Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research: Volume 39 (Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, 39) 3031380762, 9783031380761

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Laura W. Perna Editor

Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research Volume 39

Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 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 contributions from distinguished scholars throughout the world.

Laura W. Perna Editor

Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research Volume 39

With 22 Figures and 27 Tables

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

ISSN 0882-4126 ISSN 2215-1664 (electronic) Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research ISBN 978-3-031-38076-1 ISBN 978-3-031-38077-8 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-38077-8 © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved 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 Paper in this product is recyclable.

Preface

Like the preceding volumes in this series, Vol. 39 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 is an important contribution to knowledge. Individually and collectively, the chapters provide in-depth examinations of what we know – and don’t know – from data, research, and theory on topics that are highly relevant to higher education policymakers, leaders, and researchers, especially 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 an excellent team of Associate Editors. For Vol. 39, these exceptionally talented scholars and research mentors are: Ann Austin, Dominique Baker, Nicholas Bowman, Pamela Eddy, Nicholas Hillman, Shouping Hu, Samuel Museus, Anne-Marie Nuñez, Christine Ogren, Aimee La Pointe Terosky, and Marc Van Overbeke. Over the course of a year or more, the Associate Editors and I each work closely with selected authors to develop, produce, and refine the chapters that are included in this published volume. Commitment to improving equity in educational experiences, outcomes, and environments is one strong theme that is present across chapters in this volume. Chapter authors consider Black higher education (Eddie Cole and Cameron BurrisGreene), the experiences of Black women in STEM (Krystal Williams), English learners (Holly Kosiewicz, Camila Morales, and Kalena Cortes), and the relationship between university leadership and indigenous communities (Theresa Ambo). Other authors apply an equity lens to academic hiring (Leslie Gonzales, Dawn Culpepper, and Julia Anderson), teaching and learning (Andrea Jaeger, Kaitlin Newhouse, Ece Yilmaz, and Emily VanZoest), and student engagement (Teniell Trolian). Chapters on critical race theory (Antar Tichavakunda), colonial practices (Nicole Reyes and colleagues), humanizing policy implementation (Eric Felix and H. Kenny Nienhusser), and ordinary least squares regression (Xiodan Hu) offer frameworks and tools for intentionally probing the equity implications of prevailing practices.

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Each chapter offers a comprehensive review of research findings on the selected topic, critiques the research literature in terms of its conceptual grounding and methodological rigor, and offers an agenda for future research that will advance knowledge on the particular topic. As in the past, this volume begins with an autobiographic essay. In Vol. 39, Distinguished Professor of Education, Sociology, and African American Studies and Allan Murray Cartter Professor of Higher Education at the University of CaliforniaLos Angeles, Walter Allen, reflects on his personal and professional journey in an essay entitled, “Way Too Much Fun: Career and Life Reflections.” In this essay, Professor Allen tells his “truth,” offering compelling and inspiring insights into what drives him to do his groundbreaking work, as well as challenges and barriers he has faced and overcome at every step. The essay also reveals Professor Allen’s deep passion, commitment, and dedication to all aspects of academic life and what it means to him to be a Black professor, scholar, teacher, and mentor. I am grateful for the time, effort, and engagement that all of the authors and Associate Editors invested in producing these noteworthy scholarly contributions. In this volume, Associate Editors were responsible for working with the following chapters and authors: Ann E. Austin, “An Analysis of Academic Hiring Research and Practice and A Lens for the Future: How Labor Justice Can Make a Better Academy,” by Leslie Gonzales, Dawn Culpepper, and Julia Anderson Nicholas A. Bowman, “Student Engagement in Higher Education: Conceptualizations, Measurement, and Research” by Teniell Trolian Pamela Eddy, “Humanizing Policy Implementation in Higher Education Through an Equity-Centered Approach,” by Eric Felix and H. Kenny Nienhusser Nicholas Hillman, “Using Ordinary Least Squares in Higher Education Research: A Primer” by Xiodan Hu Shouping Hu, “The ‘Missing English Learner’ in Higher Education: How Identification, Assessment, and Placement Shape the Educational Outcomes of English Learners in Community Colleges,” by Holly Kosiewicz, Camila Morales, and Kalena Cortes Samuel Museus, “Tribal Community-University Partnerships for Indigenous Futures,” by Theresa Ambo Anne-Marie Nuñez, “(Re)Wiring Settler Colonial Practices in Higher Education: Creating Indigenous Centered Futures Through Considerations of Power, The Social, Place, and Space,” by Nicole Reyes, Christine Nelson, Stevie Lee, Alicia Reyes, LaJoya Shelly, and Ethan Chang Christine Ogren and Marc Van Overbeke, “Black Higher Education: A Historiography of Perseverance and Triumph,” by Eddie Cole and Cameron Burris-Greene Aimee La Pointe Terosky, “Inclusion at the Center: Teaching and Learning in the Community College Context,” by Andrea Jaeger, Kaitlin Newhouse, Ece Yilmaz, and Emily VanZoest

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I had the privilege of working with authors of the following chapters: “Way Too Much Fun: Career and Life Reflections,” by Walter Allen “Notes on Being a Black Woman in STEM: A Review of Existing Research Concerning the Experiences of Black Women Pursuing Undergraduate STEM Degrees,” by Krystal Williams “Critical Race Theory in Higher Education: Where We Are and Where We Need to Go,” by Antar Tichavakunda Volume 39 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. As with past volumes, I believe that the insights conveyed in these chapters provide vital insights for higher education policy and practice, as well as the next generation of higher education research. I hope that you agree. Philadelphia, USA January 2024

Laura W. Perna

Contents

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Way Too Much Fun: Career and Life Reflections . . . . . . . . . . . . . Walter R. Allen

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Black Higher Education: A Historiography of Perseverance and Triumph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eddie R. Cole and Cameron L. Burris-Greene

