. This disturbance revealed a latent contradiction between these three rules in the course’s activity system (Engeström, 1987/2015) that, in relation to other parts of the activity system (like the way the course’s physical pace was organized), compromised not only my own comfort and participation in the course but those of several students before me (Núñez et al., 2021). Framing the activity system and constituent activities of the geoscience fieldwork course as the central unit of analysis (Engeström, 2015) enabled me to analyze inclusionary and exclusionary dynamics in the course from a more expansive systems perspective. It enabled me to better understand, for example, how even well-intentioned students and instructors might nonetheless contribute to exclusion of participants, particularly, in this case, participants who were less able-bodied or who experienced unfortunate accidents. Employing a CHAT lens helped me to identify how exclusionary dynamics in geoscience fieldwork could be situated in the relationships between course guidelines, characteristics of participants, the kinds of tools participants used in their work, and the allocation of responsibilities between instructors, TAs, and students for creating more supportive learning environments. Toward the end of this piece, I will return to a more in-depth discussion of these dynamics in geoscience fieldwork. For now, this vignette suggests how a employing a CHAT lens in higher education research can open up possibilities to transform understandings of (in)equity in science beyond individual and cultural, and toward more systemic, perspectives.

CHAT and Its Historical Origins In the twenty-first century, educational researchers have increasingly used Cultural Historical Activity Theory (CHAT) to study processes of learning and human development, particularly in P–12 education (Cole, 2010; Roth & Lee, 2007). CHAT views of learning and development emphasize how actors within particular institutions interact with one another and draw on symbolic and material resources to

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construct educational environments that facilitate sustained, more equitable outcomes (Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b). As Cole (2010) describes, employing the organizational activity system as the central unit of analysis in CHAT entails an “analysis of human psychological functions [that] must be situated in relation to historically accumulated forms of human activity which are the proximal loci of human experience” (p. 360). CHAT centers cultural practices and sets of cultural practices (organizational activity systems), rather than individuals, as units of analysis (Cole & Engeström, 1993; Engeström, 2001; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b). Russian psychologists L.S. Vygotsky and his collaborators A.N. Leontiev and A. R. Luria, beginning in the 1920s, generated the ideas that would come to serve as the foundation of CHAT approaches, with Leontiev and Luria extending Vygotsky’s ideas after his early death in 1937. These scholars drew on the philosophy of Marx and his intellectual predecessors Hegel and Kant to (1) assert that humans create and recreate their development in material ways, through shared cultural and economic activity (Moll, 2014), with implications for examining human development, and (2) emphasize theory not just as a tool to make sense of the world, but as a means to change it in ways that would allow people from all backgrounds to reach their full potential (Vygotsky, 1978; Sannino, 2011). In the CHAT tradition, human development involves culturally and socially situated ways of transforming interactions with language, tools, artifacts, and other individuals in the world, toward creating knowledge and practice that expand possibilities for diverse participants and communities to thrive (Cole, 2010). CHAT approaches have embedded a focus on equity and transformation in human development from their inception, as suggested by a little-known lecture that Vygotsky gave in 1924 about his work on children with disabilities, where he . . .asserted the need to redefine ‘abnormality’ and to refrain from treating any students as a ‘special race qualitatively different.’. . . proposed understanding the children on a new ‘social plane,’ as part of the continuous spectrum of human diversity in line with the changing sociocultural conditions shaping the country. (Moll, 2014, pp. 22–23)

Vygotsky felt that it was the dynamics of the social environment, rather than characteristics inherent in these children, that primarily drove their potential to learn and thrive. One implication was that, presented with supportive historical, social, and cultural conditions, anyone, regardless of their background or ability, could develop their potential and participation in society in meaningful and consequential ways. To consider how educational environments could mediate cognitive development, as in the example of when an adult collaborates with a child on solving a problem, Vygotsky conceived of the zone of proximal development (ZPD) as a context where a student is poised (by a teacher, learning environment, or some other context) to take the next step in learning to solve this problem (Vygotsky, 1978; Yamagata-Lynch, 2010). Although Vygotsky conceived of the ZPD as a way to frame an environment for human development, he never articulated exactly how to create such an environment. The concept of the ZPD itself, however, is one of

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Vygotsky’s most applied ideas, both within and beyond CHAT research, particularly in pedagogy and curriculum development, and especially with P–12 students (Yamagata-Lynch, 2010). Two interrelated traditions of CHAT emerged from the work of Vygotsky, Leontiev, and Luria. According to Roth and Lee (2007), CHAT perspectives, particularly those derived from Vygotsky and his idea of the ZPD, were taken up and developed in the USA to guide inquiry about child development and P–12 schooling (e.g., Cole & Griffin, 1983; Gutiérrez et al., 2016). This line of work has emphasized cultural diversity as a resource in learning environments (Moll et al., 1992; Gonzalez & Moll, 2002; Cole, 2010; Moll, 2014; Gutiérrez et al., 2016). Roth and Lee (2007) note that this tradition tends to be characterized as sociocultural or cultural-historical. In a second and complementary line of inquiry, Vygotsky’s collaborator Leontiev applied Marxist theory to center activities of human labor as the unit of analysis. Finnish scholar Yrjo Engeström extended Leontiev’s ideas through advancing an activity theory perspective of CHAT, which he outlined in the foundational book Learning by Expanding (1987), an analysis of the coordination of work among hospital personnel that can affect the quality of care patients receive. Developed primarily in Europe, this tradition is sometimes called the Finnish school of CHAT research (Engeström & Sannino, 2020). This line of inquiry, more often characterized as activity theory (Roth & Lee, 2007), has emphasized examining and improving work processes in organizations and higher education (Bligh & Flood, 2015, 2017; Engeström, 1987/2015). In its development, scholars have characterized CHAT as involving three generations of inquiry, with a fourth emerging, but not fully yet formed (Engeström & Sannino, 2020). Each generation involved a different unit of analysis. The first, developed primarily by Vygotsky, involved the unit of analysis of culturally mediated activity, or the mediation of human experience through symbolic and material artifacts in a social setting to facilitate human learning and development (Cole & Engeström, 1993). An example might be a focus on how the use of symbolic artifacts like an understanding of rock types and material artifacts like a hammer facilitate geoscience fieldwork students’ movement toward being able to identify rocks (Goodwin, 2018). The second, developed primarily by Leontiev, advanced the idea of object-oriented (or goal-directed) group activity as the unit of analysis in the development of human cognition (Engeström, 2015). An example would be a focus on how a group of students in jointly (not individually) mediated activity (Cole, 2010) engage in “collective, sustained human effort” (Bligh & Flood, 2017, p. 129) to develop dispositions and skills to conduct geoscience fieldwork. Because neither Vygotsky nor Leontiev ever specified the social and relational components of joint-mediated activity, Engeström advanced the third generation of CHAT through specifying how norms, the distribution of labor, different types of subjects, or different communities might shape the construction of, and contradictions within, the unit of analysis of an activity system (Engeström, 2015). An example of an activity system analysis would be that presented at the beginning of this chapter, where the relationships between different norms of a geoscience

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fieldwork course, their potential tensions, and their implications for human development and transformation (and, in this case, inclusion and exclusion) were examined. Engeström (2015) also characterized the third-generation CHAT as including analyses of relationships between activity systems. An example might be the interaction between a geoscience fieldwork course activity system and geoscience fieldwork as a historical disciplinary activity system, which is predicated on traditions of natural extraction and military expansion, as embedded in logics of conquest and settler colonialism (Núñez et al., 2020; Yusoff, 2018). These traditions have been associated with what Mogk and Goodwin (2012) call a “boot camp” mentality in fieldwork. This historical underpinning may account in part for the contradiction manifested in my vignette beginning this chapter, when, after a long and tough day of geoscience fieldwork, the students marched forward and left me behind. Fourthgeneration activity theory, still in development and not fully formed, focuses on more complex societal systems and the relationships between these systems. Its focus is inquiry about increasingly large-scale global crises that are beyond the scope of activity systems as they are conceptualized in third-generation activity theory (Engeström & Sannino, 2020). CHAT is interdisciplinary, involving traditions that build on psychological inquiry about the concept of cognition and anthropological inquiry about the concept of culture (Cole & Engeström, 1993). Cole (2010) pointed out that there have been debates about the extent to whether sociocultural (Cole, 2010, p. 360), culturalhistorical (Roth & Lee, 2007), and activity theory (Bligh & Flood, 2017; Engeström, 1987/2015) perspectives can in fact be considered one tradition. For the purposes of this piece, I follow Cole’s (2010) assumption that “. . .these distinctions are not central. . .” (p. 360) and that CHAT perspectives can be characterized as a “single family of theoretical commitments” (Cole, 2010, p. 360). These theoretical commitments include: 1. Emphasizing how human experiences are mediated through material or symbolic artifacts 2. Employing the activity or cultural practice (Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b) as the unit of analysis 3. The focus on culture as an accumulated history, set of artifacts, and practices that mediate human activity 4. An emphasis on the social nature of human development (rather than locating human cognition solely within the individual) 5. A temporal focus on understanding the short-term and long-term historical development of cultural practices, including artifacts, activities, and interactions, as situated in individual and collective biological development over time (e.g., including the evolution of humans as a distinctive species) (as summarized from Cole, 2010, pp. 360–361) To examine mediated activities in learning settings like K–12 classrooms and organizations, CHAT typically employs naturalistic methods (Cole, 2010; Lincoln

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& Guba, 1985). Researchers in this tradition typically collect and analyze digital videos and sound recordings, interviews, documents, and structured or informal observations as data for analysis (Cole, 2010). The employment of ethnographic methods, including extended immersion in an educational setting over time, is common in CHAT research, particularly in research about educational processes conducted in the P–12 level (e.g., Gutiérrez, 2008; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b) and of work processes in organizations (e.g., Engeström, 1987/2015).

Qualities and Distinctions of CHAT A thorough CHAT analysis has the potential to address multiple levels, including the intrapersonal, interpersonal, and institutional planes of analysis (Rogoff, 1995) and multiple types of development, from micro-level experiences and interactions to broad cultural-historical trends (Cole & Engeström, 1993). CHAT research typically involves extended (multi-year) data collection in a site or multiple sites and multiple data sources, including video, interviews, observations, and documents. For example, Gutiérrez’s (2008) research on migrant students’ development in the Migrant Student Leadership Institute (MSLI) involved 15 years of participant observation, data collection (including video, photos, interviews, observations, and documents such as student assignments), and analysis. Engeström’s (1987/2015) studies on work organizations have typically involved a similar scope and multi-year focus. These examples indicate how the collection and analysis of qualitative data for CHAT approaches tends to require significantly more time and effort than that for many other kinds of educational and organizational research (Cole, 2010; Williams & Hummelbrunner, 2011). In examining 19 conceptual perspectives to study organizational systems, Williams and Hummelbrunner (2011) suggested that, in comparison to other approaches (including more top-down and individualistic, or less-specified approaches such as action research), employing CHAT provides an analytical apparatus that affords significant specificity in articulating the components of organizational activities in a system. Furthermore, a CHAT theoretical perspective highlights also the linkages between the components in the system. Through this focus on components and linkages, CHAT’s analytical apparatus can enhance the understanding of learning processes and expand perspectives on contradictions and disturbances in the system that impede organizational functioning as learning opportunities to grow for the organization, rather than as deficits or negative events whose consequences are to be repressed, covered up, or ignored (Williams & Hummelbrunner, 2011). Scholars employing CHAT have studied the workings of organizations and systems including hospitals, schools, universities, and social movements, where actors from multiple perspectives typically aim to reach common objectives (e.g., curing patients, cultivating student development, and advancing more just societal practices), but might not act in alignment with one another for a variety of reasons. Although CHAT has not been used extensively to date in the higher education research field, higher education’s loosely coupled nature (Weick, 1976), in which

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many actors pursue a variety of goals yet are part of the same institution, lends itself to a CHAT approach (Bligh & Flood, 2015, 2017). Research on learning and development in the P–12 and (to a far lesser extent) university sectors has identified behaviors, material and symbolic tools (e.g., technology, language, data), norms, social interactions, and tasks that actors can develop and enact to transform educational environments to harness the considerable cultural resources that diverse learners bring to classrooms (Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b). For example, as I will discuss later in this piece, CHAT has been used to illustrate how in a university-based program, the Migrant Student Leadership Institute (MSLI), migrant students and their instructors created a learning environment that challenged typical norms of schooling. In this setting, participants cultivated students’ cultural and linguistic assets through engaging in multilingual forms of expression, multiple writing genres, and the understanding of structural factors affecting migrant students’ educational opportunities (Gildersleeve, 2010; Gutiérrez, 2008). These students not only increased their academic skills; they also increased their likelihood of enrolling in selective colleges (Núñez, 2009).

Rationale for Applying CHAT in Higher Education Current historical developments, such as a global pandemic, an increased reliance on computer technology, and anti-racist social movements to transform entrenched power systems (and, in the USA, violent attacks to thwart such transformation), all have disrupted the fundamental enterprise of higher education, reinforcing the importance of advancing a better understanding and capacity to effect organizational and systems responsiveness and transformation. At a time when educational, economic, health, and other outcomes are becoming more unequal, developing more robust ways to address and advance equity, through systems such as higher education, has never been more important. Higher education scholars have noted that the individual (e.g., student, faculty member), rather than the organization, has been the predominant unit of analysis in this field’s research (e.g., Bastedo, 2012; Stevens, 2015). Focusing on the individual as the unit of analysis limits potential for transformative inquiry to enhance equity in higher education (Gonzales et al., 2018). Although several lenses have been developed to examine how higher education organizations and their relationships with external systems function in general (e.g., Kezar, 2018; Manning, 2012), even current higher education organizational scholarship rarely employs critical or systems perspectives that interrogate power, (in)equity, and associated concepts like agency, in rigorous ways (Gonzales et al., 2018; Kezar, 2018; Pasque & Carducci, 2015). Furthermore, higher education research has generated few rigorous studies of organizational change (Kezar, 2018). To be sure, several theoretical perspectives, such as social reproduction theory (Bourdieu, 1977, 1986; Bourdieu & Passeron, 1977), critical race theory (Solórzano & Villalpando, 1998), and community cultural wealth (Yosso, 2005), have been employed fruitfully to study the perpetuation of higher education (in)equities in

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opportunities and the associated implications for organizational change. However, these perspectives have typically been applied with the individual, rather than the organization or its activities, as the unit of analysis. Furthermore, concepts that could advance understanding of dynamics in social systems, like Bourdieu’s theory of practice, have been understudied and underapplied, resulting in a more limited understanding of mechanisms of social reproduction (Dixon-Roman, 2017; McDonough & Núñez, 2007). These patterns of application limit the potential for research guided by these theories to identify and change systemic and organizational dynamics of inequity. Furthermore, each of these perspectives has been critiqued for being overly deterministic and limited in their capacity to specify and transform the power dynamics that limit educational opportunities in postsecondary systems, particularly for minoritized groups (Cabrera, 2018; Swartz, 1997). These conditions in higher education scholarship limit understanding of how higher education organizations and systems can transform and improve their processes in equity-oriented directions. Following Kezar’s (2018) view that higher education researchers and practitioners alike benefit from applying multiple theoretical lenses to address organizational and systems change, I explore the potential for CHAT to serve as an additional perspective on understanding, designing, and sustaining organizational change. In this vein, this chapter addresses the question: How can the application of CHAT extend inquiry about organizational studies and interventions to advance equity in higher education systems? In the next section, I address the background of CHAT and how it has evolved over time, outlining key theoretical concepts of CHAT, particularly for readers new to the tradition. As CHAT is difficult to encapsulate in a short space (Bligh & Flood, 2017), the purpose of this section is not to provide an exhaustive review of CHAT but to provide a basic orientation to the tradition. Readers interested in a more thorough introduction to CHAT focused on studying organizations are encouraged to consult Engeström’s 2015 second edition of the foundational text Learning by Expanding. Subsequently, in the following section, I examine how CHAT can contribute to research about higher education systems and organizations. After examining how others have reviewed the application of CHAT as a theory in higher education specialist journals (Bligh & Flood, 2017), I explore how CHAT has been applied to understand equity in higher education specifically. To illustrate CHAT’s affordances in this arena through specific cases, I then review research that has applied CHAT to examine the design and implementation of two equity-oriented interventions in higher education: one designed to build migrant high school students’ scholarly skills and opportunities for college access (Gutiérrez, 2008; Gildersleeve, 2010) and the other designed to build higher education faculty and administrators’ capacity to use data to guide equity-oriented efforts in their own institutions (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Dowd & Liera, 2018; Liera & Dowd, 2019; Liera, 2020). After considering the affordances of CHAT based on this particular research, I present a case of how CHAT can be applied to enhance inquiry about equity in science in higher education. Following up on the earlier vignette that introduced this

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piece, I employ CHAT to analyze data that I collected as part of a larger ethnographic research project, to indicate how CHAT affords distinctive insights about dynamics of inclusion and exclusion in undergraduate geoscience fieldwork. My ethnographic analysis shows how, compared with more common higher education conceptual perspectives, the application of CHAT offers a finer-grained analysis of cultural practices, how they are generated, and how they are sustained or transformed over time. Therefore, a CHAT analysis of these practices provides more specific ways to understand and transform systemic dynamics of exclusion, agency, and power. Finally, I conclude with implications about the potential of CHAT to enhance further inquiry focused on equity in higher education systems. My aims are twofold: (1) to illustrate the affordances of CHAT to enhance research on organizational change intended to advance equity in higher education systems and (2) to provide tools for researchers to initiate or enhance inquiry applying CHAT to study (in)equity in higher education organizations and systems.

Background and Framework of CHAT In a comprehensive review, Roth and Lee (2007) noted that the application of CHAT was still limited but had increased dramatically between 1980 and 2007, especially in 2000–2005. This trend was primarily in P–12 research. Ten years later, Bligh and Flood (2017) still found a very limited number of articles (just 59) that applied CHAT in 53 higher education specialty journals and none in the top three US-based higher education journals (Bray & Major, 2011). Because CHAT has seen limited application in higher education research (Bligh & Flood, 2017), it may be unfamiliar to many higher education scholars, particularly with regard to the concept of an activity system as the unit of analysis (Engeström, 2015). CHAT may have been used less often in higher education research because it is simply less known than other approaches and because higher education research has primarily focused on the student, rather than the organization, as the unit of analysis (Bastedo, 2012; Stevens, 2015). Some scholars have also characterized CHAT as less accessible and more jargon-laden than other organizational theories (Williams & Hummelbrunner, 2011). The activity system as a unit of analysis may require substantial (re)orientation in relation to other, more common ways to study the workings of higher education organizations and systems (Williams & Hummelbrunner, 2011), so I outline key concepts of CHAT and the relationships between them in this section. CHAT approaches and concepts have evolved over the years. The first generation of activity theory involved the development of the concept of the cultural mediation of activity, or object-mediated action, by Vygotsky (e.g., Vygotsky, 1978; Engeström, 2015). The second generation of activity theory involved the development of the activity as the unit of analysis by Leontiev (Cole & Engeström, 1993). The third generation of activity theory elaborated on the construction of these concepts and the relationships between them as a broader social activity system (known as third-generation CHAT) (e.g., Engeström, 1987/2015; Roth & Lee, 2007;

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Yamagata-Lynch, 2010). The third generation of activity theory advanced the idea of the activity system as the unit of analysis by Engeström (1987/2015). This development also involves the potential to examine interactions between activity systems and as such and enhances the application of systems perspectives to inquiry about higher education. Because a fourth generation of activity theory is emerging, but not yet fully formed (Engeström & Sannino, 2020), my discussion focuses primarily on the first three generations.

First- and Second-Generation CHAT To date, CHAT has incorporated three major developments, commonly described as three generations of activity theory (Engeström, 2015; Yamagata-Lynch, 2010; Roth & Lee, 2007). The first generation, that initiated by Vygotsky, generated the idea of culturally mediated activity that mediation of human experience through symbolic and material artifacts in a social setting can facilitate human learning and development (Cole & Engeström, 1993). The object is the motive that guides the reason for doing the activity and the organization of the activity itself (Yamagata-Lynch, 2010), while an outcome is “the desired result from the object” (Sam, 2012, p. 85). An artifact, often used interchangeably with the word tool, is developed by humans, can have material or symbolic characteristics, and is an instantiation of accumulated culture and history of human activity (Cole & Engeström, 1993). Mediation here involves how, in object-oriented activity, where the object is conceived as the reason for doing the activity, human engagement with an artifact (a culturally developed physical or symbolic tool – like prior knowledge, concepts, or language) facilitates a subject’s (individual or individuals participating in the activity) development in thought and speech (Roth & Lee, 2007; Cole & Engeström, 1993; Engeström, 2015). This idea has significant implications for inquiry about learning and development in that cognition, rather being solely lodged within the individual, is distributed across a human collective (Cole & Griffin, 1983; Cole & Engeström, 1993; Cole, 1998). Mediation, or the relationship between the artifact, subject, and object, can be represented by a triangle, with the artifact at the top point of the triangle, in its mediating role between subject and object at the lower two points (Cole & Engeström, 1993). Yamagata-Lynch’s (2010) articulation of the relationship between object, artifact, and subject is helpful: “. . .object-oriented activity refers to mediational processes in which individuals and groups of individuals participate driven by their goals and motives, which may lead them to create or gain new artifacts or tools intended to make the activity robust” (Yamagata-Lynch, 2010, p. 10). The result of this activity does not always meet the intended goals and motives. When that is (frequently) the case, it is identifying and re-mediating the processes that create this gap between the intended goals and motives and the activity itself that is the topic of CHAT analysis. As Cole and Griffin (1983) characterize it, re-mediation in this sense is a “shift in the way that mediating devices regulate coordination with the environment” (p. 73). These mediating devices (e.g., in education, curricula, or pedagogy) can be recrafted

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to facilitate interactions that will better support the subject(s) to realize the object of their activities and result in human learning and development. Such “cultural vehicles” (Cole & Griffin, 1983, p. 70) can expand the way that actors perceive and make sense of the world around them, in ways that can enhance development. In the second generation of CHAT, Leontiev advanced the idea of the objectoriented activity as the unit of analysis in the development of human cognition (Engeström, 2015; Yamagata-Lynch, 2010). From this standpoint, the typical unit of analysis is joint-mediated activity, which “. . .includes two or more individuals in interactions mediated by cultural artifacts” (Cole, 2010, p. 364). In this context, the activity is conceived of as “an evolving, complex structure of mediated and collective human agency” (Roth & Lee, 2007, p. 198). This structure includes distinctions between the conceptions of activity, action, and operation. As Bligh and Flood (2017) articulate, activity involves “collective, sustained human effort” (129), while action involves the narrower sense of “individuals’ or sub-groups’ time-bounded pursuit of goals” (130). An operation, by contrast, is conducted without intention – “what individuals do without pre-meditation” (Bligh & Flood, 2017, p. 130).

Third-Generation CHAT: Activity System, Its Components, and the Triangle Heuristic Neither Vygotsky nor Leontiev ever elaborated their perspectives on norms or the division of labor in joint-mediated activity, or how different subjects or communities might construct this activity (Engeström, 2015). Engeström (1987) took up this work, incorporating concepts from the first- and second-generation developments of CHAT scholarship into the visual depiction of the heuristic of the activity system triangle (Roth & Lee, 2007). His activity systems approach and the associated activity triangle model more explicitly articulated and emphasized the “complex interrelations between the subject and his or her community” (Engeström, 2015, p. xv) in which the subject was embedded. According to Cole and Engeström (1993), an activity system is a “historically conditioned system of relations among individuals and their proximally, culturally organized environments” (p. 9). In the third generation of CHAT, the activity system became the unit of analysis to guide inquiry about activities as relational, situated in and mutually constituted by social and cultural groups, in broader historical contexts (Cole, 1995). The activity system heuristic could serve as a valuable analytical tool to apply a sociohistorical perspective to examine how activities are inherited and transformed across human generations. As such, it could be used to examine conceptions of culture as a “semiorganized hodgepodge of social inheritance” (Cole, 2010, p. 294) and of cultural practices as “patterned ways of co-constructing life with one’s social group that serve as ‘units of selection’ by which parts of the vast pool of cultural knowledge are made a part of the conduct of current actions” (Cole, 2010, p. 294). Through a CHAT lens, the “hodgepodge” of cultural practices in a given time and place are the collective material that organize human activity, while humans at the same time are enacting and sometimes transforming those very same practices and

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transmitting them to the next generations. In this way, as Cole (2010) notes, CHAT scholars also characterize cultural practices as activities (Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b). Activities can be thought of cultural practices when they become more “institutionalized,” “robust and enduring” over time (Cole & Engeström, 1993, p. 8). Alongside human activity and relations, time is an important dimension in CHAT theory. The notion of being “historically conditioned” embodies five kinds of time: physical (earth history), phylogenetic (earth history, once living species are present), cultural-historical (collective human behavior as emerging and evolving), ontogenetic (centering one individual human being’s history or development), and microgenetic (moment to moment unfolding in time) (Cole & Engeström, 1993, p. 21). In addition to these, mesogenetic time might be thought of as changes in collective behavior in the shorter term – not at the individual level, but not at the longer-term cultural-historical (typically at least 20 or 30 years) either (Cole, 2010). How activities and activity systems evolve over these kinds of time influence the social inheritance that is culture, which can shape durable and robust artifacts and cultural practices (Cole, 1998, 2010; Cole & Engeström, 1993). This CHAT approach provides a systems-oriented way to understand cognitive development in education and organizational learning (Williams & Hummelbrunner, 2011). To reiterate, in CHAT, the object is the purpose that motivates the existence of the activity system. To the object-subject-artifact relationship of mediation (from the first generation of activity system theory) and the focus on object-oriented activity as the unit of analysis (from the second-generation of activity system theory), Engeström’s (1987/2015) heuristic of the activity system triangle adds the components of rules, or the formal and informal norms that guide practices in the system, division of labor, or the ways that roles and responsibilities in the activity system are distributed among participants, and community, or the collective group of participants engaged in the activities and those whom the activities affect. These three components are added to the object-subject-artifact triangle described earlier (Cole & Engeström, 1993), to create the activity system triangle (see Fig. 1). The activity system’s components of object, subject, artifact, rules, division of labor, and community constitute and are mutually constituted by participants’ relationships and roles with the activities and with one another in the system. Figure 1 displays the activity system triangle heuristic as conceptualized by Engeström (1987/2015). Cole and Engeström (1993) articulated that “. . .activity systems are best viewed as complex formations in which equilibrium is an exception and tensions, disturbances, and local innovations are the rule and engine of change” (pp. 8–9, emphasis added). The concept of contradiction in CHAT is used to describe these underlying tensions in which components of the activity system embody paradoxical tendencies, or the components are at odds with one another. This concept is typically employed to explain why an activity system does not actualize its intended object (Engeström, 1987/2015). A disturbance is the unanticipated event of a latent contradiction becoming aggravated and manifest. To illustrate, I return to the geoscience fieldwork course activity system described at the beginning of this chapter that involved the rules to be timely, be safe, and be together. Geoscience fieldwork commonly also involves a cultural practice of

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Artifacts

Object

Subject

Rules

Community

Outcome

Division of Labor

Fig. 1 Activity system triangle heuristic. (Adapted from Engeström 1999)

drinking alcohol that many instructors and students express as helping them to bond socially and relax after a long day (Posselt & Núñez, 2021). Yet, the cultural practice of drinking alcohol can also prompt a disturbance in the activity system, when it is conducive to sexual harassment, assault, or otherwise inappropriate behavior. Different subjects (viz., women and men) in the activity system experience the disturbance in different ways, with women as the more common objects of harassment or assault (Clancy et al., 2014). Although some participants in the geoscience fieldwork activity system claim that drinking supports togetherness (Posselt & Núñez, 2021), the negative effects of alcohol consumption can make evident a contradiction (Engeström, 2015) between the rules of being together and being safe that can interfere with the activity system’s intended object of learning geoscience fieldwork skills. This contradiction disproportionately and negatively impacts women’s capacity to learn in the field and illustrates how a common cultural practice in the activity system of geoscience fieldwork can perpetuate gender exclusion in the discipline. Activity theory resembles Uri Bronfenbrenner’s (1979) social ecological approach to understanding education. Bronfenbrenner’s work has influenced CHAT researchers, especially regarding relationships between situated micro-, meso-, and macrosystems (Engeström, 2015). His approach has traveled to higher education research, particularly through Renn and Arnold’s (2003) application of it to conceptualize college student development, peer culture, and other social systems in which students are situated. What distinguishes a CHAT approach from Bronfenbrenner’s work, however, is embodied in the visual contrast between Bronfenbrenner’s nested Russian doll metaphor and the CHAT triangle heuristic.

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Fig. 2 A comparison of Bronfenbrenner’s and Engeström’s ecological models of interacting systems (The figure above is adapted from Bronfenbrenner, 1979, and the figure below is adapted from Engeström 2008, p. 89)

Figure 2 indicates the well-known heuristic of Bronfenbrenner’s ecological theory (1979), placing it next to the heuristic of two interacting activity systems that depict an ecological focus of interacting systems (Engeström, 2015). Note that even though there are bidirectional arrows between the lines delineating the nested concentric circles on Bronfenbrenner’s ecological model, these lines are solid. This suggests visually that the interactions between environments in the model are less fluid, more static, and less specified than in a CHAT approach. Gutiérrez (2011) noted that, in contrast to the nested Russian doll metaphor of Bronfenbrenner’s ecological theory (1979), a sociocultural or CHAT-oriented perspective focuses more on the contestations of boundaries within ecologies and the entanglement of interactions and practices that shape culture. This point is

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particularly relevant to studies of power and agency for dominant and nondominant communities within higher education systems. Through surfacing tensions, disturbances, and local innovations within and between components of activity systems, third-generation activity theory provided additional tools to examine the role of cultural diversity in activity systems in comparison to prior generations of CHAT. Namely, it accounted for multiple perspectives and dialogue in activity systems, as well as interactions between different activity systems, “with their partially shared and often fragmented objects” (Engeström, 2015, p. xv). For example, subjects in an activity system can (and typically do) conceive of objects in different ways (implicitly or explicitly, consciously or unconsciously) and themselves are connected with different activity systems. For example, participants in higher education equity work may define the concept of equity differently from one another, or not define it adequately at all. The failure to share an articulated conception of equity as the object of an activity system can thwart transformative change toward equity in the institutions of both higher education and science (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Gonzales et al., 2021; Jayakumar et al., 2018). This situation of having multiple object orientations among different individuals could lead to members of an activity system to act in contradiction with one other (or even with their own intentions), generating disturbances and contradictions that could inhibit realization of the intended object of the system. Or different subjects might interpret and enact the same rules differently, a contradiction that could be associated with divergent uses of the same artifacts, conflicts in the community, and fragmentation in the division of labor. Such dynamics could impede coordination of a whole activity system.

Expansive Learning as Third-Generation CHAT One critical affordance of CHAT for higher education research is its potential to integrate human development and transformation of social systems in ways that augment that development, as indicated in the another third-generation CHAT concept, that of expansive learning. As Cole and Griffin (1983) pointed out, using early childhood reading as an example, “development isn’t always achievement of a fixed criterion. Development is systems reorganization. Re-medial reading instruction requires the social system’s reorganization. From this perspective, you can teach kids to read who otherwise couldn’t be taught” (Cole & Griffin, 1983, p. 73, emphasis added). This view emphasizes the importance of reconstituting an educational system to facilitate reading and literacy development, rather than to assume a child cannot read. Creating such a system may require multiple reconstitutions and calibrations in the system, until the child can read. A central goal of inquiry into activity systems, then, is to prompt expansive learning and an expansive cycle to transcend such contradictions and disturbances that inhibit a system’s intended object (Engeström, 1987/2015). Through identifying, testing, and refining solutions to address such contradictions and disturbances

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that can be manifest in education (Cole & Griffin, 1983), a process known as expansive learning (Engeström, 2001), researchers and practitioners can improve processes of human development in educational settings and of transformation of those educational settings to augment opportunities for diverse learners to grow. Improving organizational processes is termed a transformation that is part of an expansive cycle of learning which involves “both the internalization of a given culture of practice and the creation of novel artifacts and patterns of interaction” (Cole & Engeström, 1993, p. 40). Collective reflection and analysis among participants in systems is required to sustainably and meaningfully transform an activity system such as a work organization. Special tools may be needed to address internal contradictions in the activity system. Change unfolds as follows: Creative externalization occurs first in the form of discrete individual violations – and innovations. As the disruptions and contradictions in the activity become more demanding, internalization increasingly takes the form of critical self-reflection – and externalization, the search for novel solutions, increases. Externalization reaches its peak when a new model for the activity is designed and implemented. As the new model stabilizes itself, internalization of its inherent ways and means again becomes the dominant form of learning and development. (Cole & Engeström, 1993, p. 41)

The expansive cycle of learning involves seven steps: (1) questioning (exploring the problem that needs to be addressed); (2) analyzing (defining and diagnosing the problem that needs to be addressed); (3) modeling (generating an idea to guide the solution); (4) examining and refining the model to examine its potential and limitations and target activity so it can be most effective; (5) implementing the model using both ideational and material artifacts – conceptual and practical strategies; (6) reflecting on and evaluating the process of implementing the model; and (7) integrating the processes and outcomes into a new “stable form of practice” (Engeström, 2015, p. xxi), to recalibrate or re-mediate the system’s dynamics. One intended consequence of this process is to promote equitable experiences and outcomes for all participants in the system. For example, Engeström’s studies of employing expansive learning cycles with doctors, nurses, and staff in hospitals, through his Change Laboratory method, aim to provide equitable opportunities for all patients to heal (e.g., Engeström, 2011, 2015). Engeström (2011) characterizes the seven-step cycle of expansive learning as a formative intervention in which participants examine their own activity system and rethink the composition of components, and of the interactions between components, to improve realization of the intentions of the organization. Here, the researcher’s role “. . .aims at provoking and sustaining an expansive transformation process led and owned by practitioners” (Engeström, 2011, p. 606). As such, the researcher’s role is to build and engage participants in a zone of proximal development (Vygotsky, 1978) through artifacts, rules, and divisions of labor that will prompt them to reflective collectively and design formative interventions (Engeström, 2015). As part of the cycle, researchers generate a key artifact, what Engeström (2015) called mirror data, based on extensive observations of the organization’s activities

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(Bligh & Flood, 2015), to render visible components in the system, or relationships between them, about which participants might not have been aware. Mirror data typically take multiple forms, including videos, interviews, observations, document analysis, and quantitative analyses. Typically, in the expansive cycle, researchers and practitioners jointly reflect on the data to co-construct, test, and refine innovations to dynamics in the activity system found to inhibit the realization of the intended object, a process of formative intervention (Engeström, 2015). What distinguishes an expansive learning from an action research approach is (1) the typically far higher volume and quality of naturalistic data collected that suggest a higher level of “trustworthiness” (Lincoln & Guba, 1985) than that that would be collected in action research and (2) the application of additional specificity, through explicitly or implicitly presenting the components of and interactions between components in the activity system, through a heuristic such as the activity theory triangle (Engeström, 2015; Williams & Hummelbrunner, 2011). Along these lines, Engeström and colleagues developed the Change Laboratory in the mid-1990s as a practical application of CHAT and methodological tool kit to engage participants in identifying concrete components of an activity system, the way that these components relate to one another, and the way that tensions or contradictions arise to hinder the purported object or intended outcome of the activity, with the purpose of generating formative interventions to refine the activity system (Engeström, 2015, p. xxxiii). Williams and Hummelbrunner (2011) highlighted the Change Laboratory’s tools, worksheets, and workshops as accessible for practitioners and newcomers to learn how to apply CHAT to organizational and systems change and as having an advantage over action research, due to their increased specificity of components and interactions related to systems thinking and organizational change. In the Change Laboratory process, to promote expansive learning, researchers collect extensive data from the organization to serve as a mirror to provide practitioners in the organization with a third-party observer’s perspective of the activity system. Researchers then guide practitioners in reviewing the data, raising questions about potential contradictions or other components that might hinder functioning of the system, identifying problems in the system, generating possible solutions to those problems, implementing those solutions, and continuing to refine cultural practices to improve how organizational and systems activities are carried out (Bligh & Flood, 2015; Engeström, 2015, p. xxxiii). Bligh and Flood (2015) emphasized the work of the Change Laboratory as particularly salient to guide the application of CHAT to conducting intervention-related research and practice in higher education.

Third-Generation CHAT and Engaging Cultural Diversity in Learning Although an orientation toward equity has been embedded in CHAT scholarship since Vygotsky’s emphasis that students with disabilities could achieve equally valuable outcomes given supportive educational environments (Moll, 2014), thirdgeneration CHAT scholarship, more clearly than its first- and second-generation

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predecessors, has focused on engaging cultural diversity as a resource, rather than barrier, to learning, particularly in K–12 settings (Cole, 1998; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b). As a distinctive development of CHAT research advanced in the USA (Gutiérrez et al., 2016), this application involves: . . .an additive, inclusive approach to diversity in which new forms of activity are created that ‘re-mediate’ social rules, the division of labor, and the way that artifacts are created and used. These design features change in power relations, allowing the teacher to build on the strengths of children and communities who become active agents in the educational process. (Cole, 1998, p. 303)

Thus, classrooms that leverage cultural diversity involve social arrangements which engage artifacts that recognize, incorporate, and build upon the cultural “repertoires of practice” (Gutiérrez & Rogoff, 2003) that children from diverse racial/ethnic, gender, linguistic, immigrant, socioeconomic, and other backgrounds develop from their communities and bring to educational spaces. Engaging students’ repertoires of practice in this way requires an attendant shift in organizing the activity system’s subjects, community, rules, and division of labor. CHAT’s focus on activity systems and diversity as a resource for learning positions it particularly well to address questions about what cultural practices are inclusive in engaging diverse members in higher education and can cultivate more equitable outcomes, especially for members of nondominant groups. As Gutiérrez et al. (2009a, b) note, a key aim of CHAT is that of transformation of educational settings, to “organize new forms of educational activity in which diversity is a resource and heterogeneity is a design principle” (p. 216). The application of CHAT’s different concepts and frames can help make visible the organizational and systems dynamics in higher education settings that can be transformed to expand postsecondary opportunities, especially for nondominant groups whose repertoires of practice have historically tended to go unrecognized or even be denigrated (Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b) in these settings.

Typical Methodological Approaches of CHAT Cole (2010) framed methodology as “. . .the ensemble of methods that mediate between theoretical statements and data used to evaluate them” (p. 360). CHAT’s focus on the activity system as the unit of analysis differentiates it from much higher education research. Typical methods employed in CHAT studies include observation, participant observation, structured or informal interviews, ethnography (single or multi-site), and document review. To collect data, the first three methods in a CHAT approach often involve digital or video recording. Typical CHAT studies often involve several (at least three) of these methods. Close study of phenomena is privileged in CHAT, including “. . .prolonged participation in the practices we study – stepping into the messiness, pressures, and joys that open our interpretative sensibilities about the difficulty of this kind of work—the importance of studying

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side by side to develop more honest accounts of cultural production” (Gutiérrez, 2012, p. 18). The employment of various methods can depend on the phenomenon being addressed. First, system, the researcher could employ structured interviews with participants to glean their perspectives as members of an activity system. Second, participants in higher education settings might see certain data collection associated with a CHAT approach as overly intrusive, precluding types of data collection like video (Bligh & Flood, 2015) that are more common in K–12 settings. Next, the temporal-spatial scale of the study – microgenetic, mesogenetic, ontogenetic, and/or cultural-historical (Cole, 2010; Cole & Engeström, 1993, p. 21) – could also influence the time span of the research design. For example, in a multi-decade (30 years) study of how weaving and weaving instruction among Mexican families changed from a tradition to a product for sale required moment-to-moment observations and video recording (addressing the microgenetic level) about how mothers instructed their children about how to weave. It also involved ethnography about household activities and the broader political and economic context that shaped the emergence of weaving as a commodity (cultural-historical level) (Greenfield, 2004, as cited in Cole, 2010). In many, but not all, research settings in higher education that apply CHAT, it is used as an intervention tool. In such a setting, where “CHAT models are [being applied as] deliberate models of cultural practices, there is an immediate reciprocal relationship between theory and practice” (Cole, 2010, 366) that can guide the development of the intervention and facilitate ongoing expansive learning. With regard to the role and positionality of the researcher, in interventionist methods like Engeström’s Change Laboratory (2015), in or other cases where researchers play a key role in designing the intervention, researchers are often participant observers, with a particular responsibility toward reciprocity and to conduct inquiry with, rather than on, participants and practitioners in the activity system (Gutiérrez et al., 2016). Although CHAT has historically emphasized the use of qualitative methods, it can play a role in informing quantitative inquiry in higher education as well. Its application can expand possibilities in quantitative research to examine “tensions, contradictions, and differences” (Dixon-Roman, 2017, p. 70) in educational processes, through bringing together multiple sources of data to bear on a problem. Applying CHAT’s focus on educational processes and multiple sources of data can enhance in quantitative inquiry the processes of construction of variables, analyses of relationships between variables, defining and situating multiple educational contexts (e.g., in hierarchical linear modeling), and indirect and direct effects (Hatch, 2017). I return to this point at the conclusion of this chapter.

CHAT as a Dynamic Scholarly Enterprise Notably, CHAT’s components and relationships between components, including the activity system triangle heuristic, follow sociologist Max Weber’s concept of an ideal type (Weber, 1904/1949; Engeström, 2015). Although an ideal type is derived

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from an observable phenomenon, it does not claim to be an empirically complete representation of the reality of that phenomenon. Rather, an ideal type is a mental construction at a level abstract enough to enable a social scientist to compare different phenomena across different settings (e.g., different times or places) and to function on several levels of abstraction. With its “ideal-typical approach” (Engeström, 2015, p. xviii), the application of the activity system triangle is abstract enough to apply in a range of educational and organizational settings (Blackler, 2009; Bligh & Flood, 2015). Likewise, as Engeström (2008) emphasized about expansive learning, “. . .one probably never finds a concrete collective learning process that cleanly follows the ideal typical model” (p. 131). In its abstract quality, the ideal-typical analytical apparatus of CHAT lends flexibility in application of concepts to accommodate and compare multiple planes of analysis – such as the intrapersonal, interpersonal, and community or institutional (Rogoff, 1995; Rogoff et al., 1995), in addition to the different dimensions of time discussed earlier, particularly cultural-historical, ontogenetic, and microgenetic (Cole & Engeström, 1993, p. 21). CHAT’s analytical expansiveness to address a diversity of learners and organizations, inspires a continual evolution of CHAT’s conceptual apparatus and applications (Gutiérrez, 2012; Engeström, 2015; Engeström & Sannino, 2020). This quality is evidenced in how CHAT scholars draw on a variety of other theories, including theories of pedagogy by Paulo Freire, in conjunction with their application of CHAT (e.g., Stetsenko & Arievitch, 2016; Gutiérrez, 2018). The growth in the field is also evidenced in an emerging development in CHAT called fourth-generation activity theory, which focuses on increasingly large-scale global crises that are beyond the scope of activity systems as they are conceptualized in third-generation activity theory (Engeström & Sannino, 2020). According to Engeström and Sannino (2020), fourth-generation activity theory focuses on an “. . .interplay of coalescing expansive cycles. . .” (p. 17) among multiple organizations that work together to aim to address complex societal problems (e.g., objects, such as reducing homelessness) that require collaborations among multiple groups ranging from different governmental agencies to nonprofits, industry, and local communities. They assert that, given systemic societal problems such as climate change, the pandemic, and social unrest due to poverty or historically entrenched racism, “Today the revolutionary challenge for activity theory is to develop and put to use its conceptual foundations and methodological solutions in the service of formative interventions in multi-activity constellations aimed at creating and enacting alternatives to capitalism” (Engeström & Sannino, 2020, p. 19). In essence, fourth-generation activity theory proposes to extend the reach and scale of third-generation activity theory, toward considering multiple expansive cycles and the interactions between them as units of analysis to address complex social problems. It is expanding the capacity of CHAT to develop and apply systems thinking in social inquiry. Given that fourth-generation activity theory is still being developed, I focus on third-generation activity theory, with the activity system as the primary unit of analysis, and its constituent activities serving as “units of observation” to examine the activity system as a whole (Gutiérrez, personal communication 2019).

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It should be kept in mind that, in line with a Weberian ideal-typical approach (Engeström, 2015), the analytical apparatus of CHAT is not intended to be used in a wholesale way. CHAT scholar Luis Moll (2014) quotes Engeström (1993) as saying that CHAT offers “. . .conceptual tools and methodological principles, which have to be concretized according to the specific nature of the object under scrutiny” (p. 7). Accounting for both the theoretical and concrete dimensions of CHAT can be challenging but also affords distinctive insights to better understand organizations’ cultural practices and how to change them (Blackler, 2009; Cole, 2010; Engeström, 2015). This brief introduction indicates that applying CHAT to study cultural practices can enhance inquiry and advance transformation concerning equity-oriented interventions in higher education for all stakeholders. In P–12 education, where CHAT scholarship is more developed, applying a CHAT approach has provided analytical and practical tools to engage learners from all backgrounds more meaningfully and effectively in the educational enterprise, challenging traditional ways of organizing educational systems that historically have benefited dominant groups and disenfranchised nondominant groups. In higher education, applying a CHAT approach can afford analytical and practical tools to enhance human development and transform educational organizations and systems to support learning of students from diverse backgrounds, as it can afford insights on how to redistribute roles and responsibilities and redesign artifacts to more effectively coordinate and mobilize equity-oriented efforts.

Applications of CHAT to Research on Higher Education Organizations In this section, I examine how CHAT can enhance the capacity of higher education to address dimensions of organizational culture, to identify inequitable power dynamics in higher education systems, and to generate approaches to transform entrenched systems of inequity (Roth & Lee, 2007; Engeström, 2015). I begin by exploring more generally how CHAT can enhance the study of organizations and higher education systems (Bligh & Flood, 2015; Blackler, 2009; Engeström, 2015). I continue by examining how CHAT has been applied to theory development in research on higher education to date, reviewing an analysis (Bligh & Flood, 2017) that demonstrates how few studies in peer-reviewed higher education specialist journals have employed CHAT and that even fewer have fully engaged CHAT to advance theory or transformation in higher education (Bligh & Flood, 2017). To address the question, “How can the application of CHAT extend inquiry about organizational studies and interventions to advance equity in higher education?” I review a specific set of studies that address activity systems with equity-oriented interventions, to illustrate the potential of employing CHAT to advance understandings and practices of development and transformation in higher education organizations and systems. This review therefore does not serve as an exhaustive literature review of all higher education studies about CHAT but is a selective review of specific studies chosen for their capacity to shed light on how CHAT can be

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employed in a range of ways to advance equity-oriented theory and practice in higher education. My own review of CHAT research went beyond the parameters of Bligh and Flood’s (2017) investigation by examining the work of scholars whose research, with the exception of one article (Liera, 2020), was not published in specialist higher education journals. I found that CHAT research about equity-oriented transformation in higher education primarily concerned two interventions, each of which generated several studies that yielded quite distinct findings and illustrate different facets of the affordances of CHAT. I chose to focus on research about these two specific interventions to illustrate the flexibility and range of CHAT approaches for examining equity and transformation in higher education, from expanding conceptions of collegegoing and college access, to broadening practices to create higher education cultures and climates that would result in more equitable outcomes for racially minoritized groups. In the final section, I address the potential for CHAT studies of smaller-scale interventions to contribute to equity-oriented higher education research and practice. To address college-going and access, I examine a series of studies about the Migrant Student Leadership Institute (MSLI) conducted at UCLA (e.g., Gutiérrez, 2008; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b; Gildersleeve, 2010). To address efforts to transform higher education systems to better support minoritized groups, I examine a series of studies about the Equity Scorecard Project conducted by the University of Southern California’s Center for Urban Education (CUE) (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Dowd & Liera, 2018; Liera, 2020). After examining how these studies employ CHAT to examine equity-oriented higher education transformation, I conclude the section with an overview comparing these studies, to illustrate the affordances to applying CHAT in equity-oriented research in higher education.

CHAT and the Capacity to Address Equity in Higher Education Organizations and Systems As noted before, research in higher education has traditionally emphasized studies that focus on the individual student, rather than the organization, as the unit of analysis (Stevens, 2015). Inquiry about organizational and systems activities in higher education is particularly underdeveloped (Bligh & Flood, 2017). Scholars have called for the development and application of more critical and systemsoriented perspectives to interrogate asymmetrical power relations and to enhance research and practice about organizational culture, learning, and change (Gonzales et al., 2018; Kezar, 2018; Pasque & Carducci, 2015). Popular theoretical perspectives that have guided inquiry about (in)equity in higher education opportunities, such as social reproduction theory (Bourdieu & Passeron, 1977), critical race theory (Solórzano & Villalpando, 1998), and community cultural wealth (Yosso, 2005), generally have been found to underspecify organizational power dynamics that could illuminate more comprehensive understandings of, or efforts to change, systems of higher education inequity (Cabrera, 2018; McDonough & Núñez, 2007; Swartz, 1997). One result is less complete understandings of how processes

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within and between the macro-level, meso-level, and micro-level higher education ecological systems (Bronfenbrenner, 1979) or societal structures (Giddens, 1984) work together to constrain or enhance life opportunities and how asymmetries in organizational and systemic power shape these opportunities (Gonzales et al., 2018). In its focus on how subjects are situated in activity systems and detailing the processes of those activity systems, Engeström (2000) noted that CHAT can address “the persistent dichotomy between microprocesses and macrostructures” (p. 960) in the analysis of social systems, transcending concepts of structure and agency, and macro-, meso-, and micro-levels of organizational processes (Engeström, 2000, 2015; Roth & Lee, 2007). CHAT’s emphasis on the activity system as the unit of analysis calls on the researcher to situate the analysis in everyday unfolding of actions and interactions, “analyzing both the overall character and the details of [cultural] practices” (Blackler, 2009, 39). As such, Blackler (2009) argued that CHAT “calls for organizational theorists to stand back from abstracted theory and to feature the concrete, the situated, and the timely” (p. 38, emphasis added). Blackler (2009) highlighted that in a CHAT analysis, “objects of activity need to be understood as simultaneously given, socially constructed, contested, and emergent” (p. 27). This point is particularly relevant to the loosely coupled (Weick, 1976) nature of higher education, the divergent objectives and approaches of stakeholders in the enterprise, and the associated utility of multiple interpretive lenses for understanding organizational culture, learning, and systems change (Kezar, 2018). A focus on tensions within or between components of an activity system can illuminate barriers to enacting a system’s object, despite the best intentions of the subjects and community in the activity system. In its assumption of distributed cognition across individuals, CHAT provides tools for studying such tensions that are not available in other theories that presume full internalization of motives within the individual (Blackler, 2009). As such, CHAT affords potential for novel theoretical development concerning issues like power, agency, and identity associated with unconscious or conscious motives of actors in activity systems (Roth & Lee, 2007; Blackler, 2009). Later on, this point will be addressed further, using examples from higher education studies discussed here and from my own empirical research examples. Furthermore, in contrast to predominant “top-down” approaches to understanding organizations both in general (Blackler, 2009) and in higher education systems in particular (Gonzales et al., 2018), CHAT’s focus on how subjects and communities enact cultural practices within and between organizational systems, and on how (particularly in the case of interventions) they create activities and artifacts to facilitate expansive learning, can advance understanding and implementation of “bottom-up” organizational change (Blackler, 2009).

Bligh and Flood’s (2017) Synthesis of How Higher Education Research Has Applied CHAT Bligh and Flood (2017) conducted a comprehensive synthesis of how authors in higher education research have employed theoretical perspectives of CHAT to guide

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their work. Their work suggests that CHAT has not been used frequently in higher education research and that in those rare cases where it has been employed, its full potential to expand higher education empirical inquiry has not been fully realized. They addressed the question, “To what extent is the use of activity theory a harbinger for ‘thinking otherwise’ about empirical inquiry in higher education research literature?” (p. 127). They first conducted a systematic literature search using keywords related to CHAT, based on a list constructed by Tight (2012) of 53 journals around the world devoted to higher education. Notably, because it was focused on journals that specifically focus on higher education as a topic of inquiry, Bligh and Flood’s (2017) search did not include other journals, such as Mind, Culture, and Activity, that commonly feature CHAT scholarship, but are not focused exclusively on higher education as a topic of inquiry. From the 53 higher education specialist journals, they were able to identify just 59 articles that met their criterion of employing CHAT as a guiding conceptual framework. Notably, at the time of their article’s publication, none of the three US-based higher education journals considered top-tier by scholars in the field – Journal of Higher Education, Review of Higher Education, or Research in Higher Education (Bray & Major, 2011) – featured a single article that employed CHAT as a theoretical framework. This finding suggests the limited application of CHAT in higher education research, even though there is a rich tradition of applying CHAT to study P–12 education in the USA (e.g., Gutiérrez et al., 2016). Bligh and Flood (2017) found that in about half (30 of the 59 papers), authors did not note the distinctive advantages of using CHAT in relation to other theoretical approaches. They also found that “. . .in only a minority of cases is the identification of contradictions linked with the potential for the development of the activity system itself” (Bligh & Flood, 2017, p. 141). This is a critical limitation, as the potential for development and transformation of an activity system is in fact is a core component of CHAT, as expressed in the concept of expansive learning (Engeström, 1987/ 2015). Applying Hammersley’s (2012) framework that articulates seven potential ways in which theory can guide inquiry, Bligh and Flood (2017) concluded that CHAT researchers studying higher education rarely (1) built on other applications of CHAT in higher education, (2) engaged with the methodological perspectives of CHAT, or (3) addressed how CHAT aligned with their methodology and initial research design. For example, with regard to methodology, Bligh and Flood (2017) noted that higher education researchers who employed CHAT often used case study methods but that scholars typically did not explain the rationale for using these specific methods in conjunction with CHAT. They identified one exception to this pattern, an article that articulated CHAT’s methodological contribution as a distinctive potential to challenge “methodological individualism” (Bligh & Flood, 2017, p. 147) in higher education research. This study (Trowler & Knight, 2000) asserted that applying CHAT and associated ethnographic methods and forms of data collection to study newcomer faculty members’ experiences had significant advantages over the far more common studies in higher education that relied solely on interviews and/or questionnaires of faculty and therefore were limited by self-reports and

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a reliance on the individual faculty members as the unit of analysis. In contrast to the more decontextualized data based on interviews or questionnaires, these authors argued that the affordances of a CHAT approach included being able to better understand the nature of situated organizational contexts that the faculty inhabited and how faculty interacted with these contexts. Bligh and Flood’s (2017) review indicated that the application of CHAT in higher education research tended not to challenge, extend, or develop the theoretical or methodological tenets of CHAT itself, or to generate new theoretical concepts that might be applied in other settings. As they characterized it, CHAT was “. . .being incorporated into established research practice rather than offering a language of challenge to that practice” (Bligh & Flood, 2017, p. 149, emphasis added). They also noted that authors in their sample rarely addressed how their research built on other CHAT research in higher education, compared applications of activity theory in one higher education setting to another setting, or situated a CHAT analysis more broadly in other research using the same theoretical tradition. Together, these trends could contribute to “lack of a sense of cumulative knowledge-building” (Bligh & Flood, 2017, p. 149) when characterizing the application of CHAT to higher education research. Overall, their work suggests that there are significant opportunities for higher education researchers to expand applications of CHAT in theoretical, empirical, and practical inquiry.

Expanding the Potential of CHAT to Understand and Transform Higher Education For the purposes of this piece, it is important to keep in mind that Bligh and Flood (2017) only reviewed journal articles published before December 31, 2015, in specialist higher education journals. They acknowledged that the space constraints of typical journals may have limited the authors’ capacities to elaborate on methodological or theoretical choices or to build on related literature employing CHAT perspectives. Given their critique that higher education researchers rarely addressed fully the methodological affordances and implications of applying CHAT, this is important to reiterate, as space constraints in most higher education journals (and journals in general) often preclude a full discussion of methods, especially qualitative methods (Jones et al., 2014). To explore a fuller range of possibilities for CHAT to expand higher education inquiry, I expand on Bligh and Flood’s (2017) analysis by examining a set of CHAT research not addressed in their review. These publications were not included in Bligh and Flood’s (2017) review because of timing or type. Namely, the publications I examine (1) were books and not articles (Gildersleeve, 2010; Dowd & Bensimon, 2015), (2) were not published in higher education specialist journals (e.g., Gutiérrez, 2008), or (3) were published after Bligh and Flood’s review (Dowd & Liera, 2018; Liera & Dowd, 2019; Liera, 2020). Among these, just one (Liera & Dowd, 2019) was published in one of the higher education specialist journals on Tight’s (2012) list of 53 journals employed by Bligh and Flood (2017) in their synthesis. This finding

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indicates that the application of CHAT, particularly in higher education specialist journals, is still limited. The specific studies reviewed below focus on two different research and intervention settings: (1) the Migrant Student Leadership Institute (MSLI), a program designed at a university to expand robust learning, leadership dispositions, and college access opportunities for migrant students who were rising seniors in P–12 education (Gutiérrez, 2008; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a; Gildersleeve, 2010), and (2) the Equity Scorecard Project, a program designed to engage college faculty and administrators to employ data to identify and address equity gaps among different racial/ ethnic groups in their institutions (e.g., Dowd & Bensimon, 2015). Although the research I examine focuses on just two interventions, the depth and length of time of these interventions enabled several distinctive lines of empirical inquiry. I begin by discussing each intervention and follow with selected studies conducted in relation to it. The multiple studies that have been published on each setting afford a richer capacity to delve into how CHAT has been applied in research to promote equity in higher education organizations and systems. In doing so, I hope to lay a foundation for more theoretical, methodological, practical, and empirical “cumulative knowledge-building” that Bligh and Flood (2017) argued is missing in CHAT applications in higher education.

The Migrant Student Leadership Institute: CHAT and Cultivating Cultural Diversity as a Resource to Expand Learning in College-Going and College Access In the USA, migrant students, many of whom are Latinx, are among the most disenfranchised student groups and have particularly low college enrollment rates, which underlies the importance of increasing their access to college (Gildersleeve, 2010; Núñez & Gildersleeve, 2016). The Migrant Student Leadership Institute (MSLI), designed by Kris Gutiérrez and implemented at UCLA from 1993 to 2008 (Gutiérrez, 2008; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b), applied CHAT’s potential to facilitate expansive learning through organizing learning environments to build on the cultural and linguistic repertoires of practice (Gutiérrez & Rogoff, 2003) that migrant students develop in their families and communities, as resources for learning (Gutiérrez, 2008; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b). The MSLI involved the design of an educational activity system to address contradictions in other traditional K–12 school settings, which typically do not recognize the resources that migrant students bring to the classroom, and therefore may organize artifacts, rules, or a division of labor that do not fully engage these students and enable them to reach their full potential (Gutiérrez, 2008; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b). Over several years of the program, Gutiérrez and program instructors designed and conducted this intervention, while they also collected a range of naturalistic and structured observations, informal and structured interviews, and reviews of documents (e.g., student assignments) (e.g., Espinoza, 2009; Gildersleeve, 2009, 2010; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b; Pacheco & Nao, 2009).

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From its inception in 2000, the MSLI was an annual 5-week summer program held at UCLA for rising high school seniors who were nominated by administrators in their high schools to participate, based on their demonstrated academic ability (including GPAs of 3.0 or above), limited English skills (measured by standardized test scores), and leadership potential. The MSLI “re-mediated” the learning environment to fully engage migrant students’ repertoires of practice (Gutiérrez & Rogoff, 2003) and leverage cultural diversity as a resource, rather than a barrier to learning (Cole, 1998). In organizing the educational environment, the object of the MSLI was to develop students’ capacity for “. . .meaningful learning in robust ecologies” (Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b, p. 236) that are not typically available in K– 12 schooling. The longer-term aims of MSLI were to (1) increase the number of migrant students becoming community advocates, activists, and leaders and (2) increase the number of migrant students enrolling in college, especially the most highly selective public universities in the University of California system (Núñez & Gildersleeve, 2016). The subjects in the activity system of MSLI were migrant students and instructors. Migrant students came from all over the state and had different degrees of fluency in English. Students were encouraged to express themselves in whatever language they felt comfortable, including more hybrid combinations of English and Spanish. Importantly, many instructors were bilingual and some had been migrant students themselves. This increased the capacity for hybrid communication that recognized the bilingualism of several of these students and for relating to one another in terms of social background. These conditions contributed to the formation of a community of participants that emphasized diverse and related cultural and linguistic practices, even if students did not see their backgrounds reflected in the broader community of university faculty, administrators, and staff (Gildersleeve, 2010). To address common limitations in K–12 schooling, which does not tend to recognize and engage students’ cultural and linguistic practices (Gutiérrez, 2008; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b), an array of artifacts in the MSLI activity system was designed to mediate students’ learning and development that were grounded in students’ cultural repertoires of practice (Gutiérrez & Rogoff, 2003). K–12 schooling in the USA does not typically include curricula that reflect migrant students’ histories and contributions to the USA or that engage migrant students’ full linguistic repertoires of practice, such as speaking Spanish in their homes and communities. The artifacts in MSLI therefore included readings of well-known Spanish and Latin American authors, such as Eduardo Galeano, Paulo Friere, Gloria Anzaldua, and Ana Castillo. They also included science curricula designed by local Latinx health professionals that engaged students in problem solving on health issues related to their communities. The MSLI’s organization of learning changed the rules of the activity system of K–12 schooling that the migrant students had encountered to date. For one, instructors encouraged students to speak and write in whatever language they felt comfortable. In a related vein, the division of labor engaged students more actively in co-constructing the learning environment and sharing the responsibility for learning

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with instructors, rather than a more predetermined approach using the language of command (rather than of possibility) (Gutiérrez, 2008). Invoking phrases like “factory of dreams” (Gutiérrez, 2008, p. 157) reiterated to students that they were contributing to social dreaming, imagining a wider array of future possibilities for themselves and their communities. Collective reflection practices in class involved students in more communal approaches to learning. There is considerable evidence that MSLI developed an environment of expansive learning for migrant students (See, e.g., Gutiérrez, 2008; Espinoza, 2009; Gildersleeve, 2009; Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b; Pacheco & Nao, 2009; Espinoza & Vossoughi, 2014; Núñez & Gildersleeve, 2016; Espinoza et al., 2020). According to Gildersleeve’s (2010) study of college-going as an activity system, there is also evidence that MSLI participation enhanced participants’ conceptions of themselves as college students. This finding was further borne out by subsequent (non-CHAT) research finding that MSLI graduates applied to and enrolled in more selective colleges than they might have otherwise (Núñez & Gildersleeve, 2016). Gildersleeve (2010) examined the college-going experiences of participants in MSLI as oriented to the object of migrant student college access. In addition to serving as their MSLI instructor as part of the intervention, he conducted interviews and observations with 12 migrant student participants in the program, following up with them after the program multiple times through their senior year, in natural and informal settings, where he also had the opportunity to spend time with the students, their families, and friends. In addition to engaging with these students in the program itself and therefore being able to see their forms of expression through artifacts like course assignments, he was also able to connect with students after the program, as they were considering postsecondary options, alongside their families, communities, and friends. Gildersleeve (2010) framed the students and their school, family, and community members implicated in college-going as the subjects in the analysis of the activity system. He found that the community that played roles in supporting migrant students’ college-going involved school agents, family, higher education, and outreach personnel, who collectively could frame the rules and division of labor of the activity setting, as well as the artifacts to which the students had access. By accounting for the activity systems with which students interacted beyond MSLI or their K–12 schools, he found that the community also included agents like older siblings with college experience. Gildersleeve found that artifacts of (im)migration experiences and establishing confianza (trust) with one or more actors from the community were central to mediating college access for these students. Key rules of the activity system included an overt emphasis on taking college admissions tests and an implicit emphasis for students to calibrate their expectations about which colleges they could go to, to work harder to be able to be admitted, and to make sure that they applied for financial aid (Gildersleeve, 2010, Figure 2, p. 190). In applying CHAT’s focus on cultural practices as units of analysis within the contexts of activity systems, Gildersleeve (2010) expanded conceptualizations of college access from a progression of linear steps or stages (e.g., Hossler & Gallagher,

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1987; Hossler et al., 1999) to that college access as a learned activity situated within an ecological learning environment. From a methodological perspective, in serving as instructors and instructional designers in MSLI, both Gutiérrez (2008) and Gildersleeve (2010) were important participants in the activity system. They spent immersed time in these settings and in understanding other cultural repertoires of practice brought from other activity settings (e.g., language, migration histories). They collected multiple sources of data (including extended observations and multiple interviews) and, in co-constructing the learning environment, had reciprocal relationships with participants. The immersion, insider status, depth, and longitudinal qualities of the research offered the kind of data to study the activity system and attendant learning in detailed ways that also situated the research inquiry in critical historical, social, and political contexts. Research on MSLI suggests that applying CHAT to examining activities of college-going and access in more detail can provide fruitful avenues to conceptualize college access in a way that centers the perspectives and experiences of nondominant communities. These applications of CHAT also generate new ways of understanding learning environments and processes of learning itself, which can afford transferability to guide future action in other environments. In sum, the studies of the Migrant Student Leadership Institute (e.g., Gutiérrez, 2008; Gildersleeve, 2010) reveal systemic organizational mechanisms in higher education that can be addressed collectively, through attuning to the quality of involvement of different subjects and community members, while exploring and experimenting with new arrangements of rules, artifacts, and divisions of labor.

Equity Scorecard Intervention: CHAT and Engaging Higher Education Faculty and Administrators to Advance Equity The same year that Bligh and Flood (2015) noted that Engeström’s Change Laboratory, a CHAT intervention-research methodology to promote expansive learning in organizations, had been rarely used in higher education, the book Engaging the Race Question: Accountability and Equity in U.S. Higher Education (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015), which applied this methodology in racial equity work, was published. It addressed how personnel engaged in racial equity work through their Equity Scorecard Intervention (heretofore, ESI for brevity). Dowd and Bensimon (2015) employed the intervention-research methodology of the CHAT laboratory to implement and interpret the unfolding of the inquiry process, both from a research and intervention angle. Dowd and Bensimon (2015) highlighted contradictions as hindrances, yet also as key points of intervention, to advance equity work in a higher education activity system. They linked the inquiry process with engaging organizational learning in higher education (Argyris & Schon, 1996). In this section, I discuss several analyses of the ESI that explicitly or implicitly used CHAT approaches (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Dowd & Liera, 2018; Liera & Dowd, 2019; Liera, 2020). Broadly speaking, the guiding object of ESI is to promote racial equity in higher education. In CHAT terms, the activity system involves what Dowd and Bensimon

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(2015) call “racial equity work,” with a group of subjects, including selected faculty and administrators from different units, that work with selected artifacts, particularly institutional data, to reduce racial equity gaps in student or faculty representation in the broader campus community. With the activity system bounded (Yamagata-Lynch, 2010) as the intervention itself, the rules were the proposed guidelines that participants in the professional development experience should follow, and the division of labor included the arrangement of participants in smaller teams and their own associated roles and responsibilities to carry out the equity work. The teams involved in the ESI were called evidence teams. A central artifact of the ESI was disaggregated racial data about higher education experiences and outcomes. Because concepts like equity in higher education lack clarity or are contested (Jayakumar et al., 2018) – that is, they are not fully shared objects – another artifact in the ESI involved the articulation (verbally and written) of a shared understanding among participants (typically faculty and administrators) of terms like “equity” (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015). Other artifacts could include art to engage participants using additional sensory modalities and worksheets listing explicit rules and division of labor to guide the activities, for example. These rules included to be respectful of one another’s perspectives and of others’ time and to distribute division of labor equally among participants (rather than overly relying on minoritized faculty, for example) to advance the object of equity work (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015, p. 47). More specialized artifacts might be tailored to distinctive interventions, such as syllabi poised for redesign to more explicitly address equity concerns (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015), or search committee guidelines for critical examination in an ESI to increase diversity in faculty hiring (Liera, 2020). Meeting protocols in the ESI to engage evidence teams in collective reflection about equityoriented practices at their institutions included questions about how they would describe the cultural norms of their institution (in effect, eliciting faculty members’ perspectives on the rules of the institution, and what might need to shift to advance equity work) (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Dowd & Liera, 2018; Liera & Dowd, 2019). Research on the ESI illustrates that in this racial equity work, contradictions arise in several ways. Sometimes the introduction of the intervention’s guidelines (e.g., rules to talk freely about race and racism) produces tensions with existing rules in the activity systems in the university or the department, such as cultural practices of color-blind discourse (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Dowd & Liera, 2018; Liera & Dowd, 2019) or a norm of niceness (Liera, 2020). Enacting color-blindness through practices like not talking about race directly and steering conversations away from race toward other topics like gender or class can compromise the institution’s collective capacity to advance equity-mindedness in an array of structures like the design of developmental education course sequences or syllabi (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015). Other contradictions that surfaced in the ESI research included deficit-minded assumptions about nondominant students’ capabilities (Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b) which might lead instructors to overlook and not tailor syllabi or pedagogy to the assets that those students bring to the classroom (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015). Dowd and Liera (2018) examined organizational change in relation to an ESI that was part of a national initiative of predominantly white public state universities that

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agreed to employ and apply disaggregated data to as a voluntary accountability initiative to reduce racial gaps in their institutions’ postsecondary attainment. Using case study and narrative inquiry methods, they analyzed two cycles of inquiry data regarding expansive learning in this activity system. Here, subjects were the ESI evidence team members – responsible for reviewing initially narrower metrics data and marshaling further contextual data (part of the artifacts) to suggest associated courses of action for the community, the broader set of stakeholders at the institution with whom they related and networked to spread equity efforts. The rules included the guidelines presented to evidence team members to (1) interrogate the institution’s history, (2) identify barriers to advance equity, (3) work together to effect change toward equity, and (4) develop realistic goals to mitigate and transcend the barriers (Dowd & Liera, 2018, p. 23). The division of labor involved team leaders facilitating teams of participants to apply the Equity Scorecards as tools to diagnose key equity issues, assign team members into smaller dyads, and engage those dyads to divide up arenas of institutional equity and develop smaller realistic goals in these arenas (Dowd & Liera, 2018, p. 23). Dowd and Liera’s (2018) work indicates the flexibility of CHAT methods, in their capacity to not only generate analyses of single activity systems but also involve analyses of the interactions between activity systems. In their study, examining interactions between the ESI activity system itself and the activity systems of the departments that the ESI evidence teams worked with revealed tensions in equity efforts (contradictions) that could hinder equity-oriented transformation. These emerged in the form of contrasting framings of objects and rules between the ESI and department activity systems. In the department’s activity system, several department leaders articulated an object of educating graduate students in general, rather than the ESI’s object of admitting and educating graduate students equitably. Departmental activity system participants expressed rules that departmental personnel should work to design admissions policies guided primarily by their discipline and not by an external ESI evidence team. The objects, rules, and division of labor (where department chairs might have more responsibility and authority to schedule equity-oriented workshops and reviews of data and admissions policies) inhibited full expansive learning in the departments’ activity systems. Despite such limitations, Dowd and Liera (2018) were able to document partial transformative change distributed in different units, as a few departments scaled back restrictive admissions policies. Furthermore, some evidence team members in leadership roles changed academic policies in the direction of equity and implemented cultural practices like disaggregating and providing data by race in the majors that had not before been available to advisors and department personnel. In addition, funding incentives were set up for departments to implement projects to monitor and improve equity efforts. These shifts lasted after the major work of the ESI occurred, indicating that ESI work partially influenced equity-oriented change across different activity systems, or units, of the university. A CHAT analysis helps capture the complexity of the organizational change that did occur in some departments and units and helps account for why there were variations in change across units.