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Notes on Being a Black Woman in STEM: A Review of Existing Research Concerning the Experiences of Black Women Pursuing Undergraduate STEM Degrees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Krystal L. Williams

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Critical Race Theory in Higher Education: Where We Are and Where We Need to Go . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Antar A. Tichavakunda

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(Re)wiring Settler Colonial Practices in Higher Education: Creating Indigenous Centered Futures Through Considerations of Power, the Social, Place, and Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nicole Alia Salis Reyes, Christine A. Nelson, Stevie Lee, Alicia Reyes, LaJoya Reed Shelly, and Ethan Chang

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Student Engagement in Higher Education: Conceptualizations, Measurement, and Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Teniell L. Trolian

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The “Missing English Learner” in Higher Education: How Identification, Assessment, and Placement Shape the Educational Outcomes of English Learners in Community Colleges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Holly Kosiewicz, Camila Morales, and Kalena E. Cortes An Analysis of Academic Hiring Research and Practice and a Lens for the Future: How Labor Justice Can Make a Better Academy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leslie D. Gonzales, Dawn Culpepper, and Julia Anderson

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Tribal Community-University Partnerships for Indigenous Futures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Theresa Jean Ambo Inclusion at the Center: Teaching and Learning in the Community College Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Audrey J. Jaeger, Kaitlin N. S. Newhouse, Ece Yilmaz, and Emily R. VanZoest

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Humanizing Policy Implementation in Higher Education Through an Equity-Centered Approach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eric R. Felix and H. Kenny Nienhusser

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Using Ordinary Least Squares in Higher Education Research: A Primer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Xiaodan Hu

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

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Contents of Previous Five Volumes

About the Editor

Laura W. Perna is Vice Provost for Faculty, GSE Centennial Presidential Professor of Education, and Founding 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 students from groups that are historically underrepresented in higher education. 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 received the Christian R. and Mary F. Lindback Foundation Award for Distinguished Teaching from the University of Pennsylvania, Faculty Alumni Award of Merit from the University of Pennsylvania Alumni Association, Early Career Achievement Award from ASHE, Excellence in Public Policy in Higher Education Award from ASHE’s Council on Public Policy and Higher Education, Dr. Constance Clayton xi

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About the Editor

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.

Associate Editors

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

Dominique Baker College of Education & Human Development and Joseph R. Biden, Jr. School of Public Policy and Administration University of Delaware Newark, USA

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

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Associate Editors

Pamela Eddy College of William & Mary Williamsburg, VA, USA

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

Shouping Hu Florida State University Tallahassee, FL, USA

Samuel D. Museus University of California, San Diego La Jolla, CA, USA

Associate Editors

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Anne-Marie Núñez The University of Texas at El Paso El Paso, TX, USA

Christine Ogren Educational Policy and Leadership Studies University of Iowa Iowa City, IA, USA

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

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Associate Editors

Aimee La Pointe Terosky Department of Educational Leadership Saint Joseph’s University Philadelphia, PA, USA

Marc Van Overbeke University of Illinois-Chicago Chicago, IL, USA

Reviewers

Nichole Garcia Rutgers University, New Brunswick, NJ, USA Lori Patton Davis The Ohio State University, Columbus, OH, USA

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Contributors

Walter R. Allen Sociology and African American Studies, Los Angeles, CA, USA Theresa Jean Ambo Department of Education Studies, University of California, San Diego, La Jolla, CA, USA Julia Anderson College of Education, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI, USA Cameron L. Burris-Greene University of California, Los Angeles, Los Angeles, CA, USA Ethan Chang Department of Educational Administration, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, Honolulu, HI, USA Eddie R. Cole University of California, Los Angeles, Los Angeles, CA, USA Kalena E. Cortes Texas A&M University, College Station, TX, USA Dawn Culpepper University of Maryland ADVANCE Program, College Park, MD, USA Eric R. Felix San Diego State University, San Diego, CA, USA Leslie D. Gonzales College of Education, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI, USA Xiaodan Hu Higher Education and Student Affairs, College of Education, Northern Illinois University, DeKalb, IL, USA Audrey J. Jaeger North Carolina State University, Raleigh, NC, USA Holly Kosiewicz University of Texas at Dallas, Richardson, TX, USA Stevie Lee Morgridge College of Education, University of Denver, Denver, CO, USA Camila Morales University of Texas at Dallas, Richardson, TX, USA Christine A. Nelson Morgridge College of Education, University of Denver, Denver, CO, USA xix

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Contributors

Kaitlin N. S. Newhouse North Carolina State University, Raleigh, NC, USA H. Kenny Nienhusser University of Connecticut, Storrs, Storrs, CT, USA Alicia Reyes Department of Educational Administration, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, Honolulu, HI, USA Nicole Alia Salis Reyes Department of Educational Administration, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, Honolulu, HI, USA LaJoya Reed Shelly Department of Educational Administration, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, Honolulu, HI, USA Antar A. Tichavakunda University of California, Santa Barbara, Santa Barbara, CA, USA Teniell L. Trolian University at Albany, State University of New York, Albany, NY, USA Emily R. VanZoest Belk Center for Community College Leadership and Research, North Carolina State University, Raleigh, NC, USA Krystal L. Williams Louise McBee Institute of Higher Education, University of Georgia, Athens, GA, USA Ece Yilmaz North Carolina State University, Raleigh, NC, USA

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Way Too Much Fun: Career and Life Reflections Walter R. Allen

Contents From “Project Boy” to Distinguished Professor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Telling Our Stories”: Research and Scholarship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Raising the Next Generation:” Teaching and Mentoring Young Scholars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Out of the Classroom, Into the World”: Scholarship of Practice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Debts to be Repaid:” University, Professional, and Community Service . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “I Appreciate You:” Thanks for Gifts of Homage and Respect . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Selected Honors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “The Next Adventures” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

Words fail to convey how much I love the life of an Academic!! It “Fills holes in my Soul.” The “Job” rarely feels like WORK or compensated drudgery. Instead, it is a blessed life calling with immeasurable satisfaction, purpose, and joie de vivre. It has been immensely gratifying, but not always a “Crystal Stair,” given anti-Black racism, disappointments, obstacles, insults, and attempts to undermine Black opportunities and success. Black community provided “magic pills,” of high self- esteem, empowerment, and traditions facilitating successful encounters with people, ideas, and engagement “Beyond the Veil.” I am an “Affirmative Action Baby”; equal opportunity programs opened doors and provided essential financial support from college through graduate school into the professorate. I have been sustained and strengthened by a mostly Black network of family, friends, and colleagues for over 50 years. I have engaged in research to “Tell our own stories,” teaching to “Raise the next generation of servant leaders,” and public advocacy to “Advance Social Justice.” This biographical sketch uses a jazz motif to share “My Truth,” not “The Truth.” It is a considered reflection on my W. R. Allen (*) Sociology and African American Studies, Los Angeles, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 39, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-38077-8_1

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intersecting life, career, and personal journeys. Thankfully, I continue to “Have Way Too Much Fun and Success!!” Keywords

Anti-black racism · Black community · Black people · Black student movement · Black students · Bunche fellowship program (BFP) · Chicago’s black community · KC black community · Learning community · Learning community model · Liberal racism · Moreno recommendations implementation committee (MRIC) · National scholarship service for negro students (NFSFNS) · Self-revelation · Southern civil rights movement · WI black community Words cannot convey how much I love the life of an Academic!! This profession fits my personality perfectly and “fills the holes in my Soul.” I have the autonomy, resources, purpose, influence, and possibilities of my dreams. I can reflect, read, research, and pontificate to my heart’s desire! Rare are the days when this “Job” feels like WORK (a four-letter word often connoting compensated drudgery). Instead, I would pay good money for the privilege to be a college professor – to research, teach, mentor, write, and influence public policy. I am blessed to have found a life calling which brings immeasurable satisfaction, purpose, and joie de vivre. Of course, life and career have not always been a “Crystal Stair.” Along the way, there were many disappointments, obstacles, insults, and concerted efforts to block my access and success. Over 50 years in Academe across different institutions, from student to Distinguished Professor, I faced racist attitudes, actions, and policies meant to derail – if not destroy. These impediments, large and small, blatant, and subtle, were fueled by anti-Black racism and strongly held beliefs that Black people are inferior and should not have places in leading universities. These systematic, determined efforts to deny Black people opportunities are driven by the certain knowledge that given a fair chance, we will be competitive and excel. Black success is a constant threat to the racial status quo. Still, ever hopeful, resourceful, and resilient, we continue to “Make a Way Out of No Way.” I welcome, but am nervous about, this opportunity to candidly reflect on my academic career and life. Self-revelation carries inevitable risks, especially for Black people in America and particularly for a “successful” Black man in Academe. Thus, I found it challenging to write this biographic chapter. I ask doctoral students to reflect on their intellectual and life journeys leading up to their defense of the doctoral dissertation. This chapter reminds of the imposing challenge to offer such reflections in candid, coherent, and critically analytic fashion. Deciding what is important to touch on raises a host of questions: What? Who? Where? When? And how? Decisions must also be made about the presentation format: Chronological or thematic? Bullet points or narrative? Empirical or Interpretive? Such decisions were routinely addressed for each of my 250 plus other publications; however, writing about “self” opens windows of vulnerability onto my life that raised the ante.

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A music metaphor helps communicate how this biographical sketch of career and life is organized. While classical music is ordered, formulaic, and predictable, jazz emphasizes improvisation, riffs, and syncopated departures. In this metaphorical framing, my approach is more closely aligned with jazz... Black America’s gift to this nation. The narrative is not strictly chronological; it defies tradition by excluding citations and references meant to persuade or document. I have done enough of this in publications stretching back a half century. Readers interested in such expansive content can follow links below to: my Curriculum Vitae; a UCLA School of Education and Information Studies Magazine article; and an Oral History Class Project Interview with UCLA undergraduate researchers. These supplemental materials provide more extensive details about the worldview, values, theoretical perspectives, research projects, empirical data, and professional activities underlying this biographical chapter.

From “Project Boy” to Distinguished Professor I grew up in two loving families. . . both in the same household, at different points in time. For 10 years, I was the youngest and the only boy with five older sisters (Bea, Dean, Mae, Gradie, and Vicky) and my mother. To say I was treated like a Prince is an understatement. Surely, I was God’s gift to the world!?! In the “second family,” I was “man of the house,” 10 and 12 years older than my younger brothers (Wayne, Travis). They looked up to me as a model and protector. I worked in restaurants, at the car wash, sold newspapers, did odd jobs, and mowed lawns to help my mother pay bills (She was the REAL family breadwinner and head of household!). We were not “tragically poor,” money was tight, but we were rich and happy in so many other respects – friends, family, purpose, and laughter. Plus, my mother had a “magic pot”; somehow, she stretched the stew to also feed less fortunate neighbors who depended on her generosity. After a rocky period through Junior High School when I pretended to like the “thug life,” I excelled in High School as a student, an athlete, and all-around good guy. I was a bright light and proud representative for my “ghetto school,” attended by kids from the projects. I set the Kansas City MO High School 100-yard breaststroke swimming record, played guard and linebacker on the City Championship football team, ran track, and won numerous academic and civic awards. With assistance from the National Scholarship Service for Negro Students (NFSFNS), I won scholarships at 20 colleges based on high National Merit Qualifying Test scores. I was collegebound and headed places! I carried the hopes and dreams of folks never given a fair shot. Several Black male “father figures” played critical roles in my turnaround and success. These included football coaches unusual in their own right: Head coach William Herron went on to earn a PhD and become a high school principal; Sylvester Harris earned an MBA and opened a men’s clothing store, and Coach Washington became a PhD who later headed the Kansas City National Urban League. I was also positively influenced by next door neighbors in the projects, my boxing coach Esto