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In contrast to other studies cited here that used the activity system triangle as a heuristic to frame and illustrate their analyses (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Dowd & Liera, 2018; Liera, 2020), Liera and Dowd (2019) organized their analysis of an ESI around the CHAT concept of artifact as a means for facilitating and overcoming resistance to equity-oriented organizational change. Specifically, their inquiry focused on “identifying and examining learning that occurs through the use of cultural tools designed to facilitate faculty agency for racial equity across organizational boundaries” (Liera & Dowd, 2019, p. 464). They drew on the concept of “boundary objects” (Star, 2010) to explore the notion that artifacts might be used in different ways in different contexts, to achieve an activity system’s objective. Boundary objects, a concept formulated in the sociocultural tradition of CHAT, are cultural tools “. . .that both inhabit several communities of practice and satisfy the informational requirements of each of them. . .plastic enough to adapt to local needs and constraints of the several parties employing them, yet robust enough to maintain a common identity across sites” (Bowker & Star, 1999, p. 297). ESI evidence teams applied the artifacts (e.g., disaggregated data by race, protocols to prompt collective reflection and diagnoses of causes of inequities) to engage departmental stakeholders to identify potential sources of equity gaps and to design strategies to remedy those gaps. ESI evidence teams strategized to address contradictions that surfaced between the ESI’s and departments’ activity systems (Dowd & Liera, 2018), in some cases calibrating the ESI artifacts to work with specific departmental stakeholders. The effectiveness of some teams in bringing about change indicated that the artifacts were flexible enough to work in multiple activity systems and that evidence teams could coordinate with departments to design departmentally tailored artifacts (e.g., department-level equity action plans) to advance equity in their own units. These patterns suggest that the artifacts could function as “boundary objects” (Star, 2010) to facilitate faculty learning to coordinate rules and divisions of labor within the evidence teams, and between the evidence teams and departments, through strategies like engaging in open dialogue around race, distributing and sharing responsibilities, and engaging other stakeholders (e.g., institutional research to provide data on specific cultural practices like course sequencing) where necessary. These strategies could help the stakeholders address contradictions that might arise and effect transformative change, which could include shifts in syllabi language to become more equity-minded (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015), expansion of data monitoring to examine how research opportunities might be differentially distributed among racial/ ethnic groups, and curricular reform (e.g., regarding gatekeeping courses and course sequences) in some departments (Liera & Dowd, 2019). In another ESI study, Liera (2020) focused on an activity system whose university stakeholders aimed to promote more diversity in faculty hiring. In this activity system, he identified a contradiction of a culture of niceness in tension with an ESI rule to talk frankly about organizational problems with racial equity. Several participants challenged the culture of niceness through changing artifacts and rules in the activity system. They generated artifacts to guide more equity-oriented searches including job advertisements, recruitment approaches, interview questions

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about equity, and mitigating selection bias on qualities like minoritized accents or institutions attended. They implemented new rules, requiring implicit bias training of search committee members, listing the institution’s HSI status in the job description, using a standardized interview protocol incorporating equity-oriented questions, and instituting a provision where if no finalists were people of color, the search could be called off by higher-level leadership. They initiated a new division of labor requiring that each search committee would include at least two members trained in equityoriented faculty hiring cultural practices. In sum, the evidence teams’ creation of new artifacts, rules, and divisions of labor in the hiring activity system opened new possibilities to recruit more diverse faculty. To advance equity-oriented higher education transformation, these ESI studies suggest the importance of establishing and sustaining “equity” as an object that holds a shared understanding and intention by all participants in the activity system. Organizing rules, artifacts, and the division of labor differently – focusing on these components of the activity system and the relationships between them – can reveal mechanisms in which certain subjects (e.g., ESI change agents) can work with other subjects in the activity system who hold very different, even opposed, perspectives to make equity-oriented adjustments in the departments’ activity systems (Liera & Dowd, 2019). Put differently, findings from ESI studies show the potential for engaging subjects and communities in an activity system who do not fully share, agree with, or see the importance of an object (e.g., a department chair who might see no need to change graduate admissions processes) to nonetheless work toward that object. It is important also to develop rules, artifacts, and a division of labor that can engage subjects and communities to take equivalent responsibilities toward advancing equity. This can involve redesigning rules to center the experiences of minoritized faculty in ESI work so that they do not receive disproportionate amounts of responsibility or experience disproportionate emotional burdens (Liera & Dowd, 2019; Liera, 2020). Such work involves strategically recasting construction of and relationships between rules, division of labor, and artifacts. In some cases, it also means attending to how activity systems within and beyond a higher education institution interact and can work together to advance equity-oriented transformation.

MSLI and ESI as Applications of CHAT Toward Higher Education Research on Equity In this section, I provide a summary and overview of these studies to illustrate the variations in how CHAT has been applied to higher education equity. Adapting Cole’s (2010) scheme of comparing different studies using CHAT (p. 365), I illustrate the focus of each study, its temporal and spatial scale, the associated methods used, and the resulting key implications for equity. The first two rows of Table 1 indicate the studies based on MSLI, and the last four rows indicate the studies based on ESI. The focus of the design intervention in relation to equity is articulated in the first column, followed by the temporal/spatial scale examined, and methods of data collection used. In CHAT terms, the temporal

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Table 1 Comparing conceptual and methodological applications of CHAT in higher education equity-oriented research Focus of equity design intervention and analysis How can learning ecologies be designed where migrant students develop and thrive to their full potential? (e.g., Gutiérrez 2008)

Temporal/spatial scale Microgenetic analysis: classroom and other interactions during program Mesogenetic analysis: programmatic activities over time Ontogenetic analysis: changes in multiple literacy capabilities

Methods used Structured and natural observations (video, audio); document review (e.g., assignments)

How do migrant students come to know and enact college access through their social, educational, and familial contexts? (Gildersleeve, 2010)

Microgenetic analysis: classroom and other interactions during program Mesogenetic analysis of programmatic, schooling, familial, social experiences Ontogenetic analysis: changes in college access

Structured and natural observations of selected program participants; informal and semistructured ethnographic interviews; document review (e.g., assignments)

How can learning environments for faculty and administrators be designed to reduce racial equity gaps in student postsecondary outcomes? (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015)

Microgenetic analysis: interactions and activities during ESI workshops

Structured and informal observations of ESI intervention sessions Semi-structured interviews with ESI intervention participants Document review

How do faculty and administrators engaged in racial equity work at one

Mesogenetic analysis: participants’ assessments about participating in intervention and its effects on longer-term change Microgenetic analysis: interactions and activities during ESI workshops

Structured and informal observations of ESI

Key equity-oriented implications A learning ecology that engages rising migrant high school seniors’ full cultural repertoires of practice, and enhances their academic and sociocritical skills toward greater agency in leadership and educational opportunities Through opportunities to learn how to manage typical tasks that are required to apply to college, experience support and trust from their varied social contexts, and cultivate sociocritical skills (in interventions like MSLI), migrant students access college in ways that are grounded in their cultural repertoires of practice Equity work toward racial justice in higher education institutions involves using intentionally designed artifacts to engage participants in reflection, role definition, and distribution of labor to take actions to reduce equity gaps Racial equity work requires ongoing monitoring of everyday practices (continued)

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Table 1 (continued) Focus of equity design intervention and analysis university use artifacts (e.g., data and data tools) to reduce racial equity gaps in student postsecondary outcomes? (Dowd & Liera, 2018)

Temporal/spatial scale

Mesogenetic analysis: longer-term processes and outcomes in the institution

How do faculty engaged in racial equity work at multiple universities use artifacts in flexible ways to reduce racial equity gaps? (Liera & Dowd, 2019)

Microgenetic analysis: interactions and activities during ESI workshops

How do faculty engaged in racial equity work at one university make sense of and engage in efforts to change their university’s culture regarding equity, particular with regard to hiring diverse faculty? (Liera, 2020)

Microgenetic analysis: interactions and activities during ESI workshops

Ontogenetic analysis: faculty members’ experiences in intervention and perceptions of mesogenetic organizational change

Ontogenetic analysis: faculty members’ experiences in intervention and perceptions of mesogenetic organizational change

Methods used intervention sessions Semi-structured interviews with ESI intervention participants about efforts in different departments Document review Structured and informal observations of ESI intervention sessions Semi-structured interviews with ESI intervention participants about efforts in different departments

Structured observations of ESI intervention sessions and relevant documents Semi-structured interviews with ESI intervention participants about efforts in different departments

Key equity-oriented implications related to the collection and application of data to promote equity efforts. When this happens in intentional and thoughtful ways, longer-term organizational change is more likely to take place. Although there can be resistance in units (e.g., departments) to an institutional effort toward equity, faculty doing equity work can use equityoriented artifacts to guide activity systems in flexible and creative ways, which sometimes results in longer-term (mesogenetic) organizational change Faculty observed a culture of “niceness” in which several stakeholders were unwilling to talk about or confront racism, but they also took agency to design and calibrate ESI artifacts to effect organizational change

and spatial scope addressed in these studies includes options of a microgenetic (moment to moment in situ) examination of activities, mesogenetic scale (how these activities these associations shape slightly longer – but not broad culturalhistorical outcomes), and ontogenetic analysis, which focuses on developmental change within individuals. This information is followed in the fourth column by a characterization of the equity-oriented implications based on the studies’ findings that is by no means exhaustive but summarizes implications for inquiry about higher

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education equity and organizational change to facilitate broader comparisons for the field. There are several important differences between the MSLI and ESI studies with respect to the design of research to address organizational change toward equity in higher education. The MSLI focused on the organization of a learning ecology in a higher education program to promote leadership skills, college preparation grounded in students’ cultural repertoires of practice, and college access (Gutiérrez, 2008). Gildersleeve’s (2010) analysis expanded this focus temporally and spatially to address the potential for this organizational ecology to broaden participants’ college access. Gutiérrez led the program from 1993 to 2008, a period of 15 years. During that time, MSLI were instructors and integrally involved with all components of the program, typically over a period of several years. By contrast, the ESI involved researchers visiting institutions for the workshops, observing and interviewing workshop participants while they were there, and then leaving. While they were able to do this over time, the temporal scale of inquiry was sometimes less than a year (e.g., Liera, 2020). Furthermore, the spatial scale of inquiry was limited in the sense that the researchers worked with faculty and administrators at the institutional level in the workshop setting, but not with them in unit or department-level settings. In a related vein, in the MSLI study, data were collected across a larger number of social and organizational contexts salient to the MSLI participants. The MSLI was a residential program situated at a university involving rising high school seniors who spent the entire 5 weeks on campus, and it occurred over several years. Thus, the program designers and instructors, who were engaged with these students the entire 5 weeks, had the opportunity to spend time with students both in and out of the formal classroom. They also had the opportunity to film, record, and observe collective interactions, as well as review the students’ assignments. Through his focus on college access of these students, Gildersleeve (2010) added the temporal dimension of ontogenetic analysis through following these students and expanded the spatial dimension of analysis through observing students in their schooling, familial, and social contexts beyond the program. In addition, he was able to conduct a mesogenetic analysis of their longer-term outcomes, as he followed their process of assessing and pursuing college opportunities. Compared to the MSLI studies, the ESI studies addressed fewer organizational contexts related to the phenomena they were studying. Put differently, they addressed fewer dimensions of the learning ecology of equity work. This is not surprising, because addressing what goes on in an institution across several loosely coupled (Weick, 1976) departmental units is wider in scope than examining what goes on in just one program situated within a higher education institution. There are also potential ethical reasons limiting the application of CHAT and Change Laboratory interventions in higher education. Bligh and Flood (2015) pointed out that higher education adult stakeholders (in comparison with, say, high school students) may be less likely to consent to be videotaped in meetings or to have data collected about them in ways they might interpret as overly intrusive. Maintaining confidentiality presents an important concern in these situations, particularly in sensitive work like equity work.

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In comparison to MSLI studies, therefore, studies based on ESI were not based on as many dimensions of the salient institutional activity system for university stakeholders as for the high school seniors in MSLI. Analyses of ontogenetic or mesogenetic change in ESI studies, for example, largely relied on interviews with a subset of participants in ESI workshops, whose experiences may not have been representative of all ESI participants. Although documents at the institution were reviewed to supplement these analyses, no direct observations of faculty applying the ESI efforts were conducted in departmental contexts, limiting the assessments of mesogenetic change largely to self-reports of faculty (e.g., Liera, 2020). In other words, while the researchers could observe the activity systems of the interventions themselves, they did not have many opportunities to directly observe how faculty used ESI tools in their departments. To be clear, the authors acknowledged these limitations. Examining the design of learning ecologies for migrant high school seniors and university faculty alike reveals the importance of developing and calibrating artifacts, social interactions, roles, and responsibilities attuned to particular cultural and institutional contexts that can facilitate expansive learning. The findings provide insights about how learning ecologies can be organized to support full engagement of participants, whether they are migrant students whose cultural repertoires of practice have not been recognized in their K–12 schooling (Gutiérrez et al., 2009a, b), faculty who are blind to or resistant to addressing race in their practices (e.g., Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Liera, 2020), or faculty of color who may face additional burdens in equity work (Liera, 2020). By identifying processes and dynamics in their respective activity systems, these studies provide a more “action-oriented” rather than “referential” way (Goodwin, 2018) to examine organizational and systems dynamics, with implications for understanding and changing higher education systems in equity-oriented directions. In some cases, the studies could have applied an even more systems-oriented approach and focused to a greater extent on the interactions between different activity systems that perpetuate inequity in higher education. For example, Gildersleeve (2010) found that what he called mechanical labor, or the standard tasks involved in applying to college (e.g., college applications, tests, and federal financial aid forms), and organic labor, or cultural repertoires of practice (e.g., hybrid linguistic processes, migration histories, family engagement and support), were both integral to migrant students’ college-going. To further address systemic equity concerns, he could have employed CHAT to more deeply investigate how the activity systems of US or state immigration and public higher education tuition policies and affirmative action policies affect the construction of college-going labor for these students (Núñez & Gildersleeve, 2016). Likewise, research on the ESI initiatives could have broadened inquiry to investigate interactions between equity efforts in higher education institutions and other activity systems that perpetuate inequity, such as the public funding systems that have reduced monetary support for higher education and increased performance based funding. Societal challenges that affect higher education, such as cultural-historical racism and white supremacy, a global pandemic, and the increased role of technology call for more systems-level investigations of how different institutions interact with higher education to shape opportunity structures. According to Engeström and

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Sannino (2020), fourth-generation activity theory focuses on a unit of analysis of “coalescing cycles of expansive learning in a heterogeneous coalition of activities facing a critical society challenge” (p. 17) that can involve multiple levels and multiple sectors of agencies (e.g., local, regional, state, federal, international). Applying CHAT to expand analyses of how multiple levels, multiple sectors, and diverse agencies shape opportunity structures in higher education systems poses a fruitful direction for further inquiry.

Exploring Implications of CHAT on Inquiry About Equity in Science In this section, I explore further the utility of CHAT to guide inquiry about equity in higher education through applying this approach to a particular case. In Learning by Expanding, Engeström (2015) suggested that (1) applying different theories to the analysis of the same data can challenge the tendency to universalize particular theories and (2) studying expansive learning requires collecting and analyzing longitudinal data at least two time points (xix). Here, I explore the first possibility through analyzing my own empirical data from one equity-oriented intervention project using CHAT and comparing that analysis with other analyses of the same data that apply more commonly used higher education theories. I explore the second possibility through analyzing data I collected at two time points, to explore one science faculty member’s process of expansive learning (Engeström, 1987/2015) in implementing equity-oriented practices in her fieldwork course and, by association, in her department. Without collecting data before and after an intervention to promote equity-oriented geoscience fieldwork practices, I would not have been able to investigate the faculty member’s expansive learning in as much depth. To do this, I leverage a large corpus of ethnographic data collected at two time points that was part of a larger multi-site ethnographic study (Eisenhardt & Graebner, 2007). Specifically, I examine two distinctive activity systems, one before an intervention to promote equity in geoscience fieldwork course design (which I will call the 2017 Initial Course Activity system) and the other after the instructor participated in the intervention (which I will call the 2019 Course Redesign Activity System). My intention here is to further illustrate how (1) CHAT approaches can complement more traditional higher education inquiry that employs the individual or the organization as the unit of analysis, using a concrete empirical example, and (2) CHAT approaches can be used to investigate expansive learning and the associated potential to transform higher education systems in equity-oriented directions.

A Case of Research and Intervention in a Geoscience Fieldwork Course Activity System This inquiry involved both research and intervention components. The first set of data analyzed was collected in 2017, as part of a larger project to address dynamics

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of inclusion and exclusion in geoscience fieldwork that have consequences for diverse learners (Núñez et al., 2021). The original purpose of that particular data collection was to conduct an organizational analysis of the culture of geoscience fieldwork (Posselt & Núñez, 2021) to inform the design of a professional development workshop focused on more inclusive geoscience fieldwork practices, (Posselt et al., 2019). In essence, the data collection to inform the development of the workshop served as an evaluative needs assessment and as mirror data (Engeström, 2015) from a social sciences perspective, to illustrate exclusionary dynamics in fieldwork to geoscientist workshop participants. For this phase of the project, I collected data as a participant observer in one unit of an undergraduate geoscience field course in the summer of 2017. Notably, members of the department that administered the course had been interested in designing more inclusive fieldwork before 2017, which is part of the reason that they were open to my participation in the class. Collecting longitudinal data for at least two time points is recommended in a CHAT approach to gauge expansive learning in reaction to interventions (Engeström, 1987/2015). Following a CHAT methodological approach, I collected multiple forms of data in systematic ways and spent an extended time period in each of the two courses (Cole, 2010). The instructor of the undergraduate field course I observed in 2017 (Liz, a pseudonym) was, along with her departmental colleague, Beth (also a pseudonym), selected to be one of 35 participants in the 2018 workshop. Then, in 2019, after participating in the 2018 intervention, Liz ended up teaching the exact same unit of the course that I had observed in 2017. This serendipitous development afforded me an opportunity that would not have been possible, had Liz not been assigned to teach both courses in 2017 and 2019 and participated in the intervention in the year in between. It enabled me to study an expansive cycle of learning by examining and comparing the two activity systems in 2017 and 2019, before and after Liz participated in the 2018 intervention. My time conducting qualitative fieldwork about geoscience fieldwork totaled 4 weeks as a full participant observer in the course, living with instructors and students in dorms and hiking with them during the day. In addition, between 2017 and 2020, I spent additional time in between the field cycles and in other structured interviews and informal conversations talking with Liz, the instructor, about her experiences participating in the workshop, redesigning the course, and advancing other equity efforts in her department. In total, across the 2 years of data collection, I collected over 500 hours of naturalistic observations and informal interviews and over 30 more focused semi-structured interviews with instructors, teaching assistants, and students, to learn more about the participants’ sense-making of their own experiences in fieldwork (See Núñez et al., 2021, for more details on the research methods). Some research incorporating the 2017 round of data collection has already been published and disseminated about (1) an application of intersectionality as a framework to advance equity in geoscience using exemplars from the data (Núñez et al., 2020), (2) an analysis of the organization of learning based on the multi-site ethnography of undergraduate and graduate education (Núñez et al., 2021), and

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(3) the culture of geoscience fieldwork (Posselt & Núñez, 2021). In contrast, the CHAT analysis presented here takes a more “action-oriented” rather than “referential” (Goodwin, 2018) CHAT approach, through focusing on the 2017 Initial Course Activity System and 2019 Course Redesign Activity System as two units of analysis, with their constituent activities as “units of observation” (Gutiérrez, personal communication, 2019). Later in this section, I will compare this CHAT analysis with prior research I helped conduct on the same phenomena, to illustrate the theoretical and methodological affordances of CHAT in relation to other, more common, higher education approaches to empirical inquiry. In fact, some dimensions of exclusion in geoscience fieldwork are also addressed in these other pieces. Applying CHAT and focusing on the two activity systems as the units of analysis, as I do here, exposes to a greater extent the processes of generation, reproduction, and interruption of exclusion in geoscience fieldwork. Also, in contrast to the other analyses, whose focus was the data collected in 2017, the analysis presented below involved a second and full round of data collection that exactly mirrored the original data collection 2 years later, enabling a full and rich inquiry into a process and cycle of expansive learning (Engeström, 2015). My close and systematic ethnographic approach of multiple data sources in 2017 permitted me the capacity to apply a CHAT methodological approach by returning to the (qualitative and geoscience) field in 2019 and collecting similar data. Bounding the activity system to be analyzed is the first step in a CHAT analysis. Yamagata-Lynch (2010) frames this as determining the activity setting so that “. . .investigators will be able to describe the relationship between participant activities and the social environment without being overwhelmed with contextual information that may be irrelevant to their studies” (p. 24). For this analysis, I bounded the 2017 Initial Course Activity System and the 2019 Course Redesign Activity System as the geoscience fieldwork courses those respective years. A CHAT analysis is enhanced by addressing three levels – the personal (i.e., how individuals change through participating in an activity), interpersonal (i.e., how people interact with one another in these activities), and the institutional or community (i.e., how people jointly participate in activities across space and time) planes of analysis (Rogoff, 1995; Rogoff et al., 1995). One strategy to avoid conceptual and methodological overwhelm in a CHAT analysis, Yamagata-Lynch (2010) argues, is to follow Rogoff’s (1995, 2003) approach “to zoom into one plane of analysis at a time and blur out the other two planes” (p. 25). In other work, I have addressed on how the institutional plane, as instantiated through the cultural-historical dimensions of the geoscience discipline, shapes inclusion and exclusion in fieldwork (Núñez et al., 2020; Posselt & Núñez, 2021). Here, I build on that cultural-historical approach to apply the activity theory perspective of CHAT. In the 2017 activity system analysis that follows, I focus primarily on the interpersonal plane, accounting for Mogk and Goodwin’s (2012) observation that teamwork and social aspects are integral parts of fieldwork, or, that, as one student in the 2017 course put it, “Fieldwork is 50% social interaction, 50% fieldwork” (Núñez et al., 2021, p. 49). When I follow by discussing the 2018

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intervention (based in part on these 2017 data), Liz’s own participation in that intervention, and her associated redesign of the 2019 class, I incorporate an analysis of the intrapersonal plane of change (Rogoff, 1995; Rogoff et al., 1995) that illustrates Liz’s expansive learning (Engeström, 2015), alongside the interpersonal plane of interactions among participants in the course. I conclude by briefly addressing also how Liz also effected changes toward equity in her own department, pointing to how she expanded her capacity to serve as a change agent at the institutional plane of her department and university.

2017 Initial Course Activity System: Being Tough as the “Top of the Mountain Mentality” This analysis provides a sense of the organizational culture of fieldwork, revealing its activities and practices that can lead to exclusion. In a sense, the analysis of 2017 data would serve as a diagnostic of the culture for the mirror data (Engeström, 2015) that would later be presented in the 2018 intervention, of which Liz was a part. The phrase “top of the mountain mentality,” taken from Liz’s own interview, and echoed by her colleague, Beth, 2 years later, characterizes the nature of several contradictions identified in the 2017 field course that eventually demanded Liz and Beth’s attention in redesigning the field course. I use Liz’s own metaphor, “the top of the mountain mentality,” to indicate a potentially exclusionary rule in the geoscience field course, which I call “be tough” in the analysis below. Addressing what Liz called “the top of the mountain mentality,” and what I framed in this CHAT analysis as the rule of “being tough,” would become a focal point for Liz and Beth’s expansive learning to design a more inclusive field course in 2019. In fact, after the course redesign, Beth expressed this to me as, “We got rid of the mountain!” As I note later in the analysis of the 2019 Course Redesign Activity System, getting rid of the mountain literally meant getting rid of a class activity that involved hiking to the top of the mountain, which, in the 2017 Initial Course Activity System required some students, typically women and less able-bodied students, to “be tough,” while compromising their capacity to “be together” with (or keep up with) the group and to “be safe,” as some of them experienced adverse health consequences during and after this hike (Núñez et al., 2021). In the 2017 Initial Course Activity System, the object of the undergraduate geoscience field course, based on the syllabus, involved two objectives. The first objective was to develop field mapping skills, being able to identify and take measurements of the three dimensions of the landscape – height, latitude, and longitude – in field notebooks, methodically and at regular intervals, while traversing the landscape. It also included identifying the stratigraphy (i.e., mineral composition of the layers of rock accumulated over time), structural features (e.g., threedimensional geometry of the layers), and how these features extended below into the earth. Besides being able to identify and record these dimensions in their field notebooks, the students were also expected to represent and generate these dimensions on cross sections indicating the different layers of rock and on topographical

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maps. The second objective was to draw on these data to interpret and explain the geologic structure and history of the earth of the physical landscape, interpreting the spatial and temporal dimensions of the landscape. With these two objectives in mind, the object of learning involved building the capacity to map and explain the structure and history of the earth’s landscape. The outcome, or the “desired result from the object” (Sam, 2012, p. 85), was the development of interpretive disciplinary sensibilities of geoscience (Feig, 2010; Mogk & Goodwin, 2012; Goodwin, 2018). In both 2017 (and 2019), the subjects of this particular activity system included the students, faculty instructors, and graduate student teaching assistants (TAs). As the “. . .larger environment, other activity systems, and people that share the same object” (Sam, 2012, p. 12), the community of participants included this group as a collective, departmental staff and faculty from their institution (who were not on site but were helping coordinate the field course from afar), student affairs staff from the institution where they were residing during the field camp, and members of the broader disciplinary geoscience community. Artifacts included material and symbolic tools mediating the learning of the subjects. In the 2017 and 2019 course, material artifacts were the same, reflecting the enduring and sustained nature of these artifacts in the profession over time (Goodwin, 2018). As such, the material artifacts that students needed to complete assignments were specially designed field notebooks for geoscience, pencils (regular and colored), maps, Brunton compasses, and rock hammers. Students used these artifacts as follows. In field notebooks, they identified and recorded characteristics of the rocks, location of special landscape features, and other meaningful qualities of the landscape that, in conjunction with symbolic artifacts, would enable them to reconstruct, generate, and explain the history of that landscape. Students used plain pencils to record observations in their field notebooks and colored pencils to differentiate between rock layers or contours in specialized maps. They used certain maps (e.g., contour maps depicting elevations on the terrain) to locate themselves on the landscape and other maps (e.g., cross-sectional maps) in assignments to demonstrate their conceptual understanding of the terrain. They placed Brunton compasses on rocks to record the rocks’ latitude, longitude, and tilt. They used rock hammers to split rocks to see the insides of these rocks, for more insights about the layers and compositions of the rocks. Symbolic artifacts were based on students’ prior classroom, lab-based, and other experiential (e.g., undergraduate research experiences) learning. Such artifacts included knowledge about and associated language to name: (1) geological time (i.e., names and characteristics of different earth events and eras), (2) how to identify specific rocks and minerals, and (3) processes of formation of rock features, such as the deposition of different rock layer (strata) over time. As conceptual guides to the specific course, symbolic artifacts also included (1) the syllabus, (2) a website explaining the course and what students would need to bring to participate, (3) a meeting before the course to explain what students would need to bring to the course, and (4) lectures about course content, safety, and handling the assignments. The rules in the 2017 course included four more explicit ones: (1) be safe, (2) be together, (3) be timely, (4) be thorough, and an additional rule that was more implicit:

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(5) be tough. Instantiations of the first rule, to “be safe,” were indicated in the syllabus, which detailed two pages to safety guidelines. Much of the first lecture also focused on specific safety precautions, including handling injuries, sustaining oneself in the field (e.g., bringing and drinking enough water), and behaviors to avoid (e.g., do not kick rocks around, in case they might hit other students). Out in the field, instructors continually encouraged students to follow such safety precautions. The second rule, “be together,” as identified in other literature (Mogk & Goodwin, 2012), and other analyses of data of the larger project (Posselt & Núñez, 2021) were instantiated in a phrase Liz repeatedly exhorted, “Look out for each other, and have each other's backs.” For students, this included keeping one another in eyesight and coordinating effectively to assemble accurate observations to complete assignments. The third rule, “be timely,” also identified in other analyses of related data (Posselt & Núñez, 2021) was indicated in the fact that the daily schedule was extremely regimented. The fourth rule, “be thorough,” related to the importance of ensuring that observations were sufficiently detailed and accurate to demonstrate appropriate use of the conceptual and material tools toward the object of learning. In each assignment, students were expected to traverse several square miles of terrain to put together an account of the structure and shaping of the earth before them. Making enough accurate observations and measurements to provide sufficient evidence to create a visual or written interpretation (e.g., via a map or via a written explanation of the earth’s history) was required to work toward the object of learning in this field course. Students were supposed to provide thorough documentation of each observation and measurement in their field notebooks and maps, and these were crosschecked against narrative explanations that students were required to provide in their assignments of the earth history of the field site. Students’ assignments would be evaluated on the basis of criteria such as the plausible interpretation of the rock layers, their compositions, and how their associated formations came to be over time. To “be thorough,” to amass enough evidence to assemble coherent and plausible maps and explanations of earth’s history, required spending long and physically demanding days in the field, as described earlier in the data collection section of this piece. This observation brings us to the fifth rule, “be tough,” the one that would be associated with the most contradictions in the activity system. In fact, Liz in an interview confirmed that there was an unstated expectation for participants in geoscience field courses and fieldwork in general to, in her words, “toughen up.” Other reviews and empirical studies of fieldwork have likewise identified a “boot camp” mentality” (Mogk & Goodwin, 2012) and “toughness” as a cultural value in conducting fieldwork (Pagnac, 2018; Posselt & Núñez, 2021 i). As a result, the physical rigor required to participate in this field camp disadvantaged less physically able students at both sites (Núñez et al., 2021), making this field course especially difficult for these students (e.g., Carabajal et al., 2017; Carabajal & Atchison, 2020). The division of labor of an activity system involves “the continuously negotiated distribution of tasks, powers, and responsibilities among the participants of the activity system” (Cole & Engeström, 1993, p. 7). Main dimensions of the division of labor included (1) how instructors arranged the small working groups of students

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and (2) how instructors divided responsibilities with TAs to handle the enormous responsibilities of a field-based class like this. Such responsibilities included coordinating all daily logistics of transportation to and from the field, academic course content (e.g., lectures, assignment explanations, office hours, answering student questions in the field), safety, and troubleshooting (e.g., if students were caught with drugs or alcohol in the dorms, which were prohibited at the university residential halls). In addition to organizing overall instruction, the division of labor in the activity system involved how instructors arranged small working groups. Specifically, teams of two to three students would each spend 3 to 4 days together in the field, to collect and analyze the data required to complete each assignment. The two assignments involved two separate geographic field areas (pseudonyms): Indented Rock (the first assignment) and Valley Ridge (the second assignment). For the Indented Rock assignment, students were allowed to choose their own teams. For the Valley Ridge assignment, instructors instead chose the student teams. Instructors did not offer explicit norms for division of labor within these teams, and therefore students worked out their own divisions of labor within the teams. This condition in the division of labor yielded a contradiction: limitations arose in equal participant engagement when students were allowed to choose their own groups. For example, when there was the option for students to choose their own teams, some (typically the less physically able) students might be the last to get selected for teams, or get left behind in the field, or not be enabled to contribute equally to assignments (see Núñez et al., 2021, for an elaborated analysis of this finding). These practices came into tension with the rule “be together” – impeding full collaboration and equal participation of each team member – a condition that could compromise each student's capacity to “be thorough” in their assignments. As a result, instructors instead assigned the student teams in the second assignment. If this contradiction was between the system’s rules to “be together” and to “be thorough,” another, even more consequential, contradiction emerged between the system’s rules to “be safe,” “be together,” and “be tough.” The most notable example of this surfaced during the second assignment (Valley Ridge), where the instructors devoted a half day to an optional hike up Alta Mountain (a pseudonym), the highest mountain in the broader geographic area. Over a mile above sea level, Alta Mountain was especially steep, with lots of scree, posing difficulties for footholds. The instructors in fact told the students that they could opt out of going up the mountain but simultaneously explained that it was an annual tradition to take the group photo of the class at the top of the mountain. With regard to the activity system’s rules, this point could pose a conflict for students who did not want to go up the mountain but wanted to be “together” with the group. A contradiction was revealed when some students struggled to get up the mountain, but their instructors and TAs were unaware and did not wait for them. At least three students (including one with bronchitis, another with a heart condition that was undisclosed to the instructors, and another who just found the hike challenging) struggled markedly with their breathing as they scaled the mountain. When each of these three students stopped for a few minutes to catch their breath, I stopped to wait

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for them. At that point, I noticed that no instructors or TAs were in sight, as each of them had already scaled the mountain. This event indicated that the rule of “be together” was not being followed by the instructors and TAs, who chose to get to the top of the mountain instead (indicating a degree of “being tough”). These occurrences also compromised the activity system’s rule to “be safe,” as no authority figure in the course was available to monitor these students’ physical conditions. In fact, the day after this incident, the student with bronchitis, who had chosen to push herself up the mountain (rather than opt out), had to stay back at the dorms, missing a day of fieldwork, due to her illness. The day after, she an additional afternoon of fieldwork, when she found herself too short of breath to hike. Liz admitted to me later in her 2017 interview that she thought that that particular student had pushed herself too much and might have felt pressure to do so, to in fact “be tough” in the field (Mogk & Goodwin, 2012; Posselt & Núñez, 2021). Reflecting later on this, in her 2019 interview, Liz herself called this contradiction the “top of the mountain mentality.” If contradictions in this activity system were caused by tensions between rules and division of labor (as in the case of student group work) and among rules (as in the case of scaling the mountain), another tension was the lack of a fully shared object. Participants in an activity system typically never fully share the same exact perspective or motive concerning the object (e.g., Williams & Hummelbrunner, 2011). Such a misalignment among say, subjects oriented toward different objects, can cause contradictions. In this activity system, while learning essential geoscience field skills was the central object as stated in the syllabus, for some of the TAs and students, a chance to socialize (including partying and drinking) was also part of the object, a motive of being in the field. While an orientation toward socializing could enable some necessary relaxation and togetherness after grueling days in the field (Posselt & Núñez, 2021), it could also lead participants to become less focused on learning the skills or “to be thorough” in the field. When the TAs were oriented toward socializing too much at the expense of learning, they did not fully share the responsibilities with the instructors to support student learning in the field or monitoring students’ health in the field. Thus, the TAs did not always fully assist instructors in following the activity system’s rules to be “thorough” and “safe.” For example, the TAs might go off and socialize with one another or enjoy the outdoors in the field, rather than focus on student needs. Several times, TAs said that they saw no one else in the field for the entire 8-hour day, or for stretches of 4 to 5 hours. Without sharing the responsibilities more fully with the instructors to be available to the students, TAs were not fully supporting the activity system to “be together,” “be safe,” and “be thorough.” In an interview, Liz described disappointment that the TAs spent too much time “doing their own thing” and did not support student learning to a greater extent. This analysis of the 2017 field course focuses on the qualities of the activity system that could engender exclusion among participants in the object of learning geoscience skills. More generally, the contradictions among the system’s rules, between its rules and division of labor, and between its (sometimes) misaligned objects, caused tensions that inhibited student comfort (Mogk & Goodwin, 2012)

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and learning in the field, as well as limited the capacity of instructors to fully support students. Figure 2 summarizes the 2017 activity system, detailing its components and relationships between them. With the 2017 activity system analysis laid out, I now discuss the intervention in which its instructor of record, Liz, participated, and its capacity to facilitate expansive learning, in influencing Liz to redesign her 2019 class.

2018 Intervention as Mirror Data: “I Think You Really Don’t See It Until It’s Like, Right in Your Face” The 2018 intervention in which Liz participated was an equity-oriented workshop toward developing more inclusive field learning experiences that I helped facilitate as part of the larger project on which this research is based (Posselt et al., 2019). This workshop constituted part of a 3-day National Science Foundation grant-funded effort for train competitively selected field instructors to develop more inclusive fieldwork opportunities. Among the 120 applicants to the workshop from across the USA, 35 were selected, with teams from the same department encouraged to apply. Among these 35, Liz and her departmental colleague Beth were selected to participate. Because I was not involved in the selection process of participants, Liz and Beth’s participation in the workshop was serendipitous in relation to enabling inquiry about expansive learning, for reasons that will become clear. The workshop organizers included seven geoscientists in several sub-disciplines (e.g., paleontology, astronomy, ecology, marine biology, structural geology) and two social scientists. The social scientists were me and my project colleague Julie Posselt, who had studied a graduate field course at the same time I was studying the undergraduate course, to constitute a multi-site ethnographic study (Eisenhardt & Graebner, 2007) that could represent multiple stages of geoscience education. Together, she and I generated an analysis of the organizational culture of field work to present to the participants that would later evolve into peer-reviewed research (e.g., Núñez et al., 2021; Posselt & Núñez, 2021). I should note here that the analysis that Posselt and I presented in the workshop was about the culture of geoscience fieldwork in general, rather than about a specific course. As such, Liz’s identity was kept confidential. Interestingly, when workshop participants named what factors could help them design more inclusive fieldwork, several remarked “a third-party observer of my own courses,” indicating the value that these instructors saw in our presentation about the culture of fieldwork in prompting reflection about their own practice. It is possible that our presentation served as mirror data to prompt their expansive learning as well (Engeström, 2015). The workshop included the following sessions (in this order): a presentation from Posselt and me about our analysis of field culture, a lecture about strategies to design fieldwork for students with disabilities, an exercise involving active bystander training in cases of assault or bullying, and an activity incorporating indigenous and Black historical perspectives to more fully understand the history of the land on which the workshop was located. After these sessions, each participant (or group of

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participants, when they came from the same department) developed a plan to guide the development of more inclusive fieldwork back at their departments. Shortly after the workshop, at Liz’s request, I sent her a tailored copy of the presentation (focused only on the data from her undergraduate course) to share with her colleagues back in her department. In effect, then, the presentation of field culture that I offered along with Posselt on the first day of the workshop, and more tailored material I later sent Liz, came to serve for Liz, Beth, and their fellow colleagues as mirror data (Engeström, 2015) to help guide redesign of their undergraduate field course. In her 2019 interview, Liz characterized the value of seeing the 2017 mirror data, which led her to perceive and identify contradictions engendered by the “top of the mountain mentality” in her course: “I think you really don’t see it until it’s like, right in your face.” With that in mind, I turn to analyze the 2019 activity system, to explore its comparison with the 2017 activity system, as well as Liz’s own expansive learning to redesign the course.

2019 Course Redesign Activity System to Challenge Toughness: “We Got Rid of the Mountain!” Suggesting its historical, institutional, and inherited nature in geoscience, Liz expressed that an expectation to “be tough” is “innate” and “inherent” in the practice of fieldwork. She, Beth, and their departmental colleagues came to center challenging what she called a “top of the mountain mentality” as the key task in designing more inclusive fieldwork. Beth expressed this to me in a visit to the department after my observation of the 2019 Course Redesign Activity System, when she said, “We got rid of the mountain!” In CHAT terms, what she meant was that she, Liz, and her colleagues redesigned the course to address the contradiction engendered by the rule to “be tough,” most vividly illustrated in the tough hike up Alta Mountain. As noted in the analysis of the 2017 Initial Course Activity System, the hike up Alta Mountain had exclusionary consequences for the full participation of all students in the course. These consequences were unevenly distributed according to able-bodiedness and gender. To use Beth’s language, “getting rid of the mountain” meant getting rid of the hike up Alta Mountain in the course redesign. From a CHAT perspective, in the context of change between the 2017 Initial Course Activity System and 2019 Course Redesign Activity System, “getting rid of the mountain” meant fostering more inclusive learning conditions, through challenging the inherent norm, or rule, of being tough in geoscience fieldwork. For the 2019 Course Redesign Activity System, the instructors removed the hike up the mountain, a key course activity in the 2017 Initial Course Activity System that might compromise the other supportive rules for inclusivity of being together and being safe in the field. In Table 2, I detail this key change and others between the two activity systems and elaborate on them below, to illustrate how the activity system changed after the intervention to foster more inclusive geoscience fieldwork instruction. As Table 1 indicates, the object of the 2019 course remained exactly the same, for students to learn how to (1) develop field mapping skills and (2) explain the geologic

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396 Table 2 Comparisons of 2017 initial and 2019 redesigned course activity systems

Object

Conceptual artifacts [Material artifacts: Field notebooks, Pencils, Maps, Compass, Rock hammer]a

Subjects [Community: Students, instructors, TAs, department staff and faculty, residence staff, geoscientists]a

2017 activity system Learn field mapping skills Explain geologic structure and history of the earth

2019 activity system Learn field mapping skills Explain geologic structure and history of the earth

Knowledge about rock composition, landscape features, geological time

Knowledge about rock composition, landscape features, geological time

Syllabus Assignments Website, meeting to prepare students to take the course Lectures (in dorms and field)

Syllabus Assignments Website, meeting to prepare students to take the course Lectures (in dorms and field) – plus crumpled paper exercise

Less physically able students struggled markedly in the hiking and to fully participate in assignments

Fewer students and TAs than in 2017

Fewer women students, higher ratio of women TAs in 2019 Students were more anxious about grades

Changes from 2017 to 2019 TAs perceived more of a shared object of learning. Instructors set norms for TAs to divide labor more equally toward object of learning, to monitor student safety and answer student questions Crumpled paper exercise helped instructors and TAs understand students’ concerns about handling fieldwork and normalize these concerns (e.g., fears of physically struggling or of going to the bathroom in the field) Students in 2019 more easily collected observations in the field due to and redesign of the Valley Ridge assignments and removal of the Alta Mountain hike. The serious physical struggles, especially among differently abled students, diminished There were less stark differences in field learning experiences according to physical ability and disability Students had more equal access to gear, through the department’s establishing a donated gear closet and lower-cost renting arrangements (continued)

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Table 2 (continued)

Rules

Division of labor

Contradictions

a

2017 activity system Be safe

2019 activity system Be safe

Be together Be timely Be thorough Be tough

Be together Be timely Be thorough Be tough

Students choose own partners, and then instructors see that students get left out and decide it is better for instructors to assign students to groups

Students’ choice of partners is determined by instructors from the beginning, instructors very intentionally match students

Division of labor vs. rules Between rules Between perceived objects

Valley Ridge assignment has different division of labor Division of labor vs. rules Between rules

Changes from 2017 to 2019 Instructors and TAS set clearer norms on each of the first four rules in 2019. Physical struggling was explicitly acknowledged and normalized to a greater extent. These dynamics eased the rule to “be tough” and its associated contradictions Reorganizing Valley Ridge assignment and removing the Alta Mountain hike eased contradictions between rules In 2019, students participated more equally in division of labor in group assignments. This process was facilitated by the newly delineated division of labor in the Valley Ridge assignment TAs and instructors more equally handled instructional responsibilities Some contradictions receded, new contradictions arose and augmented competitiveness about grades and assignments

Entities listed in brackets did not change between 2017 and 2019

structure and history of the earth. In a shift from 2017, the object of learning appeared to be more shared and focused on learning, with the importance of socializing and partying diminished relative to 2017. This corresponded to a shift of division of labor in 2019, where, Liz, along with her co-instructor, set clear expectations for TAs to divide up and monitor specific students in particular

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geographic areas of each field site, to make sure the students’ health was ok and that their academic questions were answered. This practice encouraged TAs to support instructors in promoting the rules to “be safe,” “be together,” “be thorough,” and “be timely.” In 2019, Liz also instituted the rule that students were not allowed to bring alcohol on the van or to the dorms, which greatly reduced the amount of drinking from 2017, countering a common norm of drinking in fieldwork (Posselt & Núñez, 2021). The number of subjects and size of the community in the course dropped between 2017 and 2019 – a total of 26%, from 23 to 17, lending a more intimate feel to the class. Another difference between 2017 and 2019 was the gender composition of subjects in the class, which decreased from one third women in 2017 to 18% of the class in 2019. Liz explained that the relatively low enrollment of women students in 2019 led her to hire more women TAs (two women TAs, versus one man TA) to balance the gender presence among instructors for the very small number of women students, indicating Liz’s sensitivity to temper cultural-historical inherited gender imbalances in geoscience (e.g., Glass, 2015; Holmes et al., 2015). It is worth noting here that students could have differential access to necessary or very helpful artifacts to conduct fieldwork that could be related to differences in race or socioeconomic status. For example, in 2017, I had noticed that some students had their own Brunton compasses and rock hammers, while others had to borrow theirs from the department or other students. In addition, I observed that students of color were less likely than others to wear protective gear like broad brimmed hats, loose breathable clothing, and hiking boots in the field, reflecting research indicating socioeconomic differences in students’ capacity to access the expensive gear (e.g., clothing, boots, tents) and artifacts (e.g., the $300 Brunton compass, a rock hammer) required to conduct outdoor fieldwork (Ham and Flood 2009). To address these potential inequities in the 2019 course, Liz explained that she arranged for her university to offer deep discounts to students to rent camping gear. Also, Liz’s colleague Beth and student leader Mia established a gear closet, to which faculty and students could anonymously donate, and from where other students could anonymously retrieve, camping gear and field clothing. Mia, herself a low-income and first-generation woman of color, explained, “I see some of the students here wearing stuff I donated to the closet. They do not even know it is mine, and I am so happy to see it is useful, and that they did not need to spend the money on it.” As Table 1 indicates, the material artifacts remained the same between the 2017 and 2019 courses. However, Liz explained that, influenced by the 2018 intervention, she refined several of the conceptual artifacts. First, she added the crumpled paper exercise, an icebreaker borrowed directly from the 2018 intervention, to the first course meeting before the students went the field for the first time. In this exercise, Liz asked students to write on a piece of paper what they were most excited about, then what they were most nervous about, and then crumple and toss the sheets of paper into a pile. As Liz later described in an interview, the crumpled paper exercise gave her important data about students’ concerns. In the first meeting, the exercise gave her the opportunity to normalize what might make some students anxious, for

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example, that it was normal to struggle physically sometimes in the field. Here, she began to set a norm to counter the rule of “being tough.” Second, to better prepare students to enter the field and to complete assignments, Liz also developed a more detailed syllabus and website and added more scaffolding to her lectures out the field to break down in more detail what students might notice and look for in their observations. Third, Liz in 2019 added a requirement to students to do Title IX training and sign an agreement that they would follow Title IX University policies. Indeed, a whole page of the 2019 syllabus addressed procedures to report harassment during field camp. It named contact people, such as the instructors on site, additional personnel back at Liz’s department, and Title IX officers both at Liz’s department and at the university dormitories on site. The syllabus text emphasized that everyone held responsibility to report harassment, that particular measures (e.g., separation of involved persons) could take place, and that “Allegations of sexual harassment should be handled with the necessary confidentiality to protect all parties.” Adding the Title IX policy to the artifact of the syllabus aimed to address sexual harassment and bullying in fieldwork (Clancy et al., 2017) and to fortify the rule to “be safe.” The final two changes to conceptual artifacts discussed here were the most consequential in relation to the contradictions that had emerged in the 2017 field course. The fourth artifact change involved the redesign of the Valley Ridge assignment. Specifically, Liz adopted lessons provided at the 2018 intervention on how to design field assignments for students with disabilities, reducing the total amount of terrain on that assignment for students to traverse and analyze. Then, she designed a jigsaw assignment, by dividing up the remaining territory in thirds. Specifically, she assigned each small group to map just one third of the prior amount of territory required in 2017. She also arranged for groups that were mapping separate thirds of the territory to come together and assemble a bigger map. The consequence was that students in 2019 physically were required to traverse less than a third of the topography required for the 2017 Valley Ridge assignment. Fifth, Liz removed the “optional” hike up Alta Mountain, challenging the “top of the mountain mentality” and, in her colleague Beth’s words, “taking away the mountain.” When I asked one of Liz’s TAs, who had done the exact same Valley Ridge assignment at her own undergraduate institution, whether there was any compromise or loss of learning involved in “taking away the mountain,” she said no. In removing the Alta Mountain hike, therefore, Liz eased up on the “be tough” rule and reduced the tension between the rules “be together” and “be safe,” all without compromising the “be thorough” of the learning. Liz even explained that students performed slightly better than in 2019, in the new jigsaw assignment, making more observations and noticing more landscape features. Overall, in comparison with the 2017 course, these changes in the organization of learning artifacts enhanced students’ safety. The division of labor associated with distributing more explicit responsibilities among instructors and TAs to support students in being safe, being together, and being thorough, minimized the contradiction in the 2017 course around leaving students behind. In 2019, students,

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instructors, and TAs were less likely to be distanced from one another in fieldwork in ways that might not be safe, less likely to verge on leaving one another behind (or to actually leave another behind), and less likely to push themselves in potentially unsafe ways. Liz had set more explicit norms with her TAs and students about being together and being safe and adjusted what it meant to be thorough in the assignments (through the jigsaw approach and removing the Alta Mountain hike). These actions cumulatively relieved the 2017 activity system’s contradictions between being tough, being timely, and the other three rules, without compromising thoroughness. In particular, the rule to be tough diminished significantly; due to these reorganizations, the activity system required much less of it. Engeström (2015) noted that reorganizing activity systems to resolve contradictions can lead to new contradictions and one notable and new contradiction did emerge in the 2019 activity system. This stemmed from Liz’s having adjusted the division of labor from 2017 to 2019 so that instructors, rather than students, chose the team members for all assignments (rather than just one, as in 2017). As evidenced in the crumpled paper exercise icebreaker and informal conversations, the 2019 students expressed more concern than the 2017 students about their grades. Consequently, students who perceived themselves as being more physically or mentally able than others sometimes expressed frustration at being placed with students they perceived as less “able.” Put differently, they felt like “slower” students (physically or mentally) could hold them back from completing and turning in higher-quality assignments. Especially in the jigsaw assignment, certain students did not trust the division of labor for other students in their groups to accurately complete the other parts of the jigsaw assignment. Thus, from a contradiction between this division of labor and these students’ interpretation of the rule to “be thorough,” a new sense of anxiety and competitiveness around the small groups not doing the best work possible emerged, which prompted the instructors to try to figure out how to respond. This finding indicates the importance of monitoring and calibrating an activity system over time in the broader expansive learning cycle (Engeström, 2015). Keeping track of changing activity system dynamics helps to reveal and address tensions arising when implementing efforts to promote inclusivity in a field course. In sum, in the 2019 geoscience field course, Liz applied tools from the 2018 intervention to refine and set more normative expectations for inclusive rules, to mitigate contradictions between rules that could differently affect students’ field experiences, to reorganize the division of labor to ease tensions between rules, and to set clearer norms with TAs and students regarding a more commonly shared object of learning. Empirical research on advancing inclusive geoscience education for students with disabilities and women in fact stresses the importance of intentionally structuring norms that guide all participants, regardless of their backgrounds and abilities, to engage in fieldwork together in equivalent and respectful ways (Atchison et al., 2019; Feig et al., 2019; Nelson et al., 2017). This research also emphasizes the importance of choosing physical locations to conduct fieldwork that are more accessible for all groups, to foster more equitable participation (Atchison et al., 2019; Feig et al., 2019; Gilley et al., 2015). This analysis illustrates how CHAT can

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be used to make sense of the changes that Liz made in her organizational dynamics of her course – to understand the re-mediation of rules and artifacts toward equityoriented practices to redesign a central part of the geoscience curriculum that has culturally and historically and has embedded considerable exclusion (Núñez et al., 2020). In the next section, I address how Liz applied her expansive learning toward organizational change beyond coordinating the redesign of the field course.

One Science Professor’s Expansive Learning as a Change Agent Toward Equity As Engeström (2008) wrote, “The process of expansive learning should be understood as contraction and resolution of successively evolving tensions or contradictions in a complex system that includes the object or objects, the mediating artifacts, and the perspectives of the participants” (p. 131). Liz’s expansive learning and efforts to bring about equity in the department did not stop at the field course. Rather, they continued over time, in response and reaction to developments in her own department, institution, and broader social movements in society. Sustainability or organizational change is one important component and challenge of expansive learning (Engeström, 1987/2015). Although it is not clear to what extent Liz’s redesign (or in CHAT terms, re-mediation) of the field course was or will be sustained (particularly given the consequences of the 2020 pandemic that led to outdoor field courses being temporarily suspended), the example provided in this analysis reveals the tensions in the field course as they involved the social setting of the participants and how Liz addressed them. To recap this process, Liz viewed, questioned, and analyzed results of the mirror data (Engeström, 2015). Along with her colleague Beth, Liz shared the mirror data with her colleagues and used the mirror data and other artifacts from the workshop intervention to collaborate with her departmental colleagues to redesign the field course to create more equitable experiences for all students. The redesign particularly focused on reworking artifacts (i.e., developing the jigsaw assignment and removing the Alta Mountain hike), the division of labor (i.e., coordinating how instructors, TAs, and students worked together in the field), and rules (i.e., setting clearer norms to emphasize more supportive rules and deemphasizing the “be tough” rule that came into tension with the other rules). While implementing a new model for her field class, she continued to reflect on and evaluate the emergent dynamics of the model, identifying and adjusting to the new contradictions that arose. Beyond expanding innovation toward equity in the curriculum, Liz also broadened her efforts to advance equity in the department, responding in particular to conditions in her own institution and society at large. As such, in addition to the planes of intrapersonal and interpersonal development (Rogoff, 1995) in redesigning the field course, it is helpful also to situate Liz’s development and expansive learning as an equity-minded change agent within the institutional plane (Rogoff, 1995) that includes her department, university, and discipline. In fact, observers have noted that the most successful efforts to advance equity in science must involve all three of these dimensions (AAAS, 2019; Chapman, 2020).

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Her department’s interest in redesigning the field course supported Liz and her colleague Beth to take the time to participate in and apply lessons learned from the intervention and to share their learning with the entire department. Liz’s efforts in this process related to her other efforts to promote equity in the department. For example, a new diversity office established at the university in 2019 implemented a requirement for all departments at the institution to write diversity, equity, and inclusion plans. Liz agreed to lead this task, supported by a senior White male colleague who was an especially vocal ally for diversity, in addition to a couple of other faculty and staff. Even though her chair was initially resistant to the plan’s specific suggestions, the Dean of Liz’s college boosted support for the plan, lending it legitimacy under the direction of higher-level university leadership. The plan, which I reviewed, included an updated mission statement incorporating equity-minded language and associated short-, medium-, and long-term goals. The short-term goals included raising awareness about diverse groups through implicit bias training and departmental events highlighting diversity and equity topics, including films and speakers about equity at departmental seminars that had in the past only addressed geoscience research. Curricular efforts called to incorporate into regular course content the recognition of scientists from diverse backgrounds and the role of indigenous groups in contributing to science knowledge. Medium-term goals included increasing recruitment and retention of diverse faculty and students, and long-term goals included developing funding sources to support faculty and students to engage in diverse research communities and to support underrepresented groups in their pursuit of geoscience studies. New developments in society and in her discipline prompted Liz to engage her department further in addressing issues of diversity, equity, and inclusion. After the George Floyd murder in 2020, Liz and her colleague started an informal coffee discussion group and book club to, in her words, “talk frankly about diversity and equity in a safe space.” Liz added that recent diversity efforts and guidelines designed by her own professional organizations, like the American Geophysical Union and Geological Society of America, had gained stronger traction and offered her further legitimacy and guidance to advance efforts in her own department. Through her ongoing engagement in BIPOC focused science organizations, she also learned more about how to promote equity and recruited students of color to her department, such as an undergraduate from another institution who took her 2019 field course and whom she was hoping to recruit for graduate study at her own institution. This analysis of the development of Liz’s intrapersonal consciousness and her activities at the interpersonal and institutional planes as a change agent indicates the importance of taking a holistic and historical perspective on expansive learning in STEM equity. It suggests that, like the faculty in Liera and Dowd’s (2019) study, Liz was learning tools and strategies to enact agency in doing racial equity work, increasingly incorporating that work as part of her identity as a woman scientist of color. The focus in CHAT on the role of interventions and artifacts highlights what tools, including mirror data from the first analysis of her field course (Engeström, 2015), made a difference in Liz’s expansive learning. These tools mediated her own development to, in turn, re-mediate her educational environments.

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Applying a CHAT Perspective Versus Other Higher Education Perspectives to Analyze Data Engeström (2015) recommended that a valuable exercise to challenge the “universalization” of a popular theory is to analyze the same set of data using different theoretical perspectives (xix). To illustrate how a CHAT perspective compares and contrasts with other more commonly used conceptual approaches in higher education, I compare the above analysis of empirical data with two prior analyses of a similar data set that includes the exact same 2017 data and data collected at another site, in a multi-site ethnography about geoscience fieldwork. The data set for these other two studies involved two distinct sites, representing two stages of education – undergraduate and graduate (Núñez et al., 2021; Posselt & Núñez, 2021). Although a full review of these other studies is beyond the scope of this article, I present in Table 3 a concise summary of the conceptual frameworks used in these other studies and the findings that emerged from applying these conceptual frameworks in the data analysis. The first row of the table illustrates the application of a popular conceptual framework about diversity and inclusion in higher education environments, as well as that of popular a higher education student development theory perspective. Specifically, applying the diverse learning environments (DLE) model (Hurtado et al., 2012) and the reflective judgment model (King & Kitchener, 1994) highlighted (1) key dimensions of the learning environment with implications for inclusion and exclusion, in line with Bronfenbrenner’s (1979) and Renn and Arnold’s (2003) ecological perspective, and (2) the central transition of cognitive development that posed the most challenges and opportunities for individual students via the ill-structured problems (King & Kitchener, 1994) that students were forced to grapple with. The analysis mapped out key areas for further inquiry and suggested, but did not specifically identify, mechanisms or behaviors most conducive to inclusion and exclusion. The second study, Posselt and Núñez (2021) employed a lens of organizational culture (Swidler, 1986), focusing on the role of social and symbolic boundaries as articulated by Tilly (2004) in shaping the potential for inclusion and exclusion in geoscience fieldwork and the resulting implications for socialization theory (Van Maanen, 1976; Tierney & Bensimon, 1996; Austin, 2002) of students into the geoscience discipline. This study identified key norms of organizational culture in geoscience fieldwork, including the toughness and togetherness that align with the “be tough” and “be together” rules identified in the CHAT analysis. Importantly, it also illustrated how such norms could promote inclusion or exclusion of students from diverse groups and called for more inquiry about the nuances and complexities that might account for why norms might influence experiences in geoscience fieldwork in different ways, based on participants’ identities. It also called for more inquiry about how students, including women, might create alternative norms that facilitated inclusion for themselves, with implications for the agentic construction of the organizational culture and change of geoscience fieldwork.

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Table 3 Comparing CHAT and other higher education conceptual approaches in data analysis Conceptual approaches Nuñez et al. (2021) MMDLE (Hurtado et al., 2012) Reflective judgment model (King & Kitchener, 1994)

Findings in relation to conceptual frameworks Social interactions and physical abilities in a geoscience fieldwork course can enhance or hinder inclusion in relation to dimensions of curriculum and pedagogy (from an ecological perspective). In being required to make sense of complex natural landscapes, students encountered ill-structured problems that challenged them to move from pre-reflective to reflective judgment and cognitive growth (from an individual student development perspective)

Posselt & Núñez (2021) Organizational culture (Swidler, 1986) Social and symbolic boundaries (Tilly, 2004) Socialization (Austin, 2002; Tierney & Bensimon, 1996; Van Maanen, 1976) 2017 Initial Course Activity System in this article CHAT

The organizational culture of geoscience fieldwork involves shifting spatial, temporal, and social boundaries that shape norms in inclusionary or exclusionary ways. Subgroups within the culture (e.g., women, in the case of this study) can address these boundaries to create their own norms in relation to norms that might be exclusionary. Examining these norms and boundaries provides insights about disciplinary socialization

Through a CHAT analysis, five rules in the activity system were identified. Tensions between these rules and norms, along with the organization of artifacts and division of labor in the activity system, fostered exclusion, especially for marginalized subjects. In some cases, different conceptions of the object affected the system and contributed to exclusion

Key equity-oriented implications Identification of centrality of social interactions in geoscience fieldwork supports rationale to apply sociocultural approaches to understanding learning in geosciences and to identify approaches to facilitating social interactions that are more inclusive (Streule & Craig, 2016). Identification of importance of physical abilities in shaping learning and experiences in geoscience fieldwork calls for more attention to organizing learning environments in ways that are responsive to learners of all abilities and backgrounds (Atchison et al., 2019) Identification of cultural norms that can be conducive to both inclusion or exclusion requires attention to the complexity of nuances and microlevel interactions and their potential to perpetuate ambiguous or contradictory assumptions and behaviors. Given that students can create alternative norms (e.g., to tacitly foster inclusivity in response to predominant cultural norms), more attention is needed to agency of students as well as instructors in co-creating norms of inclusion and exclusion Employing CHAT to address relationships, processes, and activities that are associated with tensions in the system can expand possibilities for seeing how cultural practices are developed and sustained. Examining nuances of these tensions enables more insights about contradictory consequences of the same cultural norms. An actionoriented (Goodwin, 2018) focus to identify dynamics in the system opens possibilities to change and develop new practices to foster inclusion in fieldwork (continued)

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Table 3 (continued) Conceptual approaches 2017 Initial and 2019 Course Redesign Activity Systems analyses of fieldwork courses CHAT and expansive learning (Engeström, 1987/2015)

Findings in relation to conceptual frameworks Through a specialized intervention, instructors learned strategies to promote inclusion in their own activity system. They redesigned artifacts, division of labor, and communication of rules and fostered a more shared objective. Comparing the 2017 and 2019 activity systems indicates that increased inclusion resulted, although new contradictions did emerge

Key equity-oriented implications Ethnographic approach at multiple sites (from a temporal and longitudinal perspective) enables distinctive capacity to address how changing dynamics within an activity system, through rearranging artifacts, rules, and division of labor, can foster inclusion in fieldwork. It also illustrates how faculty create more inclusive cultural practices in learning environments and organizations

The CHAT analyses presented at the bottom of Table 3 focused on unpacking contradictions and tensions within the activity system and on specifying additional components, beyond rules and cultural norms, that might contribute to such tensions. By identifying processes and dynamics in the system, this analysis provided an “action-oriented” rather than “referential” way (Goodwin, 2018) to approach organizational change to promote equity in geoscience fieldwork. That is, it provided more fine-grained analyses of the processes and activities in the course that could contribute to or hinder inclusion for students from diverse groups. The application of CHAT highlighted how even a well-intentioned and equity-minded instructor might nonetheless unconsciously perpetuate problematic and exclusionary cultural norms. The capacity to follow the instructor and the class design over a period of 3 years enhanced understanding of how a science professor applied expansive learning to enact more equitable practices in her course and department. These findings based on a CHAT analysis uniquely address calls for higher education research to study faculty and student teaching and learning processes in more detail and to identify “mechanisms of inequality” (Lattuca, 2021, p. 372) as situated in disciplinary, sociocultural, and sociohistorical contexts (Lattuca, 2021; Pallas & Neumann, 2019).

Implications for Higher Education Research This piece has provided a brief introduction to the background and architecture of CHAT, a short review of research employing CHAT to study higher education equity interventions, and a case illustration applying CHAT to examine equity efforts in undergraduate science education. This overview suggests that CHAT affords tools to expand inquiry about organizational culture, systems transformation, and agency to transform higher education systems. As such, CHAT’s application, particularly in its

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capacity to examine tensions in organizational culture (Cole & Engeström, 1993), can extend the development of critical and systems perspectives in organizational studies in higher education (e.g., Gonzales et al., 2018; Pasque & Carducci, 2015) and, in turn, the potential to enact organizational change toward equity. In this section, I conclude with methodological, conceptual, and practical implications for how the application of CHAT could expand how higher education research understands and constructs opportunities in postsecondary systems.

Methodological Implications Scholars of higher education have called for more “on the ground” fine-grained analyses attuned to subtleties and nuances of organizational processes, experiences, and situated contexts through which faculty, administrators, and students learn and move in higher education systems (Lattuca, 2021; Neumann, 2009; Pallas & Neumann, 2019; Rose, 2012). CHAT’s employment of the activity system as the primary unit of analysis provides high methodological potential to address the subtleties and nuances of cultural practices in higher education, opening possibilities to understand phenomena such as the complexities of organizational change and systems-oriented equity interventions. As noted, CHAT is typically employed with multiple qualitative methods, particularly case studies and ethnography, complemented in particular instances by quantitative methods (e.g., assessments of children’s progress on reading, surveys of workplace satisfaction) (Cole, 2010; Engeström, 2015). While not unique to CHAT, the application of these methods using a CHAT approach often involves more immersed and extended time, sometimes in multiple settings and contexts (Gutiérrez, 2008, 2011, 2012). Further, the collection of multiple kinds of data (e.g., interviews, observations, document analysis, videos) (Cole, 2010) in these settings affords more capacity to conduct fine-grained analyses of cultural practices that have been called for in higher education research. Ethnographic approaches that involve collection of naturalistic data and multiple data provide more capacity to examine activity systems, but full ethnographies (spending extended and immersed time in a setting) are particularly rare in higher education (Jones et al., 2014). More reciprocal and less hierarchical approaches between the researcher and study or intervention participants, while not unique to CHAT, are also typical and critical in CHAT approaches (Gutiérrez et al., 2016). However, conducting research in a higher education context might require adjustment of particular methods of data collection that might be more common in other settings (Bligh & Flood, 2015). For example, because there may be ethical and confidentiality concerns with using video in research about higher education, alternatives in data collection that are less intrusive (e.g., note-taking, individual interviews) may be preferred (Bligh & Flood, 2015). Given the typically large amount of data collection involved in using CHAT approaches (Engeström, 2015; YamagataLynch, 2010), researchers interested in employing CHAT should carefully consider the quality of their human and temporal resources and relationships with those at the sites they wish to study. Cole (2010) reminds scholars that while applying CHAT can

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be challenging, it also affords plentiful rewards to study cultural practices in a more fine-grained, multidimensional way. Although CHAT has historically employed an array of qualitative methods, that does not preclude it from offering a useful approach to inform quantitative inquiry in higher education as well. For example, in applying CHAT to operationalize the organization of community college student success programs and their association with the popular higher education construct of engagement, Hatch (2017) asserted that the application of activity theory can serve as “. . .a conceptual framework providing guidance in selecting and operationalizing variables and interpreting findings” (p. 5). Observers have noted that the historical separation of qualitative and quantitative methods has impeded the potential for educational research to transform social systems and effect public policy, particularly because public policy historically has prioritized quantitative analyses (Dimitriadis, 2012; Dixon-Roman, 2017). Therefore, engaging CHAT perspectives in quantitative analysis has important implications for CHAT’s potential to advance equity-oriented systems transformation. CHAT’s focus on facilitating expansive learning, implementing interventions, transforming institutions, and employing multiple forms of data also makes it compatible with the employment of a transformative paradigm in higher education research (Hurtado, 2015; Mertens, 2009). The transformative paradigm is “. . .an umbrella for all scholarly approaches that may employ different research methods but are rooted in a critique of power relationships with emancipatory goals for individuals, and transformative goals for institutions and systems of oppression” (Hurtado, 2015, pp. 285–286). The guiding methodological assumption of the transformative paradigm that “decisions on method involve an awareness of contextual and historical actors, considering forms of oppression” (Hurtado, 2015, p. 293), meaning that multiple theoretical and methodological approaches and multiple types of data may be necessary, to effect institutional transformation (Mertens, 2009). CHAT’s methodological approaches that typically involve collecting multiple sources of data, often over extended period of time, can enhance crystallization of the data that is also central to applying a transformative paradigm in higher education research (Hurtado, 2015; Mertens, 2009). Rather than the triangulation common to mixed methods studies, with its emphasis on establishing homogeneity of and congruence across multiple data sources, crystallization emphasizes the value of collecting and bringing into conversation with one another varied and sometimes contradictory sources of data, often streaming from both qualitative and quantitative approaches (Hurtado, 2015). Similarly, Dixon-Roman (2017) argues for the importance of drawing on multiple kinds of data sources, including qualitative and quantitative, to generate an “assemblage” of social science research that can effect social change. Drawing on new materialist and posthumanist theoretical perspectives, which Dixon-Roman (2017) asserts are congruent with CHAT and sociocultural approaches, he recommends that educational research can most effectively address equity by examining “the relational and connected forces that produce an event and its effects. . .not about a search for meaning or truth [a more post-postivist

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approach] but rather a recognition of process and function” (p. 40). Focusing on these relationships and processes can open avenues to augment research with new and emergent types and analyses of data, such as social media and Geographic Information Systems (among many others), to augment inquiry in applications of CHAT to higher education. Here I would like to raise another methodological point. One limitation of this chapter is its focus on larger-scale, more well-resourced examples of CHAT research. My rationale for this focus is to illustrate a broader range of applications of CHAT and CHAT’s potential to inform organizational and systems transformation, particularly through the concept of expansive learning. However, CHAT analyses can be conducted on a smaller scale and still have important implications for expanding understanding and practice toward equity-oriented change in higher education. Examples include (1) Doran’s (2019) analysis of how the activity system of faculty at one community college negotiated state-level top-down changes in developmental reading and writing policies, (2) Deal’s (2016) analysis of the relationship between the activity systems of student affairs graduate programs and student affairs national professional associations in shaping student affairs practitioners’ learning about racial issues, and (3) Bondi and colleagues’ (2016) CHAT analysis of a strategy to facilitate student ownership and participation in a synchronous online section of a higher education graduate course. These studies indicate how applying CHAT to smaller-scale analyses can inform more equitable practices among policymakers, administrators, faculty, and student affairs professionals.

Conceptual and Theoretical Implications CHAT can extend inquiry about organizational culture and systems through its focus on cultural practices as units of analysis in organizations, offering a finer-grained analysis of activities and cultural practices in organizational settings (Blackler, 2009). Its cultural-historical focus calls for researchers to take a broader systems perspective, through examining how cultural practices are inherited from generation to generation and are perpetuated over time. A CHAT application focus on activities and activity systems also opens possibilities for examining how cultural practices are generated, moment to moment. CHAT’s approach of expansive learning offers possibilities for examining how cultural practices are sustained and transformed over time, with a longitudinal focus on examining activity settings. As such, CHAT affords distinctive conceptual and methodological tools to study organizational learning and organizational change in higher education (Bligh & Flood, 2015). CHAT provides tools to influence how change agents construct objects and design artifacts, rules, and division of labor to engage subjects and communities to generate more equitable outcomes in settings like postsecondary education. The examples in this piece illustrate that applying a CHAT lens can enhance equityoriented higher education inquiry about learning, including organizational learning and student learning, with the intended object of advancing equity in higher education. Although neither focused on equity interventions (and therefore were

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not addressed at length in this study), it is worth nothing that scholars like Doran (2019) and Rose (2012) have used CHAT approaches to examine how organizational and student learning are situated in broader educational and public policy systems. Specifically, they have analyzed how macro-level (e.g., policy and funding) and micro-level systems (e.g., faculty and student experiences and interactions) interact to affect the provision of developmental education in community college contexts. Although Rose (2012) did not explicitly employ CHAT, his approach to close study was considered an exemplar of the kind that CHAT scholars could aspire to (Gutiérrez, 2012). Doran’s (2019) and Rose’s (2012) particular analyses suggest the utility of a CHAT perspective for advancing insights about consequential cultural and systemic practices associated with developmental education and interactions between broader activity systems that have strong consequences for equity in this arena.

Practical and Change-Oriented Implications In equity-oriented CHAT interventions, such as those focused on faculty and administrators, presenting these practitioners with “mirror data” (Engeström, 2015) about their own activity systems can enhance their organizational learning and capacity to design organizational change strategies tailored to their own institutional and systemic contexts (e.g., Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Dowd & Liera, 2018; Liera & Dowd, 2019; Liera, 2020; and the example of the instructor in the previous section). These affordances of CHAT are quite apparent, when considering that implementing deeper and more sustainable change in higher education requires (1) identifying and transforming implicit and unconscious assumptions (as difficult as these may be to face), (2) accounting for and addressing a range of relevant conditions within organizational contexts, and (3) recognizing that change is complex and acting accordingly – calibrating and making adjustments tailored to local conditions – rather than following oversimplified, yet sometimes seductive, one-size-fits-all or silver bullet formulas (Kezar, 2018). CHAT also affords the potential to specify mechanisms of agency and power in higher education, with implications for identifying and advancing (in)equities in educational organizations and systems. For example, CHAT’s concept of contradictions provides the researcher with an avenue to examine how tensions within an activity system (or between activity systems) can (1) disadvantage some subjects and privilege others, (2) distribute labor in a system unequally (and inequitably) on different individuals, (3) create situations where rules of the activity system contradict one another, (4) sustain the use of artifacts whose designs misalign or interfere with reaching the intended object, and (5) influence conflicting or not entirely aligned perspectives on intended objects. With this focus on activity systems, applying CHAT can reveal implicit or explicit power dynamics in higher education, where even well-intentioned actors perpetuate inequities of which they might be unconscious. This quality was evidenced in my own example of working with Liz, a scientist who articulated her commitment to equity-oriented practices and who enacted them in several settings, yet whose fieldwork course activity system did

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not always meet her own articulated intention for “each student to put their valuable input into the course projects.” A CHAT analysis of her fieldwork courses lent additional specificity to interrogate exclusionary power dynamics that are too often underspecified in higher education research (Cabrera, 2018; Núñez, 2014). These qualities of CHAT also lend themselves well to exploring possibilities for agency of faculty, students, staff, administrators, and/or collectives of these to enact equity toward transformation of higher education organizations and systems. A CHAT inquiry that focuses on these subjects’ efforts to work toward the intended object, despite other contradictions or power dynamics, can illustrate these subjects’ agency, as illustrated earlier in this piece, in examples where (1) faculty engaged equity work enacted their own agency to address departments’ resistance to organizational change (Liera & Dowd, 2019; Liera, 2020), (2) migrant students developed agency to expand their postsecondary possibilities (Gildersleeve, 2010) grounded in their cultural repertoires of practice (Gutiérrez & Rogoff, 2003), or (3) a geoscience professor worked in her department to design a more inclusive curriculum and to advance racial equity in departmental policies and practices. More recent scholarship employing CHAT has focused on power and agency, generating concepts like transformative agency (Sannino, 2015) and the transformative agency stance (Stetsenko & Arievitch, 2016). Transformative agency (Sannino, 2015) that can challenge previously uncontested power structures focuses on creating opportunities through organizing mediating artifacts for collectives to assess, re-envision, and redesign their activity systems to benefit a collective group to a greater degree. Similarly, the transformative agency stance emphasizes the importance of developing supports to engage all learners at all life stages. Drawing on scholar Paulo Freire’s problem posing method, it stresses the importance of creating opportunities for learners to find, define, and construct problems to take a stand and effect change toward equity in the social world (Stetsenko, 2017; Stetsenko & Arievitch, 2016). Gutiérrez’s concept of a Third Space (2008) as “the creation of alternative social realities for the production of sociocritical literacies” (Gutiérrez, 2018, p. 67) emphasizes creating new artifacts, such as the “cognitive grammar” designed by all participants (instructors, students) in the MSLI activity system discussed earlier. Creation of Third Spaces can offer migrant students and members of other nondominant groups new lenses to reimagine possibilities and opportunities in the world (Gutiérrez, 2008). Through a focus on agency, the identification of power dynamics, and how higher education personnel navigate those dynamics, CHAT’s application can also provide insights about how faculty might incorporate doing equity work more integrally into their own scholarly identities (Neumann, 2009) and as teachers in designing more equitable learning environments (Pallas & Neumann, 2019). Accordingly, applying CHAT might also provide insights about how administrators, faculty, and staff become equity-minded leaders in their particular organizational contexts. In its focus on organizational ecologies, the application of CHAT could offer analytical avenues to integrate research on faculty identity and organizational studies, leadership, and change (Neumann, 2009).