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Jackson, a locally ranked welterweight and active-duty noncommissioned officer in the Air Force, and Chancle Smart, a General Motors employee who took us fishing and gave us jobs in his handyman business. My brother-in-law Charles Jefferson, Regimental Sergeant Major in the US Marine Corps Reserves, owned several dry cleaners. He was the big brother I never had, so I decided to become our military family’s first commissioned officer (in our family even women routinely joined the military) . . .this all changed when I went to college, became radicalized, and came out against the War in Vietnam. Positive messages from the KC Black community, my “Village,” established a solid, unshakeable foundation for launch into viable engagement with the wider world. Raised in a “Vindicationist,” “Race Man,” tradition, I was determined to reject and disprove the many negative stereotypes of Black people. It was my mission (our mission) to prove that given equal opportunity, we would soar. Slavery and “Jim Crow” racial segregation were designed to deny Black people humanity, dignity, citizenship, and economic/political/educational/social opportunities. Our mission was to push through, under, around, and over racial barriers. We were determined to tear them down – or die trying. Blackness was protection, a “magic pill,” which gave a positive sense of self, purpose, and power, equipping us to successfully connect with people, ideas, and opportunities “Beyond the Veil.” In 1967, backgrounded by national upheaval from the Southern Civil Rights Movement and urban rebellions (aka “race riots”), I left my mostly Black world in Kansas City for the mostly White world of Beloit College, Wisconsin. My career goal to become a marine biologist (I was an avid outdoorsman) crashed and burned first-term with failing grades in physical chemistry and calculus. I gained some satisfaction from a “B” in the Freshman Common Writing Course focused on “Existentialism,” and an “A+” on the Varsity football team (met the physical education graduation requirement). Initial stumbles aside, I knew I was smart and capable and that no obstacles were too big to overcome. One just needed to have Faith, seek challenges, absorb every lesson, and outwork everyone around you. I changed majors to sociology, found supportive faculty and resources, “Believed,” and worked incredibly hard. My BA thesis about the Beloit, WI Black Community, was awarded “High Distinction,” and I graduated with honors – this after having to rewrite an early paper in sociology to avoid charges of “plagiarism” – a concept unfamiliar to me at the time. A proud moment senior year was earning “A–” in physical chemistry, the second time around. A prouder moment was having my wife, mother, and brothers attend my BA graduation ceremony. I was the first member of our family to graduate college. Beloit College was also a time of considerable exposure and growth in other areas of life. My sociopolitical consciousness, commitment to progressive change, and leadership gelled. I was on the Beta Theta Pi fraternity executive committee, a leader in the Black Student Movement, and a member of the Black Panther Party. I quit the College Football, Swimming, and Track varsity sports teams after sophomore year to concentrate on academics. Later in college, I worked as Director of Rock County Wisconsin Neighborhood Youth Corps, Management Trainee at Fairbanks Morse

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Diesel Manufacturing Company, High Potential High School Program Tutor, and Rock County Social Worker. During college, I was blessed to have a loving wife, Wilma Sharber Allen (my college sweetheart), who until her death 37 years later was the “wind beneath my wings.” When we moved to Chicago, we left behind a rich Black community of fellow students, friends, church members, and family who had helped us prosper. We immediately found community among extended family living in Chicago and Black students at the University of Chicago. Remarkably, with each career move Wilma’s genius advanced her from entry level to leadership positions at a succession of jobs (University of Chicago Admissions Office, UNC Health Services Research Center, Commission on Hospitals and Health Professions (MI), and Pasadena Health Department). She began as Administrative Assistant in the Pasadena, CA Department of Health, and rose to Director, expanding the focus on health disparities among poor Blacks and Latinos. I was an “Affirmative Action Baby”; equal opportunity programs opened doors so I could prove myself and provided essential financial support from Beloit College through graduate school into the professorate. I applied to the University of Chicago at the insistence of my major professors at Beloit College. I was admitted to 12 top PhD programs and offered generous funding packages. We chose Chicago because of its stellar academic reputation, quality of life, and proximity (we could afford moving costs). A major argument for the PhD, and an academic career, was knowing after 5 years teaching, half my federal loan debt would be forgiven. Also critical was knowing I absolutely loved teaching, research, and the prospect of influencing public policy. In 1971, Chicago admitted the largest group of Black graduate students ever before (or since). I shared the adventure with an incredibly bright, talented, hardworking group. We built solid foundations for lifelong friendships and intellectual/ professional collaborations. During orientation, we were told, “look to the right and to the left, two of you will not survive.” We Black students looked left and right, unified, and found positive collaboration versus destructive competition. My fondest memories are of intellectual exchanges and survival tips shared in Regenstein Library, our “Student Center,” a sanctuary open 24 h a day. No matter time or day, there was a critical mass of Black students pounding academics, dissecting ideas, and sharing social support and encouragement. We were grounded in Chicago’s Black community by Saturday meetings at Operation Push, Church on Sundays, dinners with extended family, pickup basketball games, Gwendolyn Brooks poetry readings, and nights at the Club. Over the half century since, I have maintained close, invaluable professional and personal relationships with fellow graduate students like Margaret Beale Spencer, Bruce Hare, V.P. Franklin, Johnie Hamilton, Genna Rae McNeil, and Michael Woodard. My stable home life was a major asset. It required I keep a foot in the real world. Wilma worked full time to cover the gap between student funding (grants, loans, and work) and living expenses. My days were packed: 7–9 a.m. family; 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. classes and work; 6–8 p.m. family; 9 p.m. to 2 a.m. library; and home to sleep – push

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repeat. I drank lots of coffee, catnapped, and taxed the infinite patience of my understanding wife and daughters (Rena and Binti). Thanks to generous institutional funding and support, I was ABD (all degree requirements but dissertation) by summer 1974. I satisfied promises to my wife, children, and self to finish school expeditiously and get on with life. In July 1974, I was appointed Instructor in the Department of Sociology, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. After a demanding year writing the dissertation and teaching full time, I was promoted to Assistant Professor. Pressured by the Adams v. Richardson Court Ruling (1972), UNC-CH hired 25 Black professors, increasing our numbers by 500%. Invariably we graduated from top programs in our fields, which was not necessarily true for our White faculty peers. Still, due to an unsupportive – often hostile – campus climate, over 50% of new Black faculty hires would be gone within 5 years (many after 2 years). Disproportionate “push out” of highly qualified Black faculty, students, and staff has been endemic over my 50-year career across prestigious Universities. The standard line ignores the role of institutionalized racist attitudes, practices, and policies in this dramatic attrition, preferring instead to attribute personal failings by these extraordinarily talented, hardworking Black faculty who made outsized contributions. Judge Pratt’s 1972 order, requiring HEW to apply tougher standards for the desegregation of higher education in ten southern states, resulted in a huge influx of Black students at UNC-CH. The burdens of helping these students successfully navigate an unsupportive, hostile campus climate disproportionately fell on newly hired Black faculty (mostly junior and untenured). To survive and prosper, we formed a supportive Black community where lines blurred, e.g., faculty/student; campus/town; sexual orientation; and social class origins. My rich home life was a critical anchor; our son Bryan was born; and we maintained close, supportive relationships with the community of Black families. I also relied heavily for support on peers and friends like Henry Frierson, Darnell Hawkins, Sandra Philpott, Johnie Lee Greene, and William Trent. In many respects, UNC-CH was a good place to begin an academic career. The institution has an excellent reputation, faculty, students, and resources. However, for Black faculty the unique professional challenge was how to make the most of this opportunity, which required we satisfy regular career obligations (teaching, publications, grants, and committees) plus the extraordinary demands of “second shift” race or diversity work (counseling, mentoring, committees, and advising). Drawing on early lessons about how to maximize work productivity and quality of life, “in the storm,” I committed to “work hard and smart.” For 5 years, I kept the same arduous work/family regimen from graduate school. Given unavoidable and all-consuming “race/ diversity work” obligations, my research interests shifted to the study of Black students in higher education. I followed the wise career strategy to produce publications, grants, and conference papers related to the steady stream of required “race/ diversity” committee work and reports. Fortunately, I understood what was the true “Currency of the Realm.” Rarely does the academic evaluation process recognize or reward important, but devalued, “invisible” work necessary to improve campus climate and Black student success.

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The careers of far too many young, promising Black academics are destroyed early by choices/obligations to serve the interests of neglected, disadvantaged, underrepresented students or faculty. This is especially true for Black female and women of color faculty. Hard work and career success aside, I accepted we were operating “behind enemy lines.” A likely scenario was to encounter “liberal racism,” in the form of amused contempt, curiosity, pity, and indifference. More commonly, we faced active hostility: Faculty “fact checked” our credentials; staff disrespected our status; and students dropped classes when they saw our Black faces. Sadly, this did not only happen “Down South.” I had similar experiences “Up South” at the University of Michigan and UCLA. The examples are too numerous to list, but just to mention a few: At UNC, the editor of the third ranking sociology journal dismissed the great sociologist and scholar W. E. B. DuBois as a mere journalist and polemicist. I gained an enemy when I publicly challenged his view and presented voluminous evidence proving him wrong. At Michigan, a Professor I coauthored a major book and major articles with torpedoed my promotion behind closed doors (We both graduated from Chicago – same PhD program, same advisor). At UCLA, the VC for Academic Affairs broke precedent to overrule strongly favorable recommendations for my promotion from review committees in the Department, College, and University Senate. He was concerned, “Too many faculty were being promoted too fast,” . . .. thus arbitrarily dismissing my extraordinary record. Black students are also often victims of double standards and capriciously held to tougher requirements than the norm. Their PhD qualifying exam failure rates are commonly higher compared to other students with lower coursework GPAs, less prestigious undergraduate degrees, or who speak English as a second language. Black undergraduates also faced “glass ceilings”; no matter how stellar their work, grades were capped at “B+” (the “Black A”). In particularly egregious examples, Black students were singled out on the first day and quizzed whether they were in the wrong room (the racist assumption being Black students should a priori be excluded from certain difficult classes). In short, racial stereotypes, discrimination, and inequity are embedded throughout the core values, practices, and policies of higher education. “White Supremacy,” the belief Whites are innately superior and should rule the world, is ingrained throughout the DNA of American thinking and institutions. In 1979, I moved to the University of Michigan as Assistant Professor of Sociology, jointly appointed in the Center for African and African American Studies. The Department was “top five,” and the Center boasted an extraordinary group of scholars dedicated to interdisciplinary study of the African Diaspora. The breadth, depth, and sophistication of my research benefited from rich, daily exchanges with outstanding historians, sociologists, psychologists, artists, Africanists, Caribbeanists, and Health Policy scholars. Michigan was a bigger stage on which to hone my scholarship, teaching/mentoring, and Public Policy impact. Compared to UNC-CH, Michigan provided greater opportunities to publish, win grants, teach top rank students, engage with scholars globally, and influence important national debates.