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Conclusion In conclusion, I hope that this piece offers tools to examine and expand organizational and systemic practices to advance equitable higher education opportunities. As other activity systems in the world (e.g., technology, consequences of a global pandemic, climate change, economic challenges) increasingly affect higher education and as CHAT itself evolves toward a fourth-generation of scholarship more attuned to addressing these interdependencies (Engeström & Sannino, 2020), a CHAT approach affords new ways to understand and address how these systems interact with systems of higher education. Such knowledge is critical to generate strategies for higher education to be more responsive to the increasingly culturally diverse populations and economic, social, historical, and global contexts in which it is situated today. Acknowledgments This scholarly work was supported in part by funding from the Spencer Foundation and from the National Science Foundation (NSF) award #1834620. The author thanks Kris Gutiérrez for her mentorship and guidance in learning about CHAT perspectives. Any opinions, findings, and conclusions or recommendations expressed in this material are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Spencer Foundation or NSF.

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Anne-Marie Núñez, Professor of Educational Studies at The Ohio State University, examines how to promote equitable postsecondary educational opportunities for minoritized groups. Her award-winning scholarship has focused on (1) postsecondary trajectories of Latinx, first-generation, migrant, and English Learner students, (2) the roles and contributions of Hispanic-Serving Institutions (HSIs) in promoting higher education opportunities, and (3) building inclusive and equitable environments in STEM disciplines, particularly in HSIs. In current work, she collaborates with scientists on several grants and initiatives to understand, advance, and institutionalize organizational practices and cultures that promote equity in geoscience and computer science disciplines.

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Beyond the Competencies: Adaptive Community College Leadership Marilyn J. Amey

Contents Summary of Historical Framing of Community College Leadership . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Evolution of the Ways of Identifying Leadership Needs in the New Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Changing Circumstances of Community Colleges and the Need for Adaptive Leadership . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Adaptive Leadership: What’s Not in the Playbook . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leadership Development for the Future . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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The community college context is complex and continually changing as institutions strive to fulfill multiple and often competing missions. As presidential retirements continue, the need to rethink the nature of leadership that will effectively shepherd these institutions is at an apex. Top-down, heroic, great men of the early community college movement no longer provide the leadership needed to address current and future needs, nor do they reflect the diversity and access claims of this sector more broadly. Following a critique of community college leadership represented over the last thirty years, juxtaposed against competencies set forth by national associations, this chapter leans into adaptive leadership as a strategy for the future. Adaptive leadership responds to challenge and unexpected circumstances by promoting learning, reflection, change, inclusive and distributed leadership throughout the institution while unbundling images and behaviors that have kept a traditional grip on who are seen as community college leaders. Pamela Eddy was the Associate Editor for this chapter. M. J. Amey (*) Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 37, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3_7

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Keywords

Community college leadership · Adaptive leadership| · Competencies · Learning · Cultural competence · Inclusive · Leadership development · Gender (ed) · Transformational leadership · great man/men

Leadership. It is a term often characterized as one we know when we see it. It is often comforting to seek out specific terms, labels, images, and sets of traits one can check off that supposedly distinguishes a leader from someone else, and yet, so many of these prescribed tenets also limit who is seen as a leader and who is allowed to lead. At the same time, most organizations continue to seek leadership, especially in their senior leaders. Community colleges are no exception to this, even while what leadership has meant and how it has been characterized since the colleges’ inception continues to evolve (Koos, 1944; Vaughan, 1983; Roueche et al., 1989; Amey & Twombly, 1992; Twombly & Amey, 1993; Amey, 2005, 2013; Eddy, 2010). These institutions and those who study them have struggled to accurately represent the leadership needs of the colleges as they have evolved over time while trying to break free of rhetoric and beliefs about leadership that have not. What kind of leadership, then, is relevant and appropriate for community colleges as they continue into the future? If the context and complexity of the colleges requires more dynamic leaders throughout the organization in order to support its multiple missions in equitable ways, how then can leadership be revisioned in ways that are recognizable and fostered in those in positions away from the top of the hierarchy? If the future is less predictable, so that the leader tool kit needs always to be updated, how do individuals switch their mindsets from traditional ways of problem solving to more adaptive, integrative ways of framing paths forward? To consider these questions and others, this chapter examines how leadership framing has, or has not, changed in order to meet the current and future needs of the community college sector. It builds on what has been represented in scholarship over the last 40 years that emphasized top-level leaders and has often driven hiring and promotion practices and looks forward to the kind of leadership needed throughout the colleges to help them continue thriving as they face continued environmental complexity and the challenges and opportunities that lie ahead. A vision of leadership that is needed into the future is described that is adaptive to both environmental and internal circumstances and is continually interrogated for its relevance given the dynamic realities. While not purporting that leadership is amorphous that is cannot be understood until it is seen, neither does this chapter argue for a one-size-fits-all understanding of leadership. A review of the last several decades does suggest, however, that there are central tenets that are needed in leadership that moves it away from a focus only on the top and allows for broader inclusion throughout the organization (Garza Mitchell & Amey, 2020). Ideas that were once held close find new translations as they are considered in light of changing institutional cultures and circumstances. Pointedly the arguments in this chapter do not prescribe who can and should lead community colleges or from what stance in the institution. In keeping

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with a postsecondary sector that continues to meet the needs of its ever-diversifying constituents, this chapter argues that community college leadership needs to continue to be adaptive, to evolve and diversify in order to invite into the leadership space those needed to help the colleges move forward into the future.

Summary of Historical Framing of Community College Leadership Community colleges have often been heralded as the postsecondary sector providing the greatest access and opportunity for students, especially women and underrepresented students (Malcom, 2013; Meier, 2013; Townsend & Twombly, 2007). This important access role, which continues to be true in terms of enrollment patterns, has never been quite as accurate for those pursuing full-time faculty positions. Even while considered primarily teaching institutions, full-time faculty typically comprise no more than 30% of the community college labor market from which most senior leadership positions are drawn (Cook & Kim, 2012; Martin & O’Meara, 2017; Townsend & Twombly, 2007). While in comparison to 4-year institutions, especially research universities, community colleges have better representation of white women and leaders of color than their 4-year counterparts, the mismatch between student and leader representation is stark. For example, in the 1980s, only 8% of community college presidents were women (Vaughan, 1989), whereas today, that number is closer to 36% (Gagliadi et al., 2017) reflecting change over almost 40 years but not what was forecasted or hoped for (DiCroce, 1995); representation for women presidents of color is only at 7% (Gagliadi et al., 2017). In the first decades of their formation, community colleges were closely connected to public schools, providing two more years of education beyond high school, what Tillery and Deegan (1985) called high school extension (1900–1930). Colleges were led by men who believed in the purpose of a continued education even while the full breadth of community college missions had not yet fully emerged. Those at the helm were creating a vision for a new kind of educational institution and felt they were leading a movement (Amey & Twombly, 1992; Bogue, 1950), so the way others talked and wrote about them was often in militaristic terms such as commanders, generals, and being in the vanguard (Brint & Karabel, 1989) – men leading the good fight to establish a sector that would serve communities and, eventually, a transfer function as well; they were considered great men. This first of Tillery and Deegan’s five evolutionary generations was followed by the periods of the junior college (1930–1950) and the generation of the community college (1950–1970). In the second and third generations, those who held college senior administrative positions stayed mostly white men, and while the leadership needs of the colleges slowly evolved, there was little movement away from the kinds of leaders responsible for helping shape the early community colleges. Even though many forms of early colleges existed, the close organizational connections to schools stayed in place until well into the 1960s (Richardson et al., 1972). Ratcliff (1987) argued that while social and political forces of the early decades when colleges were being established so quickly might have dictated the kind of leadership that existed,

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he also recognized that creating academic institutions and then taking the needed steps to distinguish them from schools required strong often domineering leadership reminiscent of the leadership imagery and traits exemplified by the early commanders and builders. It was during this period that nomenclature of senior administrators also changed from deans and principals, reminiscent of schools, to presidents (Bartky, 1957; Brint & Karabel, 1989). These changes not only were important symbolically but reinforced a growing delineation of roles for the senior leader to those of policy maker, public relations navigator including with boards of control, and chief executive officer, allowing for clarity in responsibilities of staff within the college. Necessary leadership was still described in battle imagery such as leading the well-schooled battleship (Bartky, 1957), aligned with what the United States was going through in the multiple wars occurring between the 1930s and the late 1950s. It was not until the mid-1970s to mid-1980s that the fourth generation of Tillery and Deegan’s (1985) evolutionary model of the comprehensive community college emerged. In this developmental phase, the leadership needs began to shift as the sector entered into the phase of growth and maturation (Cameron, 1984). Any organization at this stage continued to need leaders to be inspirational, master planners, and risk takers, but they also need those who were efficient managers who were politically astute communicators with increasingly diverse external constituents (Hall & Alfred, 1985; Roueche et al., 1989). Leaders in a maturation phase need to be sure a solid foundation has been established on which renewal can occur, requiring reclarification and reinterpretation as necessary to continue claiming space in the educational system (Amey & Twombly, 1992). Those writing about community college leadership during this period debated how much transformational leadership was needed as a means by which to radically overhaul the college mission, goals, and values (Burns, 1978) versus whether leadership for renewal including cultural awareness and continuity along with change (Gardner, 1986; Roueche et al., 1989) would best serve the colleges at this juncture. The move from heroic imagery and language to describe leadership that so influenced who was deemed a credible college leader was not made easily. Even as many saw that the colleges needed to keep pace with other educational sectors and changes in society happening all throughout the 1960s and 1970s, it was challenging for others to leave behind the casting leaders and leadership that was so much a fabric of the community college movement (Amey & Twombly, 1992; Roueche et al., 1989). Richardson et al. (1972) offered one of the earliest alternatives to the top-down autocratic approach when they posited shared governance and broadened participation as a more appropriate leadership model for community colleges at this stage in their evolution. A stark contrast for many, it took another 20 years before the language and opportunity for different leadership approaches took hold more broadly (Amey & Twombly, 1992). Calls in the 1980s and 1990s grew for more holistic, cultural leadership (Baker, 1992) based on connectedness and collaboration rather than hierarchy and authority (Amey & Twombly, 1992; Cross & Ravekas, 1990; Roueche et al., 1989) that, in part, was anticipated to change the demographic makeup of senior leaders by

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offering approaches to leadership that were more weblike, caring, and committed to college members (Baker, 1992; Twombly, 1995). The hope was that this shift would result in greater leader-follower interaction and included roles such as environmental spanning, empowering others, developing effective teams, sharing information, and emphasizing creativity and quality (Baker, 1992; Twombly, 1995). Making this change in orientation was presumed to allow for both different leadership approaches than those of the great man era (Ratcliff, 1987) and potentially allow persons other than white men to be viewed as viable candidates for upward mobility and then assume senior positions. Since early in the twenty-first century, scholarship on community college leaders addresses more clearly the need to broaden the basis of leadership and to collaborate more actively with others within the college to accomplish the college mission and have the resources to do things. This more interconnected form of leadership is so important because being an effective partner draws differently on leaders than being the commander or authoritarian singular commander at the top of the hierarchy that has dominated descriptions of community college leaders for over a century (Amey & Twombly, 1992; Eddy & VanDerLinden, 2006; Garza Mitchell & Garcia, 2020; Ratcliff, 1987; Richardson et al., 1972; Townsend & Twombly, 2007). Terminology varies, and this more collective approach to leadership has been characterized as networked leadership (Eddy & Kirby, 2020), multidimensional leadership (Eddy, 2010), distributed leadership (Bolden, 2011), and participatory leadership (Eddy & Khwaja, 2019), among other labels. Yet, in spite of rhetoric to the contrary, research also shows that over the last 30 years, community colleges remain very gendered organizations, not readily supportive of leaders who are women or people of color in practices and policies, expected leadership behaviors or styles (Eddy & VanDerLinden, 2006; Gillett-Karam, 1989; Lester, 2008; Lester & Klein, 2017; Lester & Sallee, 2017; Townsend, 1995; Wilson & Cox, 2012). Different reasons for this disparity have been documented in detail elsewhere (e.g., Acker, 2006; Acker, 2010; Lester & Sallee, 2017), and in spite of the critiques about leader characterizations, the forecasted retirement tidal wave (e.g., Eddy et al., 2015; Shults, 2001) that would wash in generations of new leaders and calls to adopt new rhetoric and images by which community college leaders were typically described has led to incremental change at best and has stalled at worst. Some of the barriers to change in who become community college leaders are similar to those in other sectors such as expectations of the ideal worker without balance or integration of work-life (Lester & Sallee, 2017; Townsend, 2008); the strength of existing cultures and structures (Khwaja et al., 2017; Lester & Sallee, 2017) that often remain unchallenged; and numerous examples of inequitable policies and practices related to hiring, salary, promotions, and work assignments (Gillett-Karam, 2017; Khwaja et al., 2017; Lester & Lukas, 2008; Lester & Sallee, 2017). Higher education typically changes slowly and needs significant external impetus to do so; concerns about the impending retirement of large numbers of sitting presidents in the early 2000s were an example that created at least many discussions of where the next generation of leaders would come from, including the AACC meetings in 2004 that emphasized attempts to identify leader competencies

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(Ottenritter, 2012; Vaughan & Weissman, 2006). Community colleges (and universities) are notoriously poor at cultivating internal leaders and actively developing leadership succession or capacity building plans (Ebbers et al., 2010; Gillett-Karam, 2017; Watts & Hammons, 2002). They tend to look to a newly positioned leader to create any needed change while simultaneously being resistant to doing anything differently. Faculty and administrators tend to stay in their lanes (Bess & Dee, 2014), especially in unionized settings and where women overall participate less in governance than male counterparts (Lester & Lukas, 2008); they focus predominantly on the work right ahead of them rather than thinking around the corner to what comes next (Bess & Dee, 2014). If assigned to anyone specifically, forward and strategic thinking tends to fall to the president and perhaps a presidential team if one exists (Boggs & McPhail, 2019). Even though written almost 30 years ago, most community colleges (and other postsecondary institutions) never really adopted Terry O’Banion’s (1997) “learning college” culture and the promises it foretold of broadening understanding and commitment by all members of the institution to engaging in achieving mission and goals. Unfortunately, not adopting this organizational culture and despite abundant writing that advocated broadening leadership perspectives during the 1990s and the early 2000s kept colleges too often mired in the early days of writing about leadership and terms like “great man,” “visionary,” and “commander” that emphasize the omniscience of the one over the collective responsibility of the many (Ratcliff, 1987; Richardson et al., 1972; Roueche et al., 1989). Convenient as this may be for the larger college constituency to rely on the singular savior leader at the top, it is clear this approach to leadership has not forestalled the effects of recent pandemics, economic crises that impact workforce training, falling birthrates that affect traditional high school graduation rates, or other societal factors that affect community colleges and their future; nor has the singular approach to leadership been very effective leading through these environmental challenges. This then begs the question of what kind of leadership is needed to support community colleges in the future.

Evolution of the Ways of Identifying Leadership Needs in the New Century In the late 1990s, it was clear that the higher education landscape writ large was changing, which meant colleges and universities themselves had to prepare for these changes and adapt if institutions intended to survive and thrive. Authors writing about community colleges from an organizational perspective posited that the growth of the institutions overall was following four cyclical developmental stages (Cameron, 1984) – birth and infancy, growth, maturity, and renewal or decline – and that the late twentieth century was going to mirror the fourth cyclical stage (renewal and/or decline) (Tillery & Deegan, 1985; Twombly & Amey, 1991). If one believed this analysis, then there was a need for different ways of communicating and leading

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in either organizational renewal or decline, especially if colleges did not want to be in decline for reasons they could avoid. Recognizing the changes on the horizon for community colleges, several organizations started to move actively and set agendas of programming for and guidance about leadership development. In 2004, the American Association of Community Colleges chose to convene groups of college leaders, faculty from community college graduate programs, and those who conducted research on community college leadership to collaborate in constructing a set of presidential leadership competencies. These competencies were intended to serve as benchmarks for the kind of leadership development believed necessary to shepherd the colleges forward into their respective futures. At the time, community college leadership opportunities were typically either homegrown (e.g., Amey, 2006; Ebbers et al., 2010; Ottenritter, 2012), targeted for presidents (e.g., the League for Innovation), highly selective (the Chairs Academy), or out of reach from a cost perspective given limited institutional resources for professional development. A justifiable criticism at the time was that community colleges individually and as a sector were not focused on succession planning that took a broader perspective and that brought new leaders and new ways of leading into the fold (Watts & Hammons, 2002). This should not imply that community college leaders felt a true void of future leaders in their midst but that the real concern was a combination of believing that the pathway into leadership was what it had always been (Amey et al., 2002) and that a looming retirement boom could result in an inability to fill top positions and to hire those prepared to address future challenges (Shults, 2001). The original set of AACC competencies was a first attempt to lay out what leadership skills would be needed, thereby prompting community colleges and sitting senior leaders to examine practices that could generate opportunities to develop these competencies to increase a pool of prepared presidential aspirants since the focus was initially top positions (AACC, 2005; Ottenritter, 2012). The competencies were derived from what was known at the time and believed important for the future and stayed within a recognizable range of beliefs about presidential leadership, often resembling trait theories of the past (Amey & Twombly, 1992; Twombly, 1995; Twombly & Amey, 1991). The set of competencies in total were premised on the idea that leadership skills can be learned over time and were those needed by presidents when selected into that position. Since their creation, AACC has developed two additional iterations of the competencies. The second version included delineation of competencies for emerging leaders and community college doctoral programs recognizing that leadership development was an important aspect of making sure there would be leaders ready to assume pending retirements (AACC, 2013). The current iteration now reflects the idea that participatory leadership is what is required in moving community colleges forward as opposed to the original primarily hierarchical leadership inferred from AACC’s first iteration (AACC, 2018; Tarker, 2019). The competencies have been revisited to include leadership at different levels of the organization, moving away from a reliance on only presidents to serve as leaders. Originally there were 6 competencies that have been expanded to 7 with 50 subcategories, the last area

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now focusing on personality traits and abilities of each group of employees from faculty up through presidents, including leader aspirants (AACC, 2018; Tarker, 2019). That the third iteration of the competencies now includes faculty suggests a recognition that leadership development can, and perhaps should, begin before a person takes on a position with formal authority so that they are better prepared to make this transition. It also reinforces the idea that foundations of leadership can exist throughout an organization and therefore can be acted upon. This represents a significant shift in AACC’s recognition of how leadership is defined, where leadership occurs, and how one can prepare to be an effective college leader. The growth in number and span of the competencies that reflect leadership throughout the community college in this way also creates a challenge in trying to describe what is expected across roles and responsibilities in parallel fashion. While this tension makes sense when conceptualizing leadership as a set of foundational tenets, the AACC document does not speak specifically to how one gets experience with the content to develop the competencies or whether it is reasonable to expect any single leader to be proficient in all competencies (McNair & Phelan, 2012). Nor does it address the changing nature of the context embedded in the competencies themselves as much as it needs to do given the fluid external environments of the colleges themselves. It is likely that leadership competencies will continue to be both personally and organizationally oriented, yet the opportunities to develop in both spheres are uneven if not quite limited, especially in those areas geared most closely to organizational functioning like relationships with governing boards and broad budget matters. Because how to get leadership development that builds capacity is not clearly expressed in the competencies, who gains access to opportunities remains a concern and perhaps is a reason why traditional images of leadership and leading persist in spite of inclusion of different organizational levels in the latest iteration of the competencies (Alfred, 2012; Amey, 2013; Gillett-Karam, 2017; Tarker, 2019); this may be especially true when those doing the nominating for open presidential positions or leadership development opportunities hold to stereotypic and traditional notions of perceived capabilities and images of leadership (Eddy & Ward, 2017; Gillett-Karam, 2017; Martin & O’Meara, 2017). A different example offered among community colleges as evidence of exemplary leadership beyond the AACC competencies has been when a college receives the annual Aspen Prize. The Aspen Prize, given by the Aspen Institute, is awarded for high achievement and performance (Aspen Institute, 2017; Wyner, 2014). Its focus is on student success as indicated by assessments of student learning, certificate and degree completion, success after college in the labor market and transfer to 4-year institutions, and equity in access and success for students of color and low-income students. Recipients have to be bold and strategic, and the selection committee intends that presidential selection fosters effective campus leadership based on enduring values for dealing with critical issues (Wyner, 2014). In choosing presidents and their campuses for the award, the selection committee emphasizes things like asking questions that get at taking strategic risks, building strong teams that include faculty and staff, institutional reform efforts, how a leader establishes a sense of urgency, and how one plans lasting internal change and what that would

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look like. The selection committee process also seeks to understand equitable decision making including when it has involved cost reductions and program elimination. The Aspen Presidential Fellowship for Community College Excellence, a signature program of the Institute, serves aspiring as well as sitting presidents, enacting one of the Institute’s goals of developing future leaders. This year long program of seminars and mentored opportunities with veteran presidents strives to intentionally prepare diverse leaders in areas such as cultural change and student success that face college presidents. A third way of framing community college leadership ability has been the Aspen Institute and the Achieving the Dream’s Crisis and Opportunity: Aligning the Community College President with Student Success Framework (2013) initiative. This effort to explicate presidential leadership comes from recipients of the Aspen Prize or those who led Achieving the Dream initiatives (ATD) over several years (Tarker, 2019). The resulting leadership classification has five categories: deep commitment to student success, willingness to take significant risks to advance student success, create lasting change, strategic vision, and ability to raise and allocate resources all associated with student success. Broader than the AACC competencies, the Aspen/ATD framework is less directed in what leadership behaviors should be exhibited and more focused on outcomes of those behaviors and the metrics by which these outcomes are measured as noted in how Aspen Prizes themselves are awarded. In many ways, the leadership tenets underlying the AACC competencies and the Aspen/ATD framework are actually similar to those posited by Roueche et al. (1989) in the late 1980s/early 1990s emanating from their study of exemplar presidents. Even though the wording is a bit different and the mission was broader than “just” student success at that time, the underlying leadership traits are similar. Roueche et al. (1989) called on leaders to be transformational – building something new out of what had been, distinctive or “blue chippers,” change leaders, visionaries, and similar language that paralleled others writing at the time (e.g., Bennis, 1984; Gardner, 1986; Hall & Alfred, 1985). The lists of attributes and competencies may number a bit more or less over time, but they cycle through similar constructs of leadership believed to be most important to effectiveness and have tended still to rest the preponderance of leadership in a single, top administrator like the president. The desired attributes also still link to personal attributes and traits that are often gender related (Acker, 2006, 2010; Epstein, 1988) such as strong and directive, adjectives that are more frequently deemed favorable for male-identified leaders (Amey & Twombly, 1992), and nurturing and collaborative, which are commonly associated with female-identified leaders (Garza Mitchell & Garcia, 2020; Wilson & Cox-Brand, 2012), even while some link to organizational outcomes or outputs, namely, student success metrics. Targeted actions or what it means to enact ideas of change are less clearly articulated even with broad strokes. This lack of clarity on how to enact leadership reflects Tarker’s (2019) criticism of leadership research where he argues that the proliferation of terminology and frameworks often confuses those trying to lead; one could argue it confuses followers too when they frame their expectations for leaders. Terms do not always mean

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the same thing either within or external to the college community, nor do they necessarily mean the same to the leader and those being led. So one is often left with a vocabulary list of labels for leaders without common understanding or meaningful ways of actually leading. Lack of clarity of the leadership competencies in how to enact change that is needed may be attributable to not wanting to have a one-size-fits-all set of strategies or assessment measures that appear too directive (Boggs, 2011). But what then does institutionalizing an idea such as lasting change mean or look like, for example? Collective understanding, shared or distributed leadership, developing capacity among members of the college community, and other concepts move the default of the strong, dominating leader more into the space of the learning leader (Amey, 2005; Aspen Institute, 2017; Eddy, 2009b; Kezar et al., 2006; O’Banion, 1997; Senge, 1990). In what ways these learning leaders continue to evolve and help others do the same are less clear and may not even be part of assessments of leaders and leadership that tend to lean toward financial and enrollment spreadsheets. An example of the challenge of enacting leadership competencies comes from Duree and Ebbers (2012) who found presidents felt adept with a lot of the AACC competencies but not as much with the collaboration competency. The authors attributed this to leaders not understanding the different roles needed to engage collaboratively to resolve problems and how to really empower others to lead including to make decisions, handle conflict, and work effectively with others, all of which are part of the leadership mindsets that need to be experienced and acknowledged prior to getting to the top. This paradox speaks to knowing what to do with the competency, what it means, and how to enact it in a given context. A lack of deeper critical understanding of member capabilities from throughout the college may inhibit senior leaders from opening doors for opportunity, inviting others in formal and informal roles to develop leadership competencies, and encouraging the learning required for others to feel confident leading (Alfred, 2012; Bogue, 2007; Duree & Ebbers, 2012). Establishing a set of leadership competencies that can be applied at any level of the community college has promise; it also comes with limitations in its use apart from individual professional development. As noted, how one measures achieving competencies is still not well documented in research literature or in practice. Similarly, a set of achievement standards by which to hold leaders accountable does not make clear how the output was accomplished, by whom, and at what cost. Contemporary leadership scholars resist the idea that leading causes certain results because change is multifaceted and complex and if assuming something other than a very power-driven, prescriptive, top-down approach to leading, it is nearly impossible to draw causal links to specific outcomes (Dugan, 2017; Northouse, 2010). Rather, scholars advocate that leaders are individuals nested in other groups and systems that drive any change even while performance reviews and hiring committees continue to cleave to achievement measures that are attributable to individuals. In this way, competencies can inadvertently reinforce certain traditionally recognizable ways of thinking about leadership (Amey, 2013; Khwaja et al.,

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2017; Northouse, 2010; Wilson & Cox-Brand, 2012) or those most easily documented such as fundraising or having a set of position titles. When competencies and outputs are used as screening devices by internal search committees or boards of trustees, it is quite possible to believe that nontraditional, nonhierarchical, and emergent competencies do not represent leadership capabilities and promise to address emerging needs and evolving organizations in the ways that job titles once were thought to do (Amey & Eddy, 2018; Wilson & Cox-Brand, 2012). Little evidence has shown, for example, that competencies change the nature of interview questions to ways that illustrate how the competencies result in more inclusive practice, in ways that honor college culture, or that challenge practices which reinforce the status quo. The cognitive aspects of learning in leadership, heralded by O’Banion (1997) and others (Amey, 2005; Argyris & Schön, 1978; Dugan, 2017; Senge, 1990, 1998), suggest that past evidence of success is only the baseline of one’s ability to lead at any level, not the capacity to adapt and think beyond what is known to address the needs on the horizon (Fullan & Scott, 2009). To this end, the inability to effectively incorporate the use of competencies to expand the definitions of leadership practice so that participation and inclusion in leadership also grow still remains elusive (Alfred, 2012; Wilson & Cox-Brand, 2012). The focus on skills in the competencies, as opposed to dispositions and framing capabilities, can help you get a position, perhaps, but does not guarantee functioning effectively in the position (Eddy, 2009a,b, 2010). Competencies and success metrics also do not reflect things that did not go well, which of course is to be expected. To that end, much has been written about the need to share innovations that have gone wrong or mistakes made along the way (Bogue, 2007; Floyd et al., 2010; Phelan, 2016); yet, candidates for positions and those being evaluated often remain distrusting of the processes and less willing to share authentic experience that did not go well – examples which might demonstrate a different leadership capacity related to actual implementation of a given competency. This lack of trust to share authentic leadership challenges and efforts that could be considered failures and mistakes occurs even while scholars and experienced practitioners know that a key leadership talent is the ability to reflect and learn from one’s mistakes and foster an environment where others are willing to do the same (Bogue, 2007; Eddy & Kirby, 2020; Floyd et al., 2010). Creating a climate that encourages risks and a willingness to get involved in important change activities comes, in part, from leaders demonstrating their own vulnerabilities, ability to challenge held assumptions and status quo processes, and to lead needed changes by engaging in the inner work of leadership – self-reflection, humility, checking one’s power wielding, etc. (Bogue, 2007; Floyd et al., 2010) – all of which have to start at the interview or others fall back to expecting the savior leader rather than a servant or collaborative leader (Amey, 2005; Eddy, 2010; Phelan, 2016). Reconstructing the competencies as professional development plans with access to authentic opportunity including better ways of representing actual implementation and understanding of the competency could result in more diverse leadership, but it remains to be seen (McNair & Phelan, 2012).

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The Changing Circumstances of Community Colleges and the Need for Adaptive Leadership In some ways, one could argue that circumstances faced by community college leaders, and perhaps by higher education institutions more broadly, are perennial. Over the last 40 years, concerns about funding, enrollments, degree completion, changing student demographics and learning needs, legislative relations, and public opinion of the value seem to change a bit in how they are articulated but never to really disappear from the minds of those making decisions and leading these institutions (Twombly & Amey, 1991; Nevarez & Wood, 2010; Phelan, 2016; Boggs & McPhail, 2019; Eddy & Kirby, 2020). In the present, these challenges have expanded and become more nuanced at the same time that, in many ways, make past approaches less effective in addressing them and therefore the understanding of leadership apart from traditional definitions even more important. Colleges have matured, which then theoretically requires different approaches to leadership to help them continue moving forward and not find themselves in total decline (Cameron, 1984; Tillery & Deegan, 1985; Vaughan, 1989); as well, the complexity of challenges facing community colleges defy more technical, routine responses to problem solving that were sufficient in the past for leaders at any level (Heifetz, 1994, 2010; Nevarez & Wood, 2010). Examples of circumstances that present both challenge and opportunity in new ways for community college leaders include legislated opportunity to provide baccalaureate degrees in certain fields; changes in the workforce and labor market that require different degrees and preparation; the explosion of certificates and stackable certificates that have changed what an associate’s degree entails and how it is accomplished; the press of the completion agenda as an initiative to meet student needs as well as state and federal degree completion expectations; the increased use of online and virtual platforms for all kinds of learning experiences in a very competitive landscape that includes more for-profit offerings even while communities traditionally served by colleges may not have full Internet accessibility; greater involvement of adjunct and noncontinuous appointment instructors that leaves day-to-day decision making in the hands of a shrinking few; global engagement taking different forms both to accommodate labor market changes and student interests; and an uptick in states that are moving toward funding models tied to degree completion and metrics that do not always closely align with the missions of community colleges (Alfred, 2012; Bailey et al., 2015; Baldwin et al., 2017; Floyd et al., 2010; Nevarez & Wood, 2010; O’Banion, 2019; Phelan, 2016; Reed, 2013). No doubt the list could be expanded and differentiated by state and geographic distinctions, yet regardless of context, present multifaceted demands on the colleges and their leaders (Alfred, 2012; Boggs, 2012; Wallin, 2010). The bottom line is that the changing environmental contexts in which the colleges exist – internal, external, and global – impact how leaders throughout the community college approach their work, how they communicate objectives and measure goals, and how they adapt to the circumstances without abandoning core beliefs about the importance of the college and its multiple missions (Amey, 2017; Wallin, 2010) and the students and communities it serves.

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Because the context for community colleges, and all postsecondary institutions, continues to change, it begs the question of what kind of leadership should exist when past approaches will be less effective in addressing new challenges and forging new opportunities. How do leaders consider aspects of what worked in the past and help shift thinking to consider new alternatives? In what ways does taking these steps of adaptation change the nature of the leadership needed for colleges to remain the important opportunity centers in their communities and beyond? If considering what were deemed necessary leadership competencies and capabilities to address the college demands when the original work of AACC competencies began in 2004 anticipating a retirement tidal wave and need to be able to hire in senior leaders, are the espoused differences noted by authors today just new terminology, as Tarker (2019) suggests without new meaning? Or do the colleges need authentically different ways of thinking about leaders and leadership? As a means of juxtaposing past and present, including ideas that were useful in the past but need to shift for the future, some of Vaughan’s (1989) leadership tenets organize a reconceptualizing and framing of adaptive leadership that follows. Vaughan’s work in the late 1980s and 1990s synthesized years of research and his own college leadership into a set of building blocks that significantly informed the original AACC competencies: Interpreting and Communicating Institutional Mission; Managing the Institution; Creating a Campus Climate; and Serving as Educational Leader. These broad labels account for many different and changing college circumstances facing leaders today and are discussed here both in terms of how the original formations were interpreted and used and how the tenets can be more inclusive and inviting to embrace diverse and adaptive leaders of the future. This reframing exercise results in positing a more adaptive framework for community college leadership moving forward. Interpreting and Communicating Institutional Mission Vaughan (1989) argued for transformational leadership in the late 1980s and 1990s because of its emphasis on VISION [emphasis added] generated and articulated by the president and on radical change led by the president with perhaps some involvement of a presidential senior team. Typically thought of as associated with a single great man who was inspirational, charismatic, and, at times, self-aggrandizing (Bass & Riggio, 2010; Bensimon et al., 1989; Burns, 1978), Vaughan’s thinking was in line with other scholars at the time including Roueche et al. (1989), Jacob (1989), and Kempner (2003) and continued to reflect the beliefs about presidential authority from preceding decades of community college growth and expansion as a postsecondary sector. This orientation toward presidential leadership continued, even while state legislatures, faculty unionization, the slowly increasing involvement of governing boards, and the growth of needed management strategies were curtailing the presidential span of control during the late 1970s and the early 1980s when the new creation of community colleges ebbed and the institutions moved into a more organizationally developed phase (Twombly, 1995; Twombly & Amey, 1991; Twombly & Amey, 1993). In the late 1980s, when community colleges were generally well established and organizationally addressing questions of stability or decline, Vaughan was

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writing his leadership constructs reflecting the status quo of community college presidential leadership. Most were male identified and those thought to be successful were charismatic, dominant commanding figures in their organization (Amey & Twombly, 1992; Twombly, 1995). These presidents did not stylistically lead with an iron fist necessarily, but they were clear about who had the last word and who was in charge. During the late 1980s and throughout the 1990s, in consort with Vaughan’s (1989) writing, community colleges also debated their purpose and roles within the postsecondary landscape. Were they the site for community renewal, a service provider of workforce development closely aligned with the needs of local business and industry, or were they best suited in the junior college role of transferring students to 4-year institutions as their origin story suggested, or some combination of these? (Hall & Alfred, 1985; Roueche et al., 1989; Vaughan, 1983, 1989) Throughout this period and beyond, presidents were called to determine their college’s mission and how to achieve it and to clearly articulate that mission to all constituencies. Navigating the competing demands and pathways for the college required vision, hence Vaughan’s and others’ (Hall & Alfred, 1985; Hammons & Keller, 1990; Roueche et al., 1989) continued focus on this aspect of leadership, even while other managerial and leadership behaviors were also needed. The characterization of who is the leader to interpret and communicate college mission has been challenged in all respects since Vaughan (1989) penned the principle though the focus area of interpreting and communicating mission is still a requisite for college leadership. Even while scholars and practitioners alike since then have agreed that community colleges need more distributed and diverse leadership (e.g., Amey, 2005; Boggs, 2011; Eddy, 2010; Eddy et al., 2015; Townsend, 1995; Twombly, 1995), the characterization of leadership as the singular hero-leader – read: white male – residing at the top of the bureaucratic pyramid still exists tacitly through stereotypic expectations if not explicitly in the minds of governing boards and those within the college constituencies (Townsend & Twombly, 2007; Acker, 2010; Wilson & Cox, 2012; Eddy 2017; Khwaja, 2017; Martin & O’Meara, 2017; Beckley, 2020a, b; Garza Mitchell & Garcia, 2020). This mental model of leadership excludes those who do not fit that image especially early on in one’s position where there is great pressure to conform behaviors to the expectations of others (Eddy & VanDerLinden, 2006; Kezar, 2009; Khwaja, 2017; Tedrow & Rhoads, 1999). It reinforces gendered organizations where women’s ways of leading are undervalued and often rejected (Diehl, 2014; Eddy & Khwaja, 2019; Eddy & VanDerLinden, 2006; Lester, 2008; Townsend, 1995; Townsend, 2008), and virtually ignores the double binds of racism and sexism experienced by women of color (Curry, 2000; Delgado & Allen, 2019; Diehl, 2014; Garcia, 2020; Ideta & Cooper, 1999; Jackson & O’Callaghan, 2009; Valverde, 2003). It also contradicts the need to broaden the base of leadership beyond a single individual (Amey, 2013; Amey & Eddy, 2018; Bensimon & Neumann, 1993; Boggs & McPhail, 2020; O’Banion, 1997) at least to a “tempered hero” (Garza Mitchell & Garcia, 2020) who uses more inclusive teams and leadership approaches while still remaining grounded in historical leadership language and traditions that favor male leaders.

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Certainly, today’s colleges are faced with significant crises and opportunities that go beyond what can be addressed by an individual, so these attempts to increase the leadership circle and be more inclusive from all corners of the college make sense (Beckley, 2020a; Boggs, 2011; Ebbers et al., 2010; Wallin, 2010). To broaden the circle in meaningful ways suggests that members at all levels should understand the mission and direction of the college and how they contribute to its achievement (Morgan, 2006; O’Banion, 2005). They also need to be mobilized and motivated to make contributions, which becomes part of today’s leader’s responsibilities (Heifetz, 2010). To this end, leaders create what Bensimon and Neumann (1993) call real teams as opposed to groups brought together solely to affirm a leader’s viewpoints and direction. Real teams develop a culture of interconnection and collectivity, one that seeks diverse viewpoints and allows for more creative problem solving and adaptive decisions (Amey & Eddy, 2018; Bensimon & Neumann, 1993; Kezar et al., 2006; Knudsen, 1997). While Bensimon and Neumann studied presidential leadership teams, others have seen these tenets of team leadership applied across institutional levels (Knudsen, 1997; Mooney, 1998). This inherently collective approach to leadership that focuses on authentic involvement of multiple members has been alternately labelled relational, shared, multilevel, and weblike (e.g., Hackman, 1990; Helgesen, 1995; Komives et al., 1998). The specifics articulated by authors may vary, but this inclusive approach to leadership enables community colleges to bring the expertise and insights from across the institution to bear on challenges, to think beyond the traditional responses, and to provide an authentic basis for engaging with the future of the institution (Amey et al., 2020; Garza Mitchell & Amey, 2020). Bailey et al. (2015) encourage cross-functional teams that bring together academics and professional staff with different areas of expertise to address complex problems and being sure they have authority to make decisions. They found that doing so not only typically leads to better responses but builds relational trust afforded by seeing issues from another’s perspective and builds a stronger college culture overall. A more team-oriented, networked, authentically collective approach to leadership also represents a significant shift from the singular, top-down, great man imagery of the early eras of community college presidencies (Twombly, 1995; Twombly & Amey, 1991) and is far more in keeping with the preferences of women and leaders of color (Aguirre Jr. & Martinez, 2006; Blessinger & Stefani, 2018; Curry, 2000; Delgado & Allen, 2019; Diehl, 2014; Lester & Sallee, 2017; Stefani, 2018). Managing the Institution One change that may have occurred since the early 1990s is a diminished level of debate about whether community colleges need leading versus managing or at least accepting that leaders at all levels need to understand the mechanics of management in order to be effective. Principles of management such as agenda-setting, coordinating and acquiring resources, and institutionalizing innovation are different functions that someone in the college performs, and perhaps even what leaders do (Northouse, 2010). Nevarez and Wood (2010) draw a distinction between leadership and administration/management, even while believing that both are important to being effective and strategic,

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and moving the institution forward. They posit that administration is involved in the day-to-day of the college and making sure things get done, which is quite in keeping with traditional definitions of management that often became the language of leadership. The authors go on to indicate that, in constantly changing environments such as those in which current community college leaders find themselves today, this may become overwhelming and the sole purpose one sees in their work, which then is not really leading. Scholars have found that in the last century, management tasks were thought about more rationally, as if it was a linear process of action to success with a goal to find logic and systems of decisions that could be applied similarly in all situations (Baber, 2020; Morrill, 2007; Weick, 1995; Wheatley, 1999). This linear thinking often belied strategic thinking that started from an assumption that the context of decisions would necessarily change along the way (Alfred, 2012; Eddy & Amey, 2014; Morrill, 2007). Not anymore! To navigate competing agendas, increased competition for resources including students, and other aspects of the changing institutional context for colleges, leaders must have a different set of skills that goes beyond the day-to-day task-oriented way of working in order to be successful in organizational functioning (Amey, 2017; Eddy, 2013). For example, Alfred (2012) argues that leaders will need evolutionary ideologies such as leveraging resources to be most effective with what exists when how to increase resources is less clear. He sees this kind of thinking helping to construct the realities of tomorrow when the external and internal environments of the colleges are full of dynamic contradictions and organizational structures far more complex. Leadership that depends on highly centralized organizational functioning and classic management principles is likely to be problematic in the current environment that is far more chaotic and evolving than when singular great men were believed to be the ideal leader (Alfred, 2012; Amey, 2013; Boggs, 2011; Diehl, 2014; Morrill, 2007; Phelan, 2016). The turbulence makes clear that alternative approaches to leading are necessary just as it is clear that leadership throughout the college is necessary. More people have to understand the underlying principles of ethics, integrity, values, and organizational contexts in order to move away from reliance on the top-down great man leadership approach toward building shared responsibility and community (Wallin, 2006; Hellmich, 2007; Garza Mitchell, 2012; Smith & Fox, 2019; McPhail & McPhail, 2020), and help the college become more nimble and proactive. This requires leaders to be able to communicate in ways to which others can relate and be able to listen with the intent to understand (Alfred, 2012; Eddy, 2003) so that it is clear how members of the college see connections to processes, procedures, and new initiatives – as well as to hear ideas that may be contrary to what is espoused. Wallin (2006), Hardy (2007), Allmendinger (2018), and Smith and Fox (2019) are among those who argue that ethical leaders take into account the interests and needs of those throughout the college and its constituencies in order to build strong community and adaptability while also providing an example to others throughout the institution of striving for adaptive decisions based on ethical principles rather than only on inflexible staid policies. Eddy (2010) calls this a

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multidimensional leadership approach that brings to the fore individuals’ beliefs, capabilities, and core experiences rather than fitting individuals into established routines that might have been better served by managers and by those who see close connections between outcomes and process. Creating a Campus Climate Another of Vaughan’s (1989) principles that remains relevant today is the role leaders play in creating a campus climate, with climate being the more public manifestations of culture that drive the college, that are more readily assessed, and perhaps easier to change (Schein, 1992). Vaughan (1989), O’Banion (1997) O’Banion (2005), and Phelan (2016) are among those focused on the president as the person who helps others throughout the college see their value and their contributions to the community college mission, especially as related to students and student success. Yet, as community colleges now strive to cultivate organizations that more truly reflect the place of “first opportunity” for all, and places that are inclusive and diverse, climate change has more commonly been framed in terms of culture that invokes the deeply held values and beliefs about an organization as noted by authors throughout this section. This shift reflects the reality that changing outward manifestations of culture – the climate – does not necessarily alter the fundamental beliefs and values of an institution, thereby often causing little change to take hold especially when that change is difficult or met with resistance (Morrill, 2007; Wallin, 2010). Today’s community college leaders need cultural competence, which refers to a deep understanding of the organization’s culture, its values, traditions, customs, norms, and symbols (Rhoads & Tierney, 1992; Amey, 1992, 2005; Kezar et al., 2006; Morrill, 2007; Eddy, 2010; Wallin, 2010; Amey & Eddy, 2018). These cultural leaders recognize that all colleges have distinct organizational cultures and that a principal function of academic leaders requires connecting people, enhancing diversity, and changing values and beliefs in order to engage innovation and change and that leaders have the responsibility to practice effective cultural practices and socialize others to do the same (Eddy, 2010; Hickman, 2010; Kezar et al., 2006; Morrill, 2007; Rhoads & Tierney, 1992). More specifically, really embracing diversity, equity, and inclusion values requires developing intercultural competence, leadership that is authentically cognizant and competent in these values across socioeconomic status, technologies, sociopolitical identities, and global settings (Cooper & Ideta, 1994; Lester, 2008; Lester, 2011; Amey, 2013; Blessinger & Stefani, 2018) in order to respond effectively to faculty, staff, and students as well as various partners external to the college. How one learns about campus culture and subcultures (Phelan, 2016) apart from trial and error and “on-the-job training” is not clear, and even when having come to understand core beliefs, values, norms, and rituals, how to lead through cultural artifacts in symbolic and catalytic ways is even more of a question (Kempner, 2003; Kezar et al., 2006; Morgan, 2006). Typically, persons seem hired based on the assumption that they know how to be an inclusive, cultural leader who will build community, empower others, and respect diverse perspectives and identities especially when coming into positions at more senior levels perhaps because of past

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positions held or something included in a letter of application; yet each location and organizational unit has its own culture that needs to be learned before leaders can be effective in its implementation (Hickman, 2010; McNair & Phelan, 2012; Morgan, 2006). Without effective socialization, onboarding, and continuous cultural cultivation and understanding (Hellmich, 2007; Phelan, 2016), new members including new leaders may be readily co-opted into strident cultures that still tend to be normed and structured as they always were; as a result, they are normed against women and people of color in leadership positions even while they continue to have increasingly diverse student populations (Eddy & Cox, 2008; Lester, 2011). As a result, those who bring new leadership perspectives and identities to the college may not feel as welcomed and may not put themselves forward into formal and informal leadership roles (Amey, 1999; Eddy & Lester, 2008; Diehl, 2014; Phelan, 2016; Eddy, 2017). Being recognized as a credible cultural leader when one is viewed as “other” and breaking the norms and established cultures only complicates acceptance and challenges leader images held by members (Curry, 2000; Diehl, 2014; Garcia, 2020; Garza Mitchell & Garcia, 2020; Jackson & O’Callaghan, 2009). It also becomes a different daily reconciliation of personal and professional identities, finding voice and support, and creating useful power bases that uncover gendered and exclusive structures that maintain a leadership status quo (Amey, 1999; Eddy & Khwaja, 2019; Garcia, 2020; Lester & Lukas, 2008; Lester & Sallee, 2017; Nidiffer, 2001; Townsend, 1995; Townsend, 2008; Twombly, 1993; Vargas, 2013). Far more members of the community college including students, faculty, and staff are searching for environments that value the whole person (Lester & Sallee, 2017; Nevarez & Wood, 2010; Sallee, 2008; Townsend, 2008). Issues such as work-life integration, family-friendly policies, flextime, on-campus childcare, and work from home are all aspects of changing needs felt by those who aspire to leadership positions (Lester & Sallee, 2009, 2017; Townsend & Twombly, 2007; Ward & Wolf-Wendel, 2006; Williams, 2000). In 2020, the Covid-19 and Black Lives Matter pandemics that emerged as national flashpoints have reinforced certain inequities inherent in most postsecondary institutions (Gonzales & Griffin, 2020; Malisch et al., 2020; National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine, 2021), including community colleges, and exacerbated the challenges for women and faculty/administrators of color who might choose to pursue leadership opportunities if not for those who already hold positions of authority. However, the organizational circumstances also result in different forms of burnout (Gonzales & Griffin, 2020; National Academies of Science, Engineering, and Medicine, 2021), costs of emotional labor (Ayers & Gonzales, 2020), disempowerment and marginalization (Aguirre Jr. & Martinez, 2006) that result in being co-opted by adherence to traditional college norms in order to advance or be recognized as a leader (Aguirre Jr. & Martinez, 2006; Amey, 1999), or stepping away from campus leadership altogether. Inclusive cultures that are welcoming of leaders across the gender spectrum and racial and ethnic identities (Garza Mitchell & Garcia, 2020; Lester & Sallee, 2009; Zamani-Gallaher, 2017) would not assume the ideal worker norm (Acker, 2006; Khwaja et al., 2017; Lester & Sallee, 2017), that individuals’ focus is fully on

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career advancement (Beckley, 2020a, b), that conformity is to be expected, or that leadership takes only one form that reinforces but does not challenge organizationally embedded assumptions. Changing the climate and culture of the college is a core leadership responsibility today in order to cultivate diverse leadership across the college (Aguirre Jr. & Martinez, 2006; Amey, 2013; Aspen Institute, 2017; Eddy, 2010; Lester, 2008; McCurtis et al., 2009), to bring the kinds of ideas and innovations needed to the conversation, to support in new ways the multiple academic and professional needs of a widening range of students, and to continue moving institutions forward. It requires honoring the contributions of those throughout the college who bring new perspectives and ways of being into the environment and respects their diversity in the multiple ways it is defined. Leadership for diversity enacted in these ways was not seen or assumed necessary during the great man era or even in the ways in which community college leadership was rhetorically expected to evolve during the last several decades including as an identified AACC leadership competencies (Lester, 2008; McCurtis et al., 2009; McNair & Phelan, 2012). Even more recently, leadership striving for more inclusive cultures often gets reduced to a set of accomplishments reported to constituents rather than a daily process of living out values and practicing diversity leadership (Aguirre Jr. & Martinez, 2006; Blessinger & Stefani, 2018; Stefani, 2018). Instead, moving to the kind of culture change needed for the community colleges to live out their more inclusive aspirations required cultural competence in leaders throughout the college starting with those at the top (Lester, 2008; McNair & Phelan, 2012). Those who study and argue the importance of cultural competence describe it more as a way of being that requires, among other talents, thinking and communicating across cultural boundaries, developing authentic (not transactional) relationships, constructing meaningful experiences, and moving beyond “just” race, ethnicity, and gender as markers of inclusion as important as these basics are to socioeconomic status, social identities, global settings, technologies, and organizational sectors – all of which become important to achieving student learning outcomes and the missions of the college (e.g., Rendon, 1999; Aguirre Jr. & Martinez, 2006; Eddy & Cox, 2008; Lester, 2008; Eddy, 2010; Hickman, 2010; Eddy, 2017; Stefani, 2018). Cultural competence is not one of the AACC competencies, nor is it always a stated responsibility in posted job descriptions even while evidence of diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives may be expected (Garza Mitchell & Garcia, 2020; Harvey-Smith, 2005; Rendon, 1999). In fact, Duree (2007) found that cultural competence was an area that presidents in his study felt lacking in their own selfassessments. The idea that any single individual, including a senior leader, would in fact have achieved proficiency in all respects of cultural competence is more lifelong learning than a point of arrival. Again, this suggests the need for cultivating cultural competence in members of the college writ large so that this kind of grounding philosophy is imbued in all members of the institution, similar to the spirit of the learning organization (Aguirre Jr. & Martinez, 2006; Amey, 2005; Harvey-Smith, 2005; Kezar, 2005; O’Banion, 2005; Stefani, 2018).

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Educational Leader Vaughan’s (1989) final leadership characteristic discussed here was that community college leaders should be educational leaders not only because they are responsible for educational institutions but because they need to instill in themselves and others the values of education, the ways in which helping constituents reach their educational goals in whatever form they take is central to community college missions, and that to lead, one needs to personally value continuous learning. Even more clearly than when he wrote it, Vaughan’s educational leader role remains significant today but has also greatly expanded. Today, this leader capability means helping students achieve their educational goals and meet with levels of academic success such as the selection criteria for the Aspen Prize (Aspen Institute, 2017; Wyner, 2014). Being an educational leader also means instilling the value of lifelong learning for all faculty, staff, and students in part by modeling this for themselves (Harvey-Smith, 2005; Phelan, 2005; Preskill & Brookfield, 2009). As leaders in educational institutions, something about this seems obvious, and yet the human inclination to find solutions and stick with them, to play it safe and be almost risk averse, and to not feel confident or comfortable with tensions associated with classic learning processes often outweigh the worth of reflection, renewal, and assuming a learning orientation toward work and leadership (Bartlett, 1990; Senge, 1990; O’Banion, 1997; Vaill, 1997; Schein, 2003; Amey, 2005; St. Clair, 2020). O’Banion revisits this idea of the educational leader as learning leader when, in 2005, he posited that creating and nurturing a culture that is open and responsive to change and learning is necessary to what is required to transform colleges to really support the learning paradigm (p. xxii). While O’Banion’s (2005, 1997) focus was always on student learning, he premised the learning paradigm could only be accomplished with an emphasis on everyone’s involvement in achieving that goal, which necessitated adopting the principles of the learning organization where learning occurs throughout the institution (Senge, 1990; Senge, 1998; St. Clair, 2020). This requires fostering cultures that embrace certain tenets including assessing to what extent information is shared, awareness and responsiveness to diversity, how community members are treated, the ways in which hiring and promotion of members is conducted, and the extent to which leadership is willing to hear diverse perspectives (Harvey-Smith, 2005; Lewis, 2020; Ramaley & Holland, 2005). To reinforce a learning paradigm, information flow and discussion needs to be flexible and engaging for members, grounded in understanding and authenticity, and not just top-down communiques. It involves framing problems and data in ways that can be translated for others and regularly interrogated and helping others learn to do the same (Amey, 2005; Eddy, 2003; Gillett-Karam, 2017; Heifetz & Linsky, 2002; Lewis, 2020; Ramaley & Holland, 2005). It draws others into the thought processes; encourages critical reflection on the status quo and questioning embedded assumptions about all aspects of the college, its missions, and who it serves; and gives freedom to experiment, fail, and learn from the experiences while feeding lessons learned back into the organization in regular feedback loops (Kezar, 2005; Kezar et al., 2006; Lewis, 2020; Ramaley & Holland, 2005; Schein, 1992; Schein, 2003).

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For the educational leader, relationships are cornerstones of effective leadership because of the ways in which they allow for the flow of ideas, respect, care, and trust to be cultivated at all levels, and diversity is a valued strength not just a rhetorical stance (Eddy & Amey, 2014; Lewis, 2020). College capacity is built and strategic thinking encouraged when taking a learning organization approach (Hickman, 2010; Kezar, 2005; Morrill, 2007; Ramaley & Holland, 2005; Senge, 1998; Tarker, 2019). Innovation and risk taking are rewarded and not discouraged, while learning comes from both the positive and negative outcomes of such initiatives (Kezar, 2005; McNair & Phelan, 2012; St. Clair, 2020) and needs to be modeled by leaders throughout the college. To shift from daily tasks and problems to a more systems, adaptive, and futureoriented focus, Nevarez and Wood (2010) and others (e.g., Heifetz, 1994; Garza Mitchell, 2012; McNair & Phelan, 2012; Scott, 2010; Lewis, 2020) suggest that leaders need to be reflective practitioners, questioning embedded assumptions and traditional practices and their roles in perpetuating the status quo, or as Argyris and Schön (1978) earlier noted, leaders need to consider not just why the college is doing things but should those things be continued. Throughout the college, taking these steps also requires different feedback and assessment strategies where leaders and learners throughout can offer input to decision making and the impacts of those decisions, where opportunities to engage are regularly present, and where feedback loops are ongoing. Doing so allows for the kinds of second-order changes Argyris and Schön (1978), Kezar (2005), Hickman (2010), and Senge (1998) argue help institutions deeply question the “why” of traditional actions that may no longer apply in new settings, strive to break institutional inertia, and traditional structures and policies that adhering to past practices often yields. Without this kind of organizational questioning that learning leaders afford, colleges continue on the same path without attending to environmental changes and those within the college continue to apply the same problem solving strategies that worked in the past but are no longer useful; the root problems of the college and the areas in need of systemic change are not identified or addressed (Amey, 2005; Bensimon, 2005). The educational leader who cultivates a learning paradigm is positioned differently via the feedback provided through continuous learning to address apathy, cynicism, and fear of change that are reinforced by the status quo and helps the college community move away from reliance on single great men to lead because all members are empowered to be cognitively active in the future of the organization (Boggs & McPhail, 2020; Bolden, 2011; Lewis, 2020) and to see themselves as learning facilitators (O’Banion, 2005). This leader understands that context matters and therefore that leadership approaches need to be regularly revisited for their relevance to the situation and issue at hand (Kezar et al., 2006) rather than believing one approach is “right” or “the best.” Bensimon (2005) argues that the cognitive orientation of learning leaders allows them to use an equity frame to address inequitable processes that still confront community colleges in embracing their espoused mission of opening access to students, faculty, staff, and diverse leaders. Overall, using a learning orientation to lead is a way to think about the leadership needed to move community colleges forward in part because research correlates it to

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organizational effectiveness, change, and innovation that support the forwardreaching community college (Amey, 2005; Bensimon, 2005; Kezar, 2005; Kezar et al., 2006; Myran, 2009). Again, while terminology differs, the intent is very similar. Transformational leadership per Tarker (2019) ties closely to organizational transformation, just as leadership as learning aligns with organizational learning (Amey, 2005), reinforcing the idea that community college leaders must also be educational leaders in order to help their institutions continue into the future. Tarker’s (2019) underlying argument for transformational leadership really seems to be that change – the ability to facilitate and generate positive outcomes as a result – is a key leadership competency rather than a reliance on early iterations of the term tied to certain personality traits. If change is perceived to be a longer-term (or ongoing) process as Eddy (2010) and Phelan (2016) both suggested, then this perception shapes a very different way of thinking about organizational evolution. You do not arrive, you constantly become; you do not achieve a competency or skill but are continually honing and adapting it for the changing circumstances ahead. Leaders are lifelong learners which is a way of being that is not restricted to race, gender, sexual orientation, or a certain set of traits and personalities (Amey, 2005; Preskill & Brookfield, 2009; Scott, 2010; Eddy, 2017). Tarker’s (2019) advocacy for transformational leadership, however, does not eliminate the tension of who is interpreting the ways in which leadership is defined, how outcomes of leadership are evaluated, and whether a person’s behaviors and characteristics are seen as leadership. How effectiveness is measured, especially at a community college, should not be defined only by presidents, boards of trustees, or metrics determined by state legislators and accrediting agencies, especially when associated with student success without clear definition of what success means to students. Similarly, building learning capacity of college members is rarely a factor in leadership evaluation, and yet, if community college leaders are education leaders, somehow changing the culture in this way should also be a factor in effectiveness (Amey, 2005). Framing leaders as educators means evaluating leadership primarily by the processes of change rather than the more limiting approach of evaluating outputs that, by definition, only measure points in time. If ways of thinking about leadership are reoriented toward those that produce innovation, learning, and change within the college culture, then leadership has the potential to help colleges continue to do what is important to improve student success and increase diversity, equity, and inclusion and other aspirant goals by engaging everyone in these processes (Aguirre Jr. & Martinez, 2006; Amey, 2005; Lewis, 2020; Myran, 2009; Tarker, 2019; Wallin, 2010). In this way, Tarker’s conceptions of transformational leadership circle back to O’Banion’s learning organization (O’Banion, 1997; O’Banion, 2005) and reflect the need to be more of the change leader (Wallin, 2010) and organizational architect that Nevarez and Wood (2010) describe. If change is an organizational constant, at least to some degree, and causes disruption and feelings of loss, then being ultrarational and objective is not overly helpful to leaders or their constituents. Leaders have to assess the readiness of the college and its members for change (Amey & Brown, 2004;

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Harvey-Smith, 2005; Heifetz & Linsky, 2002; Hickman, 2010), especially that which is perceived to be greater than the incremental and less evident alterations that may be in keeping with traditional practice, e.g., shifting all instruction to online during a pandemic versus the day of the start of classes being affected by federal holidays each year. Fulton-Calkins and Milling (2006) suggested a series of questions that really focus on this point that they reason leaders should be asking themselves in order to be ready in the moment and for the future. They first suggest leaders learn from the past while embracing the future. While organizations have a tendency either to live in past successes or to throw out all that has gone well when new opportunities or leaders come into view, a more useful approach would be to take organizational and leadership lessons learned into the future (Senge, 1998; Kezar, 2005) while remembering that, from an institutional perspective, if the college is not growing and moving forward, it is declining (Tillery & Deegan, 1985); essentially, it is not learning. Tweaking, reframing, bolstering, or other such tactics may be needed to bring the past success into future contexts in useful ways. Under the premise of ongoing and evolutionary change, leadership becomes very symbolic, positioning new ideas and directions with the fabric of what is known, helping to modulate the tension (Heifetz, 1994), or creating a sense of urgency (Alfred, 2012; Kotter, 2014) among constituents that allows for reconsideration of past practice and understanding that readiness needs to be cultivated and not just thrust upon the organization. Leaders have to help others process the intended change (Mawhinney & Harvey-Smith, 2005), much as faculty help students take in new information and think through how the new idea, direction, or process connects and challenges what was known (Ramaley & Holland, 2005). That said, leaders also have to sense when it is time to help constituents move through the neutral zone (Bridges & Mitchell Bridges, 2000) where there is resistance to change and a holding pattern of their identities and beliefs about the college and its missions in order not to stagnate or decline as institutions or as individuals (Amey & Brown, 2004; Heifetz, 1994; Heifetz & Linsky, 2002). Many of the circumstances confronting colleges today could be forms of disruptive change that Phelan (2016) describes. Even a focus on student success at what is stereotypically considered the most student-centric postsecondary sector can require an overhaul of culture and orientation, or at least a substantial revisiting, in order to position itself for what is coming ahead (Bensimon, 2005).

Adaptive Leadership: What’s Not in the Playbook Nevarez and Wood (2010) contend that the issues facing community college leaders are dynamic, so leadership needs to be too. Similarly, Eddy and Kirby (2020) call for courageous leadership that is framebreaking of past mindsets, that is willing to identify and join with like-minded others to bring the college into its future even while recognizing that leading in this way takes more effort, and often more time, than traditional top-down decision making. Courageous leadership requires creating

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a new culture that helps others walk together into the unknown of the future (Rowland, 2017). It means developing a sense of collective responsibility for the future even while it is still unfolding, focusing on the “how” of change not just the goals of it so that members can co-create with each other and feel empowered to lead in their own areas (Rowland, 2017). Keeping in mind these tenets, it is useful to follow Fulton-Calkins and Milling’s (2006) advice to first observe what has come before in terms of constructs of leadership and then, through reflecting as Nevarez and Wood (2010) suggest, to advance leadership principles that facilitate adapting to the present and future circumstances, and that open the possibilities of new and different leaders emerging from across the college rather than positioned only at senior levels. Often in the past, technical responses to problems, in other words, those that have worked previously and do not require rethinking what is being done and why, may have been sufficient leadership tools (Heifetz, 1994, 2010). On the other hand, the complex problems and oft changing circumstances of community colleges today require more adaptive thinking by leaders throughout the organization reflecting on past practice, learning from it, and interrogating the actions and decisions of the college (Heifetz, 1994, 2010; Heifetz & Linsky, 2002; Amey, 2005; Kezar, 2005; Boggs, 2011; Scott, 2010; Boggs & McPhail, 2020). Adaptive leadership requires risk taking, distinguishing what is of greatest value and what can be let go, and shifting responsibility to include those beyond “the” singular leader so that those who may be closest to the work have input and the ability to identify different strategies to address issues (Heifetz, 1994, 2010). Thinking about adaptive leadership has at least two important parts to it. The first is about the new and different leaders needed to collaborate in moving colleges forward. This is not a new concept; as stated, it has taken decades to become more common even if insufficient to not question quite so overtly who can lead and what leadership looks like in practice. For example, throughout the 1980s, the emphasis on the ground and in leadership research was on helping women achieve the skills needed to lead which were largely determined by existing leaders, who were men (Gillett-Karam, 2017; Twombly, 1995). This was a form of compensation for shortcomings as reasons why women were not advancing in leadership and compensatory research that hoped to encourage women’s adoption of male norms by reinforcing census-taking and profiling success stories of those who had adapted rather than those who had changed any rules of the game (Townsend, 2008; Twombly, 1995). As a result, leadership development was often seen as a kind of remedial exercise, to bring women up to meet leadership expectations shaped by men who were in positions of authority rather than reimagining what leadership could look like when enacted by those who might have been different in some way or who were located elsewhere in the organization than in the presidency (Amey, 1999; Gillett-Karam, 2017; Twombly, 1995). Leadership was baked into images of tough, dominating men who were decisive decision makers and who took charge of difficult situations (Twombly & Amey, 1991, 1993). Women who acted in this way were deemed aggressive, arrogant, and independent and, if they took an inclusive and more consultative approach, were seen as pushovers and less competent to be in

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charge or able to successfully handle board members and legislators (AAUW, 2016; Baber, 2020; Beckley, 2020a, 2020b). Leadership was and continues to be largely defined as power, position, and hierarchy. Even as recently as 2020, Garza Mitchell and Garcia found that the language used to define leadership is not shifting very quickly in spite of numerous calls to do so (AAUW, 2016; Eddy & Khwaja, 2019; Eddy & VanDerLinden, 2006; Tedrow & Rhoads, 1999; Twombly, 1995; Wilson & Cox, 2012). They examined position postings to find that those advertising for senior leaders continued still to look for the sole leader, commander, and visionary. As one example of the common theme in position postings reminiscent of postings over the last several decades, Garza Mitchell and Garcia (2020) found that prospective candidates needed to provide strong leadership, effective decision making, experience with increased enrollment and retention, and financial acumen and fundraising prowess and to be a skilled strategist able to envision, propose, and implement change. At the same time, Garza Mitchell and Garcia (2020) found that some presidential postings acknowledged contributions of others throughout the institution with phrases such as “engagement with the entire community” and “fostering positive interpersonal relationships.” They also found reference to team building becoming more important, along with inferences to leaders being inclusive, creative, building trust, and collaborative. These stated characteristics could be signals of moving away from singular leaders and domineering personal characteristics, even while how these identified position requirements resulted in different actual hiring decisions is not known as it was not a focus of the study. Interestingly, Garza Mitchell and Garcia (2020) did not find calls for flexible leadership indicated in presidential postings until within the last 5 years, potentially another signal that adaptive leadership is being recognized as a key to institutional effectiveness. In addition to changing who is seen as a leader, a second aspect to “what’s next” is the nature of leadership itself. What is clear is that as community colleges continue to evolve organizationally and the contexts in which they exist continue to change, leadership too needs to be adaptive and flexible to meet the demands leaders face at all levels. What is necessary to address the leadership needs throughout contemporary and future-oriented community colleges is different than what has been sufficient in the past. What is necessary is adaptive leadership and those who continue to learn leadership. The shift to adaptive leadership requires understanding that this is more of an intellectual and cognitive form of leadership than the skills-based frames that were once adequate to cover what colleges assumed was needed to lead them forward (Heifetz, 1994, 2010; Amey, 2005; Kezar et al., 2006; Hickman, 2010; Scott, 2010). Adaptive leaders anticipate the issues and pull together knowledge expertise that may or may not be associated strictly with traditional definitions of competence that have typically been tied to positions in the hierarchy (Heifetz, 1994; Rowland, 2017). Johnson and Jones (2018) refer to this as anticipatory leadership where leaders must regularly reimagine who and how they lead and how their colleges operate in order to continually adapt to changing circumstances. This approach to leadership combines “strategic thinking (through strategic foresight), strategic

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alignment (while strategically leading), and strategic action (through strategic management)” (Doublestein et al., 2015, p. 111). This level of strategic thinking, alignment, and action has to engage members throughout the college, which means making sure that the institution has a readiness for change (Alfred, 2012; Heifetz, 2010; Phelan, 2016), that those in the ready are able to work with others to understand and support emergent goals, and that they feel prepared to own and see their roles in making decisions and enacting them (Kecskemethy, 2012). Doing this requires knowing more about members within the college than titles imply and seeing a different set of talents and knowledge available to address the issues at hand. Regardless of institutional size, it is important to intentionally see potential leadership in those who may have been less visible for different reasons, including that they are not yet in particular positions in the hierarchy or demonstrating traditional leader behaviors (Alfred, 2012; Beckley, 2020b; Garcia, 2020). Adaptive leaders understand the relational aspects of leading that include building coalitions, knowing that change creates anxiety as well as excitement and innovation, and that holding the tensions of change and ambiguity is necessary while helping others let go of past beliefs that keep the college from moving into a new reality (Alfred, 2012; Heifetz & Linsky, 2002; Hickman, 2010; Phelan, 2016; Rowland, 2017). Lewin (1947) called this freezing, unfreezing, and refreezing, while others would refer to this process as changing one’s mental models (Weick, 1995), or unlearning and relearning. Because decisions and policies are not as causally linked to outcomes as authoritarian administrators might believe (Morgan, 2006), adaptive leaders need to develop capabilities of sense making and boundary spanning (Weick, 1995; Eddy, 2003; Scott, 2010) in themselves and then in community members to accommodate the ongoing modification, experimentation, change, and innovation that will be required rather than staid technical and routine responses (Heifetz & Linsky, 2002; Smith & Fox, 2019). Leadership becomes a multilevel, multidimensional, multiframed capability without preordained or a priori known responses (Eddy, 2010; Heifetz & Linsky, 2002; Kezar et al., 2006). The answers are not in any leader playbook! This type of leadership is not the same as directing change from on high and gathering only those who agree to join along. Information and perspectives cannot be kept too closely held but rather leading in this way requires empowering others to become better educated and having a grounded sense in the issues and direction the college needs to go, and why. Adaptive leadership brings together diverse opinions including those who directly oppose any perceived change as well as allies and proponents of new ideas, thereby engaging multiple perspectives that tend to yield beneficial outcomes, engaged participants instead of “yes people” and passive followers (Amey & Brown, 2004; Heifetz, 1994, 2010). Diverse perspectives often lead to more controversial conversations that have to be facilitated, not shut down, and that require new capabilities to think differently by all (Rowland, 2017). As members take in other perspectives, they are confronted with needing to rethink their own assumptions – about the college, its successes, their own work, processes that are new and unfamiliar, etc. – all of which may be disquieting and disruptive.

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There may also be a sense of loss as routines are disrupted, practices and interactions changed, and members have to reorient ways of being that have been ingrained (Heifetz, 1994, 2010), often leading to significant resistance. And this precedes any output of a change process, yet leaders need to help others find the time and mental space to process while helping continue to nudge (and sometimes push) ideas forward through transitions to a new reality (Heifetz & Linsky, 2002; Amey & Brown, 2004; Heifetz, 2010; Scott, 2010; Rowland, 2017). Whether felt as a crucible experience, a container, a holding place for tensions and confusion, or a neutral zone (Bridges & Mitchell Bridges, 2000; Heifetz, 2010) that offers time to process and reevaluate, these points of disruption to thought and challenge to past practice and understandings require leader assistance to move through. Leadership needed in these moments requires recognizing and helping others understand that change is at least somewhat constant, that the ability to serve a continually evolving student population and community needs to respect and respond to those changes, and therefore that different metrics of success may be needed for colleges as well as for leaders even when continuing to advocate for a mission of student success that never has had a linear measure of achievement (Amey, 2013; Amey & Brown, 2004; Eddy, 2010; Heifetz & Linsky, 2002; Rowland, 2017; Wallin, 2010). Adaptive leadership shifts the work of change to a felt responsibility of members throughout the college (Heifetz, 1994, 2010; Heifetz & Linsky, 2002), which then allows everyone to be part of deciding what is worth keeping about the college, its processes, values, and approaches to educating students while also deciding how to move forward collectively. Especially when resources are constrained but demands are increasing, engaging members in this way is critical so that each sees a role to play in helping the college move forward rather than waiting for or relying on the “right leader” to have the answers, solve the problems of the college, and set its next course (Bolden et al., 2008; Heifetz, 2010; O’Banion, 1997; Senge, 1998; Wallin, 2010). Adaptive and anticipatory leadership cultivated throughout the college helps reduce the need for reactionary responses to things that are happening in its environments (Johnson & Jones, 2018). Constantly required to react quickly and without laying solid foundations upon which to build future decisions is often very costly in resources, especially human capital. Being reactive persistently tends to erode member confidence in leadership as well as in one’s own abilities, results in only limited rewards for the expended costs, and wears down creativity and energy for all (Morgan, 2006). In a top-down leadership model where the senior authority makes all the decisions, this may be seen as less of a threat because the organizational “thinking” is vested at the top, though the need to constantly react to changing direction without understanding still has an eroding effect. As a result of the top-down leadership model, eroding member confidence and willingness to engage makes shifting to leadership that spans the levels and roles of the college impossible. Adaptive leaders model ways of handling disturbances, approaching and not avoiding difficult circumstances and conversations, and have ability to experiment and learn, including from their mistakes (Rowland, 2017). Without leading in this

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way and encouraging others to adopt these mental models (Weick, 1995), the college regresses to old, safe ways of being and decision making and cannot authentically strive toward its goals, face its future challenges, and see its potential opportunities.