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I experienced exponential growth mentored by amazing senior scholars like Harold Cruse, Ali Mazrui, Thomas Holt, Donald Deskins, and Niara Sudarkasa. I was also surrounded by brilliant young scholars like Aldon Morris, Philip Bowman, Christopher Roberts, Barbara Fields, and Vonnie McLoyd. Adding to this rich intellectual soup were incredibly bright, talented graduate students like Beverly Daniel Tatum, Thomas LaVeist, Larry Bobo, Mona Philips, Leon Wilson, and Nesha Haniff. UCLA came knocking in 1989. This opportunity accelerated my stalled promotion to Full Professor and a substantial salary increase. Promotion to Associate Professor with tenure took 10 years, despite my impressive record and several outside offers (It was communicated offline that I needed to be “more collegial” – read less troublesome). I was not serious about moving to Los Angeles, especially after seeing city lights spread to both horizons as the plane landed. Plus, the cost of living was three times higher, and we insisted on buying a house. There was no way we could make it work in LA. My plan was to get the offer from UCLA and hurry back to Ann Arbor – for a promotion and raise. Some say, “Gods laugh when humans make plans.” UCLA would not take no for an answer, meeting and exceeding all our demands. . .. no matter how lofty. Classrooms filled with a plurality of Black, White, Latino, and Asian students helped to sweeten the deal. The presence of powerhouse Black scholars like Kimberle Crenshaw, Robin Kelley, Cheryl Harris, M. Belinda Tucker, Brenda Stevenson, Melvin Oliver, and James Johnson, plus stellar Black graduate students like Darnell Hunt, Angela James, Colin Beckles, Kimberly Nettles, and Derrick Gilbert, were also major attractions. I decided to move because UCLA and Los Angeles were the wave of the future, on the cusp of the twenty-first century. While at UCLA, I found community with other outstanding scholars and graduate students like Grace Carroll, Reginald Clark, Daniel Solorzano, Raynard Kington, Robert Brook, Sylvia Hurtado, Mitchell Chang, Angie Chung, Alexes Harris, Margaret Hunter, Robert Teranishi, Eddie Comeaux, Meera Deo, Rican Vue, Siduri Haslerig, Daryl McAdoo, Gniesha Dinwiddie, Marcus Hunter, and Uma Jayakumar. The undergraduates included brilliant young minds like Michaele Turnage, Christopher Young, Pete Carr, Genzie Bonadies Torres, Jelani Lindsey, and Ophella Dano. I am still in Los Angeles 35 years later!?! My career has been rich and rewarding. My family life also flourished, with the happy peaks and sad valleys that are inevitably part of life. Our children grew up, found productive lives, and gave us eight wonderful grands (James Jr., Zachary, Elijah, Penutera, Olivia, Lyric, Bryce, and Zoe) and three great-grands (Omari, Ace, and Journey,). I lost Wilma, my first wife of 37 years in 2007. No one was more surprised than I by the family-related blessings which followed. My youngest son, Benjamin, was born in 2010 and I married Cathy R. Daniels in 2011. Cathy was an Attorney who taught first graders before Law School. Her outstanding professional career included positions with Writers Guild of America, Isaacson Miller Executive Search, Chief of Staff at Spelman College, and Chief Operating Officer for The Education Trust. Spelman College President Beverly

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Daniel Tatum, my Michigan graduate student, introduced us and later officiated at our wedding. Our lives prospered and meshed as we pursued careers and traveled the world together until her untimely death in 2021. Soon after the move to UCLA, Anti-affirmative Action Politics and White Backlash decimated Black student enrollment on the campus, driving numbers to historic lows. The burnish was off the rose as strongly held negative, Anti-Black attitudes and actions spilled over. On April 29, 1992, Los Angeles burst into flames following the senseless murder of Latasha Harlins by a Korean shopkeeper and the brutal, televised beating of Rodney King by White police officers – found innocent on all counts by a White jury. Accumulated historical, political, economic, educational, and social grievances building over the years were ignited by these incidents. Universities are microcosms of society, so events like the Black Lives Matter Movement, attacks on Affirmative Action, the elections of Presidents Obama and Trump, the Covid pandemic, exploding homelessness, the January 6 Insurrection, and immigration register seismic impacts in broader society and on university campuses. This is why I engage in comparative, empirical, social-justice-inspired research on how campus racial attitudes, climate, and inequality reflect trends in the larger society.

“Telling Our Stories”: Research and Scholarship My research and scholarship are devoted to systematic, rigorous study of exploitative social hierarchies – how they are created, maintained, and experienced. The question Qui Bono is central, “Who Benefits” and “Who Suffers” from these systems of oppression? My goal is to better understand universal and specific features of discrimination and disadvantage across individuals, groups, settings, institutions, communities, and societies. My work directs an empirical lens on structure, process, and context in hierarchical systems. I “test” questions such as “What does social inequality look like?” “What are the origins of social hierarchy?” “Who wins and who loses in such hierarchies?” and “What individual, group, institutional, and societal factors explain these patterns?” Beyond identifying examples of social inequality, I ask, “How can we disrupt or eradicate social inequality to benefit the largest possible segment of society?” What is the history, current reality, and consequences of racial denigration, domination, and exploitation? Educational access and success strongly influence social inequality. Educational achievement is one of the few pathways for upward mobility in America. It is, therefore, important to understand how, where, and why the educational system supports the dreams of some, while aggressively denying others. My research career has evolved from a focus on the disadvantaged status of Black people, families, and communities in American society to a broader, comparative consideration of other underrepresented or excluded groups in the United States and globally. My intellectual focus spans demography, family studies, social psychology, and racial inequality in sociology; considers health disparities by race, social class, age, and gender in public health; and focuses on academic disadvantages by race/ethnicity, gender,

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class, and citizenship in education. Recently, my interests turned to how global warming and conservation schemes effect the economic viability of rural villages in the tropical rainforests of Cameroon and Gabon. I also studied economic, ethnic, and regional disparities in higher education access and success in Colombia and Ghana. Other research includes the study of how poverty impacts childbearing/ development in West and Southern Africa. Over my career, I benefited from support by a broad network of Black and White scholars. They opened opportunities to present at conferences, collaborate on projects, secure grants, and publish my research. This access, support, and sponsorship was essential to my success. I also benefited from teaching and collaborating with a diversity of extremely talented students. In this regard, it matters that I graduated from the University of Chicago and spent my career at “Public Ivys” like North Carolina – Chapel Hill, Michigan – Ann Arbor, and UCLA. My distinguished mentors included Beloit – Robert Carter, Don Summers, Blake Hill, and Emetta DuBois; Chicago – Donald Bogue, Edgar Epps; and UNC – Charles Long, C. Eric Lincoln, John Hope Franklin, and Jacqueline Jackson (all faculty at nearby Duke University). I also worked at top Historically Black Colleges and Universities. At various points, I was Visiting Professor at Howard University from 1974 to 2009 (Human Development, Sociology/Anthropology, Education, and Social Work). I also spent 13 years on the Spelman College Board of Trustees and 5 years chairing the Morehouse Research Institute Board. My intellectual perspectives, teaching, mentoring, scholarly research, and public policy contributions were forged by intersecting experiences at Black and White institutions in the USA and at multiple international universities.