Leadership Development for the Future Preparing for the kind of leadership needed for community colleges now and into the future means not waiting for the next leader to arrive at the senior level but bringing leadership development “down into” the college so that there is a paradigm shift across the college about what is leadership and who is a leader. To this end, there has been more writing recently on midlevel leaders as key players in the college’s ability to achieve its goals (Amey et al., 2020; Amey & Eddy, 2018; Baber, 2020; Garza Mitchell & Eddy, 2008). Definitions of midlevel can be very broad depending on the size of the college and include multiple titles such as department chairs, directors, associate/assistant deans, sometimes senior faculty who may be leading curricular initiatives, etc. Importantly, people at this level are key to the success of senior leaders even while they are not always heralded as important players when people talk about leadership (Amey et al., 2020; Amey & Eddy, 2018; Beckley, 2020b; Ebbers et al., 2010; McNair & Perry, 2020) – what Baber (2020) calls living in paradox. The purpose of focusing within the college including at midlevel is not just to promote people into higher level positions, although of course this is a valuable outcome. Rather, research focusing on midlevel, while not all-encompassing to the entire college structure, suggests that leadership really is occurring at different levels upon which a college can call for the kind of anticipatory, strategic thinking needed to help move the institution forward (Beckley, 2020a; Beckley, 2020b; McNair & Perry, 2020). Midlevel leaders also are those who can empower others around them to play substantive roles and develop their own leadership identities, including leading committees, engaging in change initiatives, and assuming their responsibility for the college’s future (Amey et al., 2020; Beckley, 2020a). Those in senior positions need to look broadly for talent and recognize that they are surrounded by others who are also leading (Beckley, 2020b; Fulton-Calkins & Milling, 2006), and focusing on midlevel is instrumental to longer-term success (McPhail & McPhail, 2020). Therefore, it is important to support and develop leaders in the middle since they are the implementers, partners, connectors, and translators of messages from the top and the bottom of the structure (Amey et al., 2020; Amey & Eddy, 2018; Baber, 2020; Beckley, 2020a; Garza Mitchell & Eddy, 2008). In addition, recognizing and holding up the work of leaders throughout the college is important to cultivating the sense of responsibility and ownership of the college’s future while also helping them see the value of leading in place (Beckley, 2020b), that new paths to the presidency and senior positions are needed, and that professional development has to occur throughout the college in order to actually build sufficient leadership capacity to address the volatile environments in which the college operates from multiple vantage points (Vargas, 2013).

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Taking this approach must be more intentional than coincidental as may have been true in the past when leadership development programs were haphazard, temporary, disconnected, and reserved for a select few or cost prohibitive for most (VanDerLinden, 2004; Wallin, 2006; Watts & Hammons, 2002). Without intentionally seeing the potential in those who have not been well represented in leadership positions and broadening participation in opportunities to learn and engage, women, people of color, those across the gender spectrum, and others historically underrepresented remain on the sidelines without mentors, sponsors, networks, and coaches (Garcia, 2020; Jackson & O’Callaghan, 2009; Khwaja et al., 2017; Stefani, 2018; VanDerLinden, 2004; Vargas, 2013). Opening doors, serving as mentors, being inclusive of opportunities, making connections with members throughout the college, and learning what they bring to building a new leadership table are all critical leadership abilities that mirror the foundations of connective and participatory leadership (Amey, 2013; Curry, 2000; Diehl, 2014; Eddy, 2009a; Eddy & Khwaja, 2019; Jackson & O’Callaghan, 2009; McCurtis et al., 2009; Valverde, 2003; VanDerLinden, 2004; Vargas, 2013). Doing so means leadership development for all members has to be more closely connected to succession planning and capacity building for formal and informal leadership positions along with a willingness to support participation in opportunities and programs on and off campus (Boggs, 2011; McCurtis et al., 2009) so that members see their own growth and the results of having invested in the college’s future (Piland & Wolf, 2003). This may have been part of the hope for AACC’s Leading Forward Initiative (Ottenritter, 2012), which rested in part on believing in lifelong learning so that even with competencies identified, what they mean and how they are exercised would change over time as one matured and advanced in experiences even if not in a particular positional hierarchy. The extent to which leadership competencies in any form are embedded in graduate school or even in professional development opportunities varies a lot (McNair, 2009). Grow-your-own programs such as those described in the Leading Forward Project can be tailored for the needs of the college and made available to members across levels, as could mentoring/fellowship programs (Amey, 2006; McDade, 2005; McNair, 2009; Ottenritter, 2012). But there remains a heavy reliance for on-the-job training (McNair, 2009; Phelan, 2016) which could reduce some of the cognitive, critical thinking aspects if one is not intentionally in dialogue about processes and what is happening in those experiences. Without these critical interrogations, leadership development opportunities end up assuming a more positivist perspective where leadership is known and objective rather than being grounded in more interpretivist perspectives that value a variety of college voices and viewpoints and where diversity across constituents is a foundational tenet (Eddy, 2010). Without intentionally making leadership development opportunities more accessible, diverse individuals may not be regularly included, may be undervalued for their nontraditional ways of being, and kept on the fringes of leadership opportunities (Boggs, 2011; Garcia, 2020; McCurtis et al., 2009; VanDerLinden, 2004; Vargas, 2013). This means specifically nominating those who have been historically minimally if not excluded from participation, providing shadowing experiences to learn

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more about processes and decision making, mentoring or helping to find mentors who can guide and encourage agency and self-efficacy for leading in place and pursuing more senior positions, ensuring that local opportunities to lead initiatives and important committees and task forces are made available, and proactively learning about the aspirations, talents, and professional goals of those within the college already (Beckley, 2020a, b; Curry, 2000; Delgado & Allen, 2019; Diehl, 2014; Eddy, 2009a, 2009b; McCurtis et al., 2009; McDade, 2005; Phelan, 2005; Valverde, 2003). These are not new suggestions, nor do they necessarily have costs associated with them. What is different if one aspires to change the face of community college leadership in the future is who is being afforded these opportunities to lead and to grow the competencies needed to be successful regardless of position. If new leadership is needed beyond the competencies, then new opportunities for leadership development and leader learning are also needed as is broader inclusion of diverse participants and acceptance and welcoming of new ways of leading.

Conclusion Antiquated practices and assumptions about community college leaders, who can lead, the complexity of problems leaders will face in the coming years, and the strategies needed to address them need to be significantly rethought. Innovation, risk taking as opposed to primarily risk management, seeking new potentials, and mediating internal tensions represent just some of the needs for those who aspire to community college leadership aspirants (Amey, 2013; Phelan, 2016; Wallin, 2010). It is also developing strategic and systems thinking, cultural adaptation, and adaptive leadership that cultivates second-order changes in the colleges, how they function, and how they measure their success that are needed to help community colleges excel in the future (Alfred, 2012; Amey, 2010; Boggs, 2012; Heifetz, 1994; Heifetz & Linsky, 2002; Kezar, 2005; Wallin, 2010). A set of competencies per se may suggest that you do this and you get that, and may present a tidy menu of leadership skills to demonstrate and to assess. But leadership is more a mosaic of practices and opportunities (Eddy, 2010), so it is always a question of when, where, and how individuals develop their leadership capacities and the extent to which others will see these capacities as leadership. Community college leaders need to return to the innovative, groundbreaking, forward thinking strategies of those who led the colleges during the community college movement of the early 1960s without returning to a top-down, great man leadership model in order to proactively shape the circumstances in which they will exist. The colleges will need new organizational structures and processes to continue successfully moving forward so leaders need to be good environmental scanners, adaptive, and ready to embrace the opportunities that are just around the corner (Phelan, 2016); they need to be shaping the future as much as they are shaped by it. While Boggs (2012) said leaders need a leadership philosophy and style that is relevant to the needs of the college and its challenges, it may be as advantageous to change the organizational culture to respect and develop leadership in place

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throughout the college in order to build the capacity required to address the disruptive environments in which it exists (Beckley, 2020a). Doing so, however, takes time and effort even while it builds greater capacity for change and innovation than the traditional leadership approaches of the past. The leadership future is laid out in front of community colleges with ongoing research to support the potential of new leaders and new forms of leadership. The question remains: will the colleges see the value in more fully embracing these new leaders or continue to hope that old ways will be sufficient for what lies ahead?

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Marilyn J. Amey is professor of Higher Education at Michigan State University. Her primary research areas are leadership, administration, organizational change and faculty issues, with particular focus on educational partnerships and interdisciplinary collaboration, cultivation of new postsecondary leaders, and community colleges. Amey is Past-President of the Council for the Study of Community Colleges and its 2005 Senior Scholar recipient and has received several honors for her graduate teaching. Amey is editor of the Community College Review, co-author of Creating strategic partnerships: A guide for educational institutions and their partners, and Breaking out of the box: Interdisciplinary collaboration and faculty work.

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A Model of Misconduct, Accusations, and Institution Response at US Colleges and Universities Synthesis of the Literature and an Agenda for Future Research Rodney Hughes, Amanda Rose, J. Sarah Lozano, Steve Garguilo, and David Knight Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Purpose and Scope of the Chapter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Guiding Perspectives on Wrongdoing Within Organizations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Individual Perspectives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Organizational Perspectives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Proposed Conceptual Model of Wrongdoing, Allegations, and Institution Response Within Colleges and Universities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stage 0: Organization Context and Institution Characteristics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stage 1: Alleged Wrongdoing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stage 2: Emergence of Information . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stage 3: Public Attention . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stage 4: Institution Response . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stage 5: Resolution and Ultimate Outcomes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Empirical Approaches to Understanding the Incidence and Effects of Wrongdoing Within Organizations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Key Dependent Variables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Key Independent Variables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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R. Hughes (*) Center for the Future of Land-Grant Education, West Virginia University, Morgantown, WV, USA e-mail: [email protected] A. Rose Polk State College, Winter Haven, FL, USA J. S. Lozano Baltimore, MD, USA S. Garguilo Cultivate All, LLC, State College, PA, USA D. Knight Department of Engineering Education, Virginia Tech, Blacksburg, VA, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 37, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3_1

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Synthesis of Existing Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Application to Specific Case Examples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Allegations of Child Sexual Abuse Against Jerry Sandusky at Penn State University . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Allegations of Sexual Abuse Against Larry Nassar at Michigan State University . . . . . . . . . Rolling Stone’s “A Rape on Campus” at the University of Virginia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recommendations for Practice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recommendation #1: Institutions Should Facilitate Reporting and Oversight (Stage 0) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recommendation #2: Institution Leaders Should Self-Disclose Credible Allegations of Wrongdoing (Stage 2) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recommendation #3: Institutions, Affected Parties, and Advocates Should Understand How to Manage Media and Public Attention on Alleged Wrongdoing (Stage 3) . . . . . . . . . Recommendation #4: Institution Leaders Should Prepare to Navigate Tensions Between Due Process and Public Pressure for a Response (Stage 4) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recommendation #5: Institutions and Stakeholders Should Exercise Care and Respect for Affected Parties (Throughout) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Agenda for Future Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Effects of Wrongdoing and Attention on a Broad Set of Outcomes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Effects of Wrongdoing on Outcomes Conditional on Characteristics of Wrongdoing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Effects of Wrongdoing on Outcomes Conditional on Channel of Emergence of Information About Wrongdoing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Effects of Wrongdoing on Institution Response Conditional on Characteristics of Wrongdoing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Effects of Wrongdoing on Outcomes Conditional on Institution Response to Wrongdoing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Quantitative Research Designs and Data Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Qualitative Research Designs and Data Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

Colleges and universities face negative consequences from misconduct, including harm to stakeholders, loss of public trust, and legal sanctions, but several dimensions of these experiences remain unclear. The present chapter aims to add to what is known about these experiences with a review of literature from multiple academic disciplines and the introduction of a conceptual model. The proposed model includes the characteristics of the alleged act of misconduct itself, the processes through which the misconduct reaches public awareness or remains hidden, the generation of public attention to the misconduct, an institution’s response to misconduct and public attention, and ultimate outcomes for all parties involved, and all of these are shaped by the context and organizational culture of the institution or institutions where misconduct occurs. The model encompasses contextual factors that may influence the likelihood that misconduct occurs and factors that influence how institutions might respond. Case illustrations from Penn State University, Michigan State University, and the University of Virginia illustrate the central features of the model, and the chapter concludes with recommendations for practice informed by the cases and an agenda for future research to illustrate the characteristics and effects of wrongdoing in higher education.

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Keywords

Misconduct · Ethical failure · Scandal · Justice · Organizational culture · Oversight · Allegations · Attributional ambiguity · Moral ambiguity · Whistleblowing · Media attention · Institution response · Crisis management · Due process · Sanctions · Presidents · Governing boards

Introduction Colleges and universities have dealt with a large number of high-profile controversies in recent years, from sexual misconduct committed by Larry Nassar at Michigan State University, to the resignation of John Schnatter from the University of Louisville’s governing board over his use of a racial slur, to the “Operation Varsity Blues” admissions scandal. Such incidents create challenges for leaders of colleges and universities and threaten to undermine public trust in higher education (Bruhn et al., 2002). Not all such instances of wrongdoing materialize into high-profile incidents, and stakeholders including students, staff, and faculty members can experience wrongdoing that does not reach widespread attention (American Association of University Women, 2018; Brown & Mangan, 2019; Cantor et al., 2020). Even allegations of wrongdoing that turn out to be incomplete or false can create charged situations for college and university administrators, as in the example of the 2014 Rolling Stone account “A Rape on Campus” at the University of Virginia (Coronel et al., 2015). These incidents may have a wide range of consequences for institutions and their stakeholders. In 2020, the US Department of Education fined Baylor University $462,000 for Clery Act violations related to sexual assault reporting, and in 2019 the Department fined Michigan State University a record $4.5 million related to Larry Nassar’s history of sexual abuse (Bauer-Wolf, 2019; Lavigne & Schlabach, 2020). Such incidents have led to resignations or terminations among presidents (Trachtenberg, 2019), vice presidents (Ganim & Murphy, 2011), coaches (Wolken, 2021), other administrators (Witz, 2019), and faculty members (Servick, 2018). Individuals involved in such incidents have faced criminal charges for criminal sexual conduct, indecent assault, child endangerment, perjury, failure to report child abuse, conspiracy, racketeering, bribery, and fraud (Adams, 2018; Chappell, 2012; Pascus, 2019). Institutions experiencing instances of wrongdoing within their undergraduate populations may face subsequent declines in applications for enrollment (Rooney & Smith, 2019). More generally, public trust in higher education is in decline, and any kind of violation of trust from institutions will only threaten to accelerate that trend (Bruhn et al., 2002; Jaschik, 2018). Despite evidence of negative consequences from wrongdoing within colleges and universities, several dimensions of these experiences remain unclear. We “know very little about how the dynamics that unfold following an accusation of misconduct contribute to the social construction of misconduct, and, in particular, about how the

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accused organization itself responds to allegations of misconduct” (Roulet & Pichler, 2020, p. 2). Leaders of all kinds of organizations, including colleges and universities, may face tensions between due process rights of the accused and public calls for justice, with unknown risks from potentially alienating some stakeholders with any chosen course of action (Hendrickson et al., 2013). There is evidence of some instrumental negative effects of such incidents (as in the negative effect on applications for admission), but the impacts of wrongdoing and public allegations on other outcomes like campus climate, students’ well-being, staff members’ morale, alumni affinity for their institutions, and public trust in higher education are unknown, especially when institution leaders prioritize reputational risk in their responses (Coombs, 2007; Eury et al., 2018; Jaschik, 2018; Richman & Jonassaint, 2008; Rooney & Smith, 2019). College and university leaders also can learn more about how to prevent misconduct from occurring, from governance structures to training to emphasis on reporting (Dungan et al., 2015; Kettrey et al., 2019; Pennsylvania Department of the Auditor General, 2017).

Purpose and Scope of the Chapter The purpose of this chapter is to synthesize what is known from the literature about incidents of wrongdoing as experienced by colleges and universities and their stakeholders. Some of this synthesis will draw from existing research from the field of higher education administration, but several other fields have studied similar dynamics, including psychology, organizational behavior, political science, communications, and business ethics, and we will take a broad aim in incorporating such insights from other fields (Bruhn et al., 2002; Coombs, 2007; Doherty et al., 2011; Hallett, 2003; Kelley & Chang, 2007; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). We intend to organize what is known and identify room for future research to produce new insights for multiple audiences including college and university leaders (to identify strategies for preventing wrongdoing and to optimize institutions’ responses when wrongdoing does occur); advocates for students and professionals in higher education (to ensure just outcomes for individuals experiencing wrongdoing like discrimination, sexual misconduct, or harassment); oversight groups including state and federal legislators, the US Department of Education, and the NCAA; and groups that advise colleges and universities, including public relations and crisis management consultants. At the outset, potential ambiguity in the relationship between occurrence of wrongdoing and reporting of wrongdoing warrants a clear discussion of each with respect to the scope and goals of the chapter (Kelley & Chang, 2007; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Table 1 illustrates possible scenarios in which there may or may not be some underlying wrongdoing and there may or may not be public allegations that wrongdoing occurred. Our review and proposed model capture scenarios in the upper-left in which some instance of wrongdoing occurred and may have effects on institution stakeholders, and institution leaders face pressure to address allegations of the wrongdoing in the public eye, including pressure to take disciplinary action against any personnel or students who committed wrongdoing (Coombs, 2007). Scenarios in the lower-left also are relevant to the chapter insofar as institution leaders still may face

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Table 1 Scope of the chapter with respect to underlying wrongdoing and allegations Wrongdoing Occurred Did Not Occur

Allegations Reported Reported wrongdoing Unfounded allegations

Not Reported Unreported wrongdoing

pressure to address allegations, and institution leaders would need to exercise care in responding if allegations are disputed or evidence of wrongdoing is incomplete or ambiguous. In these cases, institution responses may draw public scrutiny even if the precipitating allegations are unfounded or only partially accurate. Finally, the model addresses incidents of wrongdoing that occur but are not reported in order to capture potential consequences of such incidents and identify institution strategies to improve reporting and prevent similar incidents in the future. In total, we consider the three labeled quadrants in Table 1 to be within the scope of our proposed model. Formally, we follow Bruhn et al. (2002) in defining wrongdoing as some “[willful] act that results in harm to others [. . .] typically depend[ing] upon some degree of malice or negligence,” carried out by some individual or group of individuals affiliated with a college or university (p. 476). We follow Roulet and Pichler (2020) in defining the accusation of misconduct as a “pivotal triggering event [. . .] through which behavior is identified as wrongful and is exposed to audience scrutiny” (p. 4). Accusations may be communicated through channels such as criminal charges, a civil complaint, a formal announcement of an investigation, a social media communication, or a report in local, regional, national, or student-produced media. The chapter begins with a systematic review of relevant theoretical perspectives on individual and organizational actions and antecedents in the experience of wrongdoing. We follow with a detailed description of a proposed conceptual model with multiple stages and key dimensions within each stage, and we outline relevant empirical research to synthesize what other researchers have found about critical components of the proposed model. Next, we apply the model in three case studies of instances of wrongdoing within higher education. With the lessons learned from the model and the case examinations, we identify areas with sufficient clarity to make recommendations for practice and identify further areas relevant for practice in which more evidence is needed. We proceed by proposing an agenda for future research on these topics and identify several qualitative and quantitative data sources and research methods that may be relevant to key components of the model, and we conclude with a summary and consideration of future prospects for practice and inquiry in this area.

Guiding Perspectives on Wrongdoing Within Organizations We consider two broad categories of guiding perspectives on organizational wrongdoing: individual and organizational. These perspectives arise from a number of different academic disciplines, including communication, psychology, sociology, political science, and economics, and from a number of different professional

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applications, including education, management, politics, and public administration. Organizing such a synthesis by academic discipline or by professional field would seem to miss important distinctions between processes and models (e.g., grouping together corporations’ management of wrongdoing and the reactions of their customers and separately examining wrongdoing carried out by politicians and the reactions of voters), so we aim to consider guiding perspectives on individual actors followed by models of coordinated individuals acting through organizations. Taken together, these perspectives contribute to an understanding of committing wrongdoing, experiencing the effects of wrongdoing, witnessing or hearing accounts of wrongdoing, preventing wrongdoing, investigating and reporting wrongdoing, and responding to allegations.

Individual Perspectives Individuals involved in incidents of wrongdoing and institution responses may carry out wrongdoing, experience wrongdoing, witness wrongdoing, or observe and interpret accusations of wrongdoing and subsequent responses. Relevant guiding perspectives attempt to explain why individuals might carry out wrongdoing, how individuals who have experienced wrongdoing might realize justice, how individuals who have witnessed wrongdoing decide if and when to report it, and how observers make sense of claims of right and wrong and responsibility when accusations emerge. Perpetrating Wrongdoing Cressey’s (1953) seminal fraud triangle featured three factors common to individual commission of fraud: a source of desperation, creating some perceived need or pressure to commit fraud; a position or standing within an organization that creates an opportunity to commit fraud; and an ability to rationalize the action to reduce or eliminate the perception that it is illegal or inappropriate. Vardi and Wiener (1996) offered a broader theoretical framework that added categories of organizational misconduct and included both individual and organizational factors to predict their occurrence. Vardi and Wiener’s (1996) three kinds of organizational misbehavior included misbehaviors benefiting the self (including misrepresenting data or selling proprietary information), misbehaviors benefiting the organization (including undermining competitors or misleading oversight agencies or customers), and misbehavior intended to create harm (including damaging assets or retaliating). Individual factors associated with organizational misbehavior include personality (including both moral development and sociopathic predisposition), person-organization value congruence, loyalty or sense of duty to the organization, personal circumstances (including needs and security or standing within the organization), and relative satisfaction with the organization (Kohlberg, 1969; Sidanius & Pratto, 1999; Vardi & Wiener, 1996). Organizational factors associated with misbehavior include “built-in” opportunity or lack of control, internal control systems within the organization (including discipline and oversight), organizational culture and values, organization cohesiveness, and organization goals, especially when

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organization goals constitute a source of pressure (Astor, 1972; Hegarty & Sims Jr., 1979; Vardi & Wiener, 1996, p. 160). Vardi and Wiener (1996) offered a number of theoretical predictions connecting these individual and organizational factors to the occurrence of organizational misbehavior: individuals at a preconventional level of moral development, individuals with low need satisfaction from the organization, individuals in organizations with low cohesiveness, and individuals with neutral or low person-organization value congruence would be more likely to commit misbehaviors to benefit the self; individuals at a conventional level of moral development, individuals experiencing high need satisfaction from the organization, individuals in organizations with high cohesiveness, and individuals with high person-organization value congruence would be more likely to commit misbehaviors to benefit the organization; and individuals with preconventional moral reasoning, individuals with low need satisfaction from the organization, individuals in organizations with low cohesiveness, and individuals with low person-organization value congruence would be more likely to commit misbehaviors intended to harm others (Kohlberg, 1969). Within higher education, these predictions may be tested on workplace behaviors including research misconduct (Holtfreter et al., 2020; Maggio et al., 2019), cheating (Bolin, 2004; Lucas & Friedrich, 2005; McCabe et al., 2001), hazing (Campo et al., 2005; Richardson et al., 2019; Waldron, 2015), bullying (Hauge et al., 2009; Nielsen & Einarsen, 2018), and sexual harassment (Dekker & Berling, 1998; Willness et al., 2007). Experiencing Wrongdoing Two core conceptions of justice for individuals are procedural justice, describing the fairness of organizational processes, and distributive justice, describing the fairness of outcomes. Both forms of justice are associated with individuals’ experiences with and opinions of organizations, and procedural justice plays a role even when individuals experience unfavorable outcomes (Lind & Tyler, 1988; Tyler, 1990). Recent research on experiences with justice has conceived of additional definitions of justice appropriate for individuals who have experienced specific types of misconduct. Daly (2017) presented a conception of restorative justice for individuals experiencing sexual violence, with dimensions including participation, voice, validation, vindication, and accountability for offenders. McGlynn and Westmarland (2019) advanced a model of “kaleidoscopic justice” for victim-survivors of sexual violence that included consequences, recognition, dignity, voice, prevention, and connectedness as components. In the event colleges and universities face allegations of committing or mishandling sexual misconduct, consequences would ensure some commensurate outcome for the offender, prevention would entail commitment to or improvement of existing structures to reduce the future prevalence of sexual misconduct, recognition would require “the perception of [the underlying experience of sexual misconduct] as existing or true,” and dignity would require treating individuals sensitively and with open communication (McGlynn & Westmarland, 2019, p. 188). With respect to individuals experiencing discrimination or racial injustice within an organization, Livingston (2020) advanced a five-component PRESS model

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including problem awareness, root-cause analysis, empathy, strategies for addressing the problem, and sacrifice. Problem awareness entails acknowledgment of systemic anti-Black racism in the United States and mirrors McGlynn and Westmarland’s (2019) concept of recognition. Similarly, Livingston advanced empathy, or “experiencing the same hurt and anger that people of color are feeling,” which aligns with but goes beyond treating individuals with dignity (Livingston, 2020, para. 20; McGlynn & Westmarland, 2019). Livingston’s (2020) root-cause analysis would require institutions experiencing allegations of wrongdoing to engage with and reflect on any allegations and avoid dismissing issues or settling for superficial solutions (Coombs, 2007). Witnessing Wrongdoing Near and Miceli (1985) advanced a theoretical framework for whistleblowing activity in which individuals who might blow the whistle on observed wrongdoing evaluated the underlying activity to be reported, the suitability of whistleblowing as a response, and their own individual contexts. Potential whistleblowers would be more likely to engage in whistleblowing if the activity to be reported is “clearly wrong,” if the activity is severe in nature or has occurred over a long period of time, and if there is clear evidence of wrongdoing (Near & Miceli, 1985, p. 8). With respect to the suitability of whistleblowing as a response to observed wrongdoing, individuals would be more likely to blow the whistle if they are aware of available channels to make a report, if they expect that whistleblowing will result in the desired change in the underlying activity, if the organizational climate is conducive to whistleblowing, and if there are no alternatives to blowing the whistle (Near & Miceli, 1985). Finally, individuals with an internal locus of control, higher level of moral reasoning, lower need to conform with majority opinion (potentially more likely to include men than women), support from family and friends, loyalty to outside organizations such as professional associations, availability of alternative employment, lower professional aspirations, and higher willingness to endure potential retaliation would have a higher likelihood of blowing the whistle (Near & Miceli, 1985). Later empirical work produced support for several of these propositions. Both Dungan et al. (2015) and Cho and Song (2015) found that education on whistleblowing, awareness of reporting channels, organizational supports, and organizational protections for whistleblowers were positively associated with whistleblowing intention. Specifically with respect to reports of sexual harassment and sexual misconduct within higher education, under the 2020 amendments to Title IX, colleges and universities may designate some or all personnel, including faculty, to be mandatory reporters (Mancini et al., 2016; “Summary of Major Provisions”, n.d.). A designation as a mandatory reporter may limit the autonomy of individuals making reports who may want to report confidentially, but the designation may also limit the tensions that Near and Miceli (1985) identified for individuals who might make formal reports and connect individuals experiencing wrongdoing with appropriate resources (Mancini et al., 2016). Colleges and universities might also implement bystander programs in order to encourage witnessing individuals to intervene when they see potential misconduct or misconduct in progress (Kettrey et al., 2019).

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Making Sense of Accusations and Accounts of Wrongdoing In a corporate setting, a wide range of stakeholders may engage in sensemaking once an organization faces accusations of wrongdoing, including “damaged parties, customers or suppliers, governments, regulators, the media or simply the general public” (Roulet & Pichler, 2020, p. 5). For colleges and universities, stakeholders may also include current and prospective students, staff members, faculty members, employers of graduates, funders of research, donors, alumni, and local community members. When institutions face accusations, crisis managers will offer explanations or “frames” for the wrongdoing and may face competition from the media or the public that challenge these explanations and offer contrasting frames (Coombs, 2007, p. 171). Stakeholders must then choose from among the contrasting frames “and will select the frame provided by the source they find most credible” (Coombs, 2007, p. 171). Haidt (2012) argued that individuals follow moral intuition first and moral reasoning second, often coming up with post hoc justifications for their beliefs. Moral intuitions tend to follow one of six dimensions: care/harm, fairness/cheating, loyalty/betrayal, authority/subversion, sanctity/degradation, and liberty/oppression (Haidt & Graham, 2007; Haidt, 2012, p. 146). As examples, the care dimension may be activated when accusations suggest an organization’s action harmed vulnerable children, and the loyalty dimension may be activated if organizations respond to accusations by scapegoating a beloved employee; the liberty dimension may be activated if a college or university is suspected of limiting students’ rights to free speech but may come into tension with the care dimension if speech was regarded to be harmful or not protected by the First Amendment (Coombs, 2007; Haidt & Graham, 2007; Haidt, 2012). In cases in which moral conclusions are ambiguous, individuals may consult with others and may be open to social persuasion, and if individuals have vested interests in promoting certain interpretive frames, they may engage in communication that promotes their own perspectives or reputations (Haidt, 2012; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Stakeholders’ communications may reflect feelings of schadenfreude—deriving positive feelings from others’ misfortune—if organizations’ struggles are perceived to be deserved, or in the context of college athletics observers may regard wrongdoing within rival athletic organizations with schadenfreude (Coombs, 2007; Dalakas & Melancon, 2012).

Organizational Perspectives Higher education institutions may support organizational structures that facilitate reporting wrongdoing and minimize the likelihood of wrongdoing occurring, and they may need to respond to accusations of wrongdoing by institution affiliates. On the other hand, inadequate internal controls or oversight activities within colleges and universities may make the occurrence of misconduct more likely. Investigative organizations decide whether or not to investigate particular instances of potential wrongdoing, and media organizations choose which allegations to circulate as news items.

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Prevention, Oversight, and Investigation of Wrongdoing Organizations’ decisions and resources influence key parameters including the likelihood an act of wrongdoing will be detected and the consequences corresponding to each act. Sutinen and Kuperan (1999) offered a theory of regulatory compliance in which actors would violate regulations or ethical norms if the benefit from violating exceeded the cost of violating, with a cost determined by the probability of detection and the penalty faced if detected. Individuals in positions with “built-in opportunity” or in organizations with weak internal controls may perceive a lower likelihood of being detected and correspondingly a higher desirability of committing misconduct (Vardi & Wiener, 1996, p. 160). Organizations might implement internal controls and external audit functions in order to make detection more likely, as in the domain of corporate fraud prevention in the wake of financial misconduct at WorldCom and Enron (Wagner & Dittmar, 2006). Within higher education, institutions routinely affirm their control environments to accreditors, and monitoring may range from assessment of equity in resources provided to student-athletes, to evaluation of graduates’ labor market outcomes, to more direct measures like security cameras in student residences (Anderson et al., 2006; Cellini et al., 2020; Hendrickson et al., 2013; Vendel, 2017). Individual actors’ objectives might also include intrinsic motivation and social reputation, and preserving both individual moral standing and social standing could lead to widespread compliance even in the absence of strong deterrence (Sutinen & Kuperan, 1999). In this light, institutional honor codes might reduce the incidence of misconduct like academic dishonesty, but this also depends on individuals’ perceptions of peers’ actual behavior (McCabe & Trevino, 1993). With respect to investigation of wrongdoing that has occurred, Sutinen and Kuperan (1999) identified institutions in high standing or institutions that are severe offenders as the kinds of violators that might be most likely to be investigated by enforcement agencies. Sutinen and Kuperan (1999) argued that regulatory authorities might achieve a large degree of compliance by sanctioning actors with relatively high social standing to demonstrate consequences to other actors, and authorities might achieve a perception of legitimacy and fairness by investigating “chronic and flagrant violators” and “punishing them accordingly,” thereby also achieving widespread compliance from other observers (p. 186). In line with this argument, Hughes et al. (Under review) found that the Office of Civil Rights under the US Department of Education was more likely to investigate larger and more affluent institutions for potential Title IX violations and that past findings of noncompliance increased the odds of future investigations at the same institutions. If organizations discover wrongdoing internally and suspect that it might be investigated or discovered by an outside body, taking the initiative to disclose publicly may reduce penalties or negative attention (Roulet & Pichler, 2020; Warin et al., 2018). Institution Response Organizations may be seen as victims of some crises (as in the event of a natural disaster or the spread of misinformation by someone unaffiliated with the organization), other crises may be seen as out of an organization’s control (such as an unanticipated technical error or defect), and some crises may be viewed

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as “purposeful” (as when an organization knowingly places stakeholders at risk or violates the law) (Coombs, 2007, p. 167). Coombs’ (2007) situational crisis communication theory is an effort to integrate individual case studies and typologies of organizational crises with response strategies tailored to each kind of crisis (Coombs & Holladay, 2002, 2005). In the event of any crisis, organizations should ensure stakeholders’ physical safety and reduce stakeholders’ psychological stress from uncertainty around the crisis, then turn to statements and actions that protect the organizations’ reputations (Coombs, 2007). Across the three categories of crises, if stakeholders can assign responsibility to an organization for an emergent crisis, reputation will decline, stakeholders may become angry, and stakeholders may even experience schadenfreude, taking pleasure in the organization’s comeuppance (Coombs & Holladay, 2002, 2005; Coombs, 2007). Depending on the nature of the crisis and the perceived extent of the organization’s responsibility, organizations might deny responsibility, diminish the importance of the crisis, or attempt to rebuild their reputations with stakeholders (Coombs, 2007). Denial strategies include questioning the existence of a crisis, attacking any accuser claiming wrongdoing, or finding a scapegoat to blame for the wrongdoing (Coombs, 2007; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Strategies to diminish reputational damage after a crisis include arguing that the crisis was unintentional or out of the organization’s control or that the consequences of the crisis were small (Coombs, 2007). In pursuing rebuilding strategies, organizations might offer compensation to stakeholders or explicitly apologize and take responsibility, but these approaches can be “problematic because of the legal and financial liabilities they incur” (Benoit, 1995; Coombs & Holladay, 2002, p. 166; Sellnow et al., 1998). Apologies may weaken organizations’ ability to avoid legal liability in criminal or civil proceedings (Fitzpatrick, 1995; Tyler, 1997). Institution leaders’ opportunities to deny culpability, minimize significance, or reassign responsibility depend on both the relative moral ambiguity and attributional ambiguity of the alleged wrongdoing (Crocker et al., 1991; Roulet & Pichler, 2020; Shadnam & Lawrence, 2011). If alleged behavior is morally ambiguous, observers may disagree if it “cross[ed] the line between right and wrong” (Roulet & Pichler, 2020, p. 2). If alleged behavior has attributional ambiguity, both leaders of an organization and its members may have space to argue that others are responsible (Crocker et al., 1991; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). If an alleged behavior has high moral ambiguity, leaders of accused organizations can argue that the behavior does not violate norms. If the alleged behavior is clearly immoral and the accused organization is clearly responsible, the organization may not have any choice but to accept responsibility and associated consequences (Coombs, 2007). In instances in which the alleged behavior is immoral but attributional ambiguity is high, organization leaders and their members may engage in protracted “blame games” in which leaders may attempt to scapegoat members of the organization, and members may proactively blow the whistle to avoid receiving assignment of blame (Roulet & Pichler, 2020, p. 3). Such blame games only end once there is too little remaining ambiguity for a party to credibly attempt to avoid responsibility (Roulet & Pichler, 2020).

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Higher education institutions may have a wider range of stakeholders than most other types of organizations, with students, professional staff, faculty members, executive administrators, and governing board members affiliated with colleges and universities. Any of these stakeholders can commit wrongdoing, and institution administrators may single out individuals from within any of these groups to serve as a scapegoat (Coombs, 2007; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Further, institution administrators may consider the interests of any of these groups in deciding how to respond to an allegation, and in identifying a scapegoat if a scapegoating strategy is chosen. Administrators likely choose “expendable” members of the organization to serve as scapegoats and minimize reputational damage, but not all stakeholders or constituents may be equally suitable for scapegoating (Roulet & Pichler, 2020, p. 8). Bourdieu (1991) argued that some individuals may bring informal, unconscious “invisible power” into their social interactions within an organization and labeled this “symbolic power” (p. 164; p. 166). Hallett (2003) drew from Bourdieu’s (1991) notion of symbolic power and Strauss’ (1978) negotiated order to define organizational culture as a context in which individuals with symbolic power define the set of actions that are legitimate within that context. This legitimacy is negotiated in the sense that it depends upon agreement among members of the organization, but it does not imply equality; “certain negotiators come to have disproportionate power over the negotiated order” (Hallett, 2003, p. 133). This power may be subtle or coercive and does not assume any intent on the part of any participants in the organizational context (Hallett, 2003). Hallett (2003) ultimately characterized organizational culture as emerging in the following way: “Negotiators, who engage in various practices within the organization [from design solutions to water-cooler conversation], are imbued with legitimacy by those who value the practices in which the negotiators engage. This legitimacy can be deployed as symbolic power, the power to define the situation” (p. 133). Hallett (2003) further identified three factors that may complicate this picture: the history of symbolic power within an organization, numerous and potentially differing legitimate practices within an organization, and a distribution of different audiences within an organization. In particular, different audiences or stakeholder groups within the same organization may ascribe legitimacy to different kinds of practices, and “there are often competing pockets of symbolic power involving negotiators tied to different audiences who draw from different sources of legitimacy [valued practices]” (Hallett, 2003, p. 135). Hallett (2003) predicted that a larger number of audiences within an organization increased the likelihood that an organization would face conflict within its culture; even if an institution attempted to ensure adherence to ethical norms at the executive level, individuals or local subcultures or audiences such as academic departments, administrative units, athletic teams, or student organizations may transgress norms, following the leads of department chairs, unit supervisors, coaches, or student leaders with local symbolic power (Bourdieu, 1991; Hallett, 2003). Separately, stakeholders who hold symbolic power or legitimacy within an organization may make poor candidates for scapegoats if other constituents would find their counter-arguments to be credible or compelling (Roulet & Pichler, 2020).

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Media Reporting When an organization experiences an allegation of wrongdoing, a crisis manager will attempt to frame the allegation in a strategic way (Coombs, 2007). News media might directly question or contradict a crisis manager’s chosen frame or broadcast an account of the framing that might lead other observers to share, question, or contradict it. The existence of allegations and the content of a crisis manager’s chosen frame may be only incidental to journalists’ identification of items that are newsworthy; a theory of journalists as gatekeepers holds that some potential news items are discarded and only some are selected to reach an audience, and items may be identified as newsworthy for ideological or bureaucratic reasons (Gieber, 1964; McQuail & Windahl, 1981; Schudson, 1989; Shoemaker & Vos, 2009; White, 1950). An early study of international relations news proposed several factors that may shape the newsworthiness of a potential story: alignment between the time frame of the story with the time frame of a news cycle, magnitude, ease of interpretation, cultural relevance, consistency with an editor’s or journalist’s prior beliefs, surprise (conditional on being culturally relevant and plausible to a journalist), follow-up on an already-running story, potential to balance or complement other news items, reference to elite countries, reference to elite individuals, reducibility to individual actions, and negativity (Galtung & Ruge, 1965). Harcup and O’Neill (2001) proposed an updated list of factors associated with newsworthiness: elite individuals or organizations, celebrities, entertainment or humor, unexpected content, negativity, positivity, magnitude, cultural relevance, follow-up, and consistency with an existing publication agenda. Some (like magnitude, surprise, cultural relevance, and follow-up on existing stories) were consistent with Galtung and Ruge’s factors, whereas some (celebrities, positivity) added nuance to the original list. Accusations of wrongdoing within colleges and universities might satisfy several of these features. Allegations of severe wrongdoing, with respect to the degree of consequences or the number of individuals affected, may appeal to magnitude and negativity, and wrongdoing that violates norms of acceptable behavior may offer surprise or unexpected content (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Shoemaker & Vos, 2009). Institutions close to a media market may exhibit cultural relevance, and regional media outlets may focus on large or recognizable institutions within those regions. Some colleges and universities may have news value as elite organizations, and some university personnel (especially coaches), faculty members, students, or student-athletes may have celebrity appeal (Harcup & O’Neill, 2001). Accusations characterized by some back-and-forth of conflicting statements or emerging information may remain in the news and have follow-up value (Roulet & Pichler, 2020).

A Proposed Conceptual Model of Wrongdoing, Allegations, and Institution Response Within Colleges and Universities We draw on these different perspectives to develop a conceptual model of wrongdoing, allegations, and institution response. The closest works in the higher education literature are Bruhn et al. (2002) and Kelley and Chang (2007), which outlined

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the potential characteristics of the precipitating incidents of wrongdoing. This model is similar in spirit to the blame-game model of Roulet and Pichler (2020), which recognized that organizations may attempt to shift blame if allegations of wrongdoing emerge but assignment of responsibility is ambiguous. Roulet and Pichler (2020) noted that, “To date, the literature on misconduct has neglected the role of accusations in the social construction of misconduct”; we advance a model for the higher education context that illustrates how accusations might emerge, how much attention they might generate, how institutions might respond, and how stakeholders might make sense of institutions’ responses (p. 2). The model also considers instances of wrongdoing that are unreported and do not lead to accusations but still might influence institution outcomes, and the model reflects that allegations without underlying wrongdoing still might elicit public attention, strategic institution responses, and long-term impacts on outcomes. Figure 1 illustrates the scope of the proposed model, including the characteristics of the alleged act of misconduct itself, the processes through which the misconduct reaches public awareness or remains hidden, the generation of public attention to the misconduct, an institution’s response to misconduct and public attention, and ultimate outcomes for all parties involved, and all of these are shaped by the context and organizational culture of the institution or institutions where the misconduct occurs. The model encompasses contextual factors that may influence the likelihood that misconduct occurs and factors that influence how institutions might respond. The first stage and the second stage of the model, the alleged wrongdoing and the emergence of information about it, can influence all the stages that come after them.

Fig. 1 Proposed model of wrongdoing, allegations, and institution response

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For example, media outlets may pay more attention to a more severe act of wrongdoing compared to wrongdoing that is less severe, or institutions may respond differently to an act of wrongdoing that leads to criminal charges compared to an act of wrongdoing that remains hidden (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001). The third and fourth stages run in parallel and can influence each other as well as the fifth stage. Media attention or public pressure may precede an institution’s response to an act of wrongdoing, but institutional leaders might start drafting statements or retaining crisis management or communications services even before public attention begins to build, if institution leaders had knowledge of an act of wrongdoing or an investigation into wrongdoing before it became widely known. In turn, institutions’ responses can drive additional media attention or public pressure, in particular if stakeholders are unsatisfied with an institution’s initial response (Cole & Harper, 2017; Trachtenberg, 2019). All preceding stages can influence the resolution of the experience and ultimate outcomes for stakeholders including the institution, affected parties, and community members. Finally, the characteristics and organizational culture of the institution where the alleged wrongdoing takes place have a reciprocal relationship with every other stage in the conceptual model; as examples, employees’ satisfaction with their institution and the thoroughness of internal controls can influence the likelihood of wrongdoing occurring, the size and profile of an institution can influence the amount of attention an act of wrongdoing receives, and accusations and institutional responses can influence the reputation of the institution and the reputations of individuals associated with it (Dungan et al., 2015; Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Rooney & Smith, 2019; Vardi & Wiener, 1996).

Stage 0: Organization Context and Institution Characteristics Institution characteristics relevant to the occurrence and detection of misconduct include dependence on key revenue sources including athletics, donations, and research as well as the presence of professional resources to support and monitor ethical behavior (Kelley & Chang, 2007; Pfeffer & Salancik, 1978). An institution’s profile and standing as well as a history of misconduct may also influence the likelihood that present wrongdoing would be investigated or detected, or that findings would be circulated by media outlets once detected (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Sutinen & Kuperan, 1999). A specific institution’s circumstances will depend on the number of audiences within the institution, the symbolic power each audience holds, and the practices each audience views as legitimate (Hallett, 2003), and a pathological or bureaucratic organizational culture may be more likely to facilitate or allow wrongdoing rather than a generative organizational culture (Westrum, 2004). Even if a broad organizational culture is generative in nature and seeks to acknowledge and address the root causes of issues, pathological or bureaucratic subgroups within administrative units or academic departments may deter reporting or facilitate incidents of misconduct (Hallett, 2003; Westrum, 2004).

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With respect to an institution’s enforcement context, whistleblower supports, education on reporting, and protection from retaliation are central tools to raise the likelihood of misconduct being reported (Cho & Song, 2015; Dungan et al., 2015). Public or private control of institutions, available institutional ethics infrastructure, investigative resources and norms of states or athletic conferences, and federal or national regulations all may influence the likelihood of reporting or detection of wrongdoing, with public institutions likely subject to stricter reporting expectations under state open-records laws, more likely to depend on state governments for financial resources, and more likely to feature gubernatorial or legislative appointees as members of their governing boards, relative to private institutions (Hearn, 2017; Pfeffer & Salancik, 1978; Rutherford & Lozano, 2018).

Stage 1: Alleged Wrongdoing The first stage of the model features the underlying alleged wrongdoing or misconduct. Wrongdoing or misconduct within higher education can take many forms including but not limited to physical violence, sexual assault, sexual harassment, discrimination, hazing, cheating, research misconduct, plagiarism, extramarital affairs, fraud, or athletic recruiting violations (Azoulay et al., 2017; Kelley & Chang, 2007; Rooney & Smith, 2019; Rutherford & Lozano, 2018). Instances of wrongdoing may be carried out by individual faculty members, staff members, students, or community members; individual academic departments or administrative units, including athletic departments; or clusters of multiple departments or units across an institution (Kelley & Chang, 2007). Affected parties might include students, faculty members, staff members, local residents, other community members, or an organization (Kelley & Chang, 2007). The underlying wrongdoing may be mild, moderate, or severe, with severity determined by the nature of the wrongdoing, the number of parties affected, the level of harm experienced by the affected parties, the length of time over which the wrongdoing occurred, and the length of time over which harm or consequences remain (Bruhn et al., 2002; Kelley & Chang, 2007). A final pertinent characteristic of the underlying wrongdoing is the existence of any evidence that it occurred, including the number of potential witnesses and their position within the institution as well as the clarity or ambiguity of any evidence they might be able to produce and the degree of ambiguity in assigning responsibility (Roulet & Pichler, 2020; Warin et al., 2018).

Stage 2: Emergence of Information In the second stage of the model, information about the alleged wrongdoing emerges into the public view, with accusations as “pivotal triggering events” (Roulet & Pichler, 2020, p. 2). Information disclosed in this stage might include identities of alleged perpetrators, numbers or characteristics of affected parties, the duration over which alleged wrongdoing occurred, the nature or severity of the wrongdoing, and

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an indication if any other parties had awareness of the wrongdoing (Evans et al., 2016; Ganim, 2011a, b). Potential channels for information about wrongdoing to come to light in this stage include whistleblowers, institution self-reporting, law enforcement agencies, other oversight bodies, and investigative media. Individuals may be more likely to blow the whistle or report wrongdoing within institutions that provide whistleblower supports, education on reporting, and protection from retaliation if they have higher compensation or greater job security (Cho & Song, 2015; Dungan et al., 2015). Institutions may disclose wrongdoing to the public (discovered either from an initial whistleblower report or some other internal investigation) if the wrongdoing is easily provable and likely to be discovered eventually by an independent agency (Warin et al., 2018). Law enforcement agencies that might reveal information about wrongdoing include local and state police, local district attorneys and state attorneys general, the FBI, and the US Attorney’s Office. Police or federal investigators might respond to potential crimes in progress or receive reports from whistleblowers or other leads. Other oversight bodies may include regional accreditors; the NCAA, its constituent conferences, and other athletic associations (for oversight of intercollegiate athletics); the US Department of Education; and state and federal legislatures (Hendrickson et al., 2013; Lindo et al., 2019). Finally, investigative journalists or other media outlets may provide public information about some alleged wrongdoing. Media outlets might include student journalists, local newspapers or television network affiliates, newspapers or other periodicals with national circulation, national television networks, cable news networks, or conference-specific athletic networks (Rooney & Smith, 2019). Investigative journalists may be the first to discover evidence of some wrongdoing and turn that into original reporting, or media outlets may report on evidence that comes to light through other channels (such as state criminal charges or findings from an FBI investigation). Recalling Table 1 above, some instances of wrongdoing may start here if false allegations are made without any underlying wrongdoing. On the other hand, some wrongdoing detailed in Stage 1 may remain unreported and not widely acknowledged and could lead to internal institutional responses and outcomes for affected stakeholders without prompting public accusations or public awareness.

Stage 3: Public Attention In the model’s third stage, media attention to the alleged wrongdoing may accumulate from local, regional, or national media outlets and may reach current staff members and students, prospective students and their families, potential donors, elected officials, and even employers who might hire the institution’s graduates. Media outlets may promote their own investigative stories, or they may call attention to allegations proceeding from sources like criminal charges, whistleblower reports, or wrongdoing disclosed by the offending institutions. Media attention may be accompanied by or may generate public pressure on an institution to act, and pressure from state legislators, a governor, donors, alumni, or parents may carry

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weight if those stakeholders control important resources for the institution (Pfeffer & Salancik, 1978). Widespread public attention may yield competing narratives or interpretations of the underlying events, which institutions must then address or account for in addressing uncertainty around the wrongdoing (Coombs, 2007). Severe instances of wrongdoing (with large consequences for many affected parties, or a long duration of wrongdoing), elite institutions, and high-profile individuals or units involved within institutions (including athletic departments and teams) may generate relatively large amounts of media attention (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Kelley & Chang, 2007). Large institutions or institutions close to media markets may also receive disproportionate media attention if they have greater recognizability. Incidents might also generate attention if there is potential for observers to take pleasure in or share accounts of misfortune that can be interpreted as deserved (Bhatti et al., 2013; Crysel & Webster, 2018; Dasborough & Harvey, 2017). Where this stage runs in parallel to institutions’ responses to allegations in the fourth stage, media outlets may provide further coverage of institutions’ responses to initial accusations, and journalists may see value in stories’ continuity if there are competing accusations and counteraccusations or release of new information (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Roulet & Pichler, 2020).

Stage 4: Institution Response The response from an institution to public allegations of wrongdoing might include public presidential statements, crisis communications from other institution representatives, personnel changes including resignations or terminations, suspensions or expulsions of students, suspensions of student organizations, institutional policy changes, and efforts toward organizational learning (Bruhn et al., 2002; Cole & Harper, 2017; Coombs, 2007; Coombs & Holladay, 2002; Rutherford & Lozano, 2018). Institutions may attempt to deny or diminish allegations at first, especially if responsibility for the wrongdoing is ambiguous (Bruhn et al., 2002; Coombs, 2007; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Institutional leaders may also carry out personnel actions like terminating accused employees as a way to assign blame without addressing root causes of the wrongdoing (Bruhn et al., 2002; Coombs, 2007; Roulet & Pichler, 2020), or institutional leaders may appeal to due process rights of the accused to wait to make personnel decisions until ongoing criminal or civil proceedings reach their conclusions (Hendrickson et al., 2013). Even after proceedings have been decided, institutions may be unwilling or unable to share information about individuals who have committed misconduct due to nondisclosure agreements or settlements without admission of guilt, and this information may not be apparent in background checks if individuals apply for new jobs (Brown & Mangan, 2019). If allegations of wrongdoing do reach public awareness, subsequent public pressure might have an impact on an institution’s response to the allegations. As an example, a higher volume of media coverage might be associated with a higher likelihood of personnel actions like resignations, or news media or stakeholders may

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contradict crisis managers’ preferred interpretations of events (Coombs, 2007; Garz & Sorensen, 2017). Social media pressure consistent with “cancel culture” might materialize if institutions are slow to respond to allegations of wrongdoing, and these opinions might carry extensive weight with institutions if they stand to influence stakeholders like prospective applicants or potential donors (Romano, 2020). With this stage of the model having a reciprocal relationship with the previous stage, an institution’s response may generate its own media attention, and institutions may revise their responses if coverage of an initial response is unfavorable. If accusations emerge through criminal charges, or if a criminal investigation emerges as part of the scrutiny on institutions in response to the accusations, institutional leaders might be constrained in their ability to comment on some dimensions of the allegations if they are included in the scope of an investigation. If institutions have not self-disclosed wrongdoing, the channel of emergence of information might influence the amount of time that institutional leaders have to formulate a response. If knowledge of forthcoming allegations is widespread among members of the executive administration, even before public disclosure or media attention, the institution may have time to retain counsel, draft responses, or investigate further, but if allegations are unexpected or only a small number of individuals within the institution know about the underlying misconduct, then the institution may face public attention and calls for a response on a very short timeline (Roulet & Pichler, 2020). If members of the executive administration responsible for formulating a response have legal liability themselves, they may defer toward an institutional response that minimizes the importance of the allegations and avoids an admission of guilt (Coombs, 2007). Others within the organization may or may not agree with individual administrators’ preferred strategy. Institution characteristics and dimensions of the organizational culture may also influence the institution’s initial response, and leaders within institutions may see potentially damaging information as something to be minimized, someone else’s responsibility, or an opportunity for organizational learning (Westrum, 2004). With respect to the control of the institutions, private institutions may not need to disclose as much of their actions, including around personnel, relative to public institutions, especially in states with expansive sunshine laws (Hearn, 2017). Finally, the distribution of power among stakeholders within an institution, and the preferences of those stakeholders, might drive the institution’s response, and the initial response from the institution might feed back into the organizational culture by appeasing, empowering, or alienating different stakeholder groups (Hallett, 2003).

Stage 5: Resolution and Ultimate Outcomes The resolution includes specific elements of the conclusion of the experience of misconduct or wrongdoing as well as relevant outcomes for the institution and its stakeholders. Specific elements of the resolution may include resignations or personnel terminations, internal policy changes, outcomes from criminal proceedings, outcomes from civil cases, findings from other internal or external investigations,

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fines or other penalties, and changes in public opinion. General outcomes affected by wrongdoing may include applications for admission, enrollment, campus climate, student and staff morale, student and staff retention, alumni affinity for the institution, private donations, and institution reputation. If an institution’s original response did attempt to shift blame, a “blame game” will end whenever the remaining ambiguity over responsibility is too low to permit any disagreement (Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Public discontentment over original institution responses, new evidence of wrongdoing, and new charges may emerge in response to earlier stages, and these would play out as part of the resolution even as their dynamics would resemble the model’s earlier stages. If wrongdoing occurred but went unreported or institutional responses were inadequate, morale of community members may decline or individuals may commit further wrongdoing in the future (Brown & Mangan, 2019). If an institution was aggressive in responding to allegations of wrongdoing in the fourth stage, by making personnel changes, changing institutional policy, or admitting guilt, former employees may bring wrongful-termination proceedings or stakeholders may demonstrate unrest if they feel the original charges or allegations were not credible (Bhatti et al., 2013; Lind et al., 2000; Mancini & Shields, 2014). If the institution was more resistant to the original allegations in the fourth stage, the institution might face more public pressure to respond and might face heightened scrutiny from criminal investigators or potential civil complainants (Coombs, 2007). Outcomes from any of these processes would be realized in the fifth stage and might have additional effects on institution outcomes (Lindo et al., 2019). Similarly, public attention and pressure on the institution may also influence outcomes; extensive media coverage of the underlying wrongdoing may lead to larger declines in applications in the year after emergence of information or increase the likelihood of resignations or personnel changes (Garz & Sorensen, 2017; Rooney & Smith, 2019). More media coverage may also lead to higher criminal sentences or civil penalties for affected groups (Lim, 2015; Lim et al., 2015; Philippe & Ouss, 2018). Stakeholder outcomes like morale and retention can be affected by unreported wrongdoing in this stage, and allegations not based on actual wrongdoing still can elicit civil or criminal findings and may lead to charges of defamation.

Empirical Approaches to Understanding the Incidence and Effects of Wrongdoing Within Organizations Within the research literature on higher education administration, researchers have examined broad constructs of scandals and ethical failures, characteristics of specific types of wrongdoing, and case studies of single incidents. Rooney and Smith (2019) examined the consequences of a range of undergraduate scandals for institution outcomes, including “sexual assaults, murders, cheating scandals, and hazing scandals” (p. 494). With a focus on applications for undergraduate admission as an outcome, Rooney and Smith (2019) excluded incidents occurring within graduate programs and only included suicides that were part of sexual assault or hazing incidents, and they included faculty and off-campus students in their count of

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murders. Rutherford and Lozano (2018) investigated turnover of college and university presidents and coded for incidents that appeared in media accounts of presidential departure, with specific examples including “fraud, affairs, cronyism, no-confidence votes, plagiarism, and other breaches of contract” (p. 108). Both Rooney and Smith (2019) and Rutherford and Lozano (2018) relied on media accounts as evidence of the occurrence of these incidents. Other studies examined consequences from or responses to specific kinds of alleged wrongdoing, including investigations of mishandled Title IX reports (Lindo et al., 2019), NCAA sanctions (Avery et al., 2016; Soebbing et al., 2016), and campus racial incidents (Cole & Harper, 2017). Finally, some studies investigated specific cases, including admission of politically connected applicants at the University of Illinois (Schmidt, 2015a), the Jerry Sandusky child sex-abuse scandal at Penn State University (Eury et al., 2018), administrative response to racial incidents at the University of Missouri (Trachtenberg, 2019), and the Varsity Blues admissions scandal (Kintu & Ben-Slimane, 2020). Two key challenges in the study of wrongdoing relate to available data sources and measurement. First, there are no comprehensive or systematic data sources documenting occurrences or accusations of wrongdoing within or against higher education institutions. Some researchers have assembled data allowing for coding the years in which institutions experienced incidents, but these are generally proprietary and ad hoc (Rooney & Smith, 2019; Rutherford & Lozano, 2018). Databases like those for Title IX investigations allow for exhaustive study of one kind of wrongdoing (Lindo et al., 2019). Second, even the data on the incidence of wrongdoing that can be assembled may only reflect the subset of incidents of misconduct that reached public awareness, if their occurrence can be documented. Survey research allows for asking respondents if they have experienced various kinds of misconduct, but survey data on the incidence of misconduct in higher education have not been linked with other outcomes or employed in a longitudinal design (Cantor et al., 2020; Rankin & Associates, 2017).

Key Dependent Variables With these challenges in mind, the following presentation of empirical literature related to misconduct in higher education begins by illustrating the incidence of wrongdoing, formulation of institutions’ responses, employees’ labor market outcomes, employee satisfaction, student mental health, applications, enrollment, and private gifts as potential outcome variables or dependent variables. The higher education literature highlights presidential statements as emblematic of institution responses, employment-related outcomes including termination and job changes, and market-oriented outcomes including applications for admission and private donations. Occurrence of Wrongdoing In separate surveys of faculty and clinical researchers, both Holtfreter et al. (2020) and Maggio et al. (2019) found publication pressure to

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be associated with a higher likelihood of committing research misconduct; lower likelihood of detection, corresponding with Vardi and Wiener’s (1996) built-in opportunity and internal controls, also was associated with higher likelihood of committing misconduct in Holtfreter et al.’s (2020) findings. With respect to cheating, students with higher predisposition toward academic dishonesty may perceive more opportunities to cheat, but institution honor codes may reduce cheating by improving person-organization value congruence (Bolin, 2004; McCabe et al., 2001). Among student-athletes, survey respondents who perceived their teammates to approve of hazing behaviors were more likely to experience and participate in hazing (Waldron, 2015), and fraternity and sorority participants who identified more strongly with their organizations indicated greater willingness to participate in hazing when the severity of the hazing activity was low (Richardson et al., 2019), reflecting Vardi and Wiener’s (1996) organizational culture and organization cohesiveness. Individual beliefs about sexual harassment related to likelihood of engaging in harassing behaviors, and the perception of organizational sanction reduced the incidence of harassment in a survey of male faculty and staff members (Dekker & Berling, 1998). Institution Responses Organizations’ responses to allegations of misconduct may take a variety of forms. Presidents of colleges or universities may make statements with varying degrees of specificity around the underlying allegations of wrongdoing (Cole & Harper, 2017). Presidents may be terminated by their governing boards or decide to retire or resign on their own before other actions are taken (Rutherford & Lozano, 2018; Trachtenberg, 2019). Other university employees may be placed on leave or terminated, and students or student organizations may be suspended (Avery et al., 2016; Rooney & Smith, 2019). Institutions may engage in organizational learning to try to identify the root causes of the wrongdoing and try to prevent similar wrongdoing in the future, or outside entities may make recommendations for policy and organizational improvements (Bruhn et al., 2002; Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan LLP, 2012; Pennsylvania Department of the Auditor General, 2017; Wainstein et al., 2014). When moving to dismiss students or employees, including tenured faculty members, institution leaders need to acknowledge their due process rights, including a written notice of charges and potential disciplinary action, a formal hearing, a written account of witness testimony, and a written notice of a decision (Hendrickson et al., 2013). Literature outside higher education highlights termination of aides and resignation as potential responses for politicians and bankruptcy as a potential response for private corporations facing allegations of misconduct (Camerlo & Pérez-Liñán, 2015; Garz & Sorensen, 2017; Hallett, 2003; Lyon, 2008). Institutions may face wrongful-termination lawsuits if they do terminate personnel as part of a response to allegations (Lind et al., 2000). Employment-Related Variables Other research examined relationships between scandals or sanctions and job transitions (Avery et al., 2016; Rutherford & Lozano, 2018) and employee compensation (Soebbing et al., 2016). In separate studies using regression-based approaches, Rutherford and Lozano (2018) found that presidents

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associated with scandal in media reports had higher odds of departure in a given year, and Avery et al. (2016) found that NCAA violations were associated with a higher likelihood of head coaches’ firings in college basketball. On the other hand, regression findings from Soebbing et al. (2016) found a positive relationship between NCAA sanctions and football coaches’ compensation. Soebbing et al. (2016) noted that major violations might lead to coaches’ firings, so coaches with minor violations who continued to coach might find administrators willing to “look past” or “reward” behavior that can benefit their teams (p. 78). Azoulay et al. (2017) found that faculty members who had published work retracted saw future citations of past work drop by about 10 percent, and higher-profile scientists were punished relatively more for research misconduct. In the private sector, executives may face reduced compensation in future jobs if they are associated with wrongdoing, even if they did not commit it (Groysberg et al., 2016), corporate stock price may fall if corporate sponsors are associated with scandals (Knittel & Stango, 2014), and scandal-affected spokespersons themselves may lose sponsorship relationships (Kintu & Ben-Slimane, 2020). Stress and Satisfaction with Organizational Culture Richman and Jonassaint (2008) conducted a laboratory study with 33 African American Duke University students to examine physiological responses to an experimental stressor. Some participants completed the study task before and some completed the study task after the emergence of the Duke lacrosse scandal in April 2006, which created an opportunity to evaluate the effect of the scandal on participants’ stress responses, because “Duke’s African-American students and the African-American women in particular experienced high levels of stress and questioned their sense of belonging and safety in the weeks after the alleged incident” (Richman & Jonassaint, 2008, p. 106). Participants who completed the study before the emergence of the scandal showed an expected increase in cortisol levels from baseline to 20 minutes after the experimental task (delivering a speech to a camera), reflecting a physiological response to the stressor. After the emergence of the scandal, participants had higher baseline cortisol levels, and levels remained elevated without a similar increase after the experimental task. These differences were primarily experienced among women and suggest that “recent exposure to race-related stress can have a sustained impact on physiological stress response” (Richman & Jonassaint, 2008, pp. 108–109). Outside higher education, Zhou and Makridis (2019) found in regression results that firms that had accounting or auditing misconduct reported by the Securities and Exchange Commission saw employees self-report lower satisfaction with their companies and lower ratings of the quality of their organizational culture, senior leaders, and work-life balance on Glassdoor in the years following disclosure of misconduct. Applications, Enrollment, and Private Gifts Rooney and Smith (2019) and Lindo et al. (2019) investigated relationships between undergraduate scandals and Title IX investigations, respectively, and both applications for admission and private donations, finding significant evidence for applications but not for donations. Rooney and

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Smith’s (2019) regression findings for 102 top-ranked national universities in U.S. News and World Report suggested that an institution experiencing a scandal within its undergraduate populations saw a decline in applications for admission in the subsequent year, but only if the scandal received national media coverage. On the other hand, Lindo et al.’s (2019) regression analysis of institutions receiving Title IX investigations yielded findings that applications to those institutions increased, potentially because coverage of the investigations made the institutions more present in prospective students’ minds at the time of application. The authors also found little importance of Title IX investigations for private gifts or degree completion outcomes (Lindo et al., 2019). This may reflect differences between prospective students who may be unfamiliar with an institution and donors who are more likely to be alumni or supporters (Jarvis, 2019). In an analysis of over 14,000 letters sent by alumni to Penn State University in the wake of the Jerry Sandusky child sex-abuse scandal, Eury et al. (2018) enumerated modes of identification with the university including unconditional identification (affiliation with the institution no matter what), disidentification (removal of affiliation with the institution), selective identification (affiliation with some but not all parts of the institution), and conditional identification (affiliation, such as donating, only after some action is taken).

Key Independent Variables Characteristics of the underlying wrongdoing, channel of emergence, media attention, institution response, and baseline stakeholder opinions represent key independent variables. Higher education literature featuring the occurrence of wrongdoing or the characteristics of individual instances of wrongdoing as predictors of other important outcomes is sparse. The literature in political science is much more extensive, with numerous studies of the impact of political scandals on candidates’ viability, either using experimental survey research designs or secondary data analysis from actual elections. Specifically with respect to media attention, a strand of research exists that examines the impact of media attention on criminal justice decisions, including criminal and civil sentencing, while little research to date examines relationships between media attention and decisions made by college and university leaders. In light of these limitations, the following section focuses on existing findings from the political science and criminal justice literature to illustrate potentially promising future directions for research on higher education administration. Characteristics of the underlying wrongdoing Numerous studies in political science have examined relationships between characteristics of wrongdoing (including type of activity, severity, and timeframe of occurrence) and outcomes including voter perceptions and election outcomes. Carlson et al. (2000) found that survey respondents rated hypothetical political candidates lower on perceived character if they were implicated in a financial scandal relative to a sex scandal, although both types of scandals reduced perceived character. Implication in a scandal did not reduce

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perceived competence with the same survey respondents (Carlson et al., 2000). Doherty et al. (2014) also found in experimental survey research that respondents rated hypothetical politicians lower in their personal evaluations, job evaluations, and likelihood of future voting after financial scandals compared to sex scandals, with some evidence suggesting sex scandals had a greater impact on the personal evaluation than on the job evaluation or future voting intention (Doherty et al., 2011). Bhatti et al. (2013) connected the nature of alleged wrongdoing with the characteristics of individuals carrying it out, hypothesizing, “Scandals viewed as politically hypocritical cause a greater loss of trustworthiness” (p. 4). In order to test this, they created vignettes in which fiscally conservative or liberal-democratic politicians declared bankruptcy or sought health care from private service providers outside a public system; respondents rated fiscally conservative candidates as less trustworthy for bankruptcy and liberal-democratic candidates as less trustworthy for going outside the public healthcare system (Bhatti et al., 2013). McDermott et al. (2015) also found that sex scandals had a greater negative impact on perceptions of a hypothetical candidate if the candidate included “promoting moral values” as a priority of their political service (p. 964). With respect to time elapsed since a scandal occurred, Doherty et al. (2014) found that some recent scandals had a greater impact relative to older scandals on an index of survey respondents’ perceived job performance, perceived character, and likelihood of voting for a political candidate in the future. In particular, an extramarital affair between a state representative seeking reelection and a campaign worker framed as occurring one year in the past had a negative impact of 0.68 standard deviations on an index of the three measures, and the same indiscretion reported to have occurred 20 years in the past had a negative impact of 0.35 standard deviations on the same index (Doherty et al., 2014). In a second study, respondents randomly assigned vignettes with the same extramarital affair one year or 10 years in the past yielded similar results (
0.63 and
0.40 standard deviations, respectively), but additional vignettes replacing the extramarital affair with tax evasion yielded negative results that were larger in magnitude and did not vary in timing, with a
0.99standard-deviation impact for tax evasion one year ago and a
0.94-standarddeviation impact for tax evasion 10 years ago (Doherty et al., 2014). Drawing from a secondary dataset of scandals involving members of the US House of Representatives (Basinger, 2013), Pereira and Waterbury (2019) also found that scandals that broke in an election year had larger negative impacts on vote share in a reelection bid than did scandals that emerged earlier in a representative’s term. Pereira and Waterbury (2019) analyzed the time that information about a scandal emerged, rather than the time the underlying wrongdoing took place (Doherty et al., 2014), arguing that “regardless of when the scandal actually [took] place, we expect voters to punish elected officials more when the scandal is revealed closer to the election” (Pereira & Waterbury, 2019, p. 588). While results suggested financial, corruption, and sex scandals had negative impacts on vote share if they emerged during an election year, among scandals emerging in a candidate’s first year, only sex scandals had a significant negative impact on subsequent vote share (Pereira & Waterbury, 2019). Election- year timing may not directly translate into colleges’

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and universities’ agendas, but episodes of misconduct may have different effects if they occur during capital campaigns, presidential searches, admissions cycles, or exam periods. Channel of emergence The effects of an incident of wrongdoing might also depend on the source of information about the wrongdoing. Winters and Weitz-Shapiro (2016) found survey respondents reported lower likelihood of voting for a hypothetical incumbent mayor who faced allegations of bribery after a federal audit relative to an incumbent facing claims of bribery from an opposing political party. In a survey experiment in Colombia, where newspapers held greater public trust than the courts or nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), Botero et al. (2015) found that hypothetical accusations of wrongdoing from a newspaper had a negative effect on intention to vote for a candidate that was 0.19 points larger than the effect of accusations from courts or NGOs, on a four-point scale (a difference of about 0.25 standard deviations). Media attention Within higher education, Rooney and Smith (2019) are the only researchers to have examined variation in institutions’ outcomes corresponding with differences in the characteristics of scandals those institutions experienced. With respect to applications for undergraduate admission, Rooney and Smith (2019) found that a scandal with coverage in at least one New York Times article was associated with a five-percentage-point decline in applications. Scandals with more than five New York Times articles were associated with just under a 9-percentagepoint decline in applications, and institutions with scandals that were the subject of long-form national articles experienced 10-percentage-point declines in applications. Institutions also had 8-percentage-point declines in applications in the second year after a scandal with long-form national coverage (Rooney & Smith, 2019). With respect to other outcomes, including admissions yield, incoming students’ average test scores, and donations from alumni, there were no identifiable relationships between scandal incidence or media coverage and any of these outcomes (Rooney & Smith, 2019). Outside of higher education, research in other contexts suggests a wide range of effects of the volume of media coverage on civil judgments, criminal sentencing, political resignations, voting, and corporate share price. Lim et al. (2015) found that some US state courts tended to award higher damages than others when courts had little newspaper coverage between 1992 and 2005, but courts had little difference in damages awarded in areas where newspapers’ circulation areas overlapped substantially with the courts’ jurisdiction (and newspapers provided relatively more coverage of the courts). Lim et al. (2015) reviewed data on 1.5 million criminal sentences in state courts between 1986 and 2006 with corresponding information on the overlap between newspaper coverage and court jurisdictions, and they found that more newspaper coverage led to longer sentence lengths for violent crimes, specifically for nonpartisan-elected judges; newspaper coverage had no impact on sentence length for partisan-elected judges or appointed judges. Philippe and Ouss (2018) found that news stories about felonies on the day before sentencing in a

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different case increased the length of sentence by about 26 days in French criminal courts. Conversely, news stories about judicial errors on the day before sentencing in a different case reduced the length of sentence by about 40 days (Philippe & Ouss, 2018). In a study of German national and state representatives between 2005 and 2014, Garz and Sorensen (2017) found that media coverage increased the likelihood of resignation when German politicians lost political immunity. In particular, an increase from no media coverage to average media coverage increased the likelihood of resignation by 6.4 percentage points, but media coverage had no impact on eventual convictions (Garz & Sorensen, 2017). Costas-Pérez et al. (2012) found that incumbent Spanish government officials who experienced corruption scandals between 1996 and 2009 lost 14 percent of their votes if scandals were widely covered by media but saw no loss of votes without extensive media coverage or if charges were dismissed. In the private sector, Knittel and Stango (2014) found that day-to-day media coverage of Tiger Woods’ 2009 scandal corresponded with day-today stock market losses for his main sponsors, including Electronic Arts, Nike, and PepsiCo. Institution response Organizations and their individual members may respond to ethical failures in different ways themselves, and these responses may also have some influence on eventual outcomes. In a survey study of four candidates for political office in the United States, survey respondents’ overall evaluations of candidates fell relatively less if candidates’ explanations for their actions acknowledged wrongdoing rather than denying it and if candidates offered some moral justification for their actions (Chanley et al., 1994). On the other hand, more recent experimental survey evidence suggests that denying allegations of wrongdoing and making counter-accusations may be a more effective reputation management strategy relative to admitting wrongdoing and promising to take corrective action (Johnson, 2018). Consistent with Johnson’s (2018) finding, Tiedens (2001) found that survey respondents expressed more support for Bill Clinton after watching a video in which he expressed anger after the Monica Lewinsky scandal relative to a video in which he expressed sadness, and respondents perceived more leadership capacity and expressed a greater willingness to vote for a fictional politician after watching a statement about terrorism delivered with anger relative to a clip of the same statement delivered to convey sadness. Tiedens (2001) also reported that anger was positively associated with competence but negatively associated with likability, but that the relationship between perceived competence and the political outcomes dominated the relationship between likability and the outcomes. Stakeholder perspectives Ethical failures may also differ with respect to the initial beliefs, perceptions, or values of their audiences. Bhatti et al. (2013) hypothesized that voters would penalize politicians from the opposite side of the ideological spectrum more harshly than they would punish politicians with a similar ideology for experiencing the same kind of scandal. Results from a survey experiment suggested that left-wing Danish voters lost more trust in right-wing politicians

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than left-wing politicians for committing the same wrongdoing in hypothetical vignettes, and vice versa for right-wing voters and hypothetical politicians in each party (Bhatti et al., 2013). In other words, Bhatti et al. concluded that “scandal evaluation is not merely a matter of linking the characteristics of the politician with the scandal content, but also likely to be mediated by voter characteristics and [. . .] ideology” (pp. 13–14). In a survey study of responses to real British political scandals, Wagner et al. (2014) found that party affiliation consistently predicted respondents’ interpretation of “perceived wrongness” and that party affiliation had a stronger relationship with perceptions than did a measure of underlying tolerance for wrongdoing (p. 146). In a study of media consumption around the child sex abuse scandal within the Catholic Church, Mancini and Shields (2014) found that individuals with who watched or read more news about the scandal had higher confidence in the Church’s capacity to protect children, and both Catholics and non-Catholics who thought the media coverage was unfair had higher confidence in the Church’s response. Survey-experimental results from a test of Coombs’ (2007) situational crisis communication theory found that individuals who had an external locus of control (measured by a battery of questions related to the perceived influence a person can have over politics and questions related to the perceived sources of people’s misfortunes) responded more favorably to organizations’ attempts to deny wrongdoing or deflect responsibility than did respondents with an internal locus of control (Claeys et al., 2010).

Synthesis of Existing Research While an extensive literature base exists to shed light on ethical failures and wrongdoing both within and outside of higher education, and much of this literature has emerged in the last five years, important gaps remain, especially with respect to these events as they are experienced by colleges and universities. These gaps include the limits on the relevance of literature from political science or communications for colleges and universities, lack of a consistent definition and scope of inquiry, a focus on a narrow a set of outcomes, a lack of attention on responses from institutions, and a need to understand conditional relationships among incidents’ characteristics and consequences. While sex scandals addressed in the political science literature typically entail a single candidate accused of being involved in an extramarital affair (Carlson et al., 2000; Doherty et al., 2011, 2014; McDermott et al., 2015), sex scandals within higher education have involved quid pro quo sexual harassment, sexual assault, and covering up sexual harassment or sexual assault on a large scale (Hendrickson et al., 2013). These are extremely serious episodes of misconduct, whereas affairs in the political science literature typically are contrasted with more serious financial misconduct including fraud or bribery. Sex scandals within higher education may be exacerbated if institution employees have a long history of sexual harassment or sexual assault or if faculty members abuse the balance of power to coerce students. Results from survey experiments in both political science and communications research also often come from undergraduate research participants

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who may not be representative of all higher education stakeholders (Carlson et al., 2000; Chanley et al., 1994; Coombs & Holladay, 2002). Other differences exist between political candidates and higher education institutions, as well as between private corporations and higher education institutions. Proximity to a physical college or university campus may represent an important institutional characteristic or constraint on prospective students’ choices, even if students may not want to attend an institution that has experienced a scandal (Hillman, 2016). Voters can more easily choose between two candidates and consumers can boycott or choose a competing brand offered within a store or by shopping online, but expressing disapproval by physically attending a competing college or university may be more difficult. Similarly, offending institutions may offer other enticements like in-state tuition rates, more generous financial aid offers, or promises of higher future labor market returns that may compensate for a negative impression from wrongdoing (Hughes et al., 2019). Political candidates also may have relatively short careers and reputations compared to the durability of higher education institutions, some of which have operated for hundreds of years. Finally, colleges and universities engage in multiple activities such as instruction, research, and intercollegiate athletics, and outside observers may believe that wrongdoing in one area of an institution may not reflect poorly on, or may be unrelated to, the institution’s other activities (Eury et al., 2018; Hendrickson et al., 2013; Laband & Lentz, 2003). Voters, in contrast, may have a harder time separating a single candidate’s actions in different areas. With respect to the definition and scope of the phenomenon of wrongdoing, Rooney and Smith (2019) defined scandals to include cheating, hazing, murder, and sexual assault within colleges’ and universities’ undergraduate populations, and Rutherford and Lozano (2018) denoted scandals when media accounts of chief executives’ departures mentioned “fraud, affairs, cronyism, no-confidence votes, plagiarism, and other breaches of contract” (p. 108). These incidents are different and occur at different levels of organizations, although all are examples of wrongdoing within higher education institutions. Within both studies, incidents were coded as 1 if an institution experienced an incident in a given year and 0 if not, while the effects of scandals on outcomes like applications for admission or presidential departure may depend on the severity or the nature of the underlying incident (and publicity from an incident may not be limited to a single year). Further, both measures rely on media accounts of wrongdoing. Incidents acknowledged to be scandals by media outlets might be a phenomenon of interest (Nyhan, 2015), but many instances of wrongdoing within institutions may not reach widespread awareness or documentation in the press (Kelley & Chang, 2007). Unreported wrongdoing still might influence outcomes like campus climate, student success, or staff morale, and researchers should be intentional about focusing on all instances of wrongdoing or reported instances as a subset of those (Kelley & Chang, 2007). Within this distinction, defining relevant media outlets may be important, as an incident treated like a scandal in local media but not picked up by national outlets may matter more for an institution that draws students from its region than an institution that recruits students from a national pool (Rooney & Smith, 2019).

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With respect to outcomes influenced by wrongdoing within colleges and universities, attention in the higher education literature (and in the political science literature) has focused on instrumental outcomes like applications for admissions and donations for colleges and universities, and election outcomes for politicians. There is a lack of research on the effects of wrongdoing and misconduct on social justice-oriented outcomes, including campus climate, student and staff morale, student and staff retention, policy changes, organizational learning and improvement, and criminal and civil outcomes or related legal proceedings involving colleges and universities (Bruhn et al., 2002; Richman & Jonassaint, 2008; Westrum, 2004). To this point, there also has been insufficient focus on institutions’ responses to allegations of wrongdoing (Roulet & Pichler, 2020). When racism (Schmidt, 2015b) or sexual assault (Kelderman, 2015) is at play, recent coverage suggests universities’ responses prioritize reputational effects and protection of a brand over equity concerns or righting wrongs. In a national survey, 50.5 percent of student respondents thought it would be “very” or “extremely likely” campus officials conduct a fair investigation after a report of sexual assault, but this percentage dropped to 29.6 percent for respondents who had experienced nonconsensual sexual contact themselves (Cantor et al., 2020). Institutions have multiple, diverse constituencies, and weighing trade-offs may drive ambiguous goals when institutions make decisions or respond to wrongdoing (Hallett, 2003; Hendrickson et al., 2013). Institutions may face several objectives, including responding in ways that ensure just outcomes, helping students and other stakeholders have confidence in institutional processes, respecting due process, maintaining sources of revenue, minimizing civil and reputational harm, and minimizing legal liability or professional harm for individual employees (Cantor et al., 2020; Pfeffer & Salancik, 1978). Research on ethical failures and scandals within higher education also should add a focus on conditional relationships between characteristics of the underlying wrongdoing and eventual outcomes. Institution control might have conditional effects on an episode of wrongdoing, with potential differences in responses between public and private institutions as one example (Hearn, 2017). Institutions might also face different consequences for outcomes like enrollment or donations conditional on the selectivity of the institution and the affinity of its alumni (Eury et al., 2018; Hughes et al., 2019). Researchers and administrators might expect wrongdoing within different functional areas to have varying effects on institution outcomes, with, for example, wrongdoing within athletics having a relatively large impact on athletic revenue and athletic department turnover and research misconduct having a larger impact on faculty recruiting and research revenue (Eury et al., 2018; Laband & Lentz, 2003). Rooney and Smith (2019) illustrated relationships between media coverage as a scandal characteristic and applications for admission as an outcome, finding that scandals that had more New York Times citations or received long-form national articles were associated with larger reductions in applications. However, the research design did not make clear if scandals received more media attention because they were more serious, because they occurred at high-profile institutions, because they were related to intercollegiate athletics or another high-profile

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unit within an institution, or because media outlets took an interest for some other reason (Kelley & Chang, 2007). In light of evidence that media attention may influence outcomes like resignations, criminal sentencing, and awarding of civil damages, additional empirical evidence on the volume of media attention to different kinds of wrongdoing in different institutional contexts would be valuable. Beyond that, institutional responses represent another intermediate outcome after wrongdoing or ethical violations, and institutional responses may be determined by the underlying nature of the wrongdoing, the perpetrating and affected parties, the institutional context, and the amount of attention to the wrongdoing from the media or the public. Little research to date has examined relationships between characteristics of wrongdoing and the nature of institutions’ responses.

Application to Specific Case Examples Specific examples of allegations of wrongdoing at colleges and universities follow to illustrate each stage of the proposed conceptual model and key theoretical relationships among the stages. The case institution in each example is a large, public university, and each example includes allegations of sexual assault. These initial parallels allow for illustration of differences in other components of the theoretical model, and in particular the relationships among media attention, institution responses, and institution outcomes. Each specific example represents a case study in the application of the proposed model, and the examples illustrate a general approach to understanding other incidents of wrongdoing within higher education institutions. Specific cases include allegations of child sexual abuse against Jerry Sandusky at Penn State University and against Larry Nassar at Michigan State University and Rolling Stone’s “A Rape on Campus” story at the University of Virginia.

Allegations of Child Sexual Abuse Against Jerry Sandusky at Penn State University Public attention to allegations of child sexual abuse against Jerry Sandusky emerged on November 5, 2011, but the alleged activity began in the 1990s (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). Penn State University’s response to the allegations included the termination of the university’s president and head football coach and millions of dollars in settlements, fines, and legal fees. The university’s response also led to governance debates and contention among alumni questioning the appropriateness of the response (Eury et al., 2018; Pennsylvania Department of the Auditor General, 2017). Organizational culture and institution characteristics Penn State University is a public land-grant university and a member of the Association of American Universities as a leading research university (“Our History”, n.d.; “Our Members”, n.d.).

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Penn State was founded in 1855 and has nearly 700,000 living alumni (“Our History”, n.d.; “Penn State at a Glance”, n.d.). Jerry Sandusky had a long career at Penn State, serving as an assistant coach for Penn State’s football team from 1969 through 1999 (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). In 1977, Sandusky founded The Second Mile, a charity dedicated to helping Pennsylvania youth (Ganim, 2011a). Head coach Joe Paterno had a longer tenure and a higher profile, after he took over as head coach of Penn State’s football team in 1966 and led all Division I football coaches in wins after his 409th victory on October 29, 2011 (Jenkins, 2012a; Sports Reference, n.d.). The backdrop of football overlaps with a popular national source of entertainment, with 43 percent of Americans in 2006 identifying football as their “favorite sport to watch” (Carroll, 2007, para. 2). Penn State football’s organizational culture at this time also reflected an “insistence that Penn State football had higher standards” and touted high graduation rates among studentathletes (Jenkins, 2012a, 2012b, para. 28). Alleged wrongdoing Jerry Sandusky’s alleged behavior included involuntary deviate sexual intercourse, aggravated indecent assault, unlawful contact with a minor, endangering the welfare of a child, corruption of minors, indecent assault, and attempted indecent assault (Dawson, 2011). The earliest alleged activity involved eight boys over a period of 14 years, from 1994 to 2008 (Dawson, 2011). At least three examples of the alleged misconduct occurred in Penn State campus facilities: a shower with Sandusky and a boy in 1998 in a campus locker room that was investigated by the State College Police Department and Pennsylvania Department of Public Welfare without leading to criminal charges; an allegation of Sandusky performing oral sex on a boy in the shower of the Lasch Football Building in 2000, witnessed by a janitor and conveyed to other facilities staff but not reported; and alleged sexual activity between Sandusky and a boy in the shower at the Lasch Football Building, reported to have occurred in 2002 but later corrected to 2001 (“Sandusky Grand Jury Presentment”, 2011). The latest of all the alleged activities occurred in 2008 in Sandusky’s home (Dawson, 2011). Emergence of information On March 31, 2011, an article in the Harrisburg PatriotNews detailed an ongoing grand jury investigation into a 2009 allegation of child sexual abuse against Sandusky (Ganim, 2011a). The article also noted that Penn State football coach Joe Paterno, Penn State athletic director Tim Curley, and Penn State vice president for finance and business Gary Schultz testified before the grand jury in January 2011. The article acknowledged “rumors of misconduct by Sandusky,” provided details around an allegation from a 15-year-old high school student while Sandusky was volunteering as a high school football coach in 2009, and identified the May 1998 police report related to an allegation that Sandusky showered with a 12-year-old boy in the Lasch Building (Ganim, 2011a, para. 10). Sandusky informed the board of directors of his charity of the allegations against him in 2009 and the resulting investigation (Ganim, 2011a). An unnamed Second Mile board member was quoted in the March 2011 article as saying, “We all know there’s an investigation going on” (Ganim, 2011a, para. 29).

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Just over 7 months later, on November 5, 2011, Sandusky was arrested on charges that he sexually abused eight boys. Accompanying the charges against Sandusky were charges of perjury and failure to report abuse against Curley and Schultz. A grand jury presentment from the Pennsylvania Attorney General’s office provided accounts of witness testimony supporting the charges and noted that parts of Curley’s and Schultz’s testimony to the grand jury were found not to be credible (Dawson, 2011; “Sandusky Grand Jury Presentment”, 2011). Public attention The March 2011 article acknowledging the grand jury investigation did not generate much additional media attention beyond the article, even though it included specific details around the allegations against Sandusky and noted that Paterno, Curley, and Schultz all had testified before the grand jury (Ganim, 2011a). Media coverage after November 5 and until November 9 was much wider, including lead coverage on national news broadcasts and print and online coverage in state and national news (Fitzpatrick, 2011; Ganim, 2011b; Stripling & Wolverton, 2011; Viera, 2011). As a by-product of this for Penn State’s executive administration and Board of Trustees, “The high degree of interest exhibited by members of the University community, alumni, the public, and the national media put additional pressure on these leaders to act quickly” (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012, p. 13). The initial interest in the story also established a foundation for media outlets to return to coverage of additional developments and competing accounts of the events (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Institution response After the publication of the March 2011 article, one Penn State board member e-mailed then-Penn State President Graham Spanier the following day asking for an update, with Spanier responding that he thought grand jury proceedings were secret (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). Penn State’s board received a briefing on the article at its regular meeting on May 12, but the briefing generated few questions, and after the briefing the board did not adequately prepare for potentially damaging findings from the investigation or assess the security of Penn State’s facilities (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). On November 5, 2011, Spanier released a statement expressing “unconditional support” for Curley and Schultz and noted he was “confident the record will show that these charges are groundless and that they conducted themselves professionally and appropriately” (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012, p. 90). Communications released in later discovery suggested that Spanier and Penn State general counsel Cynthia Baldwin initially resisted sharing more information with the board and resisted engaging with outside investigatory or crisis management services (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). On November 6, the university issued a press release announcing that Curley asked to be placed on administrative leave and Schultz reentered retirement in order to focus on their defense, and a November 7 press release indicated that Curley and Schultz requested and had been granted leave (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). Some board members disagreed with the releases and held that the language of the releases did not capture the board’s role

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in placing Curley and Schultz on administrative leave, with some board members contending that Spanier altered the language of the statements (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). On November 9, Paterno announced he would retire at the end of the 2011 college football season (CBS News, 2011). He also said Penn State’s board “should ‘not spend a single minute discussing my status’” in light of other more important concerns (CBS News, 2011, para. 7). Paterno also said in a statement, “With the benefit of hindsight, I wish I had done more” (CBS News, 2011, para. 11). While some board members felt that Spanier had assumed too much initiative to change the wording of the press releases related to Curley’s and Schultz’s status, board members also felt that Paterno had assumed too much to declare his own future plans before letting the board reach a conclusion (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). On November 9, the board announced the termination of both Spanier as president and Paterno as head football coach. The board reached a “clear consensus” around Spanier but had more difficulty in reaching a decision around Paterno, with some board members arguing that Paterno should have done more with knowledge of an allegation against Sandusky, some troubled by his attempt to dictate the terms of his retirement, and some convinced Paterno would be a distraction if he continued to coach (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012, p. 94). Some board members argued the deliberation around Paterno was “rushed and not sufficient for the situation” and that the board did not have a sufficient plan to communicate its decision to Paterno (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012, p. 95). Beyond these steps, the university also commissioned an independent review of the university’s handling of allegations of misconduct by Sandusky. Especially the announcement related to Paterno led to student protests in State College and “extraordinary and generally unfavorable” media attention (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012, p. 96). Resolution and ultimate outcomes Shortly after the events of November, Paterno passed away after a battle with cancer in January 2012 (Goldstein, 2012). The following June, Sandusky was found guilty at trial on 45 charges against him, related to abuse of 10 individuals over a 15-year period (CNN Wire Staff, 2012). In July, Former FBI director Louis Freeh released his firm’s findings on the university’s activity, which uncovered additional evidence and led to charges including child endangerment, obstruction of justice, and perjury against Spanier (Eder, 2012; Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). Evidence discovered during this investigation included e-mails in hard copy among Spanier, Schultz, and Curley as well as contemporaneous handwritten notes (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). These documents suggested that Schultz had awareness of the 1998 police investigation into Sandusky as it unfolded, noting the allegation suggested behavior that was “at best inappropriate @ worst sexual improprieties,” and that Schultz updated Curley and Spanier on the investigation’s progress and closure (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012, p. 47). Following the 2001 accusation against Sandusky, Schultz conferred with outside counsel regarding “reporting of suspected child abuse,” and then intended to report Sandusky to the Department of Public Welfare (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP,

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2012, p. 215). Curley then noted, just over two weeks later, “after [. . .] talking it over with Joe” that Curley preferred to talk with Sandusky directly, offer to assist him to get professional help, and only go to the Department of Public Welfare if Sandusky did not cooperate (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012, p. 74). Spanier responded that, “The only downside for us is if the message isn’t ‘heard’ and acted upon, then we become vulnerable for not having reported it. But that can be assessed down the road. The approach you outline is humane and a reasonable way to proceed” (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012, p. 75). These findings led to over $100 million in civil settlements between Penn State and Sandusky’s accusers, a $2.4 million Title IX fine, and child endangerment convictions for Spanier, Schultz, and Curley (Domonoske, 2017; Scolforo, 2017; Siemaszko, 2019). After the release of the Freeh Report, the NCAA initially sanctioned Penn State with a $60 million fine, vacation of wins, a multi-year football bowl ban, and a loss of scholarships, with Penn State entering into a consent decree to accept the sanctions (“Penn State Sanctions”, 2012). The Paterno family contested both the findings from the Freeh Report and the consent decree, to the extent of commissioning its own report emphasizing that accounts of Paterno’s involvement relied on Curley’s accounts of conversations he had with Paterno in e-mails that Curley wrote (Sollers et al., 2013). Pennsylvania State Senator Jake Corman separately led a lawsuit against the NCAA contending that Penn State’s $60 million fine should support child welfare organizations within Pennsylvania rather than across the United States, and the discovery process for that lawsuit revealed internal e-mails illustrating the NCAA’s deliberations regarding its handling of the Freeh Report and the issuing of the consent decree (Horne, 2014). NCAA Vice President of Enforcement Julie Roe characterized the sanctions as a “bluff” and Vice President of Academic and Membership Affairs Kevin Lennon wrote, “I know we are banking on the fact the school is so embarrassed they will do anything, but I am not sure about that, and no confidence conference or other members will agree to that [. . .] This will force the jurisdictional issue that we really don’t have a great answer to that one” (Horne, 2014, paras. 3, 5). Such developments led to the eventual reversal of the athletic sanctions and unrest among alumni, leading to the emergence of an alumni interest group supporting candidates for the alumni-elected positions on the university’s Board of Trustees (Associated Press, 2012; Esack & Hall, 2015).

Allegations of Sexual Abuse Against Larry Nassar at Michigan State University USA Gymnastics and Michigan State University physician Larry Nassar was sentenced in 2018 for sexually abusing over 100 women over a course of more than 20 years. Michigan State agreed to hundreds of millions of dollars in civil settlements and a record Title IX fine, and it had a president and a subsequent interim president resign in the wake of the allegations against Nassar (Bauer-Wolf, 2019; Haag & Tracy, 2018; Jesse, 2019a). Nassar faced a Title IX investigation at Michigan State in 2014 that did not lead to his removal, and other institutions can learn

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from this example in order to try to limit the duration of other severe misconduct (Barr & Murphy, 2018). Organizational culture and institution characteristics Larry Nassar joined USA Gymnastics as an athletic trainer in 1986 and was appointed medical coordinator in 1996 (“Who is Larry Nassar?”, n.d.). In 1997, he became a team doctor and joined the faculty at Michigan State University (“Who is Larry Nassar?”, n.d.) In the “hyper-competitive environment” of gymnastics, Nassar assumed a role as “the smiling trainer who helped gymnasts decompress from the pressure-cooker environment” created by coaches, and one former gymnast conveyed, “There’s no way any of the girls would have felt comfortable saying anything” about Nassar to John Geddert, the Michigan coach with whom Nassar worked for several years (Barr & Murphy, 2018, paras. 17, 19, 20). Similar to Penn State, Michigan State University is a public land-grant university and a member of the Association of American Universities, but “gymnastics is coded ‘female’” and is subject to “the correlative lack of sports coverage given to gymnastics in general” (Bianco, 2018, para. 8; “Our History”, n.d.). Alleged wrongdoing Nassar was accused of sexual abuse by over 150 individuals over more than 20 years, with many who were minors at the time of the alleged abuse (Levenson, 2018). He committed the abuse under the guise of medical treatment for sports injuries. He often was alone with gymnasts in a training room or in his residence, and in Rachael Denhollander’s account, she said “her mother was present during Nassar’s treatments, but that he positioned himself and her in such a way that only her head and back were visible” (Barr & Murphy, 2018; Evans et al., 2016, para. 23). Separately, he was charged with possession of child pornography, and he eventually pleaded guilty to seven counts of criminal sexual conduct related to the abuse allegations and three counts of criminal sexual conduct related to the child pornography (Levenson, 2018). Nassar faced a police investigation and a Title IX investigation through Michigan State in 2014 over a sexual assault allegation during a treatment, but he argued that his technique was medically justified, and he avoided charges and continued practicing (Mencarini, 2018). In a statement to police as part of the 2014 investigation, Nassar noted he had used similar techniques with patients since 1997 (Mencarini, 2018). As part of the Title IX investigation, four experts gave statements with all having ties to Nassar and one who was a “close friend,” and the expert testimony suggesting “the complainant didn’t understand the ‘nuanced difference’ between the medical procedure and assault” (Barr & Murphy, 2018, para. 64) . Michigan State received a Title IX report that recommended “obtain [ing] consent,” “[h]aving a resident, nurse, or someone in the room during a sensitive procedure,” and evaluating the “procedure for intake of complaints about physicians’ behavior,” shared with then-Dean William Strampel, but those passages from the report were not shared with the public, and Nassar continued to practice (Mencarini, 2018).

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Emergence of information On August 4, 2016, the IndyStar published a story about sexual misconduct complaints received by USA Gymnastics against over 50 coaches and questioned if USA Gymnastics officials did enough to protect competitors, who were often children and adolescents (Kwiatkowski et al., 2016). In response to the August 4 story, Rachael Denhollander contacted the IndyStar to share her experience with Nassar (Evans et al., 2016). Denhollander alleged abuse by Nassar dating back to the 1990s, detailed in a separate IndyStar story published September 12, and she filed a Title IX report with Michigan State and a criminal complaint with its university police (Evans et al., 2016). Nassar was arrested in Michigan November 21 “on three counts of first-degree criminal sexual conduct with a person younger than 13,” with acknowledgment of a number of other complaints and tips related to his abuse (Alesia et al., 2016, para. 5). He faced additional charges in December 2016 proceeding from child pornography (Mencarini, 2016). Public attention National media attention around Nassar spiked around his sentencing in January 2018. As part of his plea deal, “[a]ll 125 victims who reported assaults to Michigan State Police [would] be allowed to give victim impact statements at Nassar’s sentencing” (Chavez & Levenson, 2017, para. 2). Impact statements began January 16 and concluded January 24 with Nassar’s sentencing (Barr & Murphy, 2018; Levenson, 2018). At the outset of the impact statements, ESPN’s Outside the Lines released an account of the network in place around Nassar in Michigan and through USA Gymnastics who might have had a chance to intervene (Barr & Murphy, 2018). This coverage, in conjunction with the impact statements and sentencing, drew additional national attention to Nassar’s activity beyond the whistleblower accounts, arrest, and admission of guilt. Institution response In response to Denhollander’s account of her allegations against Nassar in the IndyStar on September 12, 2016, Michigan State fired Nassar on September 20 (Alesia et al., 2016). On January 24, 2018, on the last day of Nassar’s sentencing, Michigan State’s president Lou Anna Simon resigned, noting, “As tragedies are politicized, blame is inevitable. As president, it is only natural that I am the focus of this anger” (Haag & Tracy, 2018, para. 4). Almost exactly a year later, Simon’s interim replacement, John Engler, also resigned from Michigan State (Jesse, 2019a). Engler drew criticism for a number of actions attempting to bring Michigan State through the aftermath of the accusations against Nassar, suggesting at one point to journalists that Nassar’s accusers were “enjoying the spotlight” (Jesse, 2019a, para. 12). While interim president, Engler oversaw the retirement in July 2018 of Strampel, dean of Michigan State’s College of Osteopathic Medicine, while Strampel himself faced criminal charges for misconduct in office, criminal sexual conduct, and neglect of duty (Kozlowski, 2018). Michigan State provost June Youatt resigned later in 2019 in light of criticism of her handling of complaints about Strampel’s behavior as dean (Kozlowski, 2019). In 2018, Michigan State also introduced an administrative unit dedicated to compliance, ethics, and risk management in order to better handle such information (Kozlowski, 2018).

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Resolution and ultimate outcomes Nassar eventually pleaded guilty to several counts of criminal sexual conduct and admitted to abusing his position, in order to reduce the number of charges he faced (Chavez & Levenson, 2017). Michigan State reached a $500 million settlement in 2018 with 332 claimants related to Nassar’s abuse and received a record $4.5 million fine in 2019 from the US Department of Education related to Title IX violations (Bauer-Wolf, 2019). Lou Anna Simon was charged in 2018 with lying to investigators about what she knew about the 2014 Title IX investigation into Nassar’s activities, but those charges were initially overturned (Banta, 2020). After John Engler’s resignation as Michigan State president in January 2019, Michigan State’s board identified Satish Udpa as the institution’s interim president (Jesse, 2019b). Udpa had served as executive vice president for administration since 2013 but said he would not serve as permanent president, and Michigan State’s board would prepare a national search for its next president (Jesse, 2019b).

Rolling Stone’s “A Rape on Campus” at the University of Virginia On November 19, 2014, Rolling Stone published an account from a student known as Jackie of a 2012 gang rape in a fraternity house at The University of Virginia. The article generated a large amount of national attention, but by December 5 The Washington Post and others questioned the accuracy of the article, and Rolling Stone retracted the piece. The article still called attention to the prevalence of sexual misconduct on college campuses and the sensitivity necessary in interpreting accounts of sexual misconduct, and the case illustrates another challenge for administrators called on to respond to allegations of wrongdoing before all information is available. Organizational culture and institution characteristics The University of Virginia routinely ranks among the top four public universities and in the top 30 among all universities in the United States, according to U.S. News and World Report, and the university also is a member of the Association of American Universities (“Facts, & Figures”, n.d.; “Our Members”, n.d.). The university educates a relatively large share of students from upper-income households, with 8.5 percent of students in the 1991 birth cohort (who entered in around 2009) from the top 1 percent of households by income and only 15 percent of students from the bottom 60 percent of households by income (“Some Colleges Have More Students From the Top 1 Percent Than the Bottom 60. Find Yours,” n.d.). In 2014, Rolling Stone looked for a representative case to illustrate the culture of sexual misconduct present within colleges and universities, and audiences might take notice of a story involving elite individuals or institutions, including those from higher-income backgrounds (Coronel et al., 2015; Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001). Researchers have found that individuals who participate in fraternities and sororities in college have an increased risk of exposure to sexual harassment and sexual assault, so a case of sexual misconduct involving a fraternity at an elite university may have captured the interest of Rolling Stone’s editors (Barnes et al., 2021; Minow & Einolf, 2009).

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Alleged wrongdoing A University of Virginia student known as Jackie recounted an incident at the Phi Kappa Psi fraternity house in September 2012 (Coronel et al., 2015). Early in her first year at the university, a third-year student who worked with her as a lifeguard took her to a party at the house. The student who brought Jackie to the party later brought her upstairs to a room and shut the door before seven other men assaulted and raped her (Coronel et al., 2015). After the incident, Jackie recalled meeting three friends on campus and telling them “something bad” happened to her and “her friends understood that she had been sexually assaulted” (Coronel et al., 2015, para. 39). Jackie also recalled her friends communicating reluctance to report what happened if it might make them unwelcome at future parties or pose a risk to the fraternity system (Coronel et al., 2015). Emergence of information On July 8, 2014, Rolling Stone writer Sabrina Rubin Erdely reached out to Emily Renda at the University of Virginia (Coronel et al., 2015). Erdely was in search of a story reflective of “‘what it’s like to be on campus now [. . .] where not only is rape so prevalent but that there’s this pervasive culture of sexual harassment/rape culture,’” and Renda was a staff member who worked on issues related to sexual misconduct for the university and herself a rape survivor (Coronel et al., 2015, para. 1). Renda connected Erdely with “Jackie,” a third-year student at the university who alleged she had been raped by a group of men at a party, Erdely interviewed Jackie eight times between July and October 2014, and Rolling Stone published the resulting article, “A Rape on Campus: A Brutal Assault and Struggle for Justice at UVA,” on November 19, 2014 (Coronel et al., 2015). Public attention Rolling Stone’s article generated over 2.7 million views (Coronel et al., 2015). Some of the attention on the piece began to raise doubts about its accuracy, and Erdely learned The Washington Post was preparing an article calling details in “A Rape on Campus” into question (Coronel et al., 2015; Merlan, 2014). Erdely herself questioned why Jackie was unable to provide the spelling of the last name of the individual who brought her to the party, and Erdely was then unable to verify he worked for the university’s aquatic center (Coronel et al., 2015). On December 4, Erdely called her editor to convey she had lost confidence in the accuracy of the published account, and Rolling Stone posted an editor’s note citing “discrepancies” in the reporting and withdrawing the piece (Coronel et al., 2015, para. 151). On December 5, The Washington Post published a story contending that there was no social event at the Phi Kappa Psi house on the night of the alleged attack; that Jackie gave a different account to her friends, though they still believe she experienced something traumatic; that no one with the name of an alleged attacker ever belonged to Phi Kappa Psi; and that the fraternity would not have had initiation activities taking place during the fall (Shapiro, 2014). Institution response On November 20, the university’s Phi Kappa Psi chapter suspended its activities, and on November 22, “[f]aced with mounting pressure from students, faculty, and alumni” after the November 19 article, President Teresa Sullivan announced the suspension of all fraternities and sororities at the university

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until the start of the spring semester (DeBonis & Shapiro, 2014). On November 25, the university engaged O’Melveny & Myers to conduct an independent review of the university’s response to this and other sexual misconduct allegations (Evans, 2015). In response to the release of the Washington Post critique and Rolling Stone’s questioning of the original article, Sullivan released a statement on December 5 asserting, “The University remains first and foremost concerned with the care and support of our students, and, especially, any survivor of sexual assault” and that the institution would continue to evaluate its policies and program offerings (Shapiro, 2014, para. 15). Resolution and ultimate outcomes In March 2015, the Charlottesville Police Department announced it was not able to find a factual basis to support Rolling Stone’s presentation of the details of the events, but the department’s chief noted that the inability to corroborate the details of the story as presented by Rolling Stone did not mean that some version of the alleged wrongdoing did not occur (Coronel et al., 2015). Rolling Stone commissioned a review of journalistic practices leading up to the article’s publication and retracted the article officially on April 5, 2014 (Coronel et al., 2015). These findings related to the details of Jackie’s account did not mean that sexual misconduct was not an issue at this institution or others, and “Erdely’s reporting led her to other, adjudicated cases of rape at the university that could have illustrated her narrative” (Coronel et al., 2015, para. 30). However, Rolling Stone’s coverage of the specific allegations did have legal consequences and create challenges for individuals featured in the story, and University of Virginia administrator Nicole Eramo, the Phi Kappa Psi chapter at the university, and three members of the chapter sued Rolling Stone and reached settlement agreements (Gardner, 2017).

Recommendations for Practice Recommendations for practice include guidance relevant to presidents and governing boards of colleges and universities, legal counsel, employees, and affected parties and their advocates. These recommendations proceed from the proposed conceptual models, synthesis of the three case examples, and findings from related scholarship. These recommendations also form a basis for some of the future research directions outlined in the subsequent section.

Recommendation #1: Institutions Should Facilitate Reporting and Oversight (Stage 0) Institution leaders should strive to ensure that institution resources support training on reporting and that employees’ and students’ comfort with reporting wrongdoing is part of their organizational culture (Cho & Song, 2015; Dungan et al., 2015). Both the Jerry Sandusky case at Penn State and the Larry Nassar case at Michigan State included opportunities when allegations of wrongdoing could have prevented years

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of similar activity (Barr & Murphy, 2018; Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). At Penn State, employees discussed but did not make a formal report related to a witness account of Sandusky in 2000 out of fear of retaliation, and others outside the executive administration knew about the 2001 allegation but did not make a formal report (Sollers et al., 2013). Individuals would be more likely to make reports if they are aware of reporting options, protected from retaliation, and educated on whistleblowing, and institution leaders should promote these supports (Cho & Song, 2015; Dungan et al., 2015; Near & Miceli, 1985). Additional supports including bystander intervention training or institution-wide honor codes may reduce the incidence of misconduct (Kettrey et al., 2019; McCabe & Trevino, 1993). Finally, institutions should seek to conduct internal investigations that are accurate, independent, and impartial and to avoid hindering investigations from outside groups (Barr & Murphy, 2018; Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). In the case of the 2014 Title IX investigation into Larry Nassar at Michigan State, expert medical testimony came from Nassar’s colleagues at the institution; on the other hand, Penn State’s commissioned independent investigation of Jerry Sandusky’s activity also received criticism for some of its interpretations and conclusions, so institution leaders should prepare plans in advance to conduct investigations and share findings with the public if needed (Barr & Murphy, 2018; Sollers et al., 2013).

Recommendation #2: Institution Leaders Should Self-Disclose Credible Allegations of Wrongdoing (Stage 2) Whereas the first recommendation focuses on individuals in positions across a college or university, the second focuses on executive administrators at the top of reporting chains who might receive whistleblower reports or hear other allegations. In the Sandusky case at Penn State, executive administrators including the president sought advice from legal counsel after receiving an allegation and acknowledged that reporting to an outside public agency would be appropriate, but they did not make a report (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). Earlier reporting potentially limits the duration and magnitude of wrongdoing and protects potential victims. With respect to strategic interests around institutional reputation, reporting limits the potential magnitude of an event that might attract media attention (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001). Reporting limits legal liability for any individuals with knowledge of wrongdoing, limits attributional ambiguity by leaving only the perpetrator with responsibility, and limits space for the development of a “blame game” and source of continuous media interest (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Limiting attributional ambiguity and swiftly reporting wrongdoing also may limit counter-narratives that complexify framing of the wrongdoing (Coombs, 2007; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Institution leaders may face competing pressures to avoid making a report (Warin et al., 2018). Administrators may decide that reporting intentional misconduct is not optimal if perpetrators have connections to important resources such as private donations or athletic revenue (Pfeffer & Salancik, 1978). Reporting especially

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offensive instances of misconduct may also provide potential news items featuring surprise or deviance elements that news media might widely report (Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Shoemaker & Cohen, 2006; Shoemaker & Vos, 2009). Accusations of wrongdoing may lead accused individuals to garner public support or launch counter-accusations, especially if evidence of guilt is ambiguous or perpetrators have symbolic power within an organization (Hallett, 2003; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). However, failing to report leaves affected parties vulnerable to more of the same activity, and administrators face criminal and professional liability if wrongdoing is discovered before they initiate reporting (Domonoske, 2017; Haag & Tracy, 2018; Rutherford & Lozano, 2018). Some examples of severe misconduct that have come to light have not had long-term effects on institutions’ applications and donations, so misconduct that is reported before it is allowed to worsen may lead to similar effects, but this is an open question for further research (Jarvis, 2019).

Recommendation #3: Institutions, Affected Parties, and Advocates Should Understand How to Manage Media and Public Attention on Alleged Wrongdoing (Stage 3) The third recommendation is relevant for both executive administrators and advocates for affected parties and relates to marshaling media attention for competing purposes. Media attention played an important role in each of the three case examples, leading to the emergence of allegations at The University of Virginia and immediately preceding executive turnover at Penn State and Michigan State (Coronel et al., 2015; Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012; Haag & Tracy, 2018). In the Sandusky case at Penn State, both Spanier and Paterno independently released statements to the media in the days after the emergence of charges, separately defending Curley and Schultz and outlining Paterno’s plans to retire, and both of these preempted the Board of Trustees (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). Ambiguity around responsibility and around right and wrong can lead institutions into protracted blame games, characterized by shifting of blame and emergence of narratives that contradict institutions’ preferred framing of events (Roulet & Pichler, 2020). In that light, and conditional on other processes like evidence gathering and civil and criminal proceedings, institutions have incentive to minimize ambiguity and constrain the window in which competing narratives can emerge. If the occurrence of or responsibility for wrongdoing are ambiguous, institutions should create space for due process as investigations proceed, and if key information is unavailable or unknown, institutions can communicate contingency plans that will activate when information becomes available or refer observers to anticipated timelines for formal investigations and efforts to gather information. On the other hand, advocates for affected parties may want to amplify media attention and public pressure on institutions to make restitution. If individuals who experienced wrongdoing are dissatisfied with institutions’ responses, they may resist institutions’ chosen framing of misconduct, and media outlets interested in experiences of injustice may find interest in featuring such a conflict (Coombs, 2007;

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Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Media outlets have interest in portraying this, if a back-and-forth continuing news story may emerge, especially when disputes involve elite institutions, high-profile individuals, or narratives of justice and abuse of power (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001). Institutions thus limit the space for the development of competing narratives by limiting the ambiguity surrounding the initial accusations of wrongdoing, but other parties may have incentives to see the dispute continue (Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Identifying drivers of media attention to wrongdoing in higher education and influences of attention on institution responses are important areas for future research.

Recommendation #4: Institution Leaders Should Prepare to Navigate Tensions Between Due Process and Public Pressure for a Response (Stage 4) Beyond managing public attention to allegations, institution leaders also need to navigate making decisions in the midst of public attention, possibly under pressure or while perceiving a short timeline to act. In instances of wrongdoing when responsibility is difficult to assign, Coombs (2007) advanced denying wrongdoing and diminishing the importance of the wrongdoing as appropriate strategies, and Roulet and Pichler (2020) proposed that organizations would look for scapegoats to blame. In the three example cases, Spanier responded to the grand jury’s presentment by defending Curley and Schultz, Michigan State responded to the IndyStar articles by firing Nassar, and The University of Virginia responded to Rolling Stone’s article by suspending fraternities and sororities (Alesia et al., 2016; Coronel et al., 2015; Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). Denying, diminishing, and scapegoating strategies do not make room for, or emphasize the importance of, due process and letting investigations play out before assigning blame. Asking stakeholders to wait until responsibility can be clearly assigned is not the same thing as denying wrongdoing and does not minimize the importance of the allegations, but it is also not the same as conceding that wrongdoing occurred and immediately taking responsibility (Coombs, 2007; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Calls for patience from stakeholders to wait for potentially lengthy investigations to conclude before assigning blame—or declining to make public comments while criminal investigations are ongoing—may feel to some stakeholders like the institution is denying wrongdoing or diminishing the importance of the alleged wrongdoing, especially if accused individuals are placed on leave but still affiliated with their institutions. However, calling for patience and weathering short-term criticism may have long-term benefits for institutions, especially when initial allegations are incomplete or inaccurate, as in the original University of Virginia Rolling Stone article and the NCAA’s internal questioning of its jurisdiction to sanction Penn State (Coronel et al., 2015; Horne, 2014). If governing boards make decisions to ask stakeholders to wait for more information in the face of accusations of wrongdoing, or to report credible evidence of

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wrongdoing by a popular or well-connected institution affiliate, the boards themselves need to have some amount of reputational capital with stakeholders to avoid dissent or the emergence of counter-narratives (Hallett, 2003; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Individual board members may bring some individual legitimacy with them when they join a board, if they are already familiar among stakeholders, but many individual board members may lack recognizability or have little trust from stakeholders. Boards may engender legitimacy by practicing transparency on lower-stakes decisions and building trust with stakeholders, including faculty, staff, students, alumni, elected officials, and community members, but board members may perceive this additional transparency as unnecessary, bothersome, or inviting added scrutiny. The payoff of this kind of approach would not materialize until boards need to draw on this legitimacy or goodwill with stakeholders. Without this legitimacy, board members or executive administrators may make decisions deemed to be necessary but unpopular and then face calls to resign (Schackner, 2013; Seltzer, 2019).

Recommendation #5: Institutions and Stakeholders Should Exercise Care and Respect for Affected Parties (Throughout) Institution leaders and institution representatives should let respect and care for affected parties inform their decisions and statements from the emergence of information about an allegation of wrongdoing through an institution’s response and resolution and as part of an institution’s ongoing culture (Daly, 2017; Livingston, 2020; McGlynn & Westmarland, 2019). Executive administrators at Penn State never attempted to learn the identities of affected parties after receiving an allegation in 2001, which might have protected them from future abuse (Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). Michigan State’s interim president claimed Nassar’s accusers were “enjoying the spotlight” while the university navigated the resolution of the allegations and civil settlements with the affected parties (Jesse, 2019a, para. 12). Key components of justice for individuals experiencing misconduct include perceptions that institutional processes are fair, prevention of future misconduct, recognition of sexual violence victim-survivors’ experiences, and awareness of the effects of systemic racism on individuals who experienced racial discrimination (Lind & Tyler, 1988; Livingston, 2020; McGlynn & Westmarland, 2019; Tyler, 1990). Institutions’ crisis management strategies of denying responsibility, diminishing the importance of the underlying wrongdoing, or shifting blame to a scapegoat may directly come into conflict with these conceptions of justice (Coombs, 2007; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Institution leaders may also find tension in addressing or describing allegations of wrongdoing if ongoing civil or criminal proceedings limit the ability to comment, if doing so would open institutions to liability, or if some stakeholders would not want to validate accusers’ moral positions or see the institution admit any wrongdoing (Coombs, 2007; Fitzpatrick, 1995; Haidt, 2012; Tyler, 1997). However, other key

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components of justice models—dignity and empathy—should be more expected even without formal acceptance of responsibility (Livingston, 2020; McGlynn & Westmarland, 2019). Attacking accusers (a component of the situational crisis communications theory’s set of approaches to deny wrongdoing) would directly conflict with the goals of dignity and empathy and should not be done lightly or without formal evidence. Further, some stakeholders may find institution responses that attack accusers to be objectionable (Haidt, 2012; Jesse, 2019a). Dignity and empathy can influence public statements from institution representatives in addition to individual decisions around reporting, investigating, and referring affected parties to appropriate resources (Cho & Song, 2015; Dungan et al., 2015; Mancini et al., 2016).

Agenda for Future Research The synthesis of existing literature and recommendations for practice in this chapter identified several promising directions for future research. These include the effects of allegations of wrongdoing on institution outcomes, determinants of institutions’ responses to allegations, and effects of wrongdoing on outcomes conditional on characteristics of the wrongdoing and characteristics of institutions’ responses. The following review of future directions articulates these points and identifies promising data sources and research methods for both quantitative and qualitative researchers to use to investigate these questions.

Effects of Wrongdoing and Attention on a Broad Set of Outcomes Recent studies examined the relationships between undergraduate scandals and applications for admission and between Title IX investigations and applications and private gifts (Lindo et al., 2019; Rooney & Smith, 2019). Research has also connected scandal incidence to president turnover and NCAA sanctions to job switching for coaches in college athletics (Avery et al., 2016; Rutherford & Lozano, 2018). A broader set of outcomes might include measures of campus climate perceptions, student and staff morale and retention, and stakeholder perceptions of the institution experiencing allegations of wrongdoing. If campuses experience incidents that threaten students’ safety or sense of belonging, students might report lower satisfaction or a greater intention to leave. Comparatively little research focuses on the experiences of staff members after incidents of wrongdoing, especially for development and alumni relations staff members who may need to convince stakeholders to support the institution. Student and staff morale are also much more likely to be affected by unreported incidents of wrongdoing; outcomes like applications and private gifts would depend more on media accounts to create awareness of an underlying incident, while students and staff members on a campus can be affected by unreported harassment or other wrongdoing.

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Effects of Wrongdoing on Outcomes Conditional on Characteristics of Wrongdoing The first five stages of the proposed model illustrate opportunities to investigate potential conditional relationships between characteristics of alleged wrongdoing and the key outcomes. With respect to the type of wrongdoing, existing research generally groups different kinds of wrongdoing together, but different types of wrongdoing might lead to different effects (Rooney & Smith, 2019; Rutherford & Lozano, 2018). One advantage of grouping is that documented examples of allegations of wrongdoing are relatively rare, and quantitative researchers gain statistical precision from examining a larger number of events. However, wrongdoing carried out by administrators might have different effects from wrongdoing carried out by students, or more severe allegations might have larger effects on outcomes compared to mild or moderate wrongdoing. The conclusion of allegations might also influence long-term institution outcomes, with potentially smaller effects if allegations turn out to be untrue or if institutions settle claims without admission of guilt. Different kinds of underlying wrongdoing might also vary in the length of time over which their effects persist (e.g., just a single year or lasting for multiple years), wrongdoing within one department or functional area of an institution might have a larger effect on that unit’s outcomes relative to the outcomes of unrelated units, and selective institutions or institutions with excess demand might have enrollments that are less sensitive to allegations compared to the enrollments of less-selective institutions (Hughes et al., 2019; Laband & Lentz, 2003).

Effects of Wrongdoing on Outcomes Conditional on Channel of Emergence of Information About Wrongdoing One key direction for future research is an investigation of the source of information about wrongdoing on long-run institution outcomes. If institution leaders discover wrongdoing, they might self-disclose or report immediately, or they might wait to gather more information, attempt to handle any issue internally, or hope the wrongdoing is not noticed. If institution leaders report wrongdoing upon discovery, they risk drawing media attention based on surprise or deviance and risk facing counteraccusations from implicated stakeholders, but they would limit the magnitude of wrongdoing (for wrongdoing still ongoing when discovered) and avoid legal liability for offenses such as obstruction of justice, if discovered activity should be reported by law (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). If institution leaders do not report wrongdoing right away, they risk additional harm to victims, legal liability from not reporting wrongdoing, media coverage of wrongdoing of a potentially greater magnitude, and some likelihood that another individual within the organization will blow the whistle on the wrongdoing, but there is a chance that the underlying wrongdoing will go unnoticed (Galtung & Ruge, 1965; Harcup & O’Neill, 2001; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Relevant outcome variables that researchers might investigate include applications for admission, enrollment, private donations, employee turnover, student

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retention, campus climate measures, stakeholder opinions, and criminal or civil penalties. The key independent variable would be the channel of emergence of information about wrongdoing (self-disclosure, a whistleblower, or outside discovery), and in a regression framework, researchers might examine the relationship between wrongdoing and outcomes in samples of institutions that self-disclosed and institutions that did not, or researchers might include interaction terms between indicators of wrongdoing having been reported and indicators for the channel of emergence of information. Outcomes might also vary with differ depending on the external source making an allegation, which may range from former employees to media outlets to state or federal law enforcement agencies (Winters & WeitzShapiro, 2016).

Effects of Wrongdoing on Institution Response Conditional on Characteristics of Wrongdoing Several factors from earlier stages in the conceptual model may have an influence on institution leaders’ chosen responses to allegations, including the parties responsible for the alleged wrongdoing, media attention to the allegations, and the moral or attributional ambiguity of the alleged wrongdoing. Accused students may receive less leniency than accused administrators receive, or, more generally, institution leaders may hesitate less to take action against individuals with less influence within the institution or individuals not connected to important departments (Hallett, 2003). Only extensive media coverage of allegations precipitated administrative turnover at Penn State and Nassar’s firing at Michigan State, so media attention might also sway leaders’ decisions, conditional on other characteristics of the alleged wrongdoing (Alesia et al., 2016; Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012). In particular, if there is an impact of media attention on institution response, institution leaders may be less likely to take action in response to equally-severe wrongdoing at institutions that receive less media coverage, and this is an important area for further investigation. Existing theoretical models also predict that institution leaders would be more likely to deny or diminish the importance of wrongdoing, look for a scapegoat, or argue that the alleged activity is not inappropriate if there is not a party clearly responsible or if the activity is not clearly right or wrong (Coombs, 2007; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). More empirical support for these proposed relationships and a more complete model of colleges’ and universities’ responses to allegations of wrongdoing would be important contributions to the literature.

Effects of Wrongdoing on Outcomes Conditional on Institution Response to Wrongdoing Once the public is aware of allegations of wrongdoing, institutions might respond by taking different actions, such as making statements, taking personnel actions, changing policies, agreeing to settle claims, or going to court. Statements can be parsed for content like admission of guilt or acknowledgment of the harm caused to the party

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making allegations (Cole & Harper, 2017). For outcome variables like applications, enrollment, student retention, and private gifts, quantitative researchers might construct samples of institutions that experienced similar kinds of wrongdoing and include indicator variables for executive turnover or admission of guilt to investigate relationships between responses and related outcomes. For variables like campus climate perceptions or student or staff morale, qualitative researchers might pair document analysis with focus groups reacting to institutions’ statements, or quantitative researchers might compare responses to statements from institution leaders across students and staff members from different demographic and socioeconomic subgroups. Stakeholders not often represented in the literature, including prospective donors, prospective students or their families, and even prospective employers, might make useful study participants to gather their perceptions of an institution’s actions and their future willingness to engage with the institution (Eury et al., 2018).

Quantitative Research Designs and Data Sources Measurement is a fundamental challenge in applying quantitative research methods to understanding wrongdoing, because some incidents of wrongdoing may never be widely acknowledged (Kelley & Chang, 2007). Even when instances of wrongdoing within colleges and universities reach public awareness, there is no comprehensive database of such instances or their characteristics. For researchers intent on creating a dataset featuring instances of wrongdoing, web searching is one viable approach to identify where and when incidents of wrongdoing occurred for those incidents that have some record of media coverage (Kelley & Chang, 2007; Rooney & Smith, 2019). Web searches may or may not include names of specific institutions and should also include some descriptors related to the behavior of interest that will return relevant news stories (e.g., “cheating scandal” in Rooney and Smith’s [2019] case). Google searches may return records from local, regional, or national coverage, and these searches may be supplemented with archival searches of relevant publications like Inside Higher Ed, The Chronicle of Higher Education, or a regional publication that covers education issues in a given institution’s state. Incidents recovered from web searches can be linked with an institution and dates of occurrence, which can then be linked with other institution characteristics or outcomes from public data sources, and the records of the incident might also be coded for characteristics like the type or severity of misconduct, the parties responsible and affected, the nature of any institutional response, or the extent of media coverage (Kelley & Chang, 2007; Rooney & Smith, 2019). While no database exists to catalog every example of wrongdoing within colleges and universities, some agencies report official sanctions, including Title IX investigations (Lindo et al., 2019; Chronicle of Higher Education, 2021), NCAA violations (Avery et al., 2016; NCAA, 2020), and loan default sanctions (Cellini et al., 2020; DeCosta, n.d.), or prevalence of types of misconduct including sexual harassment (Cantor et al., 2020). Social media data represent a related alternative to web searches for identifying broad categories of incidents. As one example of a social media platform, Twitter

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allows academic researchers to search the full historical archive of tweets for communications matching particular search terms (“Academic Research Access”, n.d.). Searches again may include both descriptors related to behavior and the names of institutions or individuals implicated in some alleged wrongdoing. Social media data collection allows for illustration of the onset, volume, and duration of conversation around different incidents as well as differentiation across characteristics of engaged users and differences in the sentiment of their communications. Incidents documented through web searches, social media searches, or databases of sanctions can be linked with public sources of data on institution characteristics and outcomes, like IPEDS. Relevant outcomes in IPEDS might include applications for admission, enrollment, private gifts, or retention rates, and researchers can construct regression models of these outcomes with indicators of incidents as time-specific independent variables (Lindo et al., 2019; Rooney & Smith, 2019). Institution-specific data might also be employed in this way, potentially drawing on data like donor-level or giftlevel data to examine more detailed impacts of incidents on giving patterns or personnel records to examine staff retention. Surveys represent another approach for documenting the occurrence of wrongdoing as well as illustrating potential consequences. Survey research may be advantageous when wrongdoing has occurred but has not been reported widely, with the AAU Campus Climate Survey on Sexual Assault and Misconduct as one example (Cantor et al., 2020). Surveys can be administered to ask respondents if they have experienced behavior like sexual misconduct, discrimination, or harassment, or surveys may be implemented purposefully at institutions after they have experienced some publicized incident. Follow-up surveys might ask constituents how they felt about the underlying wrongdoing, how they felt about their institution’s response, or how they presently view the institution (Rankin and Associates, 2017). In particular, for staff, instruments designed to elicit notions like burnout might be relevant if staff members do not feel like their perspectives were represented in an institution’s response but they still need to carry out work on behalf of the institution (Maslach & Jackson, 1981). A final strategy for quantitative data collection is to employ survey experiments, a strategy widely used in political science research, with groups of participants that might include institution staff members, current or prospective students, current or prospective donors, or even employers (Bhatti et al., 2013; Doherty et al., 2011, 2014). As an example, survey respondents might read vignettes about some incident of wrongdoing, and in one vignette, a university president owns up to the wrongdoing and in the other denies responsibility. Respondents who randomly receive one vignette or the other would then answer questions about their opinion of the president’s response and their perception of the institution. Specific follow-up questions might include asking institution personnel how they would respond to wrongdoing they observed or how hypothetical administrative decisions would make them feel about their employer, how prospective students or their parents would view an institution handling wrongdoing as an option for college admissions, or how prospective donors would feel about donating to an institution handling wrongdoing (Eury et al., 2018). Survey questions of prospective employers might

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ask if employers would view graduates differently if they earned degrees from institutions that experienced wrongdoing.

Qualitative Research Designs and Data Sources Qualitative research holds a number of strategies with promise for understanding emergent awareness of wrongdoing, institutional responses, and consequences within colleges and universities (Kimball & Loya, 2017; George Mwangi & Bettencourt, 2017). Single-institution or comparative multi-institution case studies are well suited for characterizing the experience of a single incident from beginning to end (George Mwangi & Bettencourt, 2017). Such studies would permit not only an in-depth analysis of starting and end points, but could provide necessary context of different institutional actors at different points through an incident’s lifecycle. Further, comparative studies utilizing qualitative data might feature incidents with important similarities (such as similar institutions or similar underlying wrongdoing) in order to understand the importance of other characteristics that differed across cases. As an example, a comparison of incidents of similar wrongdoing at a large and a small institution, at a public and a private institution, within athletics and within an academic department, or at an institution that reported early on and an institution that did not report might allow for understanding of the implications of these differences. Ethnographic approaches, including observation, may be appropriate for gathering data on the experiences of groups within an organizational culture or the differences in values, interpretations, or priorities that may exist across subgroups within the same organization (George Mwangi & Bettencourt, 2017). Such differences might include the intention to remain enrolled or employed at the institution, the intention to support the institution in the future, or the willingness to engage in organizational learning (Bruhn et al., 2002; Eury et al., 2018). Interviews and focus groups might be employed with students or personnel at an institution to learn about their reactions to an incident, perceptions of campus climate, or descriptions of their morale (George Mwangi & Bettencourt, 2017; Mullen et al., 2018). Episodes of institution decision-making during times of controversy create room to investigate how different constituents felt their perspectives and preferences entered into institutions’ decisions. Interviews and focus groups specifically with students, staff, or faculty members at an institution might open lines of questioning to gauge how well represented they feel relative to external stakeholders like alumni, donors, or elected officials, or these external stakeholders might even be included in qualitative studies to compare reactions to or levels of satisfaction with institutions’ responses to incidents of wrongdoing. Finally, document analysis might be applied to a range of artifacts to make sense of administrative responses and public perception (Cole & Harper, 2017; Dzielinski, Wagner, & Zeckhauser, 2017; Eury et al., 2018). Presidential statements are an explicit representation of institution responses and can be parsed to characterize how directly institution leaders addressed the underlying incidents or the extent to which leaders tried to minimize them (Cole & Harper, 2017). Public minutes from

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governing board meetings might reflect more nuance around possible strategies institutions might have pursued, including ruled-out alternatives. Board members representing different constituents, like governor-appointed board members or board members selected from faculty members or students, and administrators representing different units might also differ in their participation in ways that could be evident from an analysis of meeting minutes. Finally, transcripts of town hall meetings or public question-and-answer sessions might reflect public perceptions on the underlying incidents or institutions’ responses, and some institution-affiliated researchers might have access to communications directly from constituents to an institution (Eury et al., 2018).

Conclusion This chapter reviewed existing literature that is relevant for understanding episodes of misconduct within colleges and universities and introduced a novel conceptual model to highlight important dimensions of these episodes. The most important outcomes that this conceptual model and corresponding research agenda might support are a better understanding of conditions needed to prevent future wrongdoing in higher education and conditions that facilitate timely reporting when wrongdoing does occur. In addition to these, the chapter identified a number of important possibilities for investigating the effects of wrongdoing and allegations on institution outcomes. If empirical evidence were to suggest that there are benefits for institutions from early reporting or self-disclosure of wrongdoing, this evidence may strengthen the ethical case for early reporting, which is not always enough to sway institution leaders or which may be unclear when allegations are ambiguous (Barr & Murphy, 2018; Freeh Sporkin & Sullivan, LLP, 2012; Roulet & Pichler, 2020). Estimates of the impact of institution responses on outcomes from incidents of wrongdoing are sparse, and this chapter identified room to investigate this question and a range of related questions.

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Steve Garguilo is a practitioner and researcher focused on action and empowering employees inside complex organizations. As the Founder of Cultivate, he leads a team of researchers, I/O psychologists, learning designers, and consultants who support change initiatives at companies like Google, Takeda, Novartis, Diageo, and Mars. Steve teaches a course about the future of work at Penn State University. He received Chief Learning Officer Magazine’s highest award for innovation in 2017 for shaping a grassroots movement at Johnson & Johnson that enrolled 23,000 employees and transformed the company’s culture. Steve has worked globally and visited over 100 countries. Rodney P. Hughes is Assistant Professor of Higher Education Administration and Director of the Center for the Future of Land-Grant Education at West Virginia University. A scholar of the economics of higher education and higher education governance, his research has appeared in Educational Policy; The Review of Higher Education; Journal of Higher Education Policy and Management; Journal of College Student Retention: Research, Theory, and Practice; and Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research. Dr. Hughes served as student member of the Board of Trustees of The Pennsylvania State University from 2008 to 2011 and served on the Special Investigations Task Force that commissioned the investigation into Jerry Sandusky’s activity at Penn State. David Knight is an associate professor in the Department of Engineering Education, Special Assistant to the Dean for Strategic Plan Implementation, and affiliate faculty with the Higher Education Program at Virginia Tech. His research tends to be at the macro-scale, focused on a systems-level perspective of how engineering education can become more effective, efficient, and inclusive, tends to leverage large-scale institutional, state, or national data sets, and considers the intersection between policy and organizational contexts. He has B.S., M.S., and M.U.E.P. degrees from the University of Virginia and a Ph.D. in Higher Education from the Pennsylvania State University. J. Sarah Lozano earned her Ph.D. from Indiana University – Bloomington and her J.D. from Penn State University. While working toward the latter, she saw firsthand the events that played out on the University Park campus following the news breaking of the Sandusky child abuse scandal. These events inspired her interest in the subject of scandals in higher education and her decision to earn a doctorate in the field. Her research on student involvement and higher education governance has been published in Journal of Higher Education Policy and Management, Studies in Higher Education, and Public Administration Review. In addition to her scholarship, she has held administrative positions at Penn State University, Indiana University, and Johns Hopkins University. Amanda Rose is the State Reports Coordinator and Research Specialist at Polk State College. Her research interests include campus sexual assault, campus scandals, and social responsibility, and she has ongoing research in the areas of Title IX investigations and university scandals. She has published research in the International Journal of Business and Globalisation, Frontiers of Entrepreneurship Research, and The Oxford Handbook of White-Collar Crime. Dr. Rose is also a recipient of the 2020 ATIXA Research Grant for her collaborative work on the “Evaluation of the Impact of the 2011 Dear Colleague Letter on Colleges and Universities’ Reporting of Sexual Misconduct.”

Towards a Framework of Racialized Policymaking in Higher Education

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Awilda Rodriguez, K. C. Deane, and Charles H. F. Davis III

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Racial-Colonial Foundations of Higher Education and Racialized Power in Postsecondary Policymaking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Historical Legacies of Racial-Colonial Violence in Higher Education Policymaking . . . . . Power, Politics, and Racialization in Higher Education Policymaking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Higher Education as a Resource . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Traditional Approaches to Theorizing the Public Policy Process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Multiple Streams Framework . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Advocacy Coalition Framework . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Main Critiques of Traditional Theories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Critical Analysis of the Policymaking Process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Closed Network of the Policy Elite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Racialized Core Beliefs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Towards a New Framework of Racialized Policymaking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Racialized Policymaking Framework to Preserve the Status Quo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Racial Threat and White Resentment in Higher Education Policymaking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Racialized Policymaking to Stymie Change . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Considerations for Higher Education Policy Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reflections on the Researcher as a Policy Actor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Directions for Future Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

From threatening protestors to cutting diversity office funding on college campuses, one contemporary brand of policymaking has overtly sought to undermine social justice efforts in higher education. Current popular policymaking theories, however, are inadequate to understand this phenomenon, as they undertheorize the role of racialized power in policymaking – e.g., the racialized network of policy elites and their core beliefs. In this chapter, we endeavored to bring together existing theory, research, and contemporary policymaking examples to offer a framework of racialized policymaking that explicitly describes the lack of progress for racial equity in higher education. We first frame policymaking in higher education as an unremitting contest between the maintenance or change of the racial status quo. We enumerate specific policy strategies – through either inaction or sanctions – that status quo policymakers use to stymie racial justice projects in higher education, and close with potential future directions for higher education policy research. Keywords

Policymaking process · Race · Racism · Power · Policy theory

Introduction A great deal of higher education policies intend to reduce race- and class-based inequalities. From providing aid and support for students to attend college and complete undergraduate degrees to improving the efficiency of transition points such as developmental education and transfer functions, state and federal governments have invested heavily in reducing financial, informational, and bureaucratic barriers found in postsecondary education for racially minoritized and low-income students. Intermediary organizations such as State Higher Education Executive Officers Association, National Governors Association, and Education Commission of the States have also espoused commitments or provided support to the cause of improving higher education opportunities for marginalized communities (National Governors Association, n.d.; SHEEO, n.d.; Atchison et al., 2017). In academia, racial disparities in relation to higher education public policy are an active area of study. The extant research on higher education policy includes numerous studies that explicitly engage race, either as a variable for analysis or in discussions of research findings and their implications. Yet, while race and racial disparities in outcomes are frequently invoked, systemic racism as an explanatory factor for such disparities remains often unexplored. This is also true of higher education research more broadly, wherein many studies published in higher education journals that have engaged race have used an “anything but racism” approach to explain racial

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differences (Harper, 2012). Most higher education policy studies specifically have used majoritarian frameworks to examine higher education policymaking processes and the effects of such policies on the lives of racially minoritized communities. Many of the well-trod policy frameworks omit or leave underdeveloped the racialized nature of the polity by not acknowledging that race may serve as a mediating factor that shapes the theory’s explanatory power. For example, the latest edition of the popular Theories of the Policy Process (Weible & Sabatier, 2018), which offers a compilation of prevailing theories in policy studies, has only three entries in the index under the term “race,” all of which stem from a single chapter. Such predominance of race-neutral approaches provides an incomplete understanding of how policies intended to reduce race-based inequalities are formulated, adopted, implemented, and evaluated. Most important, much of the public policy scholarship on higher education remains ahistorical with regard to the long-standing legacy of racial colonialism and omits the ways contemporary manifestations of racialized power exist in everyday policymaking. Critical perspectives that foreground race- and power-conscious analyses provide a theoretical lens for understanding racialized histories, structures, and processes within policymaking and contest the normative, race-neutral assumptions of policy analysis. Given the vexing racialized problems researchers and policymakers espouse to address (or redress) with policy interventions (e.g., inequitable preparation for and access to higher education, affordability, and developmental education that disproportionately serves Black and Latinx students), using such approaches to examine higher education public policy is fitting. However, particular attention to the roles of racialized power and political attitudes remains underutilized in examining policy formation, agenda-setting, and other aspects of the policymaking process. Such framings are urgently needed in today’s sociopolitical context, wherein visible calls for dismantling white supremacy in higher education have heightened at the same time active efforts by policymakers to thwart such efforts have increased. The application of critical lenses to higher education policy, therefore, offers the field greater recognition and understanding of how racialized power contributes to policymaking and the resultant disparities in resource allocation across racial groups. The purpose of this chapter is to provide a framework that centers the racialized nature of the higher education enterprise and its policymaking. First, we lay out the role of higher education as a resource in its policymaking, which is undergirded by its racial-colonial foundations and historical policies that relied on racial exclusion and exploitation. We argue that white policy elites have normalized racial exclusion, thus establishing hegemonic whiteness as a status quo in US higher education. Further, we posit hegemonic whiteness in higher education policymaking is the result of racialized political power (Rosino, 2016), whereby white policy elites act as gatekeepers in an effort to maintain their hierarchical position as the sole arbiters of defining policy problems and their solutions. Here, we provide an example application of racialized power on two oft-used theories in the policymaking process in higher education – multiple streams framework and advocacy coalition

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framework – and identify ways in which the prevailing models of the policymaking process do not adequately account for racialized power and the struggle to move away from the racial status quo in higher education. We then offer a framing of status quo policymaking strategies that are used explicitly to block change. Throughout, we bring together contemporary issues and critical higher education policy scholarship to advance our theorizing about the policymaking process. By doing so, we invite higher education policy scholars to interrogate and dismantle the extant racist paradigms in higher education policymaking and its scholarship with considerations for future research.

Racial-Colonial Foundations of Higher Education and Racialized Power in Postsecondary Policymaking Higher education functions as an important resource in the production and maintenance of the white dominant class, as well as in the advancement of their interests, including in its privileging, perpetuation, and normalization of white “systems of knowledge” (Ladson-Billings, 2000, p. 257).1 By beginning with a historical lens, we understand how higher education was developed as a resource for wealthy elites, often through the exploitation and oppression of Black and Indigenous populations in the United States; as a tool to train the labor force and exert global domination of intellectual (and financial) capital; and, only in the past six decades, a pathway for marginalized groups to find social mobility.

Historical Legacies of Racial-Colonial Violence in Higher Education Policymaking For many, higher education’s intertwinement with the legacies of slavery and settler colonialism remains abstract – whereby some fraction of colleges and college founders or leadership owned and benefited from the labors of unfree people (e.g., Georgetown or Benjamin Franklin; Chou, 2018; Swarns, 2016). This relegation of higher education’s dark history to a few notable institutions and individuals – and framed within the norms and comportment of the times – undermines the ways in which the theft of land and “[h]uman slavery [were] the precondition[s] for the rise of higher education in the Americas” (Wilder, 2013, p. 114). We interpret this temporal normalization as a practice of what Saidiya Hartman calls the “violence of abstraction” (Saunders, 2008), which we seek to counter by explicitly naming these histories as well as the breadth and depth of their implications.

Recent debates about curricula – such as the teaching of critical race theory at universities – have brought this resource into political and policy spaces (e.g., U.S. Congressman Burgess Owens, 2021; Iati, 2021). 1

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Only through critical naming practices does it become clear that the US higher education system is anchored in anti-Black and anti-Indigenous violence. Consistent with critical race theory and decolonial analyses of higher education, we recognize US higher education as part and parcel of a broader racialized social system designed to serve interests of white elites at the expense and exclusion of the vulnerable. For instance, beginning in the 1600s, the first two centuries of American higher education established: the practices, behaviors, and norms of American higher education as wealthy white Christian male; the social reproduction function of elite higher education; a signaling mechanism into positions that serve the white ruling class – judges, politicians, etc.; and the intentional, active, and violent exclusion of non-white people from higher education that pervades the postsecondary enterprise and its policymaking today. Below, we focus on this colonial period as well as three specific, critical points in US history when those in institutional and political positions of power acted in ways that established and reinforced these anti-Black and anti-Indigenous norms and controlling narratives about higher education: the establishment and maintenance of colonial colleges; the Morrill Acts of 1862 and 1890; and Title II of the GI Bill.

Higher Education’s Early Racial-Colonial History From its inception, US higher education exploited Black and Indigenous people for the benefit of a white male (and Christian) ruling class, documented in Wilder’s (2013) book, Ebony & Ivy. In addition to the violent theft and dispossession of land on which to build colonial colleges, early institutional survival was premised on receiving funds to evangelize and pacify the local Indigenous communities (e.g., Harvard’s Indian College). A critical component of “Indian” education was enacting cultural genocide: to think and speak in English, acquire the ideologies of the European oppressors, and return to their people as trained ministers. Colleges were “imperial instruments akin to armories and forts” in the colonizers’ conquest of Indigenous people (p. 33) where enrollment was by “invitation, purchase, or kidnapping” (p. 44). The utility and interest in “Indian colleges” diminished, however, when white settlers were able to subjugate local Indigenous communities through violence instead of education and divert earmarked funds for the education of Indigenous students to serve white students instead. In this way, Indigenous populations subsidized the establishment of American higher education. The new slave economy and the wealth it produced also directly subsidized American higher education in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in several ways. Wilder (2013) recounts the many individuals – college founders, presidents and trustees, college instructors, current students, and alumni – who enslaved Black and Indigenous people for their own personal use. Moreover, several colleges themselves – as opposed to individuals employed by the college – would come to outright enslave people through either purchase or gift. Colleges used slave labor to clear land and construct buildings; for the maintenance of presidents’ homes and campus buildings; to wait on faculty and students; to work the campus kitchens; and even for the entertainment of students. Perhaps most illustrative of the insidious linkage between early colonial exploitation and higher education’s founding, many

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of the families involved in founding, funding, or presiding over these institutions owned slaves or underwrote the actual slave enterprise (e.g., slave ships) involved in the Trans-Atlantic slave trade. What is more, as many of these colleges sought to secure patronage and tuition, they actively sought out families who benefitted from slavery and the displacement of Indigenous people (e.g., wealthy plantation owners, merchants, and investors who trafficked enslaved people) – both as institutional benefactors and students. Wilder concludes, “It was the security that human slavery provided free men, the wealth that slave traders and slaveholders could generate, and the social networks of plantation economies. . .that carried the American academy into modernity” (p. 111). Wilder (2013) centers higher education’s role in the exploitation and subjugation of Black and Indigenous people as a necessity for its establishment, maintenance, and exclusivity. While Black and Indigenous populations were exploited for its establishment, the white elite were explicitly identified as the benefactors and beneficiaries. Higher education was designed as a place for the burgeoning wealthy class to send their young men to establish social connections and secure their places as power brokers (e.g., judges, governors). As the College of Philadelphia (today’s University of Pennsylvania) advertised their goal: to “establish [students] in Business Offices, Marriages, or any other Thing for their Advantage” (p. 138). What emerged was a well-heeled class of mostly private institutions that have largely become the most coveted in the country and serve as a perceived template for a highquality postsecondary education – what Thelin calls “an academic archetype indelibly linked with a real and imagined colonial past” that is “influential and vivid in the American imagination” (Thelin, 2004, p. 1). In contrast, efforts to create a Black college in 1831 in New Haven – what Mustaffa (2017) argues as one form of Black life-making – were not only voted down by the white male residents, but further met with violent attacks on Black homes and businesses as the prospect of educated Blacks threatened the racial order.

Racial Consequences and the Morrill Acts of 1862 and 1890 Two interrelated points in the history of US higher education policy both sought to expand access to higher education – albeit conditionally and in a manner that reinforced the extant social and economic order. First, the recognition that the country needed an educated populace beyond the elites spurred on the Morrill Act of 1862, which established what we now call land-grant universities (Florer, 1968; Thelin, 2004). This legislation is regarded as the first major involvement of the federal government in formally supporting higher education in the United States. The stated goal was to further economic development through agriculture and industrialization – with an eye towards the US’s competitiveness on the global stage – by providing the fledgling higher education enterprise with a financial endowment (Sorber, 2018). To provide this endowment, the Morrill Act of 1862 “granted” states land – considered cheaper than money at the time (Thelin, 2004) – that they could then in turn distribute to their institutions. Institutions then sold these lands for profit in order to “constitute a perpetual fund, the capital of which shall remain forever undiminished” (Morrill Act, 1862). For many of today’s flagship institutions, including some that became part of a

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constellation of highly selective public universities (e.g., University of California, University of North Carolina), profits from the sale of stolen land served as “seed money” for future financial security. The Morrill Act of 1862 was a substantial wealth transfer into higher education, totaling about $500 million in current dollars. Notably, the creation of these endowments was largely accomplished through the use of unceded or ill-gotten Indigenous land and at the exclusion of Black people. A recent study by the High Country News revealed this legislation provided states with 10.7 million acres of expropriated lands that, to gain control over, required “over 160 violence-backed land cessions” (Lee, Ahtone, et al., 2020). For example, the University of Missouri “raised over $363,000 from land that was strong-armed from the Osage for less than $700” (Lee & Ahtone, 2020). Although the legislation “helped establish a public commitment to higher education,” Black people were excluded from admission at many colleges at the time (Jones & Berger, 2018, p. 1). To the extent that exclusion raised concerns among policymakers, it was centered on the potential consequences to lower-income white males. After the Morrill Act passed, Vermont farmers – Senator Morrill’s state – lobbied that “high academic standards and tuition costs kept poor [white male] youths with only a common school education out of the university, and. . .demanded free, open-access land-grant education” (Sorber, 2018, p. 2). By 1890, many of the institutions that were beneficiaries of the 1862 land grant continued to struggle financially (Thelin, 2004). The Morrill Act of 1890, the next key policy we consider, further supported higher education through annual appropriations from the federal government to states as a pass-through for the colleges established through the 1862 land grant. An important condition to receiving aid was that “money would not be distributed to states that considered race [i.e., banned Black people] in admissions and had not established a separate college for colored students” (Wheatle, 2019, p. 3). Further, states had to establish a “just and equitable division” of the monies between the white and Black institutions. In the context of reconstruction, the Second Morrill Act sought to incentivize former Confederate States to create land-grant options for Black students. At first pass, these requirements seem like an equitable advancement – remedying the exclusionary nature of the earlier Morrill Act and requiring that states expand opportunity for Black Americans. However, Wheatle’s (2019) examination of the legislative documents that describe the process of the bill’s passage offers critical insight into the material consequences of this policy in practice. Wheatle found that even though the legislation sought to provide additional educational opportunities for Black people, its path for doing so prioritized the protection of white property and interests by codifying and funding the exclusion of Blacks from white spaces. Not surprisingly, legislators did so with very little input from Black constituents. Moreover, although lawmakers acknowledged ambiguity in the legislation that would position states to provide larger (and inequitable) shares of the appropriations to white institutions, there was insufficient interest to close these loopholes. Instead, the legislature privileged states’ rights to decide how to allocate appropriations across institutions. This decision would set up a framework of both unequal and inequitable state funding structures between white-serving colleges and universities and historically

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Black public institutions that has only compounded over time (Perna et al., 2006), with legislators reluctant to acknowledge and resolve these past inequities (e.g., in present-day Maryland and Tennessee; Chang et al., 2021; Douglas-Gabriel & Wiggins, 2021; Schwartz, 2021a). Heralded as the set of legislation that underwrote the country’s world-class higher education system and research enterprise (Thelin, 2004; Wheatle, 2019), the Morrill Acts of 1862 and 1890 created a purportedly egalitarian higher education sector that was tailored for white men of the “industrial classes” and specifically founded in the exclusion of Blacks and dispossession of Indigenous people.