“Raising the Next Generation:” Teaching and Mentoring Young Scholars Teaching and Mentorship continue to be centerpieces for my professional career. Dedicated, self- sacrificing, and caring teachers laid the foundation for all I have accomplished. I grew up in the heart of Kansas City, Missouri’s Black ghetto, on 12th street and Vine. We suffered the destruction, despair, discrimination, and worst aspects of life lived under the shadow of Jim Crow racial segregation and racism. However, my teachers fiercely embodied hope and higher aspirations. These insurrectionist teachers rejected the “practical arts” roots of Manual High and Vocational School, instead they prepared us for better lives as full participants in society dedicated to positive social change. Our teachers provided essential values, substance, and skills to support our Mothers’ prayers and dreams for brighter futures. I pour myself into teaching and mentoring young folks because it is a sacred obligation. It is a way to partially repay the huge debt I owe. I am justly proud of my record of teaching and mentorship over the years. I have won numerous university teaching awards during my career. More importantly, my students and mentees are Distinguished University Professors, College Presidents, World Class Physicians, Senior Government Officials, Partners in Top Law Firms, and yes, rank and file

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public school teachers. These students were disproportionately from underserved, underrepresented groups – Black, non-White, female, poor, and first-generation college students. I achieved my goal set in graduate school to produce 100 Black PhDs. My inspiration was the great scholar W. E. B. DuBois, who envisioned a 100-year research program based at Atlanta University devoted to the scientific study of Black life. My idea was to create a tsunami of successive generations of Black PhDs, each producing new generations of Black PhDs, all “social engineers” engaged in social justice research. My developmental, educational approach encourages boundless intellectual curiosity and inquiry. We then systematically identify and address areas of challenge. It is easier to accomplish these goals in smaller classes and/ or when I have the same students over multiple courses. Teaching and learning are more effective when students and professors know and trust each other. This realization informs my approach in two exemplary classes, the graduate “Research Apprenticeship Course” and undergraduate “Bunche Fellows Program Seminar” Course. The courses are designed to develop and implement “student-centered” pedagogical approaches. Exemplary Graduate Course: EDUC 288 “Research Apprenticeship Course” engages graduate students in a challenging “learning community” with 360-degree, “wraparound” academic, professional, and personal support. Students meet at seminar class 2 h weekly, to exchange intellectual perspectives; share research/creative projects for feedback; receive/give professional advice; and provide sociocultural support. Students collaborate with peers and the instructor on publications and conference papers; practice presentations and job talks; and share experiences about graduate school and academic/ professional careers. We rigorously critique each other’s ideas, thinking, and writing, while seeking to provide a supportive, “safe” space for growth and development. RAC has an exceptional record for cultivating nontraditional scholars and launching them to successful careers as academics and professionals. The RAC pedagogical model helps explain my success over the years in producing so many impressive young scholars. The participatory seminar format emphasizes alternating roles as “teachers and learners.” The mandate is “Each One Teach One”; we teach and learn from each other in a model akin to the “African Learning Circle,” where all contributions are heard and valued. Exemplary Undergraduate Course: The Bunche Fellowship Program (BFP) is a multitiered academic pipeline program to increase the numbers of Black and underrepresented students who enter graduate school and eventually careers in higher education and the professions. The program uses a “Learning Community Model” that consists of faculty, graduate student, and undergraduate student teams, working collaboratively on the faculty mentor’s research project. This multitiered academic pipeline program provides faculty (and graduate student) mentorship and opportunities to develop research and professional skills. The Bunche Fellows Program will help to increase Black representation at every stage in the academic pipeline from undergraduate student to graduate student to Professor.” This “student- centered” program creates within UCLA a supportive, educational experience like those found at Historically Black Colleges and Universities and Selective Liberal Arts Colleges.

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The Bunche Fellows Program Seminar (AFAM 184A, B, C) provides a common intellectual experience for Fellows. The seminar is a challenging, “learning community” with 360-degree, “wraparound” academic, professional, and personal support. The BFP seminar meets 2 h weekly for the full academic year and summer. Seminar goals emphasize different ways of knowing; critical thinking; written and verbal communication of ideas; preparation for graduate/professional school; independent research/creative projects; and networking. Bunche Fellows are paid stipends plus tuition/fees to collaborate on research teams with faculty mentors from different disciplines who study various aspects of Black life. Cultural enrichment and bonding activities, like plays, museum trips, and cookouts, are key experiences in my graduate and undergraduate courses. As Founding Faculty Director of BFP since 2018, I am part of a leadership team that developed and taught the Bunche Fellows Program Seminar. Our team adopted “Womanist Principles”; thus, leadership roles are fluid, not fixed, and recognizing combined group knowledge is far superior to the knowledge of any particular individual https://bunchecenter.ucla.edu/research/bunche-fellows-program/ Dr. Kelly Lytle Hernandez, Bunche Center Director, played an essential role helping to set the vision for BFP and most importantly in fundraising to ensure program viability. Effective teaching is my way to help ensure “inclusive excellence” in tomorrow’s college faculties. I am committed to “leave no student behind.” This requires reflexive teaching and a synergetic process to develop, evaluate, and incorporate “best teaching/ learning practices.”