The (White) Servicemen’s Readjustment Act The fourth (and final) major point in higher education policy that we consider here is Title II of the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act of 1994 (known commonly as the GI Bill). The GI Bill was the first federalized student financial aid effort and was considered “a point of demarcation. . .symbolizing the transition from the period when college-going was reserved largely for elites to the current era of mass access to higher education” (Serow, 2004, p. 492). After World War II, policymakers sought to reroute returning military personnel into postsecondary education to allow time for a transition to a peacetime economy; factories to retool; and avoid high levels of unemployment (Thelin, 2004). The GI Bill would generously cover the costs of higher education for service members who served over 90 days during wartime, commensurate with their time in service. The program had unexpected take-up and subsequent effects on higher education – as some institutions doubled in enrollment, many with students who were considered nontraditional (older, married, firstgeneration, and those with disabilities). While the GI Bill is part of a suite of policies credited for the expansion of the middle class, Serow (2004) argues the effects and reach of the GI Bill have been romanticized to reflect the public ideal of higher education as a mechanism for social mobility. For example, during deliberations, some policymakers adamantly protested the parity in the level of benefits among Black and white veterans (Bennett, 1996).2 And although, on paper, proponents were able to pass the law, its implementation ultimately blocked Black people from accruing the same level of benefits as their white service member counterparts. For instance, the largely white staff at federal agencies often provided poor and discriminatory service to Black clients; yet a proposed remedy – a Black-serving veteran agency – was denied accreditation by the Veterans Administration (Herbold, 1994). Moreover, the lack of higher education opportunities for Black people – the foundations of which were ostensibly laid during the colonial period, reinforced by the Morrill Act of 1862, and then compromised away in the 1890 Morrill Act – created a ceiling for Black beneficiaries. This was particularly true at institutions in the southern United States where the majority of Black people lived at the time. As Black service members returned home

Senator Rankin from Mississippi “would try to sabotage the bill over the unemployment compensation provision that would give veterans the same benefits as whites” (Bennett, 1996, p. 174).

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to a largely segregated higher education system, the demand for college outpaced supply and an estimated 20,000 Black GI Bill recipients would be “turned away” from oversubscribed HBCUs (Olson, 1974). An additional structural barrier was the long-standing lack of access to collegepreparatory schooling for Black youth – rendering the GI Bill unusable by many (Herbold, 1994). Herbold notes only 20% of Black service members who applied for educational benefits were able to enroll in colleges. Shut out of college opportunities, many turned to vocational and trade schools. A causal analysis of these rampant structural inequalities estimates that the GI Bill actually exacerbated the Black-white educational gaps for men in the South, as the GI Bill had little effect on the educational outcomes of southern Black men (Turner & Bound, 2002). The GI Bill played an important role in normalizing the race-based gaps in higher education enrollment and attainment as well as stratification across sectors by placing a ceiling on Black veteran participation. Moreover, the Act also helped create the narrative whereby higher education is the main gateway for the white middle class – whose privileges have compounded over generations.

Higher Education for a White Public Good The racial-colonial origin story of US higher education is critical in understanding the dual lens through which higher education is seen as a resource in today’s policymaking. In its totality, higher education has been an exclusionary racial project for the majority of its existence; it was designed largely for the patronage of wealthy white men to reinscribe their position as a ruling class and to preserve their position of structural power.3 Still, while the US higher education system would expand many times over to incorporate the panoply of institutions now serving an increasingly diverse group of individuals, these expansions have continuously been met with resistance and efforts to undermine higher education as a racially equitable public good. Today, much of contemporary higher education policy continues to either preserve or weaken postsecondary education’s white hegemonic structure, specifically through its rationing of resources (e.g., the distribution of state appropriations, design of access and financial aid policies). Therefore, it follows that we more precisely describe racialized political power and how it operates in higher education policymaking to further disenfranchise racially minoritized people from postsecondary resources.

Power, Politics, and Racialization in Higher Education Policymaking In the same way we have suggested race discourses in higher education policy research rarely render racism as a legible explanation for racial disparities, the concept of power is often implicitly associated with critical examinations of

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This is not to ignore the parallel structure of Black Higher Education, which was created in spite of this larger white Higher Education project (Mustaffa, 2017).

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postsecondary problems. Still, we recognize that power is a complex and elusive concept for many higher education researchers and policymakers because it is not always made visible due to its approximation with other systemic terms that are often the focus of our work (i.e., racism, sexism, and other “isms”). It is also true that power eludes policy discourses due to the primacy of understanding policymaking as solely a political practice rather than one also undergirded by social processes, contexts, and relationships of power (Levinson et al., 2009). As Shukla (2017) notes, policy is often also conceptualized as a “public good,” one that aims to be of greater benefit to society than to any one individual or particular group. Yet, what is generally considered a public good is largely defined by and to the benefit of those already in power (Levinson et al., 2009). In the United States, positions of power have and continue to be predominated by white elites (and those racially minoritized actors vying to be in closer sociopolitical proximity). For this reason, power in policymaking arenas has served as a function of racial domination, control, and exclusion from institutions of social and political authority. Greater definitional understandings of power offer the possibility for more cogently and explicitly articulating a critical analysis of the many intractable problems policy, especially those related to higher education, attempts to address.

Conceptualizing Power Power, as offered by the foundational twentieth-century philosophy of Bertrand Russell (1938), broadly refers to “the production of intended effects” (p. 35). While there are a number of other definitions, both within and beyond academic discourses, the essence of what Russell offers with regard to an exercise of will towards achieving a particular end remains largely unchanged. For example, within the long history of organized grassroots resistance against racial injustice, the notion of “people power” has been central to framing political agency as a resource upon which social movements can draw to achieve their goals. In 1971, Huey P. Newton, co-founder and former chairman of the Black Panther Party, articulated a concept of power that focused on the rights of marginalized people generally, and Black people more specifically, to self-determination: We have been subjected to the dehumanizing power of exploitation and racism for hundreds of years; and the Black community has its own will to power also. What we seek, however, is not power over people, but the power to control our own destiny. For us the true definition of power is not in terms of how many people you can control. To us power is, first of all, the ability to define phenomena, and secondly the ability to make these phenomena act in a desired manner. (Newton, 1972, p. 101)

For Newton, who, in addition to his role in the Black Panther Party, also went on to earn a doctorate in social philosophy, power entailed both theory (i.e., the ability to identify and analyze social forces) and practice (i.e., to take action against those forces). Social scientists proffer two more specific conceptualizations of power, distributive power and collective power. Collective power broadly refers to “the capacity

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of a group to realize its common goals; it is the combination of organization, cooperation, morale, and technology that allows one group or nation to grow and prosper . . .” (Domhoff, 2005, para. 3). This conceptualization best suits the first type of power to which Newton (1972) alludes in his articulation of selfdetermination for marginalized peoples. Additionally, according to Domhoff (2005), collective power is what gives way to distributive power, which most commonly concerns itself with who has power over what and/or over whom. German sociologist Max Weber argued that distributive power can be further understood as the likelihood of a person or group of people to actualize their will in social action, including those actions against the resistance of others (Weber, 1998; Wrong, 1995). Within political science, Dahl (1972) suggests definitions of distributive power rest on the intuitive understanding that entity A has power over entity B to the extent that entity A is able to get entity B to do what it otherwise would not do on its own will and accord. In a racialized social system (BonillaSilva, 2001) governed by white supremacy, entity A is best represented by white people and institutions that have historically determined who is recognized as a human being and therefore who has access to resources and under what (pre)conditions. Undergirding distributive power is the domination-egalitarianism binary wherein power by domination organizes hierarchical relationships and social stratification in favor of privileged groups (Domhoff, 2005) by emphasizing the fallacies of “fair competition,” “merit,” and “excellence” as justification of individual and collective positions of social control. For example, the domination frame illuminates the various ways power has and continues to be used to support ideas, behaviors, practices, and polices that altogether render marginalized communities vulnerable to interpersonal and systemic violence. In the context of white supremacy, which is broadly defined as a hierarchical racial order structured by a “white”/“non-white” dichotomy and serves as the keystone of systemic racial inequality (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Mills, 2015), domination further frames how white elites generally use such positions to maintain and further expand dominant racial relationships to the benefit of white people and white institutions. Within the realm of higher education policy, white supremacy – as carried out by white elites through policymaking or other violence when policy is insufficient or ineffective – serves to restrict and reserve access to high-quality educational resources as a form of white racial domination. Conversely, the egalitarian frame resists notions of arbitrary and ascribed authority through practices of control and domination. Rather, egalitarian power resists hierarchies in exchange for a flattened structure of society and an organization of social relations rooted in communal cooperation. Egalitarianism, or the basic notion that individuals within a society are inherently equal in their humanity and therefore deserve equal access to economic, educational, political, social, and other life-making resources, is a paramount ideal in US democracy. In this way, policymaking as a more distributive practice may undertake the work of redressing the fundamental inequities that undermine US democratic ideals. Yet, as evidenced

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by innumerable examinations of the extent to which such ideals remain unrealized, racial, gender, class, and other forms of inequity continue to persist (and may in fact be endemic to US society; see Delgado & Stefancic, 2001). This persistence of inequality suggests that power analyses must also account for the ways demonstrations of authority, control, and domination are also consolidated and deployed by particular groups within and beyond political arenas. Given the specific history of higher education in the United States as demonstrably exclusive to racially minoritized communities, we want to be explicit with regard to the ways white elites concentrate power within higher education policy arenas. Therefore, we turn our attention to the concept of hegemony as a means for interrogating how distributive power functions within and to maintain racialized sociopolitical hierarchies in the United States.

Hegemony and Hegemonic Power Now that we have conceptualized what power is, let us now turn our attention to explanations of how power functions. As critical scholars, we recognize the need to interrogate the many and varied assumptions about power and how it governs both interpersonal and systemic relations. In part, this interrogation raises questions with regard to who (or what) has power, how that power is deployed and to what end(s), and in what ways power is negotiated within and across social and political contexts. A common starting point for answering these questions is offered by Gramsci’s (1971) notion of hegemony, which is broadly a concentrated power wielded by a particular in-group to dominate and control out-group members and resources. In this way, hegemony offers a clear operational understanding of how distributive power functions within hierarchical societies. The original context within which Gramsci (1971) developed the concept of hegemony, like much critical European thought, foregrounds the primacy of ideological and class conflicts rather than other hegemonic forces (e.g., race or gender) commonly engaged in contemporary social science literature. As a Marxist, Gramsci was concerned with the role of ideology in the (in)stability of labor class relations over time and focused on the possibilities for structural change on the basis of whether and to what extent class-based mobilization and ideological production might occur. Of particular note was Gramsci’s argument that hegemonic power naturalizes hierarchical class relations through consensus rather than coercion as the dominant, bourgeois class consciously produced ideological frames that were unconsciously consumed by subordinated classes (i.e., the proletariat). Still, coercion was not obsolete as the state – a collective representation of bourgeois class interests – maintained power due to its ability to force compliance among the proletariat. However, similar to early Marxism and other European schools of thought, the need to grapple with modern realities of other oppressive “isms” required an evolving understanding of hegemony that pays attention to the multiple intersecting and overlapping systems of power that govern social and political dimensions of society. Building on Einstein’s dual systems theory, the concept of hegemony was transferrable to other areas of study (e.g., gender relations), though not without its

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interpretive challenges.4 Race scholars have articulated a theorization of racism based on the concept of hegemonic whiteness (Hughey, 2010; Lewis, 2004) and how it functions in higher education settings (Cabrera, 2018; Cabrera et al., 2017). Analytically, hegemonic whiteness accounts for both white homogeneity and heterogeneity by excavating similarities of white identity and ideology across other categories of difference (Lewis, 2004). Specifically, whiteness is conceptualized as an organized arrangement of meanings and practices that (1) differentiate and hierarchically situate “white” from and above “non-white” and (2) marginalize white ways of being that do not conform to a position of racial superiority or dominance (Hughey, 2010). Under systemic white supremacy, hegemonic whiteness offers more precise language to not only critically articulate a diagnosis of racial inequity but to also attribute responsibility to white elites as purveyors and the primary beneficiaries of whiteness. We find this especially useful in understanding how political power broadly and power within policymaking arenas more specifically are racialized in ways that further white advantage in higher and postsecondary education.

Racialized Political Power Altogether, hegemony serves as a useful heuristic for uncovering the various ways power functions in policymaking processes and the political spheres within which policymaking operates more broadly. Hegemony both recognizes and calls into question the normalcy of political power relations and the subjective sociopolitical positions from which various stakeholders enter the policy arena. For example, Rosino’s (2016) racial analysis of political power argues that de facto structural arrangements and social practices, both historically and contemporarily, create boundaries and borders that limit and often undermine racially minoritized people’s access to and influence upon the political sphere. By political power we refer to the capacity for and efficacy of political action through legitimized practices of democracy (e.g., voting, lobbying, policymaking) through the state and political sphere (Rosino, 2016). Further, sociologists have argued that political power and political action are always already situated within a broader, overarching racialized social system (see Bonilla-Silva, 2014) that facilitates and restricts access to and uses of political power across various sociopolitical domains. To be clear, we conceptualize the racialized social system within the United States as a hierarchy of relationships predicated upon racist nativism (Huber et al., 2008) and anti-Blackness (Dei, 2017). The socially constructed position of subjects racialized as white over subjects racialized as non-white is both the basis and the result of the racialized settlercolonial projects of Native land dispossession, Indigenous genocide, and the Holocaust of Enslavement of African peoples and their descendants. 4

For example, Connell (1987), and in later collaboration with Messerschmidt (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005), proffer a framework for understanding masculinity as a hegemonic phenomenon. Specifically, they conceptualize hegemonic masculinity as “the pattern of practice (i.e., things done, not just a set of role expectations or an identity) that allowed men’s dominance over women to continue” (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005, p. 832).

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Conceptualizing Racialized Political Power in Higher Education Policy When applied to higher education policy, Rosino’s (2016) understanding of racialized political power helps conceptualize policy arenas and policymaking processes as racial projects, which are shaped by and in service to the status quo interests of white supremacy and white elites. Because the primary political arenas in which formal higher education policymaking takes place remain racially exclusive, white elites retain structurally dominant positions to define policy problems as well as develop inadequate policy solutions. In both instances, the actions of white elites routinely demonstrate a failure to consider, if not also a complete disregard of, the disproportionate and potentially devastating impact policies continue to have on higher education access for racially minoritized communities. We recognize critical policy analysis (CPA), broadly conceived, offers a generative starting point for considering the intricacies of policy creation and adoption as racialized while also contesting white normative assumptions of analysis (Chase et al., 2014; Shaw, 2004; Young & Diem, 2018). As Mártinez-Alemán et al. (2015) note, “A public declaration, critical research, and scholarship have sounded the clarion of equity under the banner of democratic social justice, seeking to animate our institutional and public policy debates and our educational practices” (p. 2). Numerous scholars have called for the explicit use of power in the conceptualization of policymaking, including those in higher education (e.g., Bachrach & Baratz, 1963, 1970; Deupree, 2013; Dougherty et al., 2013; Perna et al., 2019; Pusser, 2015; Sievers & Jones, 2020). We believe greater attention to and integration of the concept of racialized political power would strengthen critical policy studies as an analytical tool for communities, researchers, educators, and policymakers. In undertaking a critical policy lens in conjunction with racialized political power, we interpret the racial consequences of postsecondary policy based on the extent to which policies reify or redress institutionalized white supremacy on a systemic level. In sections that follow, we engage how the treatment of higher education as a resource serves as a tool that reinforces existing racial and class-based hierarchies that benefit the white elite.

Higher Education as a Resource The preceding discussions draw attention to the way the white ruling class shaped US higher education as a sociopolitical mechanism to advance their collective interests and how racialized political power is a necessary component to critical policy studies. Specifically, the preservation of hegemonic whiteness within higher education was rooted in colleges’ efforts to institutionalize anti-Black and antiIndigenous norms. The creation and implementation of policy by white elites has historically rendered higher education as a racially exclusive resource. Below, we discuss how higher education remains a resource from which white elites maintain their hierarchical position of sociopolitical power, and efforts to reform the system’s original structure often reinforce its racist and classist legacy.

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For individuals in the United States, higher education is a coveted resource, as it is widely believed to provide individual social and economic opportunities as a private good (Fishman et al., 2019). Research reports return time and again to this goal, measuring whether the promise of upward mobility is borne out across institutions and sectors (Chetty et al., 2017; Johnson et al., 2018; Ma et al., 2019; Reber & Sinclair, 2020).5 Perhaps given the history of exclusion from higher education and economic prosperity, Black and Latinx communities are much more likely to see higher education as “very important” (65% and 66% of respondents, respectively, relative to 44% of white respondents; Marken, 2019). This belief that higher education is the key to upward mobility – particularly within communities disenfranchised from socioeconomic and political opportunity – renders college “worth it,” no matter the cost (McMillan Cottom, 2017a, 2017b). In an interview with Ed Week, Lazerson (2005) explains: The term Education Gospel refers to a system of belief that has dominated American education for more than a century: the belief that social, economic, civic, and moral problems can be solved through schooling. . .Because the individual gets rewarded for continuing his or her formal education, the message of the Education Gospel is clear: The race for economic success and professional status depends upon staying in school for longer and longer periods of time, and being prepared regularly to return to school.

This perception may explain, in part, the willingness for many students – a disproportionate number of whom are Black or Latinx – to enroll in and pay for higher education experiences that may defy cost-benefit analyses, such as developmental education’s non-credit-bearing courses (Community College Research Center, n.d.). Black families are more likely to borrow for college than their peers and more likely to take on significant debt relative to family income in order to realize their postsecondary goals (NCES, n.d.; Scott-Clayton & Li, 2016). With the promise of upward mobility, the education gospel creates an unrelenting demand for higher education as a racialized private good from which marginalized communities are routinely excluded. Whether higher education actually functions as a gateway to the middle class for traditionally marginalized communities is illusory. Access to elite higher education – as a space for the development of social networks, a credential for employment, and pathways for positions of power – is of great value to the dominant white ruling class. Elite education allows the ruling class to replicate their status across generations while deliberately metering access to everyone else. Therefore, because education is treated as a private good, the dominant white ruling class seeks to control access to this elite corner of higher education through systemic exclusion. As evidence, students at predominantly white private K12 schools represent only 2% of elementary and secondary students nationwide, but roughly a quarter of all

A 2017 study by Raj Chetty and colleagues serves as a recent example, finding that students who attend selective colleges, regardless of family income, experience similarly high earnings, but movement from the bottom to the top income quintile varies by institution. 5

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students at many Ivy League institutions (Flanagan, 2021). Stratification persists beyond the Ivy League: one analysis shows that, at the 38 most selective institutions in the United States, students from the top 1% of the income distribution outnumber students from the bottom 60% (Cox et al., 2017). To date, selective institutions remain the most segregated part of higher education (Carnevale & Strohl, 2013) – whereby Black and Latinx students are underrepresented in the most selective colleges (by 6 and 9 points, respectively, and relative to their representation in the college market population; Monarrez & Washington, 2020).6 Andrew Nichols (2020) notes in his report, ‘Segregation Forever’? that the 101 most selective public institutions in the country have 65% fewer Black students since 2000 and not kept pace with the growing representation of the Latinx population. These disparities make clear that the mechanisms that maintain white privilege in admission – such as legacy admission (Bazner & Button, 2021) – remain unquestioned. When we instead treat postsecondary education as a public good, the focus shifts to workforce development. Higher education is commonly viewed from a human capital perspective, whereby it functions as a sorting mechanism – producing a skilled workforce, which in turn supplies and attracts businesses seeking said labor. Heralding the economic benefits of non-elite (often vocational) education in this way, without drawing attention to its sorting process, makes racial and economic stratification not only acceptable but laudable. Moreover, higher education has historically played an important role in maintaining global competitiveness and domination in the production and innovation of capital. Therefore, the white ruling class has a stake in broad participation in higher education. Indeed, in recent history, there was much attention paid to the US’s drop in rankings in educational attainment among “developed” countries (Cahalan et al., 2021; de Vise, 2011) and the national imperative to increase degree attainment generally (e.g., Field, 2009b), as well as in specific fields that are integral to global domination, such as STEM fields (U.S. Department of Education [ED], n.d.). This bifurcation of goals, often along lines of race and class, creates an uncomfortable tension wherein the same broad system seeks to reinforce scarcity of seats at elite institutions while expanding access to less selective institutions. Policymakers at the state and federal levels have the ability to codify conditions that support or negate access to higher education in ways that reinforce this tension between the private benefits reserved for the ruling elite and the public good of workforce development. First, state and federal governments oversee the higher education landscape. The existence of institutions depends on successful completion of an authorization process that is under the purview of states; and in order to receive federal monies such as Title IV (i.e., student financial aid), institutions must receive accreditation – a process that is overseen by the federal government (ED, 2021a). Through accreditation and state authorization, federal and state governments should

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Recent high-profile efforts, such as the Obama Administration’s College Opportunity Summit (Slack, 2014) and the American Talent Initiative (n.d.), draw attention to enrollment stratification, but do so by solely focusing on income (rather than racial) stratification.

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be able to keep out “bad actor” institutions. Second, state and federal investments are substantial. States use an average 10% of their budgets to fund higher education (ranging from 2% to 27% in 2019; National Association of State Budget Offices, 2020). The federal government’s spending on financial aid for postsecondary students is approximately $122 billion as of 2019 (Federal Student Aid, 2019), and an additional $11 billion from the Veterans Affairs Office as of 2016 (Bass et al., 2019), which supports the beneficiaries of the GI Bill. These financial investments allow both state and federal governments to govern through “the power of the purse” – the sheer size of investment enables either entity to influence institutional action that can promote (or inhibit) equitable access by threatening to withhold money or allocate it differently. Third, because the tenth amendment implies that education is a state’s issue, much of the higher education policymaking lies with states. While it varies, state policymakers have the power to set eligibility criteria for college admission, tuition, and benchmarks for developmental education and provide financial aid to students. The US Department of Education retains purview on matters of civil rights for groups named in the Equal Protection Clause of the 14th amendment (e.g., race, gender). Given the racist and settler-colonial foundations of higher education and its limited accessibility for racially minoritized groups, the starting point for higher education and its policymaking in the United States is one that creates and maintains white supremacy through hegemonic whiteness (Cabrera et al., 2017). For this reason, scholars have called the presence of white hegemonic structures and thinking “status quo” (e.g., Freire, 2005). Status quo is not used to minimize the impact of white supremacy but rather to underscore the normalization of hegemonic whiteness in the everyday operations of academe. We frame policymaking in higher education as an unremitting contest between maintaining or changing the racial status quo. We ask, to what extent do policies uphold or contest the extant white supremacist structures in higher education?7 These structures, for example, center the histories, postsecondary narratives (Patton, 2016), and epistemologies of whiteness and hierarchically sort racially minoritized students, faculty, and staff into stratified opportunities and subsequent well-being. Here, we consider the magnitude of change from the status quo to exist on a continuum, much like the framing of activist scholarship and scholar subjectivity (James & Gordon, 2008) offers gradations of ideological position – from progressive incrementalism rooted in compromise and deemed “reformist” to the abolition of the status quo in its entirety in exchange for more revolutionary possibilities. Policymaking that seeks change but remains proximal to the status quo may seek to include greater representation of marginalized communities, yet within existing white supremacist higher education structures. Change deemed radical may include equitable representation of marginalized communities

Similarly, King and Smith (2005) “argue that American politics has historically been constituted in part by two evolving but linked ‘racial institutional orders’: a set of ‘white supremacist’ orders and a competing set of ‘transformative egalitarian’ orders” (p. 75). See their essay for a historical account of various phases of white supremacist and egalitarian efforts in politics and policy. 7

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within and atop such structures. Revolutionary change seeks to disrupt and dismantle the existing racial hierarchies that undergird postsecondary education while reimagining higher learning as a public good that serves those most vulnerable to exclusion and marginalization.8 To illustrate, developmental education – considered academic quicksand for students who have been subjected to poor academic preparation and for which Black, Latinx, and low-income students are disproportionately identified – is considered largely inefficient, with poor outcomes, and in need of change (Bautsch, 2013; Ganga & Mazzariello, 2018). Policies that address the challenges of developmental education take many forms – some make small changes to the existing structure to improve identification – such as testing high school students early in order to notify them of being “at risk” of developmental education (see TN SAILS Program; Tennessee Board of Regents, n.d.). This approach continues to burden the student to meet a benchmark and adheres to status quo beliefs about meritocracy supported through a reliance on testing that effectively sorts people into stations in a way that benefits white elites. The policy simply allows students to better prepare for that benchmark. Another policy approach eliminates developmental education altogether and invests in academic supports for students (e.g., Florida; Hu et al., 2019; Smith, 2019b). This approach addresses systemic shortcomings of the developmental education process and can serve to contest the notions of meritocracy and the question of “who belongs” in higher education. Our conceptualization of distance from the status quo allows for the decoupling of party from the intention of policy proposals and is therefore more precise to our understanding of change-making in higher education. Political party and ideology at many times serve as stand-ins for the maintenance or change of the status quo, writ large. We recognize that partisanship has material significance as politicians and the electorate are largely organized by party. A political party that is in power – whether at the state or federal level – will determine all facets of the policymaking process. Moreover, the political climate is currently and increasingly hyper-partisan (Taylor et al., 2020) in their organization and cote-casting. Of particular relevance to this chapter is that political parties are highly racialized by their voters. White voters are majority Republican (53%), whereas Black (83%), Latinx (63%), and Asian (72%) voters are majority Democrat (Pew Research Center, 2020b). Therefore, partisanship and its relationship to race are critical components of the policy environment (Taylor et al., 2020), and several of the studies we use to animate this chapter frame their work around political parties. However, we also want to recognize that coalitions of policy actors come together with varied interests to advance policies in ways that have shifted over time and do not always neatly align with political parties or ideological categories (King & Smith, 2005). We prefer a framing that considers distance from the status quo of white supremacy, as reliance on political party or ideology can produce false dichotomies – Republicans can support bills that move

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While we do not make these categorical distinctions throughout this chapter, we offer these framings for clarification.

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away from the status quo (e.g., Second Chance Pell; Fredman, 2019; Green, 2020), and Democrats can support status quo policy harmful to minoritized communities (e.g., ban on financial aid eligibility for individuals charged with drug crimes; Cervantes et al., 2005). With this section, we begin to offer a conceptualization of higher education policymaking that is situated within a historical continuum of racism rather than a disjointed contrast between the past and the present. Importantly, we underscore the bidirectional nature of the US’s historical legacy of racism and cultivation of racialized power that shaped higher education’s status quo (and vice versa) for centuries, largely undisturbed. From this starting place, policymaking can only be in the service of either the white supremacist status quo or a mandate for change. Our explicit attention to this tension is a departure from how policymaking in higher education has been traditionally conceived in the literature. Below, we introduce traditional policymaking process theories to animate a critical analysis using our above framing.

Traditional Approaches to Theorizing the Public Policy Process Although an oversimplification of the policymaking process, theories in this genre tend to focus on one component of an overall arc along which policies develop – from formation to adoption, then implementation and evaluation. A single theory may situate itself in one or many of these components or may eschew the somewhat antiquated view of policymaking as a linear process altogether. Here, we examine two popular policymaking theories9 that address formation and adoption – the multiple streams framework (MSF) and the advocacy coalition framework (ACF) – to help motivate and exemplify our discussion of racialized power in public policy.10

Multiple Streams Framework Originally proposed by Kingdon in 1984 to explain policy formulation in the US federal government, the multiple streams framework (MSF) describes the manner in which issues become part of the governmental agenda and are subsequently considered for immediate action on the decision agenda. Kingdon developed MSF based on 9

Not considered in this discussion of policy process theories, though influential to our critical treatment of these same theories, are policy design theories, which consider who benefits/is burdened by policy (e.g., social construction theory; see Bell, 2020; Gándara & Jones, 2020). 10 Although many of the applications of these theories that we consider examine the policy process at the state level, theories of policy process often originate in efforts to explain federal policy. We too note the importance of understanding federal policy as it relates to higher education’s most urgent problems/issues as well as the capacity for the federal government to ration access to higher education via control over accrediting agencies and the design of federal financial aid programs.

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his belief that the policy process is nonlinear wherein policy goals are clearly defined, solutions are surfaced and compared based on their costs and benefits, and the solution that best balances costs and benefits is chosen. Building on organizational theorists’ garbage can theory in which its originators sought to explain organizational decision-making processes (Cohen et al., 1972), MSF theorizes that policy formulation is the result of three interdependent streams (problem, policy, and politics). When changes in the problem or political stream yield a serendipitous window of opportunity, policy entrepreneurs couple the stream to a solution from the policy stream, which moves issues from the governmental agenda onto the decision agenda and, if successful, into policy (Kingdon, 1984). Put another way, the MSF can be thought of as “embodying paradoxical elements of clarity and ambiguity, order and anarchy, pattern and unpredictability” (McLendon, 2003, p. 508). In studies of US higher education, scholars have reached for MSF to evaluate the process through which numerous state-level issues have become policy (or not). Scholars have previously employed MSF to study state-level higher education governance reform (McLendon, 2003; Mills, 2007; Tandberg & Anderson, 2012); adoption and criteria-setting of merit aid scholarships (Ness, 2010; Ness & Mistretta, 2009); and approval for applied baccalaureate degree programs (Ruud et al., 2009). Three more recent applications of MSF merit mention because of the manner in which each centers policymakers’ and educational actors’ consideration of who deserves to benefit from higher education and in what way. Santos and Sáenz (2014) use MSF as a narrative device that helps explain multi-decade changes in Latinx/e student college participation and policy trends that supported or stymied enrollment. Nienhusser (2015) employs MSF in his study of New York state’s passage of legislation that granted undocumented students’ eligibility for in-state tuition rates. His case study not only centered the role of Latinx/e advocacy organizations and legislators in the policy’s passage but also called out the post-9/ 11 xenophobia as a contributing factor to a change in institutional policy that ultimately created an anti-undocumented student policy window at the state level. Lopez and Rivera (2020) wield MSF as the theoretical framing that guides their identification of local, state, and federal actors who provide college advising. The authors sought to understand how problem definitions and perceived responsibility for the cost of higher education differ across these actors. In the remainder of this section, we introduce the main components of the MSF: each of the three streams (problem, politics, and policy), policy windows, and policy entrepreneurs. When illustrative, we supplement these discussions with examples of the theoretical concepts identified by higher education scholars in the studies highlighted here.

Problem Stream The problem stream represents problems, issues, or concerns that have captured the attention of the public, policymakers, or both. Herweg et al. (2018) explain that policy problems are social constructions based on individuals’ perceptions of the ideal world and reality. There will therefore be a variety of beliefs about what

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constitutes the presence and gravity of a problem, specifically as it relates to the population of individuals who are harmed or (sometimes) helped by the presence of a problem, as well as the set of viable solutions. In Lopez and Rivera’s (2020) interviews with college access professionals, the authors found that how these professionals framed the problem – as one of personal or societal responsibility – influenced and was influenced by what they thought should be done to help students pay for college. Problem definitions are themselves subjective, just as the solutions that stem from these problem definitions necessarily reflect the subjectivity of the definition. When one problem gains prominence, it can lead to changes in prominence for other problems in the stream (Kingdon, 1984), as was the case of higher education decentralization in Arkansas in the late 1990s (McLendon, 2003). Once decentralization captured the attention of the legislature, “issues that had been at the top of [college] presidents’ legislative agendas plummeted in importance” (McLendon, 2003, p. 494). In contrast, the problem of baccalaureate capacity gained prominence in the early 2000s and, as attention to the problem grew, the complementary issue of credit transferability as a barrier to alternative pathways to the BA became central to the capacity conversation (Ruud et al., 2009). How do problems gain adequate recognition to merit policy attention? There are three primary means: shifts in routinely monitored indicators, focusing events that draw sudden attention to a problem, and established feedback mechanisms (Kingdon, 1984; Nienhusser, 2015). To the first, Herweg et al. (2018) note that standalone indicators do not in and of themselves constitute a problem, but rather are used by policy entrepreneurs to frame or underscore issues. For example, college completion rates can lead to state-level concerns about degree attainment (Ness & Mistretta, 2009). More recently, four Democratic US Senators released a letter that used low completion rates, high debt burdens, and high default rates to frame the issues faced by Black degree-seeking college students (Smith, 2019a). Second, focusing events draw attention to a problem by amplifying the potential consequences to leaving the problem unaddressed. Birkland (1997) characterizes potential focusing events as those that happen suddenly, are rare (and therefore unpredictable), come to the attention of the public and the policy elite nearly simultaneously, and inflict harm or reveal “the possibility of potentially greater future harms” (p. 22), especially on specific geographic regions or within populations of interest. One such example from higher education is the far-reaching admission scandal that first became public in March 2019. The public unveiling of “Operation Varsity Blues” revealed wealthy parents’ unabashed willingness to help their children cheat on standardized tests, lie about sports acumen, and bribe college officials to ensure admission into selective colleges and universities (Jaschik, 2019; Medina et al., 2019). The public and policy elite became aware of the federal investigation nearly simultaneously and, despite the general sense that college admission is not solely merit based (e.g., legacy admission), the scale of the scandal was rare. The possible harm came in the form of further damaging students’ and parents’ perceptions of the admission process as merit based; the behavior of the parents indicted in the scandal provided clear evidence the admission process

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operates in favor of students with means. California legislators were quick to use the window to push reforms (Gordon, 2019), though only some were ultimately passed into state law. The third avenue through which a problem gains attention is via feedback, which includes progress reports on government-funded programs, constituent complaints, or reports on program costs (Kingdon, 1984; Herweg et al., 2018, p. 22). Unlike indicators, which are often one-dimensional numeric measures, feedback more typically arises from administrative and bureaucratic processes and is more qualitative in nature. Complaints about the Public Service Loan Forgiveness program’s operations – to the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau (Turner, 2017), in legal filings from borrowers who became suddenly ineligible (Kamenetz, 2017), and on news sites that featured borrowers who were surprised to learn that they were never eligible due to technicalities (e.g., Lobosco, 2018) – served as problematic feedback about the program. Once the narrative became one of governmental inefficiency at a cost to borrowers, the issue became a problem that policy elites sought to address (Kreighbaum, 2018). Problems related to widespread budget cuts or perceptions of inefficiency in existing bureaucratic structures can serve as feedback that creates policy windows that lead to changes in governance structure (McLendon, 2003; Tandberg & Anderson, 2012).

Political Stream The politics stream incorporates the national mood and public opinion, pressure from organized forces such as interest groups, and turnover in the legislature or the administration. Each of these factors influences “politicians’ attention to voter reactions, their skewering of members of the opposite political party, and their efforts to obtain the support of important interest group leaders” (Kingdon, 1984, p. 152). In other words, these factors are indirect influences on the policy process through the manner in which they influence policy elites’ actions. National mood, or public opinion, relates to a policy actor’s interpretation of the public’s support for or interest in a given idea. Although Kingdon references in passing “politicians’ attention to voter reactions” (p. 152) in his description of political motivators in the politics stream, his discussion of the central elements of this stream excludes an express discussion of the policymaker’s responsiveness to voter preferences. Instead, he notes only that the national mood influences voters, which can lead to turnover in the electorate.11 Ness (2010) notes that the Black caucus members in the Tennessee legislature sought information on how different eligibility criteria for the merit aid program would affect Black students in the state. Their effort to represent what they believed to be their constituents’ preferences influenced their seeking eligibility requirements that would expand the number of Black students eligible for the program.

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Kingdon (1984) further shrinks the role of the voter by downplaying public opinion’s influence on agenda-setting: “the general public opinion is rarely well enough informed to directly affect an involved debate among policy specialists over which alternatives should be seriously considered” (p. 70).

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Organized forces are a catchall for “interest group pressure, political mobilization, and the behavior of political elites” (Kingdon, 1984, p. 157); the level of agreement among the entities that comprise the organized forces serves as a signal of which solutions have potential to succeed. This dominant political narrative may not reflect public opinion, but could instead result “because important people believed that the dominant side had superior political resources, such as group cohesion, their advantage in electoral mobilization, and the ability to affect the economy” (Kingdon, 1984, p. 158). Take, for example, Lopez and Rivera’s (2020) observations about the neoliberal trends occurring within education at the time of their study. Texas was divesting from higher education, and the Lieutenant Governor of Texas had just advocated for the removal of tuition set-asides. At the national level, the appointment of Betsy DeVos as education secretary served as a tacit endorsement of the continued privatization of higher education. These separate events might collectively influence whether college access professionals view responsibility for college costs as primarily that of students and families. Lastly, governmental turnover is the third element of the political stream that influences agenda-setting. Governmental turnover could be the result of a recent election that brought into legislative positions an increased number of politicians of a particular ideological leaning. Administrative transitions in the executive branch and in federal offices are themselves significant events within the political stream that can be accompanied by changes in attitudes, approaches, or receptivity to particular ideas among policy elites. In several of the higher education case studies that employed MSF, a change in the gubernatorial administration was noted as likely contributing to the observed changes in agenda-setting and policy formulation (McLendon, 2003; Mills, 2007; Tandberg & Anderson, 2012).

Policy Stream The policy stream consists of a comprehensive set of plausible policy ideas that address a particular issue. Ideas gain traction among actors in the policy stream based on their technical feasibility (will it accomplish its goals), its value acceptability (are the values underlying the approach in alignment with the expressed values of the policy community), and its resource adequacy (how much will it cost, and is that acceptable). Among the specialists debating the available alternatives, consensus is theorized to emerge as actors (researchers, interest groups, the media) soften to a particular idea and discussion of the idea begins to dominate ongoing conversations (Kingdon, 1984, p. 147). An idea to which the community of policy elites has softened is said to be “ready” for consideration as a solution to a problem, when one enters the stream. In Arkansas’ higher education reorganization, the idea of decentralization originated in a plan drafted for another state (NJ), which then made its way to Arkansas’ university presidents (i.e., policy diffusion), who then built support for the idea among themselves (McLendon, 2003). Although the solution was initially jettisoned by a potentially friendly legislator, the idea remained in the policy stream until another window of opportunity in which it was taken up in earnest. A similar trajectory occurred for Massachusetts’ restructuring, in which the preferred solution

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to restructure the state’s Board of Regents remained dormant until the optimal window (Tandberg & Anderson, 2012). Although Kingdon (1984) is generally dismissive of incrementalism as a framework for understanding policy adoption, he notes that it can explain the process by which ideas iterate in the policy stream (p. 88). An idea appears in the policy stream in one version and then, as the idea gains traction, the specifics of how it would be implemented are adapted depending on the perceptions of feasibility among the policy elites. The shifting scope of student loan forgiveness serves as one example of the kind of incrementalism that might occur in the policy stream. Conversation on the Democratic presidential campaign trail (2018–2020) first began as total forgiveness suggested by Senator Bernie Sanders (Murakami, 2020a) before shifting to $10,000 forgiveness for all borrowers and additional targeted forgiveness for lowand middle-income borrowers by former Vice President Joe Biden (Fain, 2020). By September 2020, Sens. Chuck Schumer and Elizabeth Warren proposed $50,000 forgiveness (Murakami, 2020b) as House Democrats almost simultaneously dropped a provision for $10,000 forgiveness from the COVID-19 relief bill (Murakami, 2020c). Since Biden’s inauguration, forgiveness momentum has stalled, with Biden ruling out the cancellation of $50,000 per borrower and suggesting that, though he remains open to $10,000 in forgiveness, it may not come through executive order (Murakami, 2021). Concurrent conversations in the policy stream centered on questions of who would benefit and, more notably, who was deserving of the benefit of forgiveness (e.g., The Wall Street Journal, 2020).

Policy Windows, the Policy Entrepreneur, and the Coupling of Streams Windows in the agenda-setting or policy formulation processes open when activity in either the problem stream or political stream (or both) brings a new issue to the foreground. These windows may be predictable (the transition of influential elected officials or the annual budget cycle) or unpredictable (a focusing event in the problem stream). But windows are not themselves a guarantee of policy change: “If the problem is not salient, and/or a solution is not available, and/or political conditions are inhospitable, it will not get on the agenda” (Mucciaroni, 1992, p. 460). Sometimes, policy windows may lead to the closure of other windows or even spillover into other policy issues. To the latter, if, for example, deregulation gains traction in one area (e.g., airline industry deregulation), it may lead policy entrepreneurs in other areas to pursue parallel strategies. Policy entrepreneurs are integral to the process by which an opened window leads to policy change, as they are the ones who soften others in the policy stream to their pet ideas and, when a policy window opens, ensure these same ideas become coupled with the problem or policy streams (Kingdon, 1984, p. 21). Mintrom and Vergari (1996) outline three functions of the policy entrepreneur: identifying and providing a strategy to fulfill unmet needs; shouldering the risks associated with the pursuit of a particular policy solution; and coordinating across actors to “resolve collective action problems” (p. 422). They are, Mintrom and Vergari (1996) note, “identifiable primarily by the actions they take, rather than by the positions they hold” (p. 422) or their opinions on the matter. Kingdon theorizes that policy

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entrepreneurs commit to this work for altruistic reasons, because of the electoral benefits, or because they are what he calls policy groupies who value being an integral part of the policy process. Nienhusser (2015), for example, finds that the governor of New York’s desire to get reelected – which he felt was only possible with support from the state’s Latinx population – motivated his request that legislators introduce bills to formally provide in-state tuition benefits to undocumented students. In this example, the governor served as a policy entrepreneur willing to coordinate across actors for the sake of the election benefits. Regardless of how the window opens, a policy solution’s chances of success are greatest when all three streams are coupled together. This is not to say that every window yields a tidy coupling of problems and solutions that align with each other and with public opinion or political will. Indeed, often solutions lie in wait of a problem to which they can feasibly, if imperfectly, become coupled. McLendon (2003) finds that decentralization solutions “did not originate in direct response to the problems with which they became publicly associated. Rather, solutions were developed independently and in advance of the problem for which proponents of the solution later claimed they were the answer” (p. 505). This explanation highlights both the role of the entrepreneur in observing the optimal moment to couple a solution to a problem or to a change in politics and the absence of linearity in Kingdon’s (1984) conceptualization of the policy process.

Advocacy Coalition Framework The advocacy coalition framework makes sense of the policymaking process by centering the actors, or policy elites, who band together in advocacy coalitions based on a shared “set of normative and causal beliefs” (Sabatier, 1988, p. 133). From their joint position, these coalitions seek to influence policy, where the coalition’s ability to do so depends on its available resources (Sabatier, 1988, p. 143). Howlett et al. (2017) summarize ACF as a theory that explains “how coalitions formed, engaged their competitors, and how that process established hegemony over problem definitions and policy alternatives” (p. 69). In higher education, ACF is employed primarily as an organizing structure to understand the various stakeholders involved in the policy process and their underlying belief systems. Dougherty et al. (2010) and Nienhusser (2015) each applied ACF as one explanatory theory in their assessment of the passage of in-state tuition policies for undocumented immigrants. Ness’ (2010) application of the theory focused on the factors that influence three states’ determinations of eligibility criteria for merit-based aid awards. Dougherty et al. (2013) took an expansive look to observe how performance-based funding policies came to exist (or not) in six states. Shakespeare (2008) examined two specific dimensions of ACF: alignment between coalitions with differing beliefs and the way coalitions interpret information through the lens of their beliefs. The remainder of this section introduces the theoretical components of ACF, in two main categories: The first examines advocacy coalitions and their defining

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attributes (Weible et al., 2020). The second focuses on the conditions for policy change: policy learning that happens among actors within coalitions and is influenced by coalitions’ use of information, and external shocks that, similar to policy windows in the MSF above, can lead to policy change even as underlying beliefs remain stable.

Subsystems, Advocacy Coalitions, and Three Layers of Beliefs A policy subsystem is a collection of actors across public and private organizations who are engaged in work on a similar policy issue. These subsystems resemble the policy stream introduced in MSF. Within any subsystem, advocacy coalitions are loosely defined as collections of “people from various organizations who share a set of normative and causal beliefs and who often act in concert” (Sabatier, 1988, p. 133). These two attributes – policy actors and shared beliefs – are necessarily present in any advocacy coalition (Weible et al., 2020). Three additional attributes, as either active or absent (or “muted”), further influence a coalition’s power to affect policy change: their available resources, the level of coordination across coalitions, and the level of stability within their membership (Weible et al., 2020). First, an advocacy coalition must have policy actors. ACF expanded the set of possible actors beyond the traditional “iron triangle of administrative entities, legislative committees, and interest groups” (Weible et al., 2020, p. 1061) to include advocates, researchers, and the media (Ness, 2010). A notable type of policy actor is the policy broker. Unlike policy entrepreneurs in MSF, who tend to favor a particular policy solution (Mintrom & Vergari, 1996), a policy broker is one who mediates conflicts between advocacy coalitions who favor contrasting solutions. Their “principal concern is to find some reasonable compromise which will reduce intense conflict” (Jenkins-Smith & Sabatier, 1994, p. 182). Second, policy actors within a coalition necessarily have shared beliefs. In his introduction of the theory, Sabatier (1988) laid out three layers of beliefs held by each policy actor: deep core beliefs, near (policy) core beliefs, and secondary aspects. Deep core beliefs are the “general beliefs about human nature and society (e.g., the relative importance of freedom and equality, the relative priority given to the welfare of different groups, or the proper role of government versus markets)” (Dougherty et al., 2010, p. 129). Policy actors may have differing deep (core) beliefs but belong to the same coalition if their near (policy) core beliefs align, where near (policy) core beliefs relate to “the seriousness of a problem, its basic causes, and the best solutions” (Dougherty et al., 2010, p. 129). Secondary aspects capture beliefs about the technical issues of a policy, such as budgets, procedures, and administration (Dougherty et al., 2010). Embedded in these beliefs are actors’ or coalitions’ economic and political self-interests (Weible et al., 2020, p. 1063), though Sabatier (1988) is careful to note that, even if advocacy coalitions sometimes coordinate with each other despite differences in their beliefs, “ideology can likewise restrain the pursuit of self-interest” and coordination (p. 161). Put differently, in ACF, the political actors and their accompanying coalitions are neither wholly self-interested nor wholly ideological. Application of ACF in higher education examines at least one, and sometimes multiple, coalitions’ belief systems, a central component of the theory. Dougherty

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et al. (2010) examine differences in coalitions’ beliefs as related to in-state tuition for nonresident immigrants, finding meaningful differences in deep (core) beliefs that result in irreconcilable differences in near (policy) core beliefs. The Texas “egalitarian coalition” (pro-in-state tuition policies) believed “in-state tuition was a matter of social justice. They saw undocumented students as, in essence, American, who deserve higher education opportunities just like other Americans” (Dougherty et al., 2010, p. 139). The opposing coalition, in contrast, “did not see undocumented immigrants as rightful members of American society nor did they believe that government should address their needs” (Dougherty et al., 2010, p. 142). The third attribute of a coalition is its resources. Resources, which “can be sourced at the level of the individual, organization, or coalition, and policy subsystem or political system” (Weible et al., 2020, p. 1066), are the source of an advocacy coalition’s influence. Examples of resources referenced in the original articulation of ACF include money, expertise, supporters, and legal authority (Sabatier, 1988, p. 143). Recent versions more effectively center power (Weible et al., 2020) and public opinion (Sabatier & Weible, 2007) as resources that coalitions can wield to pursue policy change. That said, even this updated discussion leaves underexplored “how class, status, or gender relate to the acquisition or use of resources. In fact, the ACF makes no mention of those latter elements, whatsoever” (Deupree, 2013, p. 47). The two remaining attributes – coordination and stability – flesh out the advocacy coalition’s level of influence within the policy sphere. Coordination considers the degree to which actors in a coalition are working together and coalitions as a whole are working independently as opposed to alongside other coalitions with different or similar policy core beliefs. Policy subsystems are considered “collaborative” if coalitions with differing beliefs work alongside each other to advance shared policy goals; these subsystems are contrasted with more adversarial subsystems where such coordination is nonexistent or less common. In the higher education studies we examine, there is little direct reference to cross-coalition coordination, though Dougherty et al. (2010) reference weak coordination among policy actors within an advocacy coalition. Stability refers to the natural temporal fluctuation in coalition membership, beliefs, and resource availability. By understanding the relative stability of a coalition over time, researchers can better understand its likely relative influence over present-day policy change.

Policy Change Through External Shocks and Policy Learning Policy change in ACF results from two antecedent changes – external shocks in the policy environment and policy learning within advocacy coalitions. Looking first to external shocks, the policy environment has “system parameters” that are both stable and dynamic. Stable parameters relate to the attributes of the problem, the governmental and legal structure, and sociocultural values as well as the social structure itself (Sabatier, 1988). Dynamic changes include “changes in socioeconomic conditions . . . and in the systemic governing coalition,” as well as new policy decisions or cross-subsystem influences (Sabatier, 1988, p. 133). Sudden changes in these dynamic forces, or “external shocks,” are the dominant avenue through which policy change occurs (Ness, 2010). These shocks mimic the notion of “policy windows” in

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MSF (Dougherty et al., 2010) and can cause “the dominant coalition to lose political resources or to change its beliefs” (Dougherty et al., 2013, p. 6).12 Dougherty et al. (2010) identify the late 1990s/early 2000s tightening of the US-Mexico border in both Texas and California, followed by 9/11’s aggravation of anti-immigrant sentiments, as external shocks that influenced Arizona legislators’ ultimate adoption of a policy that prohibits in-state tuition for nonresident immigrants. A second process by which more incremental policy change occurs is policy learning. Policy learning within advocacy coalitions occurs when the coalition intakes new information that leads to coalition-level revisions in beliefs regarding “problem definitions, policy solutions, or strategies for influencing government decisions” (Pierce et al., 2017, p. S16), among others. This policy-oriented learning is a fundamental component to the model as it centralizes the process by which coalitions update their priors about how best to achieve their deep core beliefs. That said, since an advocacy coalition’s goal is to achieve its policy objectives, information is likely considered selectively (Sabatier & Weible, 2007; Shakespeare, 2008). This learning, when it occurs, is hypothesized to have little to no effect on deep core beliefs and more effect on either near (policy) core beliefs or secondary aspects (Sabatier, 1988). Despite the central role afforded to policy learning as a mechanism of change in ACF, the framework cannot explain why this learning sometimes leads to policy change and other times merely changes coalitions’ beliefs (Howlett et al., 2017).

Main Critiques of Traditional Theories MSF and ACF add value in articulating factors that influence policymaking broadly and the agenda-setting process specifically. MSF offers a nonlinear framework to understand the seemingly chaotic manner in which policymaking unfolds. ACF provides a means of understanding the way belief systems beget advocacy coalitions, which then vie for influence in the agenda-setting process. Yet there are notable shortcomings in both – and arguably in traditional policy process theories generally – that constrain the researcher’s ability to employ these frameworks in studies of racialized policymaking. In this closing section, we briefly highlight two pertinent critiques of both MSF and ACF: First, in keeping with our preceding discussion of racialized political power, neither MSF nor ACF adequately defines or centers the concept of power. Second, neither theory acknowledges the role of institutional and organizational rules, structures, and norms as factors that contribute to status quo policymaking. We first turn to the role of power in MSF and ACF. In their critique of the treatment of power in policy process theories generally, Sievers and Jones (2020)

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The comparable concept in MSF is the policy window opening and streams becoming coupled, rather than a focusing event, because the external shocks only lead to policy change when they are “put to political advantage by advocacy coalitions” (Dougherty et al., 2010, p. 131).

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point out that, without a clearly defined concept of power, these theories risk “falsely portraying the policymaking process as an open field-type competition, in which every affected group is potentially and perhaps fairly represented” (p. 97). Both MSF and ACF assess power distributions by observing elite policy actors’ behaviors and effectiveness in enacting policy change (Sievers & Jones, 2020) and in their limited consideration of “the power of discourse and rhetoric” as the primary means of successful agenda-setting (Barbehön et al., 2015, p. 249). In relation to the discussion of hegemonic power in the preceding section, in-groups – be they policy elites, policy entrepreneurs, or advocacy coalitions – can wield consolidated power within the agenda-setting process to prevent the consideration of policies that challenge the status quo. More recent work on ACF has centered power as a resource that affects coalition’s influence on agenda-setting, though the authors acknowledge this area remains underdeveloped (Weible et al., 2020). A racial analysis of political power, such as the one put forward by Rosino (2016), can shed light on the manner in which underlying structures within the policymaking space constrain the degree of influence that racially minoritized policy actors and communities may have over the agenda-setting process. In the absence of a racial analysis, applications of traditional theories risk favoring an agnostic view of policymaking that reflect and reinforce the extant hegemonic structures that have left minoritized groups, community-based solutions, and non-white policy actors with less formal power over the agendasetting process. In this way, such applications preserve the invisibility of the most influential forces that drive policymaking at the federal, state, and local levels. Second, neither theory explicitly acknowledges the role of institutional and organizational rules, structures, and norms in the policymaking process. In doing so, both theories sidestep questions of how the agenda-setting process is itself reflective of societal institutions that are designed to centralize power among a select few. In an early book review of MSF, Brodkin (1985) asks, “How do internalized values, institutional pressures, and funding opportunities influence the experts that Kingdon credits with developing policy alternatives?” (p. 166). Relatedly, Mucciaroni (1992), in his critique of MSF, identifies several structural factors – namely, political institutions – that are influential to agenda-setting (yet unrecognized by MSF). These institutions: consist of decision-making rules and procedures, roles, authority structures, norms and routines, which are largely resilient to the turnover of individuals and that have impacts independent of the personal attributes of those who occupy particular positions. The ways in which institutions distribute authority and shape conflict help determine whether solutions reach the agenda, if they are blocked from doing so, and how they might be modified. (p. 466)13

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Mucciaroni’s definition of institutions aligns closely with March and Olsen’s (1989, 1995, as cited in March & Olsen, 2006) definition in the Oxford Handbook of Political Science: “An institution is a relatively enduring collection of rules and organized practices, embedded in structures of meaning and resources that are relatively invariant in the face of turnover of individuals and relatively resilient to the idiosyncratic preferences and expectations of individuals and changing external circumstances” (p. 1).

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Embedded in the political institutions that Mucciaroni identifies are organizations and individuals, the structure of which influences the agenda-setting process. In this way, the policy stream (or policy subsystem) can be thought of as a political institution. Drawing on Ray’s (2019) theory of racialized organizations, we contend that organizations operating within a political institution are racialized. Ray (2019) views “organizations as constituting and constituted by racial processes that may shape both the policies of the racial state and individual prejudice” (p. 27); these processes include the diminishment of racial groups’ agency and the treatment of whiteness as a credential. If the policy stream is a political institution comprised of organizations, and if organizations are inherently racialized (Ray, 2019), then by extension the policy stream can be theorized as a racialized institution that reproduces the racial order. Future work can further strengthen the theorization of policy streams or subsystems – and the policy elite who occupy these spaces – as an ecosystem of racialized organizations. We note here two points relevant to our critical analysis of the policy process in the section that follows. First, racialized organizations embedded in this ecosystem adhere to processes that reinforce hegemonic power structures both in the workplace (Ray, 2019) and in policy. Take, for example, this excerpt from an August 2020 letter published by the newly formed Joint Congressional Staff Task Force on Racial Justice and Reform (2020): “When we walk the corridors of the U.S. Capitol, we are aware that a largely minority support staff still maintains a building that was built by the hands of enslaved Black laborers.” The primarily non-white support staff signify the presence and persistence of racial/ ethnic occupational segregation – a racial process (Ray, 2019) – within what they experience as a racialized organization. Second, unless the racialized nature of the policy stream is made explicit, individual members of the policy elite (even those who proclaim commitment to racial justice) “do not see or know that whiteness circulates through structures, policies, practices, and values that are typically assumed to be fair and race-neutral” (Bensimon, 2018, p. 97). The section that follows builds on the importance of naming racialized policy spaces by recognizing the demographics of the policy elite and the underlying racism present in core beliefs.

A Critical Analysis of the Policymaking Process The policymaking process (whether made explicit in MSF or ACF, or not) operates in racialized ways due to hegemonic forces. Both the racialized network of policy elites and their core beliefs are central components to the policymaking process that – when examined through a lens of racialized power – operate in ways to reify the status quo. It is critical to name and acknowledge these forces to create policies that address systemic racism in higher education.

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The Closed Network of the Policy Elite Building on the policy stream introduced by Kingdon’s MSF (or a policy subsystem in the language of ACF) and the individual and organizational membership of coalitions in ACF, we consider here how a critical analysis of the policy process would more effectively acknowledge how membership among the policy elite is gained and what this means for the composition of those in positions to influence the policy process. The policy elite is the collection of individuals and organizations that seek to influence policymaking and that together legitimize problem definitions and policy solutions. In higher education, policy analysts at think tanks, researchers at universities, advocacy organizations, state-level governing boards, and the media all contribute to the percolation and iteration of solutions. Solutions are bandied around via more formal networking avenues such as private working groups, public conferences, or briefings. More informal avenues include blogs, “think pieces,” or Twitter engagement with those viewed as policy elites operating in the same space. In each of these cases, who has the power to influence the softening to particular solutions is itself reflective of power dynamics that ensure certain perspectives hold more influence than others. Pointedly, the policy elite is a population that reflects both historical and presentday racialized political power. However, neither ACF nor MSF explicitly describes the presumed identities of a member of the policy elite beyond their professional role (e.g., governor) and, in select cases, the traits associated with their political role in the process (e.g., policy entrepreneur). This leads us to assume that these theories – that have generally paid little attention to the demographics of the policy elite or their racial/ethnic backgrounds – start from the premise that the standard member of the policy elite is who it has historically been in the United States: a white cisgendered man. In fact, in an early reflection on MSF, Kingdon reflected that “one nice property of this picture of agenda change involving entrepreneurial activity is that it makes some sense of ‘great man’ theories of history” (Kingdon, 1994, p. 220). Though Kingdon sought to emphasize the way policy entrepreneurs take advantage of opportunities, by invoking “great man” theory, he reinforced the assumption that the power and influence required to couple streams and yield policy change is (and has been) preserved for a narrow class of individuals. Pluralism, from which both MSF and ACF draw, holds that policy is “ultimately the outcome of a free competition between ideas and interests” (Parsons, 1995, p. 134). This theoretically allows for any group, regardless of its relative power, to influence policymaking. However, critiques of pluralism contend that this assumption is overly idealized and leads to policy process theories that ignore the factors that provide or prevent power and influence in political settings (Parsons, 1995; Sievers & Jones, 2020). Stated plainly, not all people and ideas are on equal ground. This is evident in both MSF’s and ACF’s classification of certain professions – such as elected officials, researchers, academics, and journalists – as members of the policy elite. Such idealization of the competition of ideas would be equally

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problematic in studies of the higher education policy process, where the focus on the behaviors of the policy elite could lead to centering problem definitions and policy solutions that are not reflective of the preferences of those directly affected by the policies in question. When the policy elite is conceptualized in this way, the policy stream operates as a semi-incestuous predominantly white network that favors policy solutions that sideline the consideration of solutions that center the needs of racially marginalized populations. In an effort to address the understated consideration of the typical membership of the policy elite in traditional policy process theories, we highlight two interrelated arenas in which critical analyses of the policy process must proceed deliberately: by acknowledging who comprises the membership of the policy elite and examining how entry into the policy elite is informally gatekept.

Demographics of Present-Day Policy Elites The players in the policymaking process are overwhelmingly white at the state and federal levels, as well as within the organizations that seek to influence policymaking through lobbying, advocacy, and research. Here, we briefly survey the demographics of political spaces. We take a broad view on policy actor roles to consider political positions – elected, staff, and intern roles – at both the state and federal levels, as well as staff and interns at nonprofits who often serve as policy entrepreneurs or advocacy coalition participants.14 We also acknowledge that numerical representation on its own is insufficient and racial/ethnic membership is not equal to one’s racialized politics (i.e., one cannot assume minoritized actors support the dismantling or disruption of the status quo). At the federal level, there is only one Black president in the nation’s history, and the presidential cabinet since the start of the Reagan presidency has been comprised as few as 8% non-white members (Reagan presidency) or as many as 43% (Clinton presidency; Tenpas, 2021). The 177th Congress is the most racially and ethnically diverse in the nation’s history, yet falls far short of being representative of the nation as a whole (Schaeffer, 2021). In the Senate, only 11% of members identify as BIPOC, whereas in the House, this percentage reaches 27% (A. Johnson, 2021). Staff in Congress – those in the roles to draft legislation, field constituents’ calls, and serve as power brokers with staff from other offices – remain predominantly white even as Congress itself diversifies. Only 11% of top Senate staffers (i.e., chiefs of staff, legislative directors, communications directors) and 14% of top House staffers identify as non-white (Brenson, 2020; Scott et al., 2018). Congressional interns – positions largely held by college students and that are often the entry point to fulltime staff positions on the Hill – were unrepresentative of the population of undergraduates nationwide in the summer of 2019: white interns were overrepresented compared to national figures (76.3% of interns versus 52.6% of undergraduate students), whereas Black/African American and Hispanic/Latinx students were

14

Not considered here, primarily for the sake of space, are other policy elites that operate at the state level, namely, state higher education executive officers, public college and university presidents, and members of public college and university boards of trustees.

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underrepresented (6.7% of interns versus 15.4% of students, and 7.9% of interns versus 20.2% of students, respectively; Jones et al., 2021). Black and Latinx Congresspeople were 13 times and 6 times more likely to hire Black and Latinx interns, respectively (Jones et al., 2021). Racial diversity among governors and state legislatures is hardly better. In 2019, 88% of governors identified as white; only one governor each identified as Asian/ Pacific American and Black/African American, with three identifying as Hispanic/ Latinx (Center for Youth Political Participation, n.d.). A Politico analysis of data from the National Conference of State Legislatures found that, even in the 13 states with a more than 2% increase in the number of non-white members in 2020 compared to 2015, legislatures remain predominantly white and out of alignment with state racial/ ethnic demographics (Rayasam et al., 2021). Notably, these increases in racial/ethnic representation are not universally concentrated in states with more racially diverse populations. Both California and Wisconsin experienced increases in the racial/ethnic diversity of their state legislatures (7% and 5%, respectively), even though California is among the most racially diverse states by population and Wisconsin the least (tied for second and in the bottom quartile, respectively). No such breakdowns of the racial demographics of state legislative staff are readily available. Within influencer organizations—employees of which may participate in advocacy coalitions or serve as policy entrepreneurs—details are scant. However, the racial/ethnic demographics of leaders and board members at non-profit organizations suggest similar racial representation.15 At the 315 largest nonprofit organizations and philanthropic foundations in the United States in 2019, only 3% of leaders identified as Asian, 4% as Latinx, and 6% as African American/Black (Kunreuther & ThomasBreitfeld, 2020). Among board members at more than 400 nonprofit organizations, these figures are only marginally higher: 4% Asian; 5% Latinx; and 10% African American/Black (BoardSource, 2021).

Constrained Access to the Policy Stream The spaces in which the policy elite operate are closed networks, access to which is rationed through indirect means such as internships without pay, low wages for entry-level positions, and promotion practices that favor existing experience in the network. Prior to 2018, the majority of congressional interns went unpaid. Congressional offices could choose to pay interns, though only 10% of interns received any compensation (Jones et al., 2021). A student who does not require wages to support themselves and/or their family can afford an unpaid internship (Shade & Jacobson, 2015), which leads to class-based differences in who is able to accept such an opportunity and gain access to the professional networks that the opportunity allows. 15

Concrete data on the demographics of staffers at policy think tanks are unavailable, though more than 300 current and former employees signed a letter in summer 2020 that identified how the “lack of diversity amongst decision-makers across organizations has severely hindered the ability of these institutions to promote and retain people of color, particularly Black Americans” (Think Tank Diversity Action, 2020; see also Detsch et al., 2020). The group identified transparency on the race and gender makeup of the workforce and organizational boards as a critical action area in beginning to address the long-running reality of think tanks as predominantly white spaces.

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Those who benefit from unpaid labor rationalize the low or nonexistent pay by emphasizing the altruistic benefits to serving one’s public servants and promise that internships can lead to full-time jobs (Grinberg, 2018). In 2018, a bill addressing intern pay allocated $20,000 to each US House office and approximately $50,000 to each US Senate office for the express purpose of paying interns (Jones et al., 2021; Tully-McManus, 2019). After the introduction of intern pay, the average intern receiving pay earned approximately $2000 in the Senate and $1600 in the House for the time period spanning April through September 201916 (Jones et al., 2021). In contrast, a 2016 analysis by Trulia – which almost certainly underestimates current costs – found that renting a single room in a multi-bedroom apartment or home in DC cost approximately $1000 per month (Uh, 2017), or roughly half of an intern’s total summer pay. At the state level, over 60% of surveyed internship programs in 2005 indicated interns are paid a salary, hourly wage, or stipend (Goss, 2005, p. 36). The amount varies across offices, with some fellowship programs offering upwards of $30,000 a year and, more commonly, students receiving small stipends from either the legislature or their home college (through which the majority of these programs are operated). Among DC think tanks, intern pay varies. As of 2021, New America and the Cato Institute (Cato Institute, n.d.; New America, n.d.), for example, provide intern pay, whereas Hudson Institute does not (Hudson Institute, n.d.). Beyond internships, salaries remain low for entry-level positions. The annual salary for the entry-level staff assistant position17 in US Congressional offices amounted to approximately $36,000 in 2018 (Icsman, 2018), more than $10,000 below the median salary of bachelor’s degree recipients aged 25 to 29 in full-time jobs in 2018 (National Center for Education Statistics, 2019b). At think tanks in DC, the average salary for a research assistant position, according to crowdsourced data on Glassdoor, was just under $48,000 in June 2021 (Glassdoor, n.d.). Although this figure is closer to the median salary among bachelor’s degree recipients referenced in the preceding sentence, neither figure adequately accounts for geographic differences in cost of living, an important consideration for DC-based job opportunities. Arguably, college graduates are being asked to forego earnings in lieu of social capital in the policy world – an ask that individuals with greater debt loads, familial obligations, or lack of familiarity with the returns of social networks in the policy space may perceive as risky or undesirable.18

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This corresponds to the months when Congressional offices typically hire the majority of their interns. 17 Name varies depending on whether the position is in the House versus the Senate, as well as the office in which the position is located. For more, see https://www.everycrsreport.com/reports/ RL34545.html 18 A study of a lottery program at NYU law school found that law students were more likely to work in public service when offered grants that would convert to loans if they did not work in public service than when offered loans, indicative of a linkage between debt and career choice (Field, 2009a). An undergraduate student with debt may similarly be less likely than peers with grants to work in public service.

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A third dimension of the closed network relates to the social networks through which access to entry-level positions is gained. Hiring for more senior-level positions in congressional offices often occurs by tapping “experienced” staffers from other offices who have not only background and technical knowledge (e.g., of complex policymaking procedures) but can also exploit cross-office connections (Burgat, 2020) and “consult or coordinate with former colleagues” (Montgomery & Nyhan, 2017, p. 748). For junior roles, existing staffers are not shy in sharing their preferences for former interns: “With interns, you know who you are getting, you know how they work and they have a sense for you. You don’t spend months saying, ‘This is how [the congressman] works.’ It helps streamline the process,” as noted by the chief of staff of a Democratic congressman who was himself an intern at the start of his career (Gale, 2014). These internal hiring preferences reinforce the alreadyclosed nature of these networks. A review of the educational backgrounds of White House and congressional staffers reveals that selective colleges “produce” a disproportionate number of staffers, also suggestive of the closed nature in which policy networks operate. Over 40% of President Biden’s mid- and top-level staffers hold Ivy League degrees (Lippman, 2021). Congresspeople likewise reflect these collegiate networks; Harvard boasts of its 40 undergraduate and/or graduate alumni in Congress (Lee, Ma, & Mui, 2020), and 17% of all Senators and 12% of all Representatives in the 117th Congress (2021–2023) earned Ivy League undergraduate and/or graduate degrees (Buchholz, 2021). Among staff and (paid) intern positions in 2019, a significant proportion of staffers graduated from a small number of elite colleges (Burgat & Billing, 2019), and half of paid interns in this same year attended private colleges, despite only 25% of all students nationwide attending private institutions (Jones et al., 2021). Put simply and as discussed earlier, elite higher education functions as part of a filtering system that gatekeeps membership to the policy elite.

Consequences of a Closed Network of Policy Elites The primarily white membership of the policy elite, which is further reified by structures that limit access, results in continuously reinforced white policymaking spaces with few opportunities for contestation of white supremacist policymaking. MSF and ACF both ignore the racialized nature of these networks – or the consequences of, as Bensimon (2018) puts it, “who is leading the reforms, whose knowledge is privileged in the framing of the problem, and the resulting colorblind ‘solutions’” (p. 97). When individuals from nondominant groups are absent from – or underrepresented among – the policy elite, their perspectives and needs risk being silenced as the issues that affect their lives are considered for inclusion on the policy agenda. When individuals or organizations from nondominant groups gain membership into the policy elite, they may find themselves reckoning with a racialized space that stymies efforts to push back against the status quo. Studies of descriptive representation, which is defined as “the extent to which a representative or legislative body resembles a given constituent and her social or demographic identities” (Hayes & Hibbing, 2017, p. 33), find that increased representation is correlated with increased attention to issues that affect racially

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marginalized populations. Black and female elected officials, for example, are more likely to introduce bills that serve within-group interests and the interests of other minoritized groups (Bratton & Haynie, 1999). Furthermore, hearings on minority interest issues are more likely to occur when congressional committees and subcommittees are led by Black or Latinx members (Ellis & Wilson, 2013).19 The election of legislators from populations that have been racially minoritized also leads to an observable increase in substantive representation, or “having one’s policy views expressed by an elected representative” (Hayes & Hibbing, 2017, p. 33), for these same populations. For example, Black and Latinx members of congress were more likely than their white counterparts to participate – defined as engaging more frequently and for longer durations – in oversight hearings related to minority interests (Minta, 2009). Another example of substantive representation, a recent study of congressmembers’ correspondence with federal agencies found that racially minoritized elected officials are more likely to provide support to racially minoritized constituent groups in the form of intervention with federal agencies (Lowande et al., 2019). Granted, the above studies speak to what happens when policy elites from nondominant groups are present, but are not on their own confirmation that, in the absence of their inclusion in the policy elite, these same issues would not be raised. To this we contend that if the policy elites from dominant groups were adequately prioritizing on the policy agenda issues that affect racially marginalized populations, then we would not expect to see a change in the composition of the policies put forward when descriptive representation increases. Therefore, the absence of policy elites from racially marginalized populations serves as a means of limiting the contestation of policy solutions that support the status quo. Gaining membership as a policy elite does not prevent others within the space, regardless of party affiliation, from contributing to the maintenance of a hostile and racialized environment meant to underscore out-group membership rooted in the historical legacy of racialized political power. Hawkesworth’s (2003) interviews with members of congress revealed that “African American Congresswomen, in particular, relegated tales of insult, humiliation, frustration, and anger that distinguished their responses from those of their white counterparts” (p. 533). For instance, notably absent from a press conference announcing historic minimum wage legislation were the congresswomen of color whose work directly contributed to its shaping and ultimate passage (Hawkesworth, 2003). Lest the nearly two decades since Hawkesworth’s (2003) study suggest the possibility of improvement, recently elected Congresswomen of color have experienced censure resolutions introduced by colleagues (e.g., H.R. 474, 2021), unconventional votes on committee membership (Ferris & Caygle, 2020), and assumptions of not belonging (OcasioCortez, 2018).

However, descriptive representation is no guarantee that “the issues arising from [a policymaker’s] location in gender or racial hierarchies will be adequately identified or vigorously pursued” (Phillips, 2020, p. 177). 19

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Hostile treatment by colleagues in the policy space may negatively affect what individual members or organizations in the policy elite are able to accomplish, such as whether they can effectively play the role of the policy entrepreneur and contribute to the softening of the policy elite to particular ideas. Among congressmembers, regardless of their race, the barriers that limit one’s influence on legislative agenda-setting may take the form of limited committee or, more importantly, committee chair assignments (Berry & Fowler, 2018); lower rates of bill sponsorship or co-sponsorship (Rocca & Sanchez, 2008; Schiller, 1995); or lower perceived loyalty to one’s political party when in the majority (Hasecke & Mycoff, 2007). In other organizations that comprise the policy stream, racism may stymie these same efforts by controlling who is invited to participate in panels or private convenings and for what reasons (e.g., tokenism), which opinion pieces are published, or who is promoted. An academic researcher who participates in a congressional hearing – one way in which they can influence agenda-setting – will encounter congressmembers who wield their power to selectively validate or minimize the researcher’s expertise (Perna et al., 2019). Whether the experience serves as a barrier to the researcher’s efforts to combat the status quo depends on the degree of congruence between the researcher’s testimony and the congressmember’s policy beliefs. When racially minoritized individuals and organizations are denied entry into the policy elite, or when their presence is minimized through racist treatment, the result is a policy space that affords little opportunity to subvert status quo solutions. Bensimon (2018) argues this point in higher education specifically, when she names higher education reforms as acts of white supremacy, in that they reflect whiteness in leadership, design, and implementation, and minoritized students represent their objects. To put it more colloquially, white supremacy represents the whiteness of who is at the table, and the non-whiteness of who is on the menu, who is the agent and who is the object, who has power and who doesn’t. (p. 97)

In this framing, Bensimon makes explicit the otherwise silent linkage between the composition of the policy elite and the continual construction of a racial hierarchy underwritten through the policy process. To be clear, there is space within the policy stream for individual elites to vary in their support of the status quo. However, as a collective, policy elites all operate as part of the same system, the written and unwritten rules of which work to ensure that the status quo is maintained in perpetuity. Even in the best case, the determination of what constitutes an “important issue” is driven in part by “the dominant values and the political myths, rituals, and institutional practices which tend to favor the vested interests of one or more groups, relative to others” (Bachrach & Baratz, 1970, p. 11).

Racialized Core Beliefs In the ACF, beliefs are explicitly named as a driver in policymaking – both in how central concepts (e.g., freedom, equality, the role of government) as well as near policy beliefs shape the framing of policy problems and solutions. Kingdon (1984)

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implies a belief system within the MSF in, for example, how actors perceive problems and the feasibility of solutions. Neither of these frameworks, however, make explicit the racialized nature of these beliefs and the imbalance of power attached to them. Individuals’ beliefs are integral to policymaking because beliefs inform how policy actors see the world and ultimately craft policies and distribute resources. In higher education, who policy actors see as worthy of an education, how they conceptualize fairness and equality, and the extent to which they believe the state and federal government should subsidize education all shape their policymaking. Beliefs are inherently racialized. Even seemingly neutral position-taking in policymaking cannot only ignore history and racialized political power but, in doing so, contribute to the maintenance and reification of white hegemonic power. Put differently, one cannot divorce the racist history of governance and racial hierarchy from beliefs about concepts such as fairness, equality, and the role of government. This is because, by historic and current sanctioning of racist practices through policy (e.g., slavery, Jim Crow laws, redlining, restrictive voting laws, inequitable school funding formulas), the state holds a direct and active role in creating and maintaining many of the social conditions – such as poverty, discrimination, pollution, and low quality schooling – that disparately impact communities of color. When treatment of these social conditions is tied to purportedly agnostic conceptualizations about belief systems, policy conversations (and their academic study) provide tacit approval for belief structures that seek to erase others’ humanity. Take, for example, arguments in favor of small (in contrast to large) government that provides fewer (rather than greater) services and safety net supports and regulates less (rather than more) for the benefit of its populace. Neither ACF nor MSF provides a means of determining whether differences in this deep core belief are, indeed, race neutral. Supporters of small government forego any consideration of racism, arguing that “. . .man is not free unless government is limited. . .As government expands, liberty contracts” (Reagan Library, 2016, 11:19). Embedded in their argument is the silent history that small government has and will continue to benefit groups that have protected or privileged statuses, may not be in need of safety net supports, and are unlikely to experience the negative effects of deregulation – the white elite. Even when big government initiatives were successful, white people remained the main beneficiaries (e.g., the GI Bill and Federal Housing Administration programs; Kimble, 2007; Rothstein, 2017), in part because these programs launched at a time when it was acceptable to outright exclude or limit the beneficiaries of other races. Therefore, a desire to limit the role of government in addressing social problems and providing supports – particularly through the power of redistributive policies – is ahistorical and rejects governmental responsibility for creating said problems. National polling reveals beliefs about the role of government are deeply divided by race. White people are less likely to believe the government should “do more” to solve problems (48% versus 74% of Black people; Pew Research Center, 2019); provide more services (41% versus 79% of Black people; Pew Research Center, 2020a); play a major role in improving the social and economic positions of Blacks

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and other minoritized groups (22% versus 54% of Black people); and reduce discrimination against Black people (17% versus 53% of Black people). Repackaging governmental equity projects as “big government” – and therefore at odds with the majority of white Americans’ deep core beliefs – enables white interests to be legitimated as neutral belief systems and advanced through policy. In higher education, these projects would include student financial aid and access programs that seek to redress inequalities in college preparation (e.g., TRIO programs). These racialized differences in deep core beliefs, which are situated within racialized political power structures, are largely absent in the discussion of policymaking frameworks. Below, we further unpack deep core beliefs, examine the problematization of near policy beliefs, and use a case – the University of Missouri’s tumultuous fall semester of 2015 – to demonstrate the racialization of beliefs and its implications on policymaking.

Deservingness as a Deep Core Belief As a resource, higher education has historically conferred financial stability through desirable employment opportunities and wealth-building (relative to jobs that do not require a higher education degree or certificate) that can lead to self-determination. One of its primary functions is sorting people into educational opportunities of varying levels of value that have been rationed according to social position, and to construct narratives of deservingness to justify such exclusion. Deservingness is a central core value in higher education policymaking, with those in power able to name and gatekeep who is deserving of what level of higher education benefits and at what cost. In the spring of 2010, Kennesaw State – a public college in Georgia – reported it had incorrectly charged one undocumented student, Jessica Colotl, in-state tuition (Blitzer, 2017; Diamond, 2012; Jaschik, 2010). This administrative error was in violation of Georgia law that institutions charge undocumented students’ out-of-state tuition. In response, the Georgia Board of Regents quickly formed a commission to verify all students’ residency within the state system’s 35 institutions, although undocumented students were estimated to be a fraction of a percent of enrollees. In the fall of 2010, they also voted to ban undocumented students from admission into the state’s selective public institutions (Stripling, 2010). In this way, an isolated occurrence was used to curtail disenfranchised individuals from access to stategranted resources and privileges in perpetuity, or rather Policymakers have similarly shared concern over the misuse of Pell Grants, leading to the “overregulation of students” through “the cumbersome process of verification and structured disbursements” that largely affect lowincome and students of color (Graves, 2019, p. 111). The MSF helps explain the opportunism that policy entrepreneurs leverage to seize on a focusing event and advance legislation, as in the case of Kennesaw State’s oversight in charging Jessica Colotl in-state tuition. The perception of wasteful government spending on ineligible individuals, and the ire it draws from some, is itself what focuses attention on the policy issue. This framework also accounts for the speed with which a specific policy was able to gain traction. But to simply describe the exercise of the alignment of the policy, the right political conditions, and

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the problem would undermine the racialized nature of such policymaking and normalize the dehumanization of a population of individuals. Kingdon (1984) ignores race, racialized core beliefs and power altogether in his examination of which values influence feasibility. In contrast, theories like Social Construction of Target Populations (Schneider & Ingram, 1993) contend that problematizing and solution-finding is contingent on whether target groups are seen as positive or negative by the populace and the extent to which these groups have power. The ways policy actors problematize conditions and the extent to which resultant policies produce benefits or burdens are largely distributed according to four target groups. Groups can cast as (1) advantaged with a powerful with positive construction (e.g., high-achieving students); (2) contenders with powerful with negative constructions (e.g., for-profit institutions); (3) dependents with powerless with positive constructions (e.g., students without housing); or (4) deviants with powerless with negative constructions (e.g., financial aid “cheats”).20 Schneider and Ingram conceive of power as the ability to politically mobilize resources and retaliate, which is of great concern to politicians, who seek reelection. Politicians can then, for example, avoid consequences for prescribing more burdensome and punitive policies to powerless groups, particularly unpopular ones. This theory is helpful in the acknowledgment and foregrounding of social position in the differential treatment of constituents in the policymaking process. In Jessica Colotl’s case, her membership in the undocumented student group – a group with less political power and a negative construction – made such punitive policymaking possible. Higher education scholars have used social construction theory to understand how different groups are positioned as (un)deserving of benefits. One recent study examined the Higher Education Act reauthorization deliberations surrounding the PROSPER Act markup – a Republican-authored bill21 deliberated in a Republicanmajority Committee on Education and the Workforce – in 2017 (Gándara & Jones, 2020). Through discourse analysis, the authors found Republican committee members were able to (a) agenda set by outlining the goals of the bill (economic development and college affordability); and then (b) rely on their definition of the bill to disregard any policy proposals that sought equality or social justice; to therefore (c) determine who is getting benefits and burdens. This framing allowed the committee, for example, to reject a Democratic amendment to allow “Dreamers” to qualify for federal aid, as it fell outside of the narrow definition, as constructed by Republicans, of the goals of the bill. Virginia Foxx, Republican House Leader of the Committee on Education and the Workforce, logs her opposition for the record “because it seeks to make individuals who are not in this country legally eligible for federal benefits. We don’t do that” (Gándara & Jones, 2020, p. 137). Here,

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Examples offered here are from Gándara and Jones (2020). We note political party here to underscore the ways that party intersects with procedure. Controlling a committee and voting along party lines, for example, reduces the need for substantive debate as the party in control has the sufficient votes.

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Representative Foxx draws on legal status to argue for the ineligibility (and undeservingness) of undocumented students for benefits. Arguably, social constructions held by those in power are the constructions that matter most. This is evident in Gándara and Jones’s (2020) study of a partisan bill markup, whereby the nature of the policy argument was a nonfactor. With the power to craft policy proposals and narrowly define its goals, it mattered little that Democrats appealed to Republicans for the inclusion of marginalized groups omitted from the Republican proposal. Social construction theory is helpful in categorizing groups by their relative advantage in the policymaking process (advantaged, contenders, dependents, and deviants), but does not explain how or why the policy elite craft such constructions – for example, how undocumented college students are considered deviants and undeserving of higher education. Importantly, it leaves racialized core beliefs unnamed and without explicit regard for whether the categorization is itself racialized. Here, we turn to controlling images22 – a concept borrowed from critical race theory – to explain the social construction of undocumented students that can help make explicit the treatment of Jessica Colotl in Georgia. The policy elite commonly constructs narratives of deservingness around the distribution of higher education resources – both in access to selective institutions and the benefits they afford (e.g., social networks) as well as financial support (e.g., need-based aid). As in social construction theory, the construct of deservingness allows for discrimination across groups and the identification of those who should receive services. Patricia Hill Collins (2000) argues that “controlling images” are a tool used by the ruling class to define marginalized groups in ways that compromise their deservingness, and in turn serve as justification for oppression (in this case restricting or eliminating their access to said higher education services and benefits). Collins notes these controlling images are then propagated through popular culture (e.g., media in its various forms). Government agencies, in turn, legitimate these controlling images through policies, rules, and court decisions. As a group, undocumented students’ relationship with higher education policy is fraught. Historically, the justification for restricting their access to financial support and postsecondary enrollment is based on their (or their families’) lack of direct contributions to public tax coffers and is framed as an issue of “fairness” (Romero, 2002). This argument is told and retold despite the evidence that suggests undocumented people contribute substantially through a number of tax revenue streams (e.g., sales and property taxes; Gee et al., 2017; Olivas, 2009). Undocumented people are defined as outsiders (a) with an unlawful presence (and by their very existence criminal); who are (b) seeking to benefit from the government-subsidized benefits and opportunities in the United States (c) without tax contribution; and (d) at the expense of “real” Americans. Most notably, undocumented people are largely assumed to be people of color and particularly low-income people from Latinx America (Flores & Schachter, 2018). This controlling image of the “parasitic illegal” 22

For an example of how to use controlling images in college choice, see McLewis (2021).

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is in direct contrast to the commonly offered response from immigrants who traveled to the United States for a better life, particularly for their children in the form of education. This controlling image serves as the basis for justifying their exclusion from many higher education programs and services. Virginia Foxx’s declaration, “We don’t do that,” underscores the absoluteness and effectiveness of this controlling image (Gándara & Jones, 2020). The refusal to support undocumented students through the majority of state and federal programs – i.e., providing access to in-state tuition, need-based state aid, federal grants or loans, college access or bridge program, and (in some states like Georgia and South Carolina) admission into the public higher education institutions – is in direct conflict with oft-asserted state goals of workforce and economic development. Moreover, evidence suggests that providing in-state tuition does not attract more undocumented students (Chin & Juhn, 2010). As an extension of stealing jobs that are rightfully meant for “real” Americans, the image of the “parasitic illegal” sneaking into 4-year institutions evokes a sense of theft and scarcity of selective college seats and taps into the fears of the primarily white middle-class people who covet them. At the time of the Georgia audit, two undocumented students were enrolled in the University of Georgia, the state’s flagship (Stripling, 2010). Notably, non-Georgian students (29 international undergraduate students; 12% out-of-state undergraduates) were not negatively targeted as recipients of scarce seats, even though by the same logic applied to undocumented students, these students were also displacing Georgians at selective institutions.23 In practice, international and out-of-state students typically pay full unsubsidized tuition thereby generating revenue and allow institutions to appear cosmopolitan and desirable in their ability to claim enrollments from across the country and around the world. The specter of scarcity, when combined with the narrative of the “parasitic illegal,” is an effective tool to take advantage of what Kingdon (1984) terms a focusing event – holding up Jessica Colotl as an example – to not just ensure compliance of extant laws that prohibited her group from accessing state-subsidized tuition rates but also providing momentum (even in the absence of evidence) for state legislators to further restrict undocumented students’ postsecondary opportunities. Racialized deep core beliefs underwrite racialized policymaking.

Racialized Near Policy Beliefs: Defining Problems and Solutions Per Kingdon (1984), problems that garner the greatest attention are those that instill the greatest sense of urgency. Yet, what is left unsaid in ACF and MSF is that the problem stream is largely constructed by those who have the ability to identify, name, and filter issues. Arguably, then the problems that are of concern to minoritized communities may not rise to the level of importance or priority to status

See https://oir.uga.edu/_resources/files/cds/UGA_CDS_2010-2011.pdf for 2010 figures. In 2019–2020, the representation of international students was 1.2% and out-of-state students 20% (https://oir.uga.edu/_resources/files/cds/UGA_CDS_2019-2020.pdf) 23

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quo policymakers, particularly in resource-constrained environments. What is more, problems concerning minoritized people – upon entering the policy stream – are subject to being repackaged, rebranded, misunderstood, ignored, rationalized, or redirected in ways that preserve the extant power structure. Bacchi (1999) argues that policy problems, which she calls “problem representation,” are not “out there waiting to be identified” but rather socially constructed and tied to “who we are and what our social goals are” (p. 53). Problem representations carry underlying assumptions, including their root causes, and therefore have competing interpretations. Bacchi centers the deployment of discourse and the way “language works to structure the possibilities of policy proposals” (p. 40). For example, the problem of college (un)affordability has been considered a problem of state appropriations, financial aid, institutional accountability, student choice, and family savings – each with its own set of policy solutions and linked to particular beliefs (e.g., who is responsible for paying for college). These competing constructions of issues are high stakes for policymaking, as their representation yields everyday effects on the lives of target populations by either providing benefits or saddling burdens. As social constructions are inextricably linked to power and the social ordering of race, class, gender, and other identities, the power to name (or ignore) problems, root causes, and accompanying solutions must be interrogated. Bacchi (1999) does so by asking, “What is the ‘problem’ [WPR] represented to be”; what are the taken-forgranted assumptions and effects undergirding such representations; what changes or stays the same; and who benefits? Moreover, Bacchi underscores the importance of examining the representation of issues that gain attention as much as those that are silenced. For the purposes of this chapter, it is also worth considering Bacchi’s discussion of the tensions of policy problem-solving – of either “maintaining social order” or as an opportunity to reform and improve social conditions – similar in construction to our own framing of white supremacist status quo and change (p. 53). Competing problem representations cannot therefore be neutral nor should they be considered equally, especially when branded problems are branded as endemic to people (versus systemic issues). In short, problematizing can be used as a way to disrupt or maintain the original US higher education project. To illustrate the complexities of problematization, we use one such problem in higher education that intersects with the criminal justice system and the challenges of mass incarceration: the requirement to disclose prior criminal records in the college admission process. Criminality is a social construction, meaning that what is deemed a crime and who is most likely to be suspected of and charged for a crime is defined by the ruling class. The distribution and/or consumption of cannabis, for example, precluded many low-income people from urban areas from eligibility for federal financial aid in the late 1990s (Lovenheim & Owens, 2014) – yet is now, several decades later, legal in 37 states (Garber-Paul & Bort, 2021). How do these changes in policy reconcile the direct and, in the case of federal financial aid eligibility, indirect damage done by policies that disproportionately punished marginalized populations? Policies that limit the opportunities of formerly incarcerated individuals have a disparate impact on Black and Latinx communities, who have suffered

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the effects of mass incarceration and criminalization at greater rates than other racial groups. One study showed an estimated 78% of sampled institutions query prospective applicants about their previous criminal history – known as the “box” students have to check (Evans et al., 2019). Arguably, college administrators do not want students with criminal records on their campuses for campus safety concerns. “Ban the Box” (BTB) policies are aimed at reducing the barriers for applicants with criminal records by protecting them from having to disclose their criminal histories during an application process (R. M. Johnson et al., 2021). In higher education, such policies could limit public institutions’ ability to use applicants’ criminal histories to render admission decisions. As a policy problem, BTB sits at the intersection of disenfranchised populations, concerns about campus safety, notions of deservingness, reduced recidivism, and potential financial benefits to the state. One excellent example of the use of Bacchi’s framing is R. M. Johnson et al.’ (2021) study of the policy debates about BTB in the college admission process. The authors use a comparative case study to examine how two states – Louisiana and Maryland – problematized and passed legislation to codify BTB at public institutions. Here, both states are moving towards greater liberatory policies of improving social conditions for individuals with criminal records. However, while the bills in these two states are similar, the authors reveal through their WPR analysis that policymakers in Maryland portrayed the problem with the box as one that would deter people with criminal records from applying (problematized at the individual level), rather than Louisiana policymakers who center the problem on the ability for individuals in admission offices to discriminate against the formerly incarcerated (problematized as a systemic issue). The authors find that Louisiana’s focus on equity led to policymaking that allowed for fewer loopholes in implementation (relative to Maryland’s policy) and potentially more equitable outcomes. The authors warn: “Color-evasive BTB policies that do not explicitly seek to address the pervasive ways in which racism permeates institutional decision-making in admissions will not ensure equitable outcomes” (p. 22) as administrators can circumvent and undermine its implementation.

The Problem with Mizzou A highly visible place where the white supremacist structures of the status quo are challenged is the realm of student activism, and in the case below, a place of intersection for racialized core beliefs and construction of the “problem.” These tensions between the status quo and calls for change are increasingly evident as status quo policy actors attempt increasingly hostile policymaking to stifle racial justice projects. The fall of 2015 saw student activists denouncing systemic racism on over 100 university campuses (Carey, 2021). Within this context, a number of highprofile racist events occurred at the University of Missouri (Mizzou), the state’s flagship campus. Among them, the Black president of the Missouri Students Association was repeatedly called the N-word by a passenger in a pickup truck; and a Black student group faced racial slurs while practicing for a performance on campus (Vandelinder, 2015). Although Missouri has a sizable population of Black high

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school graduates (16%), Black students are notoriously underrepresented in its flagship campus (8%).24 The Concerned Student 1950 – a Black student movement that sought to address the long-standing racism on UM’s flagship campus25 – delivered a list of demands early that fall to the Mizzou administration that included the removal of the system president, Tim Wolfe (Concerned Student 1950, 2015). Students were underwhelmed with Wolfe’s response to their concerns, as well as his lack of understanding of and sensitivity to systemic racism. For example, he notably answered: “Systematic oppression is because you don’t believe that you have the equal opportunity for success” when prompted for a definition (Peralta, 2015). In November, the student activism intensified, as Jonathan Butler – a Black graduate student – announced a hunger strike and demanded the removal of the President of the University (Vandelinder, 2015). Within 6 days of Butler’s announcement, the MU football team – composed disproportionately of Black players – announced a boycott of all football-related activities in solidarity, including their next scheduled game with Brigham Young University. The school was contractually obligated to play the game or face a $1 M fine in addition to the losses incurred by ancillary game day activities (Green, 2015). This demonstration of power sent reverberations across the world of intercollegiate sports, as the university only had days to respond. Two days after the football team’s announcement, the system president Tim Wolfe offered his resignation (Dodd, 2015). Hours later, the Chancellor of the Columbia campus followed suit (Stripling, 2015). What makes this series of events a policy issue is what followed. A month later, two state legislators pre-filed H.B. 1743, which would revoke the scholarship of “any college athlete who calls, incites, supports, or participates in any strike or concerted refusal to play a scheduled game” (A.B.. 1743, 2015a). This bill would effectively preclude student athletes from being able to protest and threaten the financial livelihood of a public institution in Missouri. The bill’s main sponsor, State Rep. Brattin, explained in interviews with media outlets that the bill was “absolutely” a rejoinder to the student protests (Dodd, 2015). Brattin stated, “We need to bring order back. . .We cannot have the student body, or in this case, the football team, going on strike and forcing out a school president. That cannot be allowed” (Perez, 2015). At the same time, he minimized the presence of racism on campus as “a couple of dumb students who did stupid things” and questioned if “these race relations were so horrible at the university, [why had Jonathan Butler] been going there by choice” (Dodd, 2015). Brattin also defended the feasibility of his bill, contending, “When they came out and coerced the school to their demands and have the school pay a fine of . . . $1 million . . . that goes from where ‘it’s your First Amendment rights’ to where you’re affecting others” (Dodd, 2015). USA Today also

24 Percent of high school graduates in 2012–2013 (see https://nces.ed.gov/programs/digest/d16/ tables/dt16_219.32.asp); college fall enrollment included the University of Missouri, Columbia campus in 2013 (see https://nces.ed.gov/ipeds/datacenter/Data.aspx) 25 For a detailed account of the racist incidents and student concerns, see Carey (2021). Also see Carey (2021) and Bazner and Button (2021) for additional analysis of the Missouri case.

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reported Brattin believed – regardless of its passage – that the introduction of the bill could spur change: “The hope is that the university acts so we don’t have to” (Perez, 2015). Following Bacchi’s approach, we ask, what is the “problem”26 represented to be? The football players’ collective action orchestrated this “problem” for the institution ($1 M fine or the president’s resignation) in order to center the concerns of the Black student movement – the status quo structures and hostile climate. In contrast, those who supported H.B. 1743 framed the “problem” as an imbalance in power that needed restoration. Student activism has historically drawn ire from lawmakers because it displays a fraying of control (Carey, 2021), and in turn is likely to draw a punitive legislative response. The Black student athlete, however, is a particular case. In exchange for scholarships, Black student athletes in labor-intensive revenuegenerating sports are “imaged” as academically marginal students who are granted student status undeservingly – and therefore should be thankful for the opportunity to attend their college. As problematizing points to concomitant solutions (Bacchi, 1999), it would follow that for status quo policymakers, such as Brattin, the root cause of disruptive behavior is therefore one of a regulatory nature: impel athletes to perform the duties for which they were bound (through scholarship) to complete. This policy solution also implies their obligation as athletes to their institution precedes their needs as people. In short, status quo policymakers do not see Black student athletes as fully human and deserving of rights.27 One policy silence implied by Brattin is in the unidirectional invocation of contract – colleges are not obligated to improve campus racial climate and ensure the well-being of their students of color. And one assumption consistent with this thinking is that observed enrollment drops are caused by unrest, rather than the systemic racism that it exposed.28 An effective way to retain power is to distort, reframe, and rebrand information and issues. By focusing on the protest and not its root causes, status quo policymakers chose to not only leave systemic racism at Mizzou unaddressed but exacerbate it with an attempt to curtail the rights of athletes who sought to remedy it. The proposed legislation to curtail student-athletes’ rights to protest the antiBlack climate at the university was withdrawn 5 days after its introduction (Blackman, 2016). Football players’ scholarships are not funded with public funds (Dodd, 2015). Therefore, the legislature could not threaten students with aid that they do not control, making the bill unfeasible – a condition MSF deems necessary for passage. Moreover, opponents of the bill argued it would infringe on players’

26

Here, we follow Bacchi’s (1999) approach to annotate problem with single quotes to underscore its social construction. 27 For context, he also sponsored the “Campus Free Expression Act” in the preceding legislative session (Campus Free Expression Act, 2015). 28 University of Missouri’s enrollments dropped by 35% in the 2 years following the student activism during the fall of 2015 (Brown, 2017). For students of color, they may have enrolled elsewhere. Studies have shown that when high-profile racist events occur on college campuses, enrollments increase at HBCUs (Baker & Tolani, 2021; Williams & Palmer, 2019) – dubbed the “Missouri Effect” (Kimbrough, 2016).

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constitutional rights (Helling, 2015). Rep. Brattin backpedaled afterwards by stating that the bill’s introduction was largely symbolic – “While I am withdrawing the legislation, I hope the conversation will continue. . .” (Helling, 2015). This may have been an attempt to soften policymakers and/or test the waters, as Ovink et al. (2016) write symbolic politics send “signals to form coalitions with fellow lawmakers, appeal to their current voter constituencies, and draw in new voters” (p. 4). Importantly, a failed bill is far from a settled matter. As Bazner and Button (2021) noted, “. . .this piece of legislation has marked a new era of contemptuous relationships between protestors, university administrators, and state lawmakers” (p. 274). For example, Republican politicians in Tennessee (including the governor) sent a letter to colleges in February 2021 encouraging administrators to adopt policies that prohibit athletes from kneeling during the national anthem (Allison, 2021) – widely recognized as a peaceful form of protesting Black oppression in the United States (Wyche, 2016). More broadly, 23 bills have been introduced in 16 states since 2016 pertaining to campus protests and free speech – including sanctions for protestors and restrictions on forms of protest (International Center for Non-Profit Law, 2021). In order to examine such policymaking, scholars need a framework that captures the inherent racialization of core beliefs and problematization in higher education.

Towards a New Framework of Racialized Policymaking Although status quo policymaking has always existed, its overtly racialized nature in recent years necessitates a framework to understand this specific brand of policymaking processes. In this section, we offer a framework for scholars seeking to examine the racialized nature of the higher education policymaking process with specific attention to the ways status quo policy actors use their power with the intention to stifle racial justice projects (Fig. 1). Here, the tension between the status quo and the various pressures for change (e.g., racial justice) results in racial threat and white resentment, which in turn shape the policymaking process with the goal of maintaining the status quo.

A Racialized Policymaking Framework to Preserve the Status Quo The United States and its higher education system are based on a legacy of racism. For centuries, white elites have sculpted American higher education to serve their interests – namely, in the reproduction of their power and status. Through the use of racialized power, the white ruling class has treated higher education as a resource – determining who gets what level of postsecondary opportunity and consequent wellbeing. Through this white hegemonic structure we call the status quo, the white policy elite propagate their elite status while also using higher education as a workforce development tool. The status quo relies on racialized policymaking for its survival, both in the (a) overwhelming whiteness of policy actors and the gatekeeping structures that reproduce itself and (b) the monopolization of white

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Fig. 1 Framework of racialized policymaking to preserve the status quo in higher education

dominant group belief systems (particularly those of the white policy elite). The result is a normalization of (and an accompanying justification for) observed disparities that benefit the dominant class, such as racial stratification and inequality in resources across higher education opportunities. Given this starting point, our goal is to try to understand how threats to the status quo (and resentment of its perceived change) translate into policymaking that impedes racial justice in higher education. External pressures have and continue to challenge the racialized political power held over higher education and its functioning. These forces include calls for greater access to higher education (particularly in elite spaces) for minoritized students and faculty; demands for improvements in campus racial climate; pressures to redress unequal funding of institutions that serve minoritized communities; and challenges to the white hegemonic curricula. These pressures can result from political and social mobilization; changes in the national mood, societal norms, and racial/ethnic demographics; progressive policymaking; and other events and/or conditions that threaten to disrupt or dismantle the racial order and the privileges and power held by the white dominant group. Such demands for change result in racial threat and white resentment (on which we further elaborate below) among supporters of the status quo – the latter typically manifesting in white voter support for status quo policies. The former, racial threat, allows for the advancement and prioritization of policies through the policymaking process (and coalitions to support them) that restore the status quo on policy agendas and result in “racialized policymaking” with the explicit goal of stifling change. To be clear, racialized policymaking includes the policy-related activities in the policy subsystem that are both formal and informal – from back-room advocacy to the flick of a governor’s pen on a bill – whether they are successful or not. We outline below a number of these racialized policymaking strategies that amount to policy inaction or sanctions. The relationship between racialized policymaking and white public

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opinion can be bidirectional, as racialized white public opinion can provide political “cover” for status quo politicians, and status quo policy actors may seek to shape public opinion to garner support for their policies. The resultant policies (or the blockage of progressive policies) are meant to reinforce and maintain the status quo where this is done. This framework offers a number of contributions to understanding higher education policymaking. First, it pays particular and explicit attention to the histories and presence of racialized political power that are inherent both in higher education and the policymaking space. This focus addresses two central critiques of critical policy scholars – that policymaking is ahistorical and the process is assumed neutral (e.g., Shaw, 2004; Young & Diem, 2018). Second and relatedly, our framing of policymaking that treats each policy activity as occurring along a continuum relative to the status quo does not allow for neutrality in the policymaking process. This characterization forces readers to consider the taken-for-granted assumptions and the normalization of racial inequality embedded within the traditional theories of the policy process, and asserts that the status quo higher education system requires fixing. Our focus on status quo policymaking does not suggest there is an absence of successful social justice-oriented policy actors or activity, but rather our intentional endeavor is to understand and unmask the forces that preclude such progress. Third, our framework clarifies the linkages between the presence of racial threat/white resentment and enacted policies, which occur through the racialized policymaking process. Much of the research conceptualizes and operationalizes threat or resentment and an observed policy change, but does not address the policymaking process that occurs in the interim (Dollar, 2014). Finally, by adding the policymaking process, we are able to consider the breadth of policymaking activities (some of which we detail), rather than only relying on observed and enacted law. By combining core concepts in critical policy studies to the policymaking process, we hope to push our thinking about how policy problems, solutions, opportunities, and coalitions are all undergirded by racialized histories and beliefs. Below, we further elaborate on the theories of racial threat and white resentment as they relate to policymaking. We then turn to specifying some of the strategies status quo policymakers deploy to stymie change.

Racial Threat and White Resentment in Higher Education Policymaking Racial threat and white resentment are two theories that are frequently invoked when considering the racialized nature of policymaking in the field of political science. While we present them here separately, we recognize that both shape political attitudes and subsequent outcomes.

Racial Threat Formally, racial threat theory is grounded in the argument that racialized groups compete for social, economic, and political resources. When the white dominant

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group perceives a threat to their status, they seek to restore their power through statesanctioned means of social control (Blalock, 1967) – in particular through public policy and criminal law (Eitle et al., 2002). This set of theories that describe group conflict and racial threat originated from scholars’ examination of the size of the Black population in relation to lawmaking and political power (Blalock, 1967; Key & Heard, 1949). Scholars generally have identified several interrelated forms of racial threat: economic competition (e.g., employment opportunities), political threat (e.g., political power and influence), ideological threat (e.g., the dominant belief system), and the perceived threat to white people’s safety (through the criminality of Black people; Blalock, 1967; Dollar, 2014; Eitle et al., 2002; Key & Heard, 1949). Across these forms of threat, generally, the white elite will exert greater, albeit nonlinear, measures of social control commensurate with the perceived size of threat (Eitle et al., 2002). Under these conditions, policymaking is not of the chaotic and serendipitous brand, as Kingdon (1984) describes, but rather calculated, organized, and predictable. It is, in other words, racialized in an intentional effort to preserve the status quo. Scholarship has shown a number of factors that can give rise to racial threat. For example, much of the racial threat literature examines shifts in demographics and numerical representation among racial/ethnic groups. An increase in size of non-white populations can signal potential competition for economic resources (e.g., employment opportunities) and political power through voter participation (Blalock, 1967; Key & Heard, 1949; Tolbert & Grummel, 2003). The policy elite may respond to the increased representation of people of color – particularly Black people – with policy changes that seek to oppress minoritized individuals and communities (e.g., voter restriction laws, harsher prison sentencing, English-only ballot initiatives). The political or social mobilization of nondominant groups that seeks to disrupt the privileges and power of the status quo is also associated with the perception of racial threat among dominant groups. For example, in studying school closures post-Brown v. Board of Education (1954), Brown (2010) found in Virginia that the increase in Black political organizing was associated with increases in school closure policies that circumvented desegregation. The author concludes, “Restrictive policies emerged as a backlash not against black population size per se but as a backlash against black political activity” (p. 1394).29 Arguably, racial threat can also arise when the ideology that undergirds the status quo is challenged, such as in the teaching history that focuses on minoritized groups. For example, in the 1960s, the Nation of Islam faced opposition when they founded their own schools that sought to empower Black students, as “an Illinois state legislator launched an unsuccessful campaign to shutter the Chicago campus, charging that it taught ‘race hatred’. . .” (Rickford, 2016, p. 77). Racial threat can also stem from policymaking that redresses past discrimination or seeks to provide minoritized groups with benefits, as these disrupt the racial order (e.g., President Johnson’s Executive Order 11246 that sought

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Indeed, racial threat may also be triggered by the physical embodiment of protests, particularly those that are largely comprised of Black people (Peay & Camarillo, 2021).

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to take affirmative action in ending discrimination in government contracting). In short, activities, events, or conditions that threaten white norms, privileges, hierarchy, and power can give way to racial threat.30 Moreover, the interaction between local and national conditions or events can shape white people’s perceptions of racial threat (Hopkins, 2010). At present, a number of conditions within higher education can give rise to racial threat. Various constituencies are seeking racial justice in higher education, as the prevalence of social media made incidents of campus racism more visible over the past decade (Stokes, 2020). Students of color have demanded greater dignity in their collegiate experiences than what has been historically afforded: more resources and supports, greater representation in enrollment, less police presence, more faculty of color, and interrogation of racist practices and traditions on campus, among others (Cole & Heinecke, 2020). Moreover, the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, and Breonna Taylor at the hands of white police and vigilantes reignited the Black Lives Matter movement during the spring and summer of 2020 that crescendoed into multiday multicity protests by hundreds of thousands of participants in the United States (Buchanan et al., 2020). These high-profile murders and subsequent protests sparked what was termed a “racial reckoning” that led to public commitments from companies and organizations – including colleges and universities – to address racism, and specifically, anti-Blackness within their operations (McKenzie, 2020; Tweh et al., 2020). Selective institutions in particular are experiencing pressures to increase their racial/ethnic and class diversity (e.g., Nichols, 2020). This mobilization against the indignities and racist treatment of Black and other minoritized people generally, and in the field of higher education specifically, can precipitate the sense of threat to the white status quo. Because of higher education’s multifaceted role – as a private good of individual economic prosperity; in its public function as a sorter of opportunity; and as an industry that provides opportunities for new learning – it is uniquely positioned as a valuable resource for the reproduction and therefore preservation of white supremacy. For this same reason, racial threat is a useful framing for examining the pulls towards the status quo in higher education through policymaking. Applying racial threat theory to higher education, broadly, status quo policymakers and the white voting public will respond to threats that undermine their control of the enterprise in how they ration out opportunity. For example, in her study on the conditions that foment adoption of affirmative action bans using a racial threat lens, Baker (2019) found that when the representation of white students at flagship institutions drops, states have higher odds of banning affirmative action. Baker offers, “The White 30

We are careful here to not characterize threat as solely a reactionary force to a singular focusing event that causes white people to feel threatened. But rather, the monitoring of threats to the status quo is a constant state, as there is constant push against the racial order in ways that are both big and small. Therefore, while observable threats can spur observable increases in social control, white policy elites can also take action that preemptively fortifies the status quo and is also grounded in the competition for resources and racial threat, or what Blalock (1967) calls the “just in case” policy enactments that prevent deviance (p. 168).

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population of the state, possibly feeling threatened by the dwindling number of enrollment spots for White students, reacts in a way that is negative for the minority population, by adopting a state affirmative action ban” (p. 1884). While status quo policy elites protect higher education as a resource, they also view higher education as an enterprise that has the potential to undermine their white hegemonic project through the inculcation of liberal ideals. Historically, colleges and universities have been perceived as places “allowing for cross-racial understanding that challenges and erodes racial stereotypes” (Yosso et al., 2004, p. 8). However, survey research finds a strong partisan split in perceptions about higher education, with Republicans more likely to believe: higher education is going in the wrong direction because “professors bring their political and social views into the classroom” (52% R versus 16% D) and “politics on campus lean toward one political viewpoint” (72% R versus 48% D), that is largely believed to be liberal (77%, overall; Parker, 2019). Taylor et al. (2020) conclude, “Higher education is a likely target for negative partisan sentiment” (p. 862). Status quo policymakers would also respond to threats of white ideologies or ways of thinking that contest their power and undermine the normalization of their control, such as bans on ethnic studies (e.g., in AZ high schools; H.B. 2281, 2010; Depenbrock, 2017), and more recently critical race theory from federal institutions (U.S. Congressman Burgess Owens, 2021; Iati, 2021) as well as requiring viewpoint and intellectual diversity surveys from institutions (e.g., in FL; H.B. 233). Relatedly, there are documented efforts by Republican policymakers to curtail the political participation of college students, as their rates of voter turnout increase (Wines, 2019).

White Resentment and Racial Backlash Theory A related yet distinct concept, some scholars use white resentment to examine how negative attitudes found in white public opinion translate to public policy. With regard to Black people, Sears and colleagues31 (1997) explain that white resentment includes the beliefs that racial discrimination is largely a thing of the past, that blacks should just work harder to overcome their disadvantages, and that blacks are making excessive demands for special treatment and get too much attention from elites, so their gains are often undeserved. . .[I]ts attitudinal origins are hypothesized to lie in a blend of antiblack affect with the perception that blacks violate such traditional American values as the work ethic, traditional morality, and respect for traditional authority. (Sears et al., 1997, p. 22)

This robust body of literature on resentment is concerned with connecting racialized attitudes to policymaking. Sears and colleagues found white people do not support policies that explicitly target racial groups. The consequences of such resentment, scholars have found, are what Grogan and Park (2017) call racial backlash theory – less generous social welfare policymaking in states that have higher levels of white resentment. This theory has been supported 31

See Sears et al. (1997) for a summary of how scholars have conceptualized racial attitudes.

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through studies that examine social welfare policymaking such as Medicaid expansion (Grogan & Park, 2017). In higher education, Taylor et al. (2020) found that state appropriations were higher in states with Republican-controlled legislatures than in Democratic-controlled or divided-government states so long as white students in the state’s higher education system were overrepresented. The relationship inverted when white students were no longer overrepresented. White public opinion, political rhetoric, and policy action can be mutually reinforcing. Scholars have offered numerous conditions that have contributed to the rise in racial animus towards people of color in recent years. The election of the first Black president (Tesler, 2013), changes in the demographics (Craig & Richeson, 2014; Major et al., 2018; Ostfeld, 2019), and growing white racial identity (Jardina, 2019) have arguably led to overall increases in the expression of white resentment. Many say these conditions – percolating over time – gave rise to the Trump presidency (Mutz, 2018), which (re)normalized overt forms of racist discourse (Christiani, 2021) and emboldened status quo policy actors and citizenry. Both racial threat and racial backlash theories are useful in associating public opinion to policymaking and serve as good starting points in considering status quo policymaking that stifles change. However, neither theory specifies the processes through which racial threat/white resentment becomes law. They both leave out much of the policymaking apparatus (voter suppression being an important exception; Key & Heard, 1949), including policy actors. By placing racialized white opinion among the constellation of policy actors and forces in policymaking theory, we are able to nuance the connections between resentment/opinion and policymaking. For example, social construction theory positions public opinion as a way for lawmakers to justify burdensome policymaking. In this way, racialized white opinion can provide cover for elected officials who support the status quo to advance their agenda. Policy actors can also shape public opinion through attempts to garner support for their policy proposals from the public. One example is the recent promulgation of negative sentiment towards critical race theory (CRT) – a term that was not part of the public discourse until it was introduced in conservative media outlets. A senior fellow at a prominent conservative think tank shared on social media the strategy to form public opinion around critical theories that contend with the presence and dismantling of racism (and the status quo): We have successfully frozen their brand – “critical race theory” – into the public conversation and are steadily driving up negative perceptions. We will eventually turn it toxic, as we put all of the various cultural insanities under that brand category. . . .The goal is to have the public read something crazy in the newspaper and immediately think “critical race theory.” We have decodified the term and will recodify it to annex the entire range of cultural constructions that are unpopular with Americans. (Rufo, 2021)

An already resentful racialized white populace would be amenable to such rhetoric (Christiani, 2021), rendering public sentiment and formal policy actors mutually reinforcing and therefore represented by a double-headed arrow in Fig. 1.

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Racialized Policymaking to Stymie Change To help better understand the current policymaking environment, we attempt to bridge the gap between racial threat/resentment and policymaking that works to support the status quo by explicitly bringing attention to policymaking strategies that stymie racial justice in higher education through the use of extant literature and contemporary examples. Although not an exhaustive list, we examine policymaking that either promotes inaction or attempts to threaten sanctions in order to preserve the status quo.

Policy Inaction/Agenda Blocking On June 11, 1963, Governor George Wallace stood outside Foster Auditorium on the campus of the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa in the sweltering heat, physically blocking Vivian Malone and James Hood – two Black college students – from registering at the institution (Clark, 1995; Elliott, 2003). His public display of defiance was in response to a federal court-ordered desegregation of educational spaces, which he argued was constitutionally under the purview of states. With the Alabama National Guard federalized by President Kennedy and prepared to physically remove his body from the door frame, Wallace stepped aside. Whereas this dramatic tableau of a lawmaker openly undermining policies intended to address racism is perhaps considered rare, such everyday policy inaction or blocking is much more insidious, with much of it occurring even before policy becomes law.32 There are a number of opportunities within the policymaking process to derail momentum for change – from agenda-setting and policy formulation (as are the focus in both MSF and ACF) to implementation. Here, we examine the various strategies that status quo lawmakers deploy during agenda-setting and policy formulation when they seek to make no change at all. Policy Silence Status quo supporters can leverage policy silences during the agenda-setting stage as a strategy to subdue issues that can improve racial equality or justice in higher education or preclude historically marginalized populations from benefits. Freedman (2010) asserts, “Policy silence, in this context, does not mean ‘do nothing’.. . .[it] refers to the options that are not considered, to the questions that are kept off the policy agenda, to the players who are not invited to the policy table” (p. 355). By actively repressing from the policy agenda items that concern (and the voices of) racially minoritized communities, status quo policy actors make space for their own agenda items. In practice, multiple players in the policy arena can take part in keeping items and people off of the agenda (e.g., intermediary organizations, lobbyists, policymakers). Bacchi (1999) explicitly tends to these policy silences through her analytical framework of policy problematization: For example, by

Nichols (2020) also uses this event to underscore the long reach of history. Sixty years later, “only 10% of the university’s students are Black, while one-third of the eligible college-aged population in Alabama is Black” (p. 4). 32

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posing the question, “What is left unproblematic in this representation [of the problem]?” she argues that analysts can uncover silences and “construct new problem representations” (Bacchi, 1999, p. 11). To illustrate policy silencing, we return to Gándara and Jones’ (2020) concept of “discursive strategy of avoidance,” which they identified in their study on how policymakers constructed marginalized groups during PROSPER Act deliberations. As the party in power, Republicans were able to choose to minimize or ignore target groups from the reauthorization of the Higher Education Act – a strategy that resulted in target groups’ wholesale exclusion from benefits. Knowing they had sufficient votes, Republicans largely excluded “Dreamers” and minoritized students from mention during the policy deliberations in stark contrast to Democrats’ construction of these target groups. For status quo lawmakers, policy silence affords protection, as they avoid the need to negate benefits to marginalized or vulnerable groups on the record, while retaining their intended effect. Gándara and Jones argue that more research is needed to examine policy silences, as they are likely to result in rollbacks in racial justice-seeking policies for marginalized students. Political Nonstarters Political nonstarters are policy ideas (e.g., a policy problem or solution) that are considered infeasible, polarizing, or unpopular and are widely regarded as an impossibility in the policymaking process. As a discursive tool in policy, naming a policy idea as a nonstarter precludes it for further consideration until policy windows are more amenable. By raising the specter of political loss, it discourages proponents of perceived nonstarter policies from providing their support, rendering the naming of a nonstarter a quite powerful tool to induce inaction. In higher education, “too much” accountability of public colleges (Cooper, 2019; McGuire, 2012); lack of parity across states in federal funding (Carey, 2019); and free 4-year college (although New Jersey is considering such a proposal; Douglas-Gabriel, 2015; Schwartz, 2021b) have all been deemed in the media as political nonstarters. Nonstarters are often a taken-for-granted part of the policy discourse, but rarely formally examined. Under MSF, political nonstarters are, by extension, ideas that fail to meet the criteria for feasibility. But the theory leaves the determination of feasibility to those in the policy stream broadly, sidestepping the need to identify how the “nonstarter” moniker gets bestowed and under what conditions. Arguably, policy proposals that are distal to the status quo are likely to earn the nonstarter title – both by status quo policy actors and those who need their consensus to advance legislation. Powell (2012) identifies two concerns of change-making policymakers that reinforce the status quo: policy proposals seeking to address racial inequality will (1) not gain sufficient traction and (2) have the potential to produce white resentment. The author concludes, “What the overused resentment argument conceals is how concern for possible white anger is employed to block action to ameliorate existing, egregious racial injustice and protect white prerogative and privilege instead” (p. 13). Therefore, categorizing social justice projects as nonstarters is an effective way to shelve such proposals for the dismantling of the status quo.

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As with any social construct, political nonstarters are not absolute and context dependent. To return to the example of student debt forgiveness, the basic idea was also considered “clearly a nonstarter” in 2012 (O’Shaughnessy, 2012). Yet, following years of grassroots organizing, the topic has recently merited countless analytic number-crunched reports (e.g., Eaton et al., 2021) and thought pieces (e.g., The Wall Street Journal, 2020) – moving loan forgiveness to a very-much “started” conversation. Arguably, a new presidential administration and the vast expansion of social safety net programs during the pandemic make universal loan forgiveness – as an economic stimulus – no longer a nonstarter. What perhaps may remain a nonstarter – evidenced by the lack of proposals supporting this argument – would be to target forgiveness in ways that specifically respond to the racial wealth gap. The idea that debt forgiveness could function as reparations for past racially discriminatory policymaking and target minoritized communities (Davis III et al., 2020) remains in the front end of reports (as part of the problem) rather than at the back end (as an explicit recommendation). Dilution Policy dilution is another strategy that compromises the advancement of policies that seek to dismantle the status quo. Felix and Trinidad (2019) bring together elements of critical race theory, color evasiveness, and interest convergence to introduce the concept of dilution of racial equity – whereby lawmakers and those charged with translating and implementing policy set out to weaken the effectiveness of a policy intended to increase racial equity through race-neutral execution. This neutralization of the policy nets little or no progress in racial justice projects. Policy dilution can be extended across the arc of policymaking. A common manifestation of policy dilution in policymaking’s early stages is the universalism approach, which explicitly supports the provision of equal benefits to broad groups of people in raceneutral ways (Skocpol, 2001), oftentimes with the argument that racially minoritized individuals will benefit disproportionately (Powell, 2012).33 Under this argument, those that seek to advance policies that benefit minoritized individuals may concede with universalist solutions to increase the policy proposal’s appeal. However, an approach that focuses on the equality of inputs rather than outcomes is wasteful, Powell argues, and is “based on background assumptions that are non-universal” (p. 11), which can exacerbate inequalities. Returning to an earlier example, universal loan forgiveness is one proposed remedy to the state-sponsored problem of racial wealth gaps. To provide a benefit to Black people, policymakers may compromise a targeted approach for Black borrowers and instead tolerate the inefficiencies of targeting benefits based on income, which dilutes the effect of the solution by concomitantly raising the wealth of white people. Supporters of loan forgiveness may be willing to make this

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Powell (2012) notes that Social Security Act is commonly held up as an example of universalist policy, but goes on to discuss how women and Black people did not accrue the same benefits from Social Security benefits as did their white male counterparts.

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compromise because anything other than an all-loans-matter approach may suffer from infeasibility and even be deemed “reverse racism.” Given these tensions, the menu of options is oftentimes limited to the provision of a diluted benefit or nothing at all – placing boundaries on the possibilities of addressing racial inequality and thereby allowing for the protection of white status quo interests. Policy Inaction Nonintervention is a particular brand of policy inaction. Freedman (2010) notes that “for policy-making bodies, this involves either a desire to cut back on state control. . .or a reluctance to develop new rules and to secure fresh legislation. . . .Where government intervention is necessary, it should – according to this perspective – be minimal and nonintrusive. . .” (p. 345). Here, the state can even be cast as an impediment. In higher education, the robust debate about for-profit regulation can provide a rich example for policy inaction. Higher education policy actors disagree about the extent of regulation necessary for the for-profit sector. On the one hand, free-market enthusiasts who favor deregulation of educational markets argue that for-profit institutions fulfill an unmet need for credentials that 2-year colleges have failed to provide and regulations are burdensome (e.g., Burke, 2019; Wildavsky, 2012). Critics of for-profits point to the reliance of federal funds coupled with low completion rates, high loan default rates (Armona et al., 2018), and high-profile charges of fraud within the sector (e.g., Fain, 2015). Most disconcerting, for-profit colleges have long since served a disproportionate share of minoritized students (46% in for-profits versus 32% in all institutions in the fall of 2018; National Center for Education Statistics [NCES], 2019a). Taken together with the documented practices of targeting minoritized communities, the for-profit sector helps create and maintain racial stratification to the benefit of the status quo (Dache-Gerbino et al., 2018). Arguably, deregulation of the higher education market preys on historically marginalized communities’ desires of economic mobility. State and federal governments encouraged the growth of the for-profit sector through lack of regulation (i.e., policy inaction), coupled with a free-market approach that historically benefits those with greater access to power and information that is part of what McMillan Cottom calls “the new economy” (McMillan Cottom, 2017a; McMillan Cottom, 2017b). McMillan Cottom (2017b) explains how it maintains the status quo: . . .if the way we are telling people in the new economy that the single way you can get ahead is by getting all the education you can, well, people are listening to that. . . .The problem is when our education gospel doesn’t make a distinction between good education and risky education. And here, in that gap, is where for-profit colleges flourish. . . It is easy to sell people when they don’t have any language to understand the idea that school could actually leave them worse off than when they started. (para. 90)

What is perhaps most insidious is the exploitative nature of the higher education free market when we consider the communities that most rely on higher education for economic mobility will be targeted for the institutions with the smallest return.

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Importantly, Freedman (2010) asks, “What constitutes an example of a ‘market failure,’ who decides this, what values are brought to bear on the decision-making process, and what other options are considered. . .?” (p. 354). The Department of Education (ED) under President Obama sought to increase oversight of for-profits and created a unit to investigate abuses in the sector (Stratford, 2016). However, once Betsy DeVos – a supporter of free markets – headed ED under the subsequent Trump administration, she disbanded the team (Ivory et al., 2018). DeVos’ ED also sought to block a rule, known as borrower defense repayment, meant to protect students from fraud (Federal Student Aid, n.d.; Kreighbaum, 2017). In combination, DeVos’s ability to rule-make and set in place policy inactions would not only provide cover to bad actors seeking to defraud the most marginalized students seeking higher education but also limit these same students’ ability to seek reprieve from their federal loans for not knowing how to better “play” the market. Under the BidenHarris administration, ED has paid over $1.5B to 90,000 borrowers – a partial accounting of the cost of nonintervention (ED, 2021b). Freedman (2010) also offers that policy inaction “does not suggest a lack of energy on the part of policymakers or a reluctance in principle to intervene. Rather, it refers to a strategic decision that the best way to promote hegemonic interests and to naturalize foundational values is through a particular role for the state as a policy maker” (p. 355). The rule-making process is one such place, as we illustrated above. The Secretary of Education and agency staffers, through this process, wield a lot of power (Natow, 2015) and can dismantle or ignore processes (or at least try) outside of the formal legislative processes that amount to a noninterventionist approach in ways that harm minoritized students and perpetuate the status quo. More than 90% of federal law is crafted during the rule-making process by agency officials, rather than acts of Congress, who are “tasked with filling in the gaps” (Yackee, 2012, p. 375). Yackee finds that during the pre-proposal stage, off-the-record lobbying can keep potential regulations from advancing. While not exhaustive, other formal processes that amount to policy inaction or blocking include regular and pocket34 vetoes, as well as legislative obstruction (e.g., filibustering) and strategically deferring to a lower level of government, such as states’ rights or local control.

Policy Sanction Through a lens of racialized political power, status quo policy actors who seek to prevent racial justice-seeking change in higher education have also deployed sanctions (or the threat of them) to preserve the status quo. While these sanctions primarily relate to funding, they can also take the form of codifying employee or student dismissal or criminalization of behavior. In the case of the Missouri football players, the intention was to revoke scholarships and fine coaches who refused to play a scheduled game (A.B.. 1743, 2015a). Policy sanctions are imparted to elicit desired behaviors by institutions or individuals and are clearly stated by policy

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This occurs when a governor or president leaves a bill unsigned until it cannot be ratified through the current legislative session.

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actors. This is in contrast to more illicit behavior from policymakers that result in, for example, defunding or underfunding higher education institutions that serve large shares of minoritized students without a specific ask (Chang et al., 2021; DouglasGabriel & Wiggins, 2021; Hamilton et al., 2021; Taylor et al., 2020). One expression of threat is the use of the power of the purse to cut funding to institutions or benefits to individuals. In May 2021, Representative Liz May – who sits on the appropriations committee for South Dakota’s state legislature – introduced a proposal to cut $275,000 from the general funds that supported diversity programming at SD’s public colleges (Nelson, 2021). One newspaper reported that Rep. May argued, “Taxpayers expect tax dollars to be going toward education, and education is reading, writing, and arithmetic, and then when you get to the college level you’re talking about calculus and all kinds of things like that” (Nelson, 2021, para. 4). Here, she intimates that the work of diversity offices is superfluous and not advancing the public interest. Rep. May withdrew her proposal by the end of the legislative session, noting, “She wants to look at the state of how South Dakota’s universities are being run to see if these cuts are still needed” (Nelson, 2021, para. 5). While the proposal to directly cut funding was ultimately retracted, the strong status quo policy momentum in South Dakota suggests that the political climate is amenable to its reintroduction.35 It could also be an opportunity of “softening” the idea to the policy space, as Kingdon (1984) might argue, and a signal of future intent. Even so, this threatened sanction can have a chilling effect on institutions with offices and programming tending to issues of diversity. This threat became reality in Tennessee, as the Tennessee legislature passed (and the governor allowed without endorsement) a similar bill that cut the state appropriation for the diversity office at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville in 2016 (Jaschik, 2016; Locker, 2016). Sanction policies can also be used to generate new lines of policy that aim to protect status quo interests. This layering on of policies is intended to neutralize perceived threats to power. Increasingly, status quo policymakers have sought to slow down momentum through a variety of sanctions. For example, a number of states have introduced legislation (with mixed success) that seek to protect the rights of campus speakers to espouse racist views over the rights of campus members who protest their views that include directly sanctioning student behaviors (e.g., criminalizing the interruption of speakers); empowering the speaker to seek damages (e.g., allowing speakers who have been interrupted to sue students and institutions); and overriding institutional policies (e.g., forcing institutions to adopt expulsion policies; International Center for Non-Profit Law, 2021). Policy actors who aim to block advancements in racial equality in higher education can leverage a number of strategies to accomplish such goals. Below, we conclude with recommendations for future policy research.

For example, South Dakota passed an “intellectual diversity” bill in 2019 in response to “incidents related to whether students’ free speech rights were being squelched by political correctness” (Ellis, 2019).

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Considerations for Higher Education Policy Research In this section, we briefly survey considerations for future work along two axes: the researcher’s reflection on their role as a member of the policy elite and the pursuit of new lines of inquiry that deepen our understanding of how higher education policymaking operates as a racialized space.

Reflections on the Researcher as a Policy Actor Policy research studies almost invariably end with recommendations for policy actors, “with the hope that their research-based insights will be used by policymakers” (Perna et al., 2019, p. 137). And, indeed, policymakers use research as a vehicle for learning as well as to advance their own agendas (Ness, 2010; Perna et al., 2019). What this means for policy researchers is that we can put forward ideas that play a role in softening, problematizing, and testing solutions. To be clear, as researchers, we are members of the constellation of policy actors in the racialized policymaking space and are therefore embedded in Fig. 1. For that reason, policy researchers must decide whether and to what extent our analyses are racially explicit and in service to redressing the inequities of status quo supremacy. Without overt reference to the racialized structures at play, or while under the false assumption that race-neutral stances create researcher objectivity, we researchers studying policies – via the policymaking process or via evaluations – risk having our work used for the means of reifying the status quo whether we seek to do so or not. Given the continued salience of racialized power in higher education policymaking, we borrow from King and Smith (2005) to underscore: Analysts should inquire whether the activities of institutions and actors chiefly concerned either to protect or to erode white supremacist arrangements help to account for the behavior and changes in the nation’s political institutions, coalitions, and contests they study. Any choice not to consider racial dimensions requires explicit justification. (p. 78)

By remaining silent, we feed the there’s-nothing-to-see-here white hegemonic narrative that downplays and obfuscates the forces of contemporary racist policymaking structures. Stemming from this perspective, we call on researchers, ourselves included, to continually reflect on our role as policy actors and how we enact that role to improve the material and educational conditions of racially minoritized people. One dangerous consequence of “race-neutral” policy is that some legislators may use this framing to gain support for policy solutions that, though neutral in appearance, disproportionately benefit the powerful and burden vulnerable populations. Racial impact statements, as described in a Lumina Foundation blog post, are reports that “examine whether a bill’s passage would unfairly penalize people based on whether they are Black, Hispanic, Latino, or Native American” (Santana & Jenkins,

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2021). Such reports are one way to provide a more honest accounting of the possible consequences of new legislation before its passage into law (Porter, 2021). When conducted thoughtfully and by policy-area experts (e.g., researchers), these statements can help policymakers understand the likely intended and unintended consequences of a policy solution. For many, this work also entails revisiting our own professional training – the unlearning and relearning of the consideration of race and racism in policymaking. In academic and policy spaces, we have encountered the “mass appeal” argument that we are better off accomplishing our goals of racial equity if we can avoid actually talking about problem definitions and solutions through a racial equity framing. We are trained to feel uncomfortable when thinking about racism and naming it in a policy space because it is framed as a political nonstarter. This pushes us collectively away from considering the role of racism or racialized power at all. At the same time, there is also a pull for scholarship on racial disparities – as major funders, for example, are increasingly centering race-based gaps in opportunities and outcomes in their calls for proposals that are largely centered on policy evaluations. The tension here is that we are not yet at a place where professional opportunities (e.g., funding, publishing) universally require that we meaningfully engage with race and racism beyond the rhetoric of diversity. This tension produces three worrying consequences: a reliance on a small subset of researchers using a highly specialized set of statistical methods; a narrow research focus along the policy arc; and a failure to require consideration of race/racism in theoretically and empirically meaningful ways. As Bensimon (2018) posits, racial equity is not a rhetorical prop to be “sprinkled into educational discourse” as a means of signaling good intentions and progressive values (p. 97). Instead, “the authentic exercise of equity and equitymindedness requires explicit attention to structural inequality and institutionalized racism and demands system-changing responses” (Bensimon, 2018, p. 97). In no uncertain terms, we believe the same is true for policy researchers.

Directions for Future Research We endeavored to bring together existing theory, research, and contemporary policymaking to offer a framework that explicitly describes the lack of progress for racial equity in higher education. From our work, there are many new lines of inquiry that open when we consider the need to further unpack the racialized nature of the policymaking process. Below, we offer a number of considerations for new and expansive theoretical possibilities and comment on empirical tools that can advance the work in this area. First, future work can apply or extend this racialized policymaking framework. We have designed our framework by relying on examples from present-day higher education policy conversations. Doing so has allowed us to provide critical analysis and weigh in on timely contemporary issues. That said, higher education

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policy researchers can and should expand the body of empirical work to formally identify the types of actions/behaviors/changes in system parameters that activate racial threat, beyond shifts in demographics, and the types of policy behaviors pursued as a means of stalling anti-status quo efforts, which could include the presence of social movements and changes in economic conditions. For example, Davis (2019) explored how protest policies are related to thwarting student movements to stymie campus and institutional change. Other questions remain, such as: How does a higher education policy idea move from being distal to the status quo to being proximal to the status quo? What strategies are employed by the policy elite to dilute a policy solution, and what environmental factors (akin to those identified in both MSF and ACF) contribute to this dilution? Do members of the policy elite weaponize racialized core beliefs to create feelings of racial threat, which in turn stymie efforts to place anti-status quo policies on the policy agenda? If so, how? There is also more work to do to formally theorize the policy space as a racialized organization. As we note earlier in the chapter, Ray’s (2019) theory of racialized organizations provides an avenue for understanding the specific processes that organizations employ to maintain the racial order. Ray’s work is not expressly about the political process, but we make the case that the policy stream (or policy subsystem) can be thought of as a political institution with racialized organizations embedded within it. Stemming from this, and from Jones’ (2019) theorization of Congress as a racialized workplace, future work could more thoroughly develop a theory of the formal racial processes employed in policy organizations and by the policy elite to maintain the status quo. We have focused here on the reinforcement of status quo policies, but there is much to be identified with respect to how radical policies can gain traction within the racialized policymaking system (if we in fact believe that is possible). Are there examples where this has already happened within higher education policy? What does it look like to do grounded theory work – to understand the process through which radical change in policy comes about? Second, and related to the need to expand this framework to other stages of the policy process, is the need to consider carefully how we, as a researcher community, favor quantitative policy evaluations over other forms of policy analysis. The field is collectively enticed by the ability to evaluate policies that have already made it through the messy design process, been implemented, and are ready to be evaluated. (After all, one cannot use a quasi-experimental design on a policy solution that was never put into practice.) But because policy evaluation is largely predicated on what already happened, we allow ourselves to wait until the initial consequences are written before we set out to understand potential racial disparities. Put differently, the policy evaluation stage is too late to proactively address inequities or inequalities. We have far more potential to design and implement solutions that step outside the status quo if we move into the critical place of understanding the racialized process by which existing policies were chosen in the first place.

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We have singled out theories that are primarily concerned with agenda-setting and policy change, but other areas of the policy arc (e.g., policy diffusion) are equally poised for augmentation with elements of the framework we introduced. How do concepts like policy learning and emulation – both central to the theoretical framing of policy diffusion – take on different meanings when we consider the goals of status quo policymaking? ACF provides some structure to how we might think about whose power can bring ideas to state legislatures – i.e., who has the resources to spearhead the diffusion process. Particular coalitions, with the necessary resources, may wield more power and influence to spread ideas across numerous policy agendas simultaneously or in rapid succession (e.g., the rapid proliferation of anti-CRT or free speech legislation; see also Gándara et al., 2017). Especially in an era that is universally described as deeply partisan (R. M. Johnson et al., 2021), coalitions may selectively filter information and have closed networks of learning that are ideologically driven (Grossback et al., 2004). Studies of policy diffusion need to make visible how racialized policymaking shapes the diffusion process. Lastly, several of these lines of inquiry, as well as others that we have not discussed, will require datasets that do not exist or have not been used for these purposes. Towards that end, scholars have identified several data sources that may be useful to these (and other) new research efforts. In addition to interviewing policy actors (e.g., Chase, 2016), document analysis has been a critical component of understanding policy proposals, their adoption, and implementation – such as legislative texts, records of committee hearings, bill and law texts, and implementation guides (e.g., Felix & Trinidad, 2019; Gándara & Jones, 2020; Perna et al., 2019). Natow’s (2019) Online Qualitative Data Sources for Federal Regulatory Policy is a valuable resource to examine federal regulations, as it outlines online data sources and associated methodological considerations. Additionally, a number of existing datasets can be used. For example, Baker (2019) used an amalgamation of data common in higher education scholarship (e.g., Integrated Postsecondary Education Data System and Census data) with data about ideology (e.g., Berry et al., 2009) and a dataset that includes partisan balance in a state (e.g., Klarner, 2013). Baker (2019) as well as Taylor et al. (2020) use data from the National Conference of State Legislatures, which tracks a number of policy initiatives across states, including ballot initiatives. The Pew Research Center houses many national-level surveys of population sentiment and beliefs and publicly releases the majority of their microdata on their website. There are also general state-level bill tracking websites that allow researchers to compile the introduction (and fate) of bills (e.g., Education Commission of the States, State Education Policy Tracking website). The US Protest Law Tracker tracks “initiatives at the state and federal level since January 2017 that restrict the right to peaceful assembly” (International Center for Non-Profit Law, 2021). Researchers may also develop their own datasets from publicly available sources. College student social movement data, for example, has typically been acquired through the meticulous compilation of media articles (e.g., Stokes, 2020).

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Conclusion . . .the cleverest ruse of the Devil is to persuade you he does not exist! – Baudelaire (Smith, 1919; p. 82)

Our work in this chapter36 endeavored to bring together inter- and multidisciplinary scholarship to critically interrogate historical and current postsecondary policies. In doing so, we resisted the common, taken-for-granted ways our field often presumes positions of neutrality by explicitly naming racism, racialized political power, and the racial status quo at the center of higher education policymaking. The tendency for many higher education researchers to divert their analytical gaze from racism and racialized political power in policy studies is commonplace, not aberrational.37 The generally unquestioned propagation of such race neutrality through policy research, theory, and practice is harmful not only to graduate students, earlycareer scholars, and our field of study, but ultimately to the minoritized communities disproportionately impacted by race-neutral policy decisions. For this reason, we find it wholly necessary for policy scholars and policymakers to interpret the process and product of higher education policy as racial projects worthy of continuous scrutiny. We are not arguing conscious criticality is a sufficient, albeit necessary end unto itself. Rather, without a more deliberate and intentional focus to recognize and redress racially inequitable outcomes through race- and power-conscious analyses, the historical and contemporary evidence makes clear that race-neutral policy solutions will continue to fail in addressing higher education’s persistent racial problems. As a result, policymakers and researchers alike will continue to obscure the devilish underbelly of policy as yet another apparatus by which white supremacy furthers its domination, control, and racial exclusion. Acknowledgments The listed authors contributed equally to this project. Authorship order does not denote level of contribution, but rather the order in which the authors came to this project. We extend the deepest gratitude to Mara Ostfeld, Keon McGuire, and Laura Perna for your feedback; to Katherine Lebioda and Joshua Skiles for your technical support; and to our families for their patience as we write in the times of COVID-19.

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We do not claim this manuscript to be either definitive or exhaustive on the matter. There are notable exceptions that we have highlighted in this chapter.

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Awilda Rodriguez is an Associate Professor in the Center for the Study of Higher and Postsecondary Education at the University of Michigan. Her research focuses on the representation of Black, Latinx, low-income, and first-generation students in postsecondary education at the intersection of higher education policy, college access, and choice. Rodriguez’s work has been published in Research in Higher Education, The Review of Higher Education, The Journal of Higher Education, Diverse Issues in Higher Education, and The Chronicle of Higher Education.

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KC Deane is a doctoral candidate at the Center for the Study of Higher and Postsecondary Education and an IES predoctoral fellow at the University of Michigan. Prior to arriving at Michigan, she worked as a program manager at the Aspen Institute’s College Excellence Program and a research associate at AEI’s Center on Higher Education Reform. She holds a BA in economics from Reed College and a master’s in education policy from the University of Pennsylvania’s Graduate School of Education. Dr. Charles H.F. Davis III is a third-generation educator and creator committed to the lives, love, and liberation of everyday Black people. He is an Assistant Professor in the Center for the Study of Higher and Postsecondary Education at the University of Michigan where his research and teaching focus on issues of race, racism, and organized resistance in education and its social contexts. Dr. Davis is founder of the Scholars for Black Lives collective, director of the Campus Abolition Research Lab, and principal investigator of the #PoliceFreeCampus project, an abolitionist research collaborative committed to using data and community narratives to envision and create a police-free future.

State Higher Education Policy Innovativeness

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A New Measure for Research and Policy David A. Tandberg, Jason C. Lee, T. Austin Lacy, Shouping Hu, and Toby Park-Gaghan

Contents The Arc of State Policy Innovativeness Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Advent of State Policy Innovativeness Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Criticism and Abandonment of Policy Innovativeness Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Single Policy Innovation Studies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Higher Education Policy Innovation Studies and the “Standard Theoretical Model” of Adoption . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Return to Innovativeness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Collecting Data on Higher Education Policy Adoptions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Creating Measures of Higher Education Innovativeness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Trends in Innovativeness Over Time and Across States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Investigating the State-Level Correlates of Higher Education Innovativeness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . State Political Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . State Economic Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . State Postsecondary System Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . What Matters in State Higher Education Innovativeness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Shouping Hu was the Associate Editor for this chapter. D. A. Tandberg (*) · J. C. Lee State Higher Education Executive Officers Association, Boulder, CO, USA e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] T. A. Lacy RTI International, Durham, NC, USA e-mail: [email protected] S. Hu Florida State University, Tallahassee, FL, USA e-mail: [email protected] T. Park-Gaghan Center for Postsecondary Success, Florida State University, Tallahassee, FL, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 37, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-76660-3_11

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Significance and Implications for Research and Policy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Implications for Theory and Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Implications for Policy and Practice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix – Stata Code . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

The United States is experiencing an unprecedented wave of state postsecondary policy innovation. Over the last 10 years we have witnessed great acceleration in the number of new state policies adopted with the intent of increasing the number citizens with a postsecondary credential. Nevertheless, significant variation exists across states’ willingness to take up the innovation cause, that is, the willingness to embrace new innovations in higher education, and this variation has existed historically. Within the political science literature, attention has been paid to determining which states are the most innovative across policy areas (referred to in the literature as “policy innovativeness”). Such efforts are strangely absent in regard to higher education policy innovation research. In this chapter we review the empirical research related to state policy innovativeness. We propose a new direction for the higher education policy research toward a focus on state higher education policy innovativeness. We then develop and test a measure of state higher education policy innovativeness. We conclude that employing such a measure in future research will allow higher education policy researchers to gain new, more general insights and move toward greater cross policy conclusions. Keywords

Higher education · Innovation · Innovativeness · Policy · Politics · Policy diffusion · Policy innovation · Policy innovativeness · Policy adoption · State policy · Governance · Finance · State politics · Higher education innovativeness · Higher education policy

The US higher education system has been the envy of the world for much of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The peculiar configuration of the differential roles of the federal and state governments and the private sectors in higher education was considered one of the most important features that made the US higher education system enduringly strong (Clark, 1983). The federal government plays an important role in striving for equalizing educational opportunities for all through student financial assistance and special programs toward institutions serving underrepresented student populations. State governments, however, tend to have more direct roles in higher education in the United States. The states can influence higher education through direct financial appropriations to institutions, provision of student financial assistance, involvement in institutional governance, and many other higher education relevant state policies.

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The landscape of higher education has been experiencing constant shift through the end of the twentieth century to the new millennium, so too in the role of the state governments in higher education. Higher education in the United States has been facing numerous challenges in the past three decades or so. Despite affordability serving as a mainstay in higher education policy, college costs have skyrocketed since the mid-1990s (McPherson & Shapiro, 1991; St. John, 2003). A large proportion of students who started college never managed to complete meaningful credentials, and this dismal situation has not changed much for decades (Tinto, 2010). More recently, an increasing concern about higher education is whether college is worth the costs, and some question what college students learn from their college experiences (Arum & Roksa, 2011). Others worry about the declining standing of the United States in the age of globalization and question the role, or lack thereof, higher education institutions have played in regaining the American advantage. Furthermore, the changing demographics of American society increase the urgency for higher education in the United States to play a larger role in creating postsecondary opportunities for all while closing the attainment gaps among students of different backgrounds (Postsecondary Value Commission, 2021). As the context within and beyond higher education has been changing, so too has the role of state governments in higher education. State governments have played an increasingly active role in higher education in the past three decades (Perna et al., 2014). In addition to the traditional role in higher education appropriations and student financial assistance, state involvement in higher education has taken some new forms. Granted, some versions of the new forms of state involvement have been introduced before, but the late 1990s and the first two decades of the twentieth century have ushered in state performance funding programs, transfer and articulation agreements, vouchers, the community college bachelor’s degree, free community college, developmental education reform, and the like (Hearn et al., 2017; Perna et al., 2014). For example, in the mid-2000s only 11 states had performance-based funding programs in place for higher education; now over 30 have these programs in place (Kelchen et al., 2021). Many of these innovations have been pushed by nongovernmental intermediary organizations and policy-focused foundations. These include advocacy-oriented foundations like the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation and the Lumina Foundation, policy advocacy organizations like Complete College America (CCA), and national membership organizations like the National Governors Association (NGA). Not only have such organizations championed specific policy prescriptions, but they have also advanced the notion that policy change, innovation, transformation, and other similar ideas are positive outcomes themselves and have attempted to identify and influence the conditions that would encourage such innovativeness (Barnhardt, 2017; Haddad, 2021; Orphan et al., 2021). Nevertheless, it appears that there is significant variation across states in their willingness to take up the policy innovation cause, that is, the willingness to embrace new innovations (i.e., new state policies) in higher education. Indeed, while some states have adopted a large number of postsecondary policy innovations, others have

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been more reluctant (Lacy & Tandberg, 2014). The concept of innovation in the policy space has been considered and studied in great depth within the political science and public policy literatures. Theories, models, and measures have been developed that have advanced our understanding of why one state adopts a certain policy and another does not (e.g., Berry & Berry, 2018). Within higher education policy research, scholars have developed a line of research examining state higher education policy adoption and developed a standard theoretical model that accounts for the influence of internal factors (sociodemographic, economic, organizational, and political characteristics) and external factors (the impact of other states) on the likelihood that a state will adopt a certain policy (See Hearn et al., 2017). A more recent effort within political science has gone beyond predicting the adoption of a single, discrete policy to examining the idea of state policy innovativeness, or a state’s willingness to adopt new policies sooner or later relative to other states, to determine whether some states are more innovative than others (Boehmke & Skinner, 2012). This area of scholarship has focused on determining which states are more innovative across multiple policy areas (e.g., education, healthcare, transportation) and then determining what factors are associated with greater innovation (e.g., Boehmke & Skinner, 2011, 2012; Nicholson-Crotty et al., 2014). This approach aligns better with the idea championed by intermediary organizations that we need to encourage greater innovativeness in state higher education policy (e.g., new funding approaches like performance funding, new approaches to developmental education placement, statewide transfer and articulation programs, and the like). That said, the idea of general state policy innovativeness has been absent from the extant research in higher education, and no objective measure of state higher education policy innovativeness currently exists. Thus, we have no way of identifying the factors associated with greater state higher education policy innovativeness. In this chapter we attempt to fill these gaps in the research by (1) reviewing the empirical research on state policy innovation within the political science and public policy literatures, with specific attention to policy innovativeness; (2) reviewing the literature on state higher education policy innovation; (3) proposing a new direction for the higher education policy research toward a focus on state higher education policy innovativeness; (4) carefully identifying and coding state higher education policy innovations over the last 45 years; and (5) developing a state higher education policy innovativeness index. We then use the innovativeness index and a number of different data sources to explore the following research questions: 1. What are the patterns of state higher education policy innovativeness over time and between states? 2. What factors are associated with state higher education policy innovativeness? We conclude by suggesting avenues for future research that employ both the idea of state higher education policy innovativeness and the measure we developed.

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The Arc of State Policy Innovativeness Research This chapter is about state higher education policy innovativeness. The arc of this line of theorizing and empirical research started with Jack L. Walker (1969) and his original measure of state policy innovativeness. What followed was the rapid move away from the idea of an overall measure of innovativeness and the adoption of single policy innovation studies as the norm in the empirical research. The focus on single policy adoption studies accelerated with the methodological advances introduced in the early 1990s by Frances Stokes Berry and William D. Berry (1990, 1992, 1994). The higher education literature was initially slow to catch on, but the advances in theory, methods, and data eventually did, and what followed was a rapid acceleration in our understanding of state higher education policy innovation, motivated most centrally by the work of James C. Hearn and Michael K. McLendon (e.g., Hearn & Griswold, 1994; Hearn et al., 2017; McLendon, 2003c; McLendon et al., 2005). However, through these two decades of research, the idea of state policy innovativeness remained largely dormant in both the political science and higher education policy literatures. This changed in the early 2010s, largely motivated by the work of political scientists Frederick J. Boehmke and Paul Skinner (2012, 2020) and the improvements they offered related the theory, measurement, and data. Research interest in state policy innovativeness research has increased, and the scholarship has followed. In this section we follow this arc of the research in detail and conclude by recommending that it is now time to apply what has been learned about state policy innovativeness to higher education policy research.

Advent of State Policy Innovativeness Research Jack Walker (1969) is largely credited with originating the empirical investigation of state policy innovation. Prior to his study, political scientists had largely concerned themselves with explaining patterns in state expenditures, while Walker (1969) argued “that levels of expenditure alone are not an adequate measure of public policy outcomes” (p. 880). He instead suggested that scholars should also concern themselves with the decisions made by state lawmakers over whether to adopt a new program or not. In doing so he endeavored to “devise a measure of the relative speed with which states adopt new programs” (Walker, 1969, p. 881) and answer two related research questions: “(1) why do some states act as pioneers by adopting new programs more readily than others, and once innovations have been adopted by a few pioneers (2) how do these new forms of service or regulation spread among the American states?” (Walker, 1969, p. 881) Rather than focusing on discrete policies (or programs as he referred to them), Walker created a catalog of state policy adoptions. He defined a policy innovation as “a program or policy which is new to the states adopting it, no matter how old the program may be or how many other states may have adopted it” (Walker, 1969, p. 881). He analyzed 88 different policies for the contiguous states from 1870 to 1966 related to

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welfare, health, education, conservation, planning, administrative organization, highways, civil rights, corrections and police, labor, taxes, and professional regulation. Once the dataset of adoptions was created, Walker used it to create an innovation score for each state. The score considered the total number of years which elapsed between the first and last recorded legislative enactment of a program. In other words, Walker’s (1969) score evaluated a state’s year of adoption relative to the first and last states to adopt the specific policy. Walker calculated the total number of years that elapsed between the first and last recorded legislative enactment of each program/policy. Then for each state Walker assigned a number for each policy that indicated the percentage of time that passed between the first adoption and its own adoption of the program/policy. A larger innovation score indicates that a state has been, on the average, faster at responding to new policy ideas. What Walker created was the first measure of state policy innovativeness. Walker (1969) found wide variation in his composite innovation scores among the states. For example, he reported a score of 0.656 for New York on the high end and 0.298 for Mississippi on the low end. Walker also advanced the field in its thinking about a boarder ranger of potential internal determinants of state policy innovation and also external, policy diffusion, determinants. Regarding his internal factors, he categorized his independent variables into demographic factors (or socioeconomic variables) and political factors, despite the current debate in his day over whether political factors should even be considered. Walker provided descriptive evidence that larger, wealthier, more industrialized, and more educated states were potentially more innovative. He likewise found some evidence that political factors may also play a role, in that interparty competition and legislative office turnover were correlated with state policy innovativeness. Perhaps Walker’s (1969) most enduring contribution is his application of diffusion theory to state policy innovation. Policy diffusion theory suggests that the adoption of a policy in one state may increase the probability that another state adopts the policy. In other words, policies diffuse from one location to another as lawmakers pay attention to what each other are doing. He liberally drew from other disciplines, including the fields of organizational theory and sociology (e.g., Rogers 2010; Simon, 1957), to articulate several theoretically grounded propositions for why and how states might mimic each other. He postulated that states lawmakers may (1) engage in satisficing, as they find emulation an easy path for coming up with potential policy solutions; (2) compete in the effort to deliver benefits to their states; and/or (3) mimic each other to remove uncertainty regarding potential policy impacts. Using factor analysis, he found some evidence of regional diffusion, with states clustering into geographic regions.

Criticism and Abandonment of Policy Innovativeness Research Walker (1969) launched a micro-field of political science in describing states’ tendency toward policy innovation, the factors influencing that tendency, and how states mimic one another. While his work was hugely influential, his initial focus on general policy innovativeness quickly came under criticism. The central concerns

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were whether policy adoptions across areas should be aggregated into a single score or if one should consider innovation within specific policy subsystems (housing, education, welfare, etc.) and over what period of time policy innovativeness might be considered. Gray (1973) asserted that differences across specific policies over time made assessing any underlying patterns within general policy innovativeness problematic. Gray argued that state governments might be innovative in one program area but less so in other areas. Therefore, claims regarding overall innovativeness were misplaced. Gray examined 12 different policies within three policy subsystems: education, welfare, and civil rights. Instead of aggregating the policy adoptions into an overall innovation score, she examined the patterns of adoption and diffusion over time for each of the policies individually. Gray’s analysis revealed extensive variation in those patterns across the policies. These variations even existed for those policies that were included in Walker’s original analysis. Her findings led her to conclude that innovativeness “is not a pervasive factor; rather, it is issue-and-time specific at best” (p. 1185) and that “one might question the fundamental assumption of a ‘composite innovation score’” (Gray, 1973, p. 1183). Others identified additional potential issues with Walker’s measure of state policy innovation. Eyestone (1977) raised concerns about the current approaches to studying policy innovation and diffusion. Specific to Walker (1969), Eyestone argued that computing an innovativeness metric over such a long time period provided little useful information, as the underlying politics and policy environments would have changed significantly over the various policy periods included in the dataset. In the end, Eyestone (1977) suggested that while Walker’s approach might provide some descriptive information regarding which states are most often the early adopters, it “may not reveal much about state politics (and hence not much about the policies under study), especially if the same few states are always first” (p. 443). Savage (1978) attempted to summarize the main critiques of Walker’s (1969) approach and identified three primary problems: (1) identifying a large and representative enough sample of policies, (2) “substantive dimensionalities among policies” (p. 213) (i.e., differences among the policies themselves), and (3) changes over time among the states in their “adoption-prones.” Savage constructed his own measure of innovativeness, calculated separately for three different time periods (the nineteenth century, 1900–1929, and 1930–1970), using distinct policies for each time period. Savage found some important variability among the states over time, providing some justification for the criticisms of Walker’s measure. But he also found that almost half of the states appeared relatively consistent across time and suggested that “Gray may have been too hasty in discounting a general innovativeness trait as a variable characteristic of the American states” (Savage, 1978, p. 218). Despite this recognition by Savage, scholars largely turned away from the use of policy innovativeness as a construct in state policy research.1

1 We say “largely turned away” because some scholars continued to use composite measures of state policy innovativeness. This included Boushey (2012), Canon and Baum (1981), Nice (1994), Carter and LaPlant (1997), and Nicholson-Crotty (2009). For the most part, these studies tended to focus on the potential diffusion effects and characteristics.

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Single Policy Innovation Studies Nevertheless, Walkers’ (1969) work would be extended over the next few decades. The field of state policy innovation research picked up on Walker’s focus on both internal determinants (including both socioeconomic factors and political factors) models and, separately, external determinants (policy diffusion) models. However, his measure of policy innovativeness was not included. Instead, scholars began to focus primarily on explaining the adoption of specific policy innovations. These included studies related to energy, technology, human services, corrections, and other state policy areas (Canon & Baum, 1981; Downs, 1976; Glick, 1981; Menzel & Feller, 1977; Regens, 1980; Sigelman & Smith, 1980; Sigelman et al., 1981). However, despite over two decades worth of research, the efforts had “not led to major advances in our conceptualization of state innovation or our empirical approach to its investigation; the same basic approaches have simply been applied in new policy contexts” (Berry & Berry, 1990, p. 395). Berry and Berry (1990) went on to explain that: A critical conceptual weakness in the state innovation literature is the segregation of these two types of explanations. Internal determinants models typically specify no role for regional influence (e.g., Downs, 1976; Regens, 1980), while regional diffusion models generally assume that internal state characteristics have no effect (e.g., Grupp & Richards, 1975; Light, 1978). Even when both models have been investigated within a single study, their analyses have been kept distinct, with internal determinants models cast as analyses of the determinants or correlates of policy innovation and regional diffusion models framed as analyses of policy emulation or diffusion. (e.g., Canon & Baum, 1981; Gray, 1973; Walker, 1969) (p. 396)

However, the genre received a renaissance with the pioneering work of Frances and William Berry in the early 1990s, beginning with their 1990 study of state lottery adoptions (Berry & Berry, 1990). F.S. Berry and Berry introduced the use of event history analysis (EHA) to the study of state policy adoption research. EHA allowed researchers, for the first time, to use large-scale panel datasets (datasets that include data across the states and over time), thereby dramatically increasing the studies’ sample sizes and therefore statistical power, and EHA allowed researchers to include, in a single model, both internal determinants (state socioeconomic and political factors) and external determinants (diffusion effects) (Berry & Berry, 2018). This reawakened state policy innovation research and led to the rapid production of large amounts of single policy adoption/innovation studies, with the dependent variable serving as an indicator of policy adoption (yes/1 or no/0) (Boehmke & Skinner, 2012). The wealth of research that followed Berry and Berry’s initial work significantly advanced our understanding of the state policy adoption process and the factors influencing it. Research across the policy spectrum now offers insights into state policy innovation including such policies as abstinence-only education, state living wills, mothers’ aid programs, consumer protections, welfare benefits, healthcare and health insurance policies, administrative reforms, tax law, school choice, same-sex

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marriage laws, anti-smoking mandates, capital punishment, joining regional compacts, truth-in-sentencing laws, grandparent visitation laws, and abortion laws, among many others (Allard, 2004; Allen et al., 2004; Balla, 2001; Berry & Berry, 1992, 1994; Doan & McFarlane, 2012; Hill, 2000; Ka & Teske, 2002; Karch et al., 2016; Mintrom, 1997; Mintrom & Vergari, 1996; Mooney & Lee, 1995, 1999; Schram et al., 1998; Shipan & Volden, 2012; Soule & Earl, 2001; Stream, 1999; Volden, 2002, 2006). In 2012 alone, close to 110 books and journal articles were published on policy innovation (Berry & Berry, 2018). What developed from these studies is what Berry and Berry (2018) refer to as “the unified model of government innovation” (p. 276). This model is one that accounts external diffusion determinants and various political, economic, demographic, and policy area specific internal determinant variables together in single models using EHA. Regarding the external diffusion effects, there were a range of theories that were developed to help explain why policies diffuse across states that ranged from the neo-institutional interpretation of states sheer mimicry and movement toward normative states, to economic interpretations of states innovating to maintain a favorable position, to the recognition of the role of politics. Likewise, diffusion modeling often adopted the perspective of either regional diffusion models, national interaction models, or leader-lagger models (Berry & Berry, 2018; Hearn et al., 2017). Among the internal determinants variables, studies have frequently accounted for characteristics of the governor and the legislature (e.g., gubernatorial power and legislative capacity/professionalism), citizen and lawmaker ideology, party identification of lawmakers, electoral competition, state interest group ecology and lobbying activity, educational attainment, race/ethnicity of the state population, per capita income, unemployment, gross state product, and other common variables (see Berry & Berry, 2018; Hearn et al., 2017). We further discuss a number of these variables later when justifying our analytic models in this chapter.

Higher Education Policy Innovation Studies and the “Standard Theoretical Model” of Adoption Research on state higher education policy innovation came later than many other areas of state policy research. One of the first studies to undertake a policy adoption study in higher education was Hearn and Griswold (1994), who examined states’ policy adoption decisions related to the assessment of undergraduate students, college savings bonds and prepaid tuition plans, and alternative licensure for K-12 teachers. Hearn and Griswold (1994) not only introduced higher education policies as dependent variables but also included higher education context factors as independent variables in their models. Perhaps most importantly, they introduced the idea that states’ approaches to state-level higher education governance might impact policy outcomes. The role of higher education governance structures in policy innovation became a lasting contribution of Hearn and Griswold (1994) that continues to be a rich area of scholarship.

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However, Hearn and Griswold’s (1994) study was cross-sectional in design (including the 50 states but only for a single year), and, while they accounted for regional factors in their models, they did not account for possible diffusion effects. Later, McLendon in a series of studies, all published in 2003, proposed that higher education policy research ought to use the current theories, methods, and data used in political science to create a more complete understanding of state higher education policy innovation (McLendon, 2003a, b, c). What followed was the rapid production of studies that adopted and adapted the Berry and Berry (1990, 2018) unified model of government innovation and EHA modeling to higher education policy innovation (Hearn et al., 2017). The largest share of the research was produced by McLendon and Hearn and their collaborators. These included studies of merit-aid adoption, state postsecondary governance reform, performance funding and other accountability policies, state-level eminent scholars programs, state-level student record data systems, market-based finance policies, college saving programs, and others (Doyle, 2006; Doyle et al., 2010; Hearn et al., 2008, 2010, 2013, 2014; Lacy & Tandberg, 2014; McLendon et al., 2005, 2006, 2007; Mokher & McLendon, 2009). From the extant state higher education policy innovation research, Hearn, McLendon, and Linthicum (2017) developed the “standard theoretical model of state higher education policy adoption” (p. 310). The model builds from Berry and Berry’s (1990, 2018) unified model of government innovation and adapts it for higher education policy. Like the unified model, Hearn et al.’s model accounts for the socioeconomic, politico-institutional, and policy diffusion contexts though the authors also added factors related to the organization and policy context, which includes variables specific to the organization of higher education within the state. The variables include the types of institutions in the state and enrollment patterns by institutional type, the migration of students, postsecondary funding, and tuition, among others. They also adapted some of the typical politico-institutional context variables to the higher education political/policy context. Included among the variables they propose are state-level higher education governance structures and higher education specific interest groups (Hearn et al., 2017). Their conceptual framework informs our analytic models, and we further develop the specific independent variables in our discussion of our models later in this chapter.

The Return to Innovativeness Despite the wealth of research on state policy innovation that flowed from Berry and Berry’s (1990) original study, the field had not advanced its understanding of state policy innovativeness much beyond the work of Jack Walker (1969). Among the many findings and general conceptual understanding has been the specter of individual “state culture,” which may contain the propensity to innovate. This thinking, in many ways, is a return to Walker’s original conception, a concept and measure that has recently been refined by political scientists Fred Boehmke and Paul Skinner (2012). Until Boehmke and Skinner (2012), the vast majority of published EHA studies, including those within higher education, use only one policy area, with only

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a handful of exceptions. For example, Lacy and Tandberg (2014) used a multipolicy, repeated events research design to investigate multiple state higher education finance policies; however, Lacy and Tandberg, and other studies like theirs, did not construct an overall measure of innovativeness. Similarly, in political science, those who ventured away from the single policy adoption approach rarely used more than a few policies (e.g., Boehmke, 2009; Shipan and Volden, 2012). Only recently have scholars begun to venture into the realm of policy innovativeness with Boushey’s (2010, 2012) and Nicholson-Crotty’s (2009) studies of diffusion patterns across policy areas. These scholars focused less on the idea of innovativeness specifically and more on how a large collection of data on policy adoptions might be used to gain new insights into policy diffusion. Boushey (2010) argued that: Although single case studies provide important insights into how state characteristics shape the diffusion of innovations, they afford somewhat limited insight into state receptivity to innovation. The popular event history studies permit a thorough evaluation of the predictors of state policy adoption for only a single policy innovation at a time. Any generalizations about characteristics of state innovativeness must therefore be extended from individual case studies or a careful comparison across a select few cases of innovation diffusion. (p. 98)

Boushey (2010) further argued that “The notion of ‘state innovativeness’ as a generalizable trait remains conceptually appealing; especially if states with common ideological, political, and sociodemographic characteristics respond in systematically similar ways to different classes or types of public-policy innovations” (p. 98). Building off the early innovativeness research (Canon & Baum, 1981; Carter & LaPlant, 1997; Nice, 1994; Walker, 1969), Boushey (2010) constructed a panel dataset of policy adoptions and a composite innovation score for each state to examine the dynamics of policy diffusion among the states. Boushey then amended Walker’s (1969) original conceptual approach and measure of innovativeness to assess states’ receptivity to innovation within a policy diffusion model. Boushey’s approach to state policy innovativeness further departed from Walker’s (1969) original approach in that Boushey also created categories of policy innovativeness (e.g., regulatory policy, morality policy, and governance policy), rather than focusing solely on an overall measure of policy innovativeness. Boushey found that certain characteristics were associated with states being more likely to be receptive to policy diffusion. For example, states with more professionalized legislatures were less likely to be receptive to morality policy diffusion, and states with direct statutory imitative processes were more likely to be receptive to governance policy diffusion. Boushey (2012) again attempted to use policy innovativeness to further our understanding of policy diffusion, but this time he used punctuated equilibrium theory (Baumgartner and Jones 2018), an overall measure of innovativeness and area-specific measures of innovation to examine both periods of incremental policy diffusion and periods of rapid diffusion. Boushey argued that descriptive evidence provides support for incremental policy emulation, rapid state-to-state diffusion driven by policy imitation and mimicking, and nearly immediate policy diffusion driven by state-level responses to a common exogenous shock. He uses a

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convenience sample of 81 different policies to create his measure of policy innovativeness (drawn from prior published research in state policy diffusion). His dataset included 11 different policy issue areas representing welfare; health; public safety, crime, and corrections; taxes; licensing and professional regulation; education; elections; sexuality; state economic development; and environmental policy. Boushey observed considerable divergence in the diffusion of the various policy areas and so focuses on the findings related to distinct policies rather than for his combined measure. He concluded that “the considerable variation in the speed and scope of diffusion can be explained by the disproportionate allocation of political attention across policymaking institutions in federalism” (p. 142). Nicholson-Crotty (2009) similarly used a relatively large-scale policy adoption data collection effort to gain insights into policy diffusion. Nicholson-Crotty examined 57 policies that were included in previously released studies between 1969 and 2006, covering a variety of issue areas including health, welfare, education, criminal justice, tax policy, election law, abortion, and civil rights. The policies were then coded based on saliency and complexity. Among other findings, Nicholson-Crotty found that high-salience, low-complexity policies were more likely to diffuse rapidly and explained this finding by theorizing that lawmakers may prefer short-term electoral gains over engaging in the larger, and lengthier, policy learning process. Still, despite engaging in larger-scale policy adoption data collection efforts, neither Boushey (2010, 2012) nor Nicholson-Crotty (2009) made use of a policy innovativeness composite measure to gain direct insights on state policy innovativeness generally, as Walker had in 1969. This changed with the work of Boehmke and Skinner (2012). The authors attempted to answer the fundamental question: “How do the American states vary in their propensity for innovativeness, or their willingness to adopt new policies sooner or later relative to other states?” (p. 303) Arguing that “there is only so much that the field can learn through isolated, repeated application of roughly similar models of state policy innovation” (p. 305), the authors endeavored to revisit “Walker’s (1969) original question of innovativeness as a trait of American states” (p. 305). To do this they proposed a new measure of policy innovativeness that applied the logic of EHA by focusing on state innovativeness at different points in time. This allowed them to address one of the fundamental criticisms of the Walker measure, namely, the variation in innovativeness over time, and focus on the rate at which a state adopts a policy over some interval of time. In doing so their focus shifted from when a state adopts a policy to whether a state adopts a policy within a specific time period. They refer to this as an adoption rate measure. To construct their measure, Boehmke and Skinner (2012) built a panel dataset that included 189 policies. They identified the policy adoption using a convenience sampling method that included Walker’s original policies, policy adoption research published since Walker’s study, and searches of policy organizations’ websites. They find that their measure was highly correlated with the Walker measure (which they recalculated using their policy adoption dataset). Boehmke and Skinner also found that, according to their adoption rate scores, innovativeness appeared to increase over time, with innovativeness increasing by about a quarter of a percentage point

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every 20 years. Nationally, their measure also revealed spikes in innovativeness over time, often corresponding with well-known eras in American history (the Age of Reform, the Progressive Era, the Great Society, etc.). They found significant variation in policy innovativeness across the states overall and variation within states over time (though the waves of innovation over time within the states were often similar to the national waves of innovation). Despite the variation in innovativeness between the states, some regional patterns were observed in their data, with clusters of innovative states on the west coast and around the great lakes and clusters of less innovative states in the upper mountain west and in the southeast (especially in the Deep South). Nevertheless, they argued that “the overall impression appears to be consistent with Walker (1969) and Lutz’s (1987) notion of regional leaders surrounded by followers” and that there was “a general heterogeneity of innovativeness within regions, but with some mild regional clustering” (p. 321). In terms of potential internal determinants of state policy innovativeness, Boehmke and Skinner (2012) found that state population, per capita income, rates of urbanization, and political ideology (meaning increased liberalism) all had positive effects on innovativeness. However, their spatial lag variable revealed that the descriptive spatial patterns in innovativeness may have depended more on common exposure than on diffusion between states. Boehmke and Skinner’s (2012) study addressed many of the concerns previous scholars had expressed about the Walker (1969) measure, such as right-censoring. Their approach allowed them to (1) establish that states vary in their innovativeness and (2) draw comparisons of state innovativeness over time. This marked an important revival of state innovativeness itself, with the Boehmke and Skinner (2012) concluding that “overall, then, these results suggest that it will be worthwhile to renew the study of state innovativeness as a general concept” (p. 324). From there, Boehmke et al. (2020) created the state policy and innovation database (SPID) that includes, at the time of the writing of this chapter, adoption information on 730 state policies from 1691 to 2017. This dataset hastened the use of large-n policy adoption studies and allowed for new insights into state policy innovativeness. They coded the policy adoptions by major topic area using the topical areas developed by the Comparative Agendas Project2 and created a Dataverse webpage that provides the dataset, documentation of the adoptions and their methods, plus Stata code and a Stata program, stpolinn, to facilitate creation their innovation scores.3 Boehmke et al. (2020) demonstrate the utility of their dataset by calculating both static and dynamic measures of policy innovativeness and identifying common pathways of policy diffusion among the states. The authors conclude that “these new resources will enable researchers to empirically investigate classes of questions that were difficult or impossible to study previously, but whose roots go back to the origins of the political science policy innovation and diffusion literature” (p. 517).

2 More information on the Comparative Agendas Project can be found here: https://www. comparativeagendas.net/ 3 The Dataverse site can be found here: https://dataverse.harvard.edu/dataverse/spid

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While it is still early, their efforts appear to be paying off, as other researchers have used Boehmke et al.’s (2020) data and also expanded upon it by creating their own large-scale policy adoption datasets to gain new insights into state policy innovation. For example, Mallinson (2021a) made use of the SPID data to analyze the diffusion life course or the stages of policy adoption. Mallinson found that the predictors of policy adoption vary throughout the diffusion life course concluding that his findings illustrate the power of large-scale policy adoption data to identify the heterogeneity in diffusion determinants and the timing of the diffusion determinants. Importantly, he argued “when policies are studied individually or in small sets, there is not enough statistical power to show how effects vary across time” (p. 353). In a separate study, Mallinson (2021b) used the SPID data to reconsider the role of political ideology and geographic proximity in the policy diffusion process. Mallinson found that the importance of ideological similarity between adopters has remained fairly stable over time but that the influence of contiguous neighbors has declined in importance. Bricker and LaCombe (2021) also used the SPID data in a study that identified the policy connections between states and how those connections influenced the policy diffusion process. Similarly, LaCombe and Boehmke (2018) used the SPID data to test whether the initiative process4 impacts policy innovativeness (finding that the process increases innovativeness). Finally, LaCombe, Tolbert, and Mossberger (2021) found, using the SPID data, that states with higher broadband subscriptions are more innovative overall and less reliant on geographic contiguity for policy solutions. Other scholars have recently used their own large-scale policy adoption datasets to gain new insights into policy innovativeness (e.g., Caughey & Warshaw, 2016; Desmarais et al., 2015; Karch et al., 2016; Mallinson, 2016; Nicholson-Crotty et al., 2014).

Summary While we have learned much from the state higher education policy adoption research, we agree with Boehmke and Skinner (2012) who argued that “as a theoretical enterprise, the marginal value of the single policy event history study is declining” (p. 305). Just like political science, the higher education literature has seen a significant volume of individual policy EHA studies on increasingly specific topics. And yet, as Boehmke et al. (2020) argued, “it is unclear whether scholars have made much progress in connecting separate areas of research and thus explicitly uncovering common mechanisms” (p. 518). To counter this trend, Boehmke et al. (2020) urged the analysis of comprehensive populations of policies that allow for more general findings and the analysis of policy adoption and diffusion by policy domain, time period, and/or policy type. Shipan and Volden (2012) similarly called

4

The initiative process is a form of direct democracy where a state allows citizens to force government action (e.g., enact a law or hold a vote in the legislature) via a petition signed by a certain number or percentage of registered voters.

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for better policy aggregation to uncover larger patterns in policy innovation and diffusion. It appears that research in political science is beginning to move in this direction. Lacy and Tandberg (2014), in their study of state adoption of multiple higher education finance policies, questioned whether the state higher education policy adoption research might be mis-specifying how lawmakers actually operate. Given the complexity of the higher education enterprise, and the complexity of politics and government generally, lawmakers may actually be seeking any solution from a broad category of policies. As they argued: combining innovations in this manner may better mirror what individuals in states respond to when they look across their borders; in the case of postsecondary education, policy emulation might not follow the discrete technocratic policies, but rather broad categories that seek similar outcomes. That is, while the distinctions are important in their mechanics, we hypothesize that these differences may not be apparent, or even meaningful, for public officials to whom problems and solutions do not always precede in a linear fashion. From this perspective problems may be matched with any relevant options from a broad category of solutions, or even multiple solutions at once. (Kingdon, 1984) (pp. 628–629)

Hearn et al. (2017) similarly offered that if lawmakers operate in the way Lacy and Tandberg (2014) suggested then “analysts may need to turn away from traditional EHA studies of specific policies. One alternative may be to aggregate specific policies to encompass a broader domain of legislative concern (e.g., affordability), then conducting quantitative analyses with more inclusive definitions of ‘adoption events’” (p. 241). We suggest that researchers go further and propose that by now examining overall state higher education policy innovativeness the higher education policy literature may more accurately mirror the actual policymaking process, gain new, more general insights, and move toward greater cross policy conclusions.

Collecting Data on Higher Education Policy Adoptions In this section we apply the approach of Boehmke and Skinner (2012) to state higher education policy. By focusing our effort on a single program area or policy subsystem, we avoid the problem identified by Gray (1973) and Berry and Berry (2018) regarding general policy innovativeness measures, namely, that states’ propensity to innovative varies by program area. Furthermore, the existing state policy innovativeness research has ignored higher education, both as a specific area of research and as a component of their composite measures. Therefore, we engaged in an original data collection effort to gather information on how salient higher education policies reflect the feature of innovativeness as described in the literature and then to develop a higher education policy innovativeness index for further exploration. Employing previous scholarship in this area; searches of state records, statutes, and websites; and reviews of policy documents and databases of organizations which have tracked state higher education policy adoptions, we created a comprehensive database of state higher education policy innovations and the characteristics

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of the specific policies in each of the adopting states. Included in our database are close to 20 unique postsecondary policies, tracked in all 50 states over more than 40 years. Our approach to selecting which policy adoptions to include in our measure of innovativeness mirrors the convenience approach taken by Boehmke and Skinner (2012). We began by scanning the higher education policy literature to determine which policies have been the subject of a diffusion study and thus have the data on state-level adoption already collected. As Hearn et al. (2017) elucidated, the higher education innovation literature came about in the mid-1990s but rose to prominence during the 2000s and 2010s. As seen in Table 1, many of the studies we relied upon for primary sources were published in the two most recent decades. Most authors made their adoption data publicly available in a table within the paper, though the few who did not were directly contacted to request the data used in the study. Of course, there are more recent policies that have diffused across states but have yet to be the subject of a published innovation study. We identified these potential policies by systematically reviewing the National Conference of State Legislatures (NCSL) and Education Commission of the States (ECS) policy inventories. We were able to increase the number of higher education innovations by about a third with this

Table 1 Higher education policy sources Policy College savings plans Community college baccalaureate Dev. education (multiple measures) Dual enrollment

Primary Source(s) Doyle et al. (2010) Fulton (2020)

Additional Source(s) Russell (2010)

Research for Action (2016)

Eminent scholars Governance reform Merit aid (broad-based) Performance-based funding Prepaid tuition plans Promise programs R&D tax credits Statewide articulation Student unit record system

Mokher and McLendon (2009) Hearn et al. (2013) Lacy (2015) Doyle (2006) Ortagus et al. (2021) Doyle et al. (2010) Mishroy (2018) Hearn et al. (2014) ECS (2020) Hearn et al. (2008)

Tuition decentralization Undocumented student in-state tuition Veteran in-state tuition Vouchers

Lacy and Tandberg (2014) Amuedo-Dorantes and Sparber (2014) NCSL (2021b) Hillman et al. (2014)

McLendon et al. (2007) NASSGAP (2020) Lacy and Tandberg (2014) NCSL (2017)

Strong Foundations (2010, 2016, 2018) NCSL (2021a)

Notes: All policies were updated as needed via the Education Commission of the States, National Council of State Legislatures, Nexus Uni, state websites and other reliable, secondary sources

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additional step. In total, we collected policy adoption data for 17 higher education policies. Though we had well-researched primary and secondary sources to rely upon for the adoption information, these studies often only had data collected through a subset of the years we hoped to include. For instance, a study published in 2010 may have only collected data on state-level policy adoptions through 2006, thus requiring additional scans of state statute, websites, and other policy inventories to determine the year of adoption for states that had yet to adopt the policy in question. Moreover, most studies did not include data on Alaska and Hawaii, because researchers were interested in the geographic diffusion of higher education policies. Nebraska was also often omitted as their unicameral and nonpartisan legislature did not allow for some political hypotheses to be tested. Information on policy adoptions for the missing years and those often-omitted states were collected by the research team. A comprehensive list of policies and the timing of each state’s adoption is included in Table 2.

Creating Measures of Higher Education Innovativeness After carefully evaluating the existing literature in political science and public policy, and using our state higher education policy database, we created two measures of innovativeness: Walker’s (1969) innovation score and Boehmke and Skinner’s (2012) adoption rate score. Notably, Walker’s innovation score can be used to evaluate leaders and laggards with the unit observation (e.g., states) receiving a score closer to one for being among the first few to adopt a given policy and a score of zero if they never adopt said policy. Mathematically, if we let Y MIN represent the year that k the first state i adopts policy k and Y MAX represent the last year of that policy k adoption, then we can express Walker’s innovation score as W ik ¼

Y MAX  Y ik k Y MAX  Y MIN k k

ð1Þ

where Wik is Walker’s innovation score that ranges from 0 to 1 for each policy k in state i. To create a total score across all policies examined over the time period in question, one just averages the scores within a given state. This approach results in a static score over the years specified that will rank order the states by their proclivity to adopt policies prior to their peers. Importantly, we follow prior specifications that improve upon Walker’s original design by distinguishing between states that adopt in the last year of a given policy cycle and those states that do not adopt the policy at all. In short, we assign nonadopters an adoption year of 1 year after the last adopting state, so nonadopters receive a score of zero, and the last adopters receive a nonzero innovation score for that policy. To address the problems with previous approaches for measuring innovativeness, Boehmke and Skinner (2012) adapted Walkers’ original thinking from the 1960s and

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Table 2 State policy adoptions

Year 1976 1977 1978 1979 1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990

College savings plans

2002 2003 2004

Governance reform

CT AR, NC AZ, MN CA KY OH

IN, MS, UT AZ, CA, CT, ME, MD, MN, MT, NV, NJ, NY, NC, RI DE, IA, NH, OK, VT AR, CO, KS, MA, MO, OR, VA AL, IL, MI, NM, TN, WY ID, NE, ND, WV FL, GA, HI, PA, SC, SD

2001

Eminent scholars VA

CO

1996 1997

2000

Dual enrollment CA OK

MD

AK

1999

Dev. education (mult. measures)

FL

1991 1992 1993 1994 1995

1998

Community college baccalaureate

WV

VT LA, TX, WI

CT, NJ IA UT NV, OH NM, SD, WA VT, WI GA KS, MA ID, TX, WV, WY MI ME, MS, ND, OR

GA

NY NV

OH TN AL NC LA

GA

TX, WY MD AK, WV ND

AZ

MA, MN

MO

AZ MT, NJ IL, OR, SC

KY, SC

AR, KY, LA, ME

WI

HI

NY

KS

VA

FL WV TX IN, NM, OK

HI, MD, MT KY

CO, WA

FL

AR, WV

KS (continued)

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Table 2 (continued)

Year 2005

College savings plans

Community college baccalaureate WA

2006

ND

2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012

HI

CA DE

WA ID

2018 2019 2020

1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985 1986

Eminent scholars TX, WY

Governance reform VA

CT, FL, OK, PA WA

OH

CA MI, UT

2014 2015

Year 1976 1977 1978 1979

Dual enrollment IN, PA, SC, TN LA

DE MO IL

CO

2013

2016 2017

Dev. education (mult. measures)

MO, OH, SC OR, WY

Merit aid (broad-based)

CO, CT, MO, OH FL, MA, NC, TX, WA TN IL, IN, MS, NV, OK HI, SD AR, GA, LA, MN, VA

RI

RI

AL

NH

AK KY, MD

Performance-based funding

Prepaid tuition plans

Promise programs

R&D tax credits

TN

Statewide articulation FL, MT

IA, RI, WV

MN

CT

IN, IA MI

WV, WI

UT MA CO, GA, WA, WY ID (continued)

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Table 2 (continued)

Year 1987

Merit aid (broad-based)

Performance-based funding

1988

1989

Prepaid tuition plans FL, IN, ME, WY MO, OK, WV AL, LA, OH

1990 1991 1992 1993 1994

MO KY

AK PA

GA AZ, CO, FL, MN

VA

AR, OH

MA, TX, WI CO, MS

1996

MS

SC

1997

FL, MO, NM

LA

1998 1999

LA, SC AK, KY, MI, NV OH

WA IL, KS, NC

NM

NJ, SD

KY

2001

WV SD

2004 2005

TN MA

2006 2007

OR

Statewide articulation MO

IL

AK, AR, HI, KS, MS IL, ND, OH, VA

MA OK MO

CT AZ, MO, NJ, RI

ME, NC PA

IL, MD, NV, SC, TN, WA

GA MT, UT DE, MD HI, ID, SC, TX

PA

2002 2003

R&D tax credits CA

KS, ND

IN

1995

2000

Promise programs

IN, NV CA, KY AL, MN

NM, OK, SC AZ, LA, MD CT, SD

OR

OK

DE

MI IN

AR, LA, VT OH NE, NM, NY PA

WA

MI, NH (continued)

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Table 2 (continued)

Year 2008 2009 2010 2011

Merit aid (broad-based) AR, UT ND

RI CA, VA

2018 2019 2020

1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993

Promise programs

Tuition decentralization

Statewide articulation NJ, NC

TN, TX

ME, Wi TN MN, OR AR, CA, HI, KY, MT, NV, NY, RI MD, NJ SC

AL, VT Student unit record system CA, TX, WI MD, OK NC IN KY

R&D tax credits

OK FL, VA AK

MS, MT, NV, NM, NY, ND, UT, WI ME, MA

2014 2015 2016 2017

1977 1978 1979 1980 1981 1982 1983

Prepaid tuition plans

WY

2012 2013

Year 1976

Performance-based funding HI, OR TX

Undocumented student in-state tuition

Veteran in-state tuition

Vouchers

GA, IL, MN MS FL, MA, NJ CO CT, LA, MO, NY OR TN VA AR, SC

UT MD, OK

CT

(continued)

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Table 2 (continued)

Year 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998

1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014

Student unit record system NM, WA HI

AL, AZ, ND, OH, SD, WV UT MT, NV, WY RI KS

Tuition decentralization NJ

Undocumented student in-state tuition

KY, WA OH KS, ND, WV

DE AK, ME, MI, PA NH, VT

TX CA, NY, UT IL, OK, WA KS NM NE

WI

CT, MD, RI LA CO, HI, MI, MN, NJ, OR FL

2015

2016 2017 2018 2019 2020

Vouchers

WI, WY NC

SC, TX CO VA FL

ID

Veteran in-state tuition

IA, NE ME

CO

AZ ND AK, DE, IA, NM, OH, TX ID KY, RI, SD, VA LA, UT AL, IL, IN, MD, MO, NV, OR CA, GA, ME, MI, NE, TN, WA, WY CO, FL, MN, MS, NC, OK, PA, SC, VT, WI KS, NJ AR

folded in the censoring rationale employed in the frequently used estimators for policy adoption (e.g., event history analysis) using censored regression. The basic logic of their score is that innovativeness is measured as the number of policies a state adopts among all the possible policies that are available to it. A policy is not available to a state until the first year any state adopts it, and a policy is no longer available to a state in the years following adoption of that policy.

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More precisely, Yikt is set to zero in years of non-adoption and one in the year of adoption. After a state has adopted a policy, that policy is regarded as missing in subsequent years. Kit is the number of policies that state i could potentially adopt in year t and includes only those policies available to a given state to adopt. This is expressed in the following equation: K it P

Rit ¼

i¼1

Y ikt ð2Þ

K it

Interestingly, this adoption rate can be calculated statically over a predetermined number of years from year T0 to T by adding up total adoptions during this period and dividing by the total adoption opportunities over the same period like Walker’s (1969) innovation score: K it T P P

Rij ¼

t¼T 0 i¼1 T P t¼T 0

Y ikt ,

ð3Þ

K it

or it is also possible to capture the changes in a state’s innovativeness dynamically by specifying the unit of time for the calculation of the adoption rate and determine how a given state’s rate changes over the span of the dataset employed. For instance, we leverage the flexibility of this metric by creating a static adoption rate spanning 42 years for each state, a decade-long metric to see how states’ innovativeness changed from the 1980s through the 2010s, and an annual adoption rate to see how state-level political and economic factors might influence a state’s policy innovativeness. Fortunately, Boehmke et al. (2020) made their database of policies and adoption dates publicly available. Moreover, they extended their database to include a compendium of policies and adoption dates through the 2017 calendar year. Thus, we can necessarily truncate theirs and our data to use the same existing years for static (e.g., aggregated innovativeness from 1976 to 2017) and dynamic measures of state innovativeness (e.g., annual innovativeness rates over that same time period). In addition to making their policy database publicly available, Boehmke et al. (2020) also made their programming scripts and a user-written Stata package available to the public, so researchers can replicate and extend their work, knowing that they are taking the same methodological approach. As such, we removed all higher education policies from their dataset as well as any policies that were first adopted prior to 1976. We also removed all adoptions in years following 2017 from our higher education policy database when making comparisons across the two measures. For the few higher education policies that were first adopted prior to 1976, we kept them in the dataset and coded the first adoption years as 1976. Given the smaller number of higher education policies, we thought it prudent to keep as many policies in the dataset as possible.

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Trends in Innovativeness Over Time and Across States Over our 45-year period, states adopted 527 out of a possible 850 policies (e.g., 17 policies across 50 states), which is approximately 62% of the potential policies being adopted. Figure 1 shows the cumulative adoption rate of every policy across all 50 states. It is clear that higher education policy adoptions increased significantly in the 1980s and then increased almost linearly through the remainder of the time series. Figure 2 shows how these cumulative adoption rates vary by state. Interestingly, some policies exhibit the canonical s-curve that has traditionally characterized this literature, while other policies seem to have a more linear cumulative adoption rate, and, finally, others seem still in the middle of their adoption life cycle. Of course, Walker’s (1969) innovation score and Boehmke and Skinner’s (2012) adoption rates are more sophisticated measures of innovativeness than just the proportion of policies adopted or cumulative distribution of policies over a given time period. In fact, the adoption rate treats every year as a potential opportunity to adopt a policy for each state, so while the numerator of 527 remains in that calculation, the denominator increases to 15,978 potential adoptions, resulting in an adoption rate of approximately 3.3%. Figure 3 plots the higher education adoption rate against the overall adoption rate using Boehmke and Skinner’s (2012) data pooled across common years. It is quickly apparent that states like Florida, Oklahoma, Ohio, and Maryland rate toward the top end of the higher education

Fig. 1 Cumulative higher education policy adoptions from 1976 to 2020

State Higher Education Policy Innovativeness

Fig. 2 Cumulative adoptions for each higher education policy from 1976 to 2020

11 625

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innovativeness measure, while other states like New Hampshire, Nebraska, Vermont, and Delaware seem less innovative by comparison. Importantly, we also see a moderately strong correlation (e.g., 0.262) between the overall adoption rate and our higher education measure in these pooled data. Figure 4 is almost identical in form and purpose to Fig. 3, yet it instead plots Walker’s innovation score. Again, this score is bounded by 0 and 1 with scores closer to 1 suggesting not just more innovation but also comparably quicker innovation. We see some of the same states leading the way on the higher education metric with some of the same laggards toward the left side of the plot, though there are some slight changes in the rank order of states with Arkansas, Arizona, Iowa, and Virginia experiencing the most divergent scores. We again see a positive correlation (e.g., 0.274) between the overall policy and higher education policy scores. Because the

Fig. 3 Scatterplot of higher education and overall adoption rates from 1976 to 2017

Fig. 4 Scatterplot of higher education and overall Walker scores from 1976 to 2017

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Walker measure of innovativeness is highly correlated with the adoption rate shown in Fig. 1 and the adoption rate has statistical properties that lend itself to analyses across time, the remainder of the analyses will focus on the adoption rate. Figure 5 shows the trends in adoption rates for both higher education policies and the total policy measure. One can see that both measures increase over time and are likely correlated – a hypothesis we will more formally test in the next section. It is also noteworthy that while the higher education innovativeness measure has consistently increased across the years shown, it also has quite a few more spikes or sudden upticks than the overall adoption rate with the largest punctuations occurring in 1985, 1997, 2013, and 2017. Turning our attention to higher education innovativeness, if we examine the national trends from Fig. 4 at the state level in Fig. 6, we, of course, see the overall increase in adoption rates over time, but we can also see that there is quite a bit of variability in states’ higher education innovativeness across at least three of the four decades shown. It is also interesting to note how variable these rates are within states over time. It is important to remember that the censored logic of this adoption rate metric takes into account the number of policy adoptions available to a given state, so it is not as if states are only able to be innovative within a select number of years. Figure 6 also appears to reveal regional patterns in higher education policy innovativeness. Colorado, Utah, and Wyoming generally fall close together in their innovativeness. Similarly, Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas have similar patterns, as do Mississippi, Alabama, and, to a certain extent, Georgia. The same might be

Fig. 5 Trends in annual adoption rates for higher education and total policy innovativeness

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Fig. 6 Higher education innovativeness rates by state

said for several of Great Lakes, New England, Midwest, and Pacific coast. What we might be seeing is some regional state higher education policy diffusion (Hearn et al., 2017).

Investigating the State-Level Correlates of Higher Education Innovativeness In addition to examining the trends in the innovativeness scores for higher education policies discussed above, we are also interested in quantifying the relationship between higher education policy innovativeness and total policy innovativeness across states and over time. Though we are interested in the relationship between overall policy innovativeness and higher education policy innovativeness for a given state, we are also interested in how other political and socioeconomic factors might influence and mitigate the relationship between those measures. There is an established set of state-level factors that are often included in these policy adoption studies within the higher education literature (Hearn et al., 2017). However, this is not a complete application of the standard theoretical model proposed by Hearn et al. (2017). Since we are interested in providing information on all 50 states, we do not attempt to model the external diffusion effects (Hawaii and Alaska having no

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contiguous neighbors). We encourage future researchers to attempt to assess the potential diffusion of state higher education policy innovativeness. Next, we discuss our specific covariates, which were derived from previous research and established conceptual frameworks (e.g., Hearn et al., 2017; Lacy & Tandberg, 2014; McLendon, 2003c).

State Political Context We start with the political context of the states. We include two variables that characterize a state’s political/governmental analytic capacity and power. First, states vary in their level of legislative professionalism, a measure that attempts to capture the analytic and functional capacity of a state’s legislative body. We follow a common approach of using average salary as our measure of professionalism (Barrilleaux & Berkman, 2003; Carey et al., 2000; Chubb, 1988; Fiorina, 1994). Higher legislative professionalism may provide legislators more incentive (i.e., higher pay) to execute their responsibilities and additional resources and time (i.e., more staff and longer legislative sessions) to gather information and accomplish their legislative goals (Squire, 2007). States with higher levels of legislative professionalism may be more aware of the landscape of policy options available to them and have greater capacity to act on those options and would therefore be more innovative overall. Past research has revealed a positive relationship between legislative professionalism and higher education policy adoption (Lacy & Tandberg, 2014; Hearn et al., 2013). Second, we highlight differences in states’ executive offices. We focus on the institutional powers of the governors, as states vary in the powers afforded the governor. Some governors have broad appointment, budgetary, and veto powers, for example. Others are far more constrained. A powerful governor is likely to have greater ability to block or advance policy proposals. For example, scholars have hypothesized that governors with more stated and implied power within a state context will experience less innovativeness or policy adoptions, as codifying bills into statute would likely reduce the ability of the governor to use his or her discretion to reallocate state funds as they see fit (Lacy & Tandberg, 2014). Prior research has confirmed that variation in characteristics of the governors impacts the likelihood of policy innovation in the states generally (Beyle, 2004; Dometrius, 1979) and within higher education (Mokher, 2010; Dougherty et al., 2014; Hearn et al., 2013, 2014). Recent research examining the adoption of such state higher education policies as merit scholarship programs, college savings programs, and prepaid tuition policies has found that more politically liberal states are more likely to innovate (e.g., Doyle, 2006; Doyle et al., 2010; Hearn et al., 2008). Therefore, we include a measure of the political ideology of the state (Berry et al. 1998) and hypothesize that greater liberalism will be associated with increased innovativeness. The relative strength of a state’s higher education interest group lobby may also impact how innovative a state is. Therefore, we include a measure assessing this aspect of a state political environment. Referred to as the higher education interest

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group ratio, it indicates the strength of the higher education lobby relative to the larger interest group universe in each state (Tandberg & Wright-Kim, 2019). A stronger higher education lobby has been found to positively impact state funding for higher education (e.g., Tandberg, 2010a, b, 2013). However, there is less evidence of a relationship between the adoption of specific higher education policies and the relative strength of higher education lobby. Nevertheless, the accumulated research from the political science and public policy literatures leads to the conclusion that “when such [organized] interests, as well a government interests, add their weight to efforts to pass legislation, it has a greater likelihood of passage, all other things being equal” (Gray & Lowery, 1999, p. 242). One could also assume that if the higher education lobby adds its weight to block legislation, the legislation would be less likely to pass. A growing body of research within higher education has found that party control of the legislature impacts postsecondary policy adoption and outcomes (e.g., Dougherty et al., 2013; Hicklin & Meier, 2008; McLendon et al., 2005, 2006). As Hearn et al. (2017) have suggested, given the observed increase in higher education policy innovativeness over the last several decades and the simultaneous increase in Republican legislative strength, it may be reasonable to assume that Republican control of state senates may lead to increased innovativeness. Lastly, we include an indicator for whether a state has a state-level consolidated governing board for higher education. These boards have been referred to as the “fourth branch of government,” as they have a significant amount of power and influence over their institutions and within the larger political environments of their states (Lacy & Tandberg, 2014). A large and growing body of research has examined the extent to which statewide governance can influence the policy choices states make for higher education, and, as Hearn et al. (2017) conclude, the consensus is “that governance matters” (p. 338). Research has shown that the presence of a consolidated governing board for higher education influences the likelihood of states adopting certain regulatory, financial aid, prepaid tuition, research and development, and outcomes-based funding policies (e.g., Doyle et al., 2010; Hearn & Griswold, 1994; Hearn et al., 2008, 2014; McLendon et al., 2005, 2006). Some have theorized that consolidated governing boards may act like academic cartels that block attempts by political leaders to circumvent their power and authority over the state’s postsecondary system, thereby limiting policy innovativeness within their states (McLendon et al., 2006; Zumeta, 1996).

State Economic Context Prior research has found that family income is positively associated with the adoption of several postsecondary policy innovations (McLendon et al., 2005; Doyle, 2006; Deaton, 2006). Therefore, our study controls for per capita income and hypothesizes that it will be positively associated with overall higher education policy innovativeness. Furthermore, increased economic challenges may be associated with increased policy innovation, and within higher education, increasing

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unemployment rates have been positively associated with the adoption of certain policy innovations (Doyle, 2006; Hearn et al., 2013; Hearn et al., 2014).

State Postsecondary System Context Finally, we control for two aspects of “the organizational ecology of a state’s postsecondary system” (Hearn et al., 2017, p. 323): the share of students enrolled in private colleges and universities and the share of students enrolled in 2-year colleges. A larger private higher education system may decrease the demand for public policy solutions for higher education. Similarly, a stronger 2-year college system may be an indication of a more locally focused approach, thus creating less demand for state-level policy solutions. These and similar variables have been found to impact certain state policy and finance outcomes for higher education (e.g., Hearn & Griswold, 1994; McLendon & Mokher, 2009; Tandberg, 2013) (Table 3). Table 3 Independent variable descriptions and sources Variable Legislative professionalism

Percent enrolled in private Percent enrolled in 2-year Powers of the governor Per capita income

Unemployment rate Citizen ideology Interest group ratio

Consolidated governing board Percent of senate Republican

Description Measure of legislative staff resources available for policy development and deliberations, as measured by compensation Percentage of students enrolled in private non- or for-profit institutions Percentage of students enrolled in public or private 2-year institutions Index of various gubernatorial powers including budgeting, veto power, and executive order authority Total personal income divided by the midyear population. Adjusted for inflation using the Consumer Price Index Percentage of residents who are both job seekers and without employ Measure of the political ideology of the state The total number of state public higher education institutions and registered non-college or -university public higher education interest groups divided by the total number of interest groups in the state Variable indicating if a state has a consolidated governing board for public 4-year institutions Percentage of Republicans in the state senate

Source(s) Squire (2007); The Book of the States (http://knowledgecenter.csg. org/kc/category/content-type/bosarchive) SREB Factbook; Digest of Education Statistics SREB Factbook; Digest of Education Statistics Thad Beyle, The Book of the States

Bureau of Economic Analysis (BEA)

Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) https://rcfording.wordpress.com/ state-ideology-data/ CGEL Blue Book; Lowery; state websites; government archives; NCES

ECS, SHEEO

NCSL

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What Matters in State Higher Education Innovativeness In order to more rigorously assess the potential relationship between general state policy innovativeness and higher education policy innovativeness, we employ a multivariate random effects regression. For this analysis we include the years 1976 to 2017 for all 50 states. We control for the natural log of time due to the clear relationship between time and innovativeness; however, this is not only an important control but a variable of theoretical interest. Our model can be specified as Y it ¼ β1 Xit þ μi þ eit

ð4Þ

where Yit is the higher education innovativeness (e.g., adoption) rate, Xit is the vector of state-level variables discussed above, including Boehmke and Skinner’s (2012) total policy innovativeness measure, μi is the unit-specific error term, and μi is the random error term. Table 4 shows the summary statistics for the outcomes and covariates discussed in the prior section. First, the outcome of interest from the first year (3.5%) to the last year of data (11.3%) increased, reflecting the trends discussed in the prior section. Though the growth was not nearly as large, we also see a sizable increase in the overall adoption rate, mirroring the trends shown in Fig. 3. Additional trends across covariates of interest mostly show an increase from 1976 to 2017, even after accounting for inflation, when appropriate.

Table 4 Summary statistics

Higher education adoption rate Overall adoption rate Legislative professionalism (thousands) Percent enrolled in private Percent enrolled in 2-year Consolidated governing board Powers of the governor Per capita income (thousands) Unemployment rate Citizen ideology Interest group ratio Percent Republican senate

All Years Mean 3.587 4.604 32.815

SD 8.815 4.098 31.843

1976 Mean 3.500 2.500 59.186

SD 10.114 6.682 57.082

2017 Mean 11.252 5.114 29.281

SD 21.000 10.222 25.589

28.975 31.408 0.450 3.539 38.935 5.986 48.912 0.010 44.791

16.151 13.509 0.498 0.573 8.731 2.057 15.725 0.022 19.157

24.186 28.296 0.440 3.738 29.292 7.068 44.448 0.017 32.221

15.191 14.294 0.501 0.881 5.107 1.896 15.010 0.039 18.764

32.800 26.320 0.460 3.233 50.091 4.150 56.138 0.007 58.307

18.507 12.910 0.503 0.391 7.858 0.898 17.260 0.008 20.375

Notes: Means and standard deviations presented. All Years columns include 2100 observations (50 states X 42 years) for all variables except percent Republican senate, which has 2058 because Nebraska is missing data. 1976 and 2017 columns include 50 observations for all variables except percent Republican senate, which has 49, because Nebraska is missing data. Legislative professionalism and per capita income are adjusted for inflation using the CPI

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As shown in Table 5, total policy innovativeness had a positive and statistically significant relationship with higher education policy innovativeness – suggesting that these two constructs move in the same direction. In fact, even after introducing our theoretically relevant control variables, the relationship between the overall policy adoption rate and the higher education policy adoption rate only weakened slightly. In short, for every 1 percentage point increase in the total innovativeness measure, higher education innovativeness increased by approximately 0.17 percentage points, which is meaningful considering the average higher education innovativeness over these 42 years is 3.6%.

Table 5 Results from the random effects models Overall adoption rate

Model 1 0.228** (0.069)

Time (logged) Legislative professionalism (thousands) Powers of the governor Consolidated governing board Percent enrolled in private Percent enrolled in 2-year Per capita income (thousands) Unemployment rate Citizen ideology Interest group ratio Percent Republican senate Constant Observations Number of states Overall R-squared

2.538*** (0.321) 2100 50 0.013

Model 2 0.171* (0.069) 0.746* (0.318) 0.020* (0.008) 1.410*** (0.426) 0.876* (0.402) 0.044* (0.021) 0.022 (0.017) 0.082 (0.048) 0.135 (0.087) 0.001 (0.017) 3.323 (5.618) 0.002 (0.011) 4.944** (1.593) 2058 49 0.043

Model 3 0.168* (0.068) 0.767** (0.290) 0.021** (0.008) 1.463*** (0.413) 0.744 (0.409) 0.046* (0.021) 0.023 (0.017) 0.082 (0.048) 0.109 (0.089) 0.004 (0.019) 3.048 (5.323)

4.763** (1.625) 2100 50 0.043

Notes: Results from random effects regressions shown. Outcome is higher education adoption rate for all models. Model 2 has missing observations because Nebraska has missing values for percent Republican senate. Robust standard errors in parentheses (*** p < 0.001, ** p < 0.01, * p < 0.05)

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Regarding our control variables, as expected, there was a strong and statistically significant relationship between legislative professionalism and higher education innovativeness. Legislatures with more capacity (as measured by compensation) were more likely to adopt higher education policies. We had hypothesized that states with higher levels of legislative professionalism may have legislators who better understand the landscape of policy options available to them and have great capacity to act on those options. As we had expected, the more students enrolled in private higher education institutions, the less likely a state was to innovate. A larger private higher education system may decrease the demand for public policy solutions for higher education and may be effective at resisting public policy that they feel might infringe on their traditional autonomy. The presence of a consolidated governing board for higher education was negatively associated with higher education innovativeness in one of our models and approached significance in the other. Like others, we had proposed that consolidated governing boards may function like academic cartels and block attempts by political leaders to circumvent their power and authority (McLendon et al., 2006; Zumeta, 1996). Lastly, the more powerful a governor was in a state, the less likely that state was to innovate. This may indicate that legislatures are inclined to innovate in the postsecondary policy area and governors are not so inclined to innovate in this area. A more powerful governor would also have greater capacity to block legislation. Per capita income (+), percent enrolled in 2-year colleges (), and unemployment () approached statistical significance but did not cross the 0.05 threshold. Citizen ideology, higher education interest group ratio, and percent Republican in the senate were not statistically significant. And, as expected, the measure of time exceeded conventional tests of statistical significance, corroborating the descriptive evidence showing that policy innovativeness has increased over time.

Significance and Implications for Research and Policy Why does one state adopt a certain policy but another does not? This question has been explored both theoretically and empirically by disciplinary researchers in political science and related areas for decades. Starting in the mid-1990s and early 2000s, it became an area of inquiry for higher education policy researchers as well (Hearn et al., 2017). However, until now, the idea that one state might be more innovative than another had not surfaced in the higher education policy literature. This concept has both theoretical and practical implications, which we will discuss later. First, we will review the steps we have taken in developing and introducing our measure, and then we will discuss its potential future applications. In this chapter we introduced a new concept to the field higher education research: state higher education policy innovativeness. While a growing body of literature has examined the factors associated with a state adopting discrete higher education policies (Hearn et al., 2017), no research has examined states’ overall tendency toward higher education policy innovation until we did in this chapter. To address this gap in the literature we reviewed the extant literature in political science, public

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policy and administration, and higher education on policy innovation, with a specific focus on the most recent research from political science on state policy innovativeness. Borrowing directly from the work of Frederick Boehmke and Paul Skinner, we then developed a measure of state higher education policy innovativeness that accounts for how many policies a state adopts among possible adoptions that it can undertake at that specific point in time. Using the specific elements of the state higher education policy innovativeness measure, we constructed a state higher education policy inventory and panel dataset that includes 17 possible state higher education policies and accounts for each adoption among the 50 states over the course of 44 years (from 1976 to 2020) and produced state higher education policy innovativeness scores for each state for each year. We next provided some validation of our measure by comparing it to Boehmke and Skinner’s (2012) measure of overall state policy innovativeness, finding a reasonable amount of correlation and similar patterns. We also observed some divergence that is symptomatic of higher education being a distinct state policy arena. We explored patterns in state higher education policy innovativeness over time and across the states through several data visualization techniques and descriptive statistics. And, finally, we investigated the relationship between our higher education policy innovativeness measure and an assortment of state economic, demographic, higher education, and political contextual variables through several regression models. We found that state higher education policy innovativeness has increased over time and that legislative professionalism, postsecondary enrollment patterns, institutional powers of the governor, and per capita personal income all significantly impact innovativeness. We propose that the state higher education policy innovativeness concept and measure, and our initial findings, have important implications for theory, research, and policy, which we discuss next.

Implications for Theory and Research The results of our descriptive and regression analyses suggest several directions for future research. First, exploration of higher education policy innovativeness rates over time and our analysis by decades show distinct patterns. One pattern is a general increase in innovativeness of the time period of our dataset. What has caused the general increase in innovativeness nationally and within most states? Could it be that the growth in enrollments, which had been rapid for decades, began to slow in the 1980s and now has been on a steady decline since 2010 (with a brief, yet significant, increase during the Great Recession) (NCES, 2020)? Perhaps the switch from a prolonged period of plentiful enrollments to an era of greater scarcity motivated greater policy innovation. Similarly, might it represent a growing recognition of the importance of higher education and the need for postsecondary credentials for individual economic success? Could it be the possible growing interest and activity of higher education policy organizations and foundations that have actively championed specific policy solutions? To what extent is the pattern an artifact of

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data availability and quality? We suspect all possibilities may have some bearing of the changing patterns in state higher education policy innovativeness. The changing contexts within and beyond higher education, as described in the beginning of the chapter, may have gradually altered the relationship between state governments and higher education institutions and made states more involved in the arena of higher education. We likewise observed waves of innovativeness. This pattern was observed by Boehmke and Skinner’s (2012) in their analysis of overall state policy innovativeness. Our aggregate descriptive results suggest waves of collective higher education policy innovativeness that appear to peak near the midpoint of each decade included in our dataset, only to decline shortly after. Our analysis merely reveals these patterns but does not begin to explain them. Explaining this pattern will require more in-depth research. For example, we may be observing something similar to what Boushey (2012) suggested, which is the idea of policy punctuated equilibrium driving incremental policy diffusion and periods of rapid diffusion (Baumgartner et al., 2018), but with state higher education policy innovativeness. Punctuated equilibrium theory suggests that public policy is generally stable, with incremental change as the norm. However, there are occasional large-scale departures from the norm, with inflections of large-scale policy change, generally motivated by shocks to political subsystems (the higher education policy arena would be an example of a subsystem). If this is the case, future research might explore what was happening shortly before and during the periods of increased innovativeness. Were there national events or federal action that encouraged greater state higher education innovativeness? Were there new actors within the higher education policy subsystem? Future researchers may also want to examine whether specific policies were being adopted during these periods and whether the policy adoptions were happening primarily within certain states or regions. As indicated, our models do not test for the diffusion of state higher education policy innovativeness. As indicated earlier, policy diffusion theory suggests that the adoption of a policy in one state may increase the probability that another state adopts the policy (Berry & Berry, 2018). In other words, policies diffuse from one location to another. Scholars have found evidence of diffusion of general policy innovativeness (Boushey, 2012; Mallinson 2021a), and our descriptive analysis appears to reveal regional patterns of state higher education policy innovativeness. Might we be observing the diffusion of higher education policy innovativeness? Would a state that is located near a more innovative state be more likely to increase its own innovativeness? To what extent are the regional patterns in innovativeness symptomatic of regional patterns in the diffusion of specific higher education policies? Again, because two primary goals of our study were to create a panel dataset of higher education policy innovations and innovativeness scores for all 50 states (including the noncontiguous states of Hawaii and Alaska) and to examine the state characteristics associated with the innovativeness scores, we did not conduct a diffusion study. Future researchers may take on that challenge. The state higher education policy innovativeness scores may also help explain the adoption of new state higher education policies. Berry and Berry (2018) suggest that

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general (or, as they say, “generic”) innovativeness might help explain states’ adoptions of specific policies. This, of course, makes sense. If a state has a pattern of innovativeness, we expect that pattern to continue and for the state to adopt future policy innovations. This would also likely apply to specific policy domains, like higher education. The assumption underlying this logic is that innovativeness (general or within a specific policy domain) captures some features of the states that is not captured by other observed variables (Boehmke & Skinner, 2012). We find some preliminary or suggestive, though not direct, evidence for this notion as we found that general policy innovativeness was highly predictive of higher education policy innovativeness. Further, it is reasonable to ask whether state higher education policy innovativeness is associated with greater student success and educational attainment. Future researchers might include the policy innovativeness scores as an independent variable meant to help predict measures related to student success and state education attainment rates. One might assume a positive relationship, with more innovative states being willing to aggressively pursue new policy innovations meant to improve education outcomes. This could certainly be true as new policies may perform better and changing demographics and economic conditions may necessitate policy innovation. However, one could also imagine a potential negative relationship between state higher education policy innovativeness and various measures of student success. Greater policy innovativeness may result in policy “swirl” and instability, which may result in poor implementation, confusion among the policy targets (e.g., students and college and university leaders and staff), and the hasty adoption of unproven and potentially harmful policies. Future research is needed to answer such questions. Finally, this work contributes to the broader literature on policy innovation and innovativeness. While total innovativeness is a powerful and interesting phenomenon, innovation may in fact be comprised of multiple, underlying dimensions, some or many of which might be specific to individual policy domains. That is, our findings could not only be extended to K-12 education policy innovativeness but fields such as environmental or health policy as well. As Gray (1973) and Berry and Berry (2018) have argued, individual state policy subsystems reveal somewhat unique adoption patterns. We have shown that within a specific domain there are enough individual policy options and variance over time and across states to create a functional policy innovativeness measure and scores. Examining policy innovativeness within other policy domains may be a fruitful area for future research. The State Policy Innovation and Diffusion Database and project by Boehmke et al. (2020) will be useful in conducting such future research.

Implications for Policy and Practice As politicians and the general public become increasingly interested in postsecondary access and outcomes, understanding higher education policy innovativeness and the conditions related to it will become more important. Likewise, as policy

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organizations, advocacy groups, and foundations attempt to drive increased innovation, identifying in which states the conditions for postsecondary innovation already exist may allow such organizations to better use their limited resources and be more successful in achieving their goals. In that regard, simply identifying states that appear to have a history of general policy innovativeness might be less effective. Instead, those interested in higher education policy innovation should specifically look to those states that have a history of innovativeness in postsecondary education, as they may be more likely to innovate in the future. Our regression results also indicate that those states with highly professionalized state legislatures, larger shares of student enrollments in public institutions, institutionally weak governors, and without a consolidated governing board may also serve as targets for postsecondary policy innovation.

Conclusion We hope that the theory, measure, and research presented here (and the future research we hope comes from what we have presented) will help “inform leaders and analysts regarding the contours and paths for success in educational policy choices” (Hearn et al., 2017, p. 343). The policymaking process is a costly and risky one. Tremendous resources (including time, money, and political capital) are expended in seeing a new policy designed, considered, passed, and implemented. All the while there is no guarantee that the policy will achieve its goals. Therefore, the opportunity costs are great, and there is the potential harm that might follow from a poorly designed policy. Better understanding “the contours and paths for success” (Hearn et al., 2017, p. 343) is therefore of theoretical importance and even greater practical importance. We believe that the consideration of states’ higher education policy innovativeness is one avenue for gaining greater understanding of those contours and paths. We hope the effort presented here is just the beginning. Acknowledgments The authors gratefully acknowledge the work of Suk Joon Hwang, Dustin Weeden, and Sophia Laderman in helping construct the dataset our analysis is based on. We also appreciate the early feedback we received on this project from Frances Berry and the support and encouragement of Robert Anderson at SHEEO.

Appendix – Stata Code *Create overall innovativeness measures using Boehmke et al.’s (2020) data & ado *Download SPID_v1.2.dta & SPID_v1.2_policies.dta from https://doi.org/10. 7910/DVN/CVYSR7 *Open up policy adoption databases use SPID_v1.2.dta, clear merge m:1 policy using SPID_v1.2_policies.dta, nogenerate assert(match) keep (match)

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*Drop policies that were first adopted prior to 1976 drop if first_year2017)

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set scheme uncluttered tsset adopt_year twoway (tsline cumulative_adoptions), ytitle(Cumulative Adoptions) xtitle(Year) title(Higher Education Policy Adoptions) ylabel(0 100 200 300 400 500 600 700 800) saving(all_hied_adoptions, replace) *For all 17 policy adoptions, run the following code: bysort fips (year): egen first_year_adopted¼min(year) if college_savings¼¼1 replace college_savings¼0 if first_year_adopted!¼year collapse (sum) adoptions¼college_savings, by(year) gen cumulative_adoptions¼sum(adoptions) tsset year set scheme uncluttered twoway (tsline cumulative_adoptions), ytitle(Cumulative Adoptions) xtitle(Year) title(College Savings) ylabel(0 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50) saving (college_savings, replace) *Then use graph combine to put them into one figure graph combine “college_savings” “commcollege_bachelors” “dev_ed_multmeasures” “dual_enrollment” “eminent_scholars” /// “highered_governance_reform” “instate_tuition_undocumented” “instate_tuition_veterans” “merit_aid” “performancebasedfunding” /// “prepaid_tuition” “rd_taxcredit” “statewide_articulation” “statewide_promise” “studentunitrecord” “tuition_decentralization” “vouchers”, iscale(*0.9) ycom xcom rows(4) gen walker_pos ¼ 0 //Move the abbreviation positions, so they’re readable— slightly distorts position. replace walker_pos ¼ 12 if statename¼¼“New York” replace walker_pos ¼ 10 if statename¼¼“Montana” replace walker_pos ¼ 1 if statename¼¼“Naine” replace walker_pos ¼ 7 if statename¼¼“Rhode Island” replace walker_pos ¼ 8 if statename¼¼“South Dakota” replace walker_pos ¼ 6 if statename¼¼“Arkansas” replace walker_pos ¼ 12 if statename¼¼“Florida” replace walker_pos ¼ 12 if statename¼¼“New York” *Scatter twoway(scatter ovrl_walker_76_17 hied_walker_76_17, ysize(10) xsize(20) /// mlabel(state_abb) mlabposition(0) mlabvposition(walker_pos) msymbol (i) mlabc(black) /// ytitle(Overall Walker Score, height(7)) xtitle(Higher Education Walker Score, height(7)) /// plotr(color(white) fcolor(white) ifcolor(white) ilcolor(white) lcolor(white)) /// graphr(color(white) fcolor(white) ifcolor(white) ilcolor(white) lcolor(white) margin(large)) bgcolor(white)) graph export Walker_Innovativeness.tif, as(tif) width(1000) height(500) replace gen rate_pos ¼ 0 //Move the abbreviation positions, so they’re readable—slightly distorts position

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replace rate_pos ¼ 6 if statename¼¼“Rhode Island” replace rate_pos ¼ 12 if statename¼¼“North Dakota” replace rate_pos ¼ 6 if statename¼¼“New Jersey” replace rate_pos ¼ 6 if statename¼¼“Delaware” twoway(scatter ovrl_rate_76_17 hied_rate_76_17, ysize(10) xsize(20) /// mlabel(state_abb) mlabposition(0) mlabvposition(rate_pos) msymbol(i) mlabc (black) /// ytitle(Overall Adoption Rate, height(7)) xtitle(Higher Education Adoption Rate, height(7)) /// plotr(color(white) fcolor(white) ifcolor(white) ilcolor(white) lcolor(white)) /// ylabel(2 “2%” 3 “3%” 4 “4%” 5 “5%” 6 “6%”) xlabel(1 “1%” 2 “2%” 3 “3%” 4 “4%” 5 “5%” 6 “6%”) /// graphr(color(white) fcolor(white) ifcolor(white) ilcolor(white) lcolor(white) margin(large)) bgcolor(white)) graph export Adoption_Rate.tif, as(tif) width(1000) height(500) replace label var hied_adoption_rate “Higher Education” label var ovrl_adoption_rate “Overall” twoway (tsline hied_adoption_rate) (tsline ovrl_adoption_rate) if year