“Out of the Classroom, Into the World”: Scholarship of Practice I strive for cross-fertilization between practice and theory, and between national and international perspectives. I learned practice and application strengthen my research and teaching. Economic incentives often drove me to seek consulting jobs. I was married with children to support. I was also the primary bread winner and paid a substantial share of my educational expenses. In addition, I contributed financial support for my extended family. As a graduate student, I consulted on research methods, statistics, and program evaluations for faculty projects, and the Benton Harbor MI “Model Cities Program.” At UNC-CH, I taught as a visiting Professor at Howard, Duke, and North Carolina Central Universities. My visiting professor relationship with Howard University continued for 35 years. Most of my teaching, mentoring, and research service at Howard University was uncompensated. During this collaboration, I worked closely with Florence Bonner in her roles as Chair of Sociology/ Anthropology and Vice President for Research. I first served as expert witness in a higher education case before the Louisiana Eastern District Federal Court (1989). Southern University-Baton Rouge, a Historically Black University, successfully sued Louisiana to prevent merger of its land grant program under the traditionally White Louisiana State University. SU-BR prevailed after proving a history of state-sanctioned discrimination under racial segregation which systematically denied Blacks equal access to publicly support

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higher education. This opportunity exposed me to the challenges and gratification of leveraging research theory and data to support court cases pursuing equity and social justice. I especially benefited as a scholar from the challenge of translating social science theory and methods to applications in law specifically, and more generally in public policy. Many excellent lessons were also learned about meeting deadlines, collaborative scholarship, and clear, effective writing. Since 1989, I have been expert witness for plaintiffs – on the “right side of history” – in two types of higher education cases: (1) charging states with failure to dismantle racially dual, “Separate but Equal,” public higher education systems and (2) defending affirmative action programs. Several of the cases were in Federal District Court – “Podberesky v. University of Maryland, College Park (1992),” “Castenada v. University of California Board of Regents (1999),” “Knight v. Alabama (1994),” and “The Coalition for Equity and Excellence, et. Al. v. Maryland Higher Education Commission (2009).” Two other cases were heard before the US Supreme Court “United States v. Fordice (1993)” and “Grutter v. Bollinger (2003).” I was expert witness for student intervenors in the successful defense of affirmative action in the University of Michigan Law School (1998–2003). In 2021, the Baltimore Federal District Court awarded Maryland’s HBCUs $577 M to compensate for discriminatory underfunding and program duplication. Added to favorable judgments for HBCUs in Alabama and Mississippi, all told I have been an expert witness in cases where HBCUs won settlements of over $1B to expand Black access and success in higher education.

“Debts to be Repaid:” University, Professional, and Community Service I was taught to believe “From Whom Much is Given, Much Is Required.” This sense of “collective responsibility” too often drives me to unwisely take on excessive service obligations to UCLA, the profession, and the larger community. At times, these obligations are overwhelming, given the need for diversity on many important committees. I counsel junior colleagues to avoid being overloaded with service commitments that do not “count” in the calculus of professional evaluations. Sadly, I rarely take my own good advice. The importance for diverse input is too great, and Black faculty are scarce at UCLA, and in the profession. Having “Black voices” and diverse perspectives represented at the table is critical, so I say “yes” and pay the price. This creates a state of perpetual overextension due to sprawling service commitments. Mountains of “Diversity Work” place Black and POC faculty (especially women), who carry the lion’s share of the load, at extreme disadvantage. A major part of the “Diversity Burden” involves serving the academic and sociocultural needs of Black and underrepresented students who often struggle in institutions where they are denigrated, dismissed, and damaged. These huge responsibilities and contributions are routinely ignored during evaluations. Doing Diversity Work with integrity also makes enemies, neither liberal

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nor conservative, mostly White, academics appreciate being told about their racism or privilege. Selected service commitments include: Academic Program Reviews – Southern Association of Colleges and Schools (Jackson State University); Middle States Association of Colleges and Schools (Pennsylvania State University); University of the West Indies (UWI – Mona Jamaica); and Northwestern University (Department of African American Studies). Program Evaluation – W. K. Kellogg Foundation (African American Men and Boys Initiative), RAND (Exploratory Center for Research on Health Promotion in Older Minority Populations), and Zimbabwe (Central Statistics Office). Testimony – United Nations, Geneva (Committee for Elimination of Racial Discrimination), US House of Representatives (Committee on Post Office and Civil Service), and The White House (President’s Commission on Mental Health). Advisory – Spelman College (Board of Trustees), Beloit College (Board of Trustees), National Institutes of Health (Council on Aging), and Robert Wood Johnson Foundation (Health Policy Scholars Research Program). Moreno Report Recommendations Implementation Committee, 2013–2019 (Cochair) MRIC helped UCLA move beyond “racial crisis” to develop new approaches to faculty equity, diversity, and inclusion. I was lead for the MRIC Final Report and the MRIC comprehensive study of campus racial climate, which offered recommendations for systematic, innovative change. My letter below to the UCLA Community overviews the origins, process, and Final MRIC Report. Follow link below for more information about the “Moreno Recommendations Implementation Committee.” January 28, 2021 Dear UCLA Community: The Moreno Recommendations Implementation Committee announces the publication of our Final Report (PDF) concerning the progress of UCLA’s implementation of the Moreno Report, which is available on the Office of Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion’s website. The Moreno Recommendations Implementation Committee (MRIC) was created to monitor and assess UCLA’s activities, progress, and challenges regarding implementation of the Moreno Committee recommendations. I recall that the creation of the Moreno Committee was authorized by Chancellor Gene Block and implemented by former EVC/P Scott L. Waugh to establish an independent, Blue-Ribbon Committee to investigate “ongoing diversity challenges.” This call responded, in part, to the concerns raised in 2012 by concerned faculty regarding persistent racial bias, discrimination, and intolerance at the university. Racist actions, targeting Dr. Christian Head, Professor of Medicine, highlighted a negative campus climate, bias, and discrimination against faculty of color at UCLA. The Moreno Committee, chaired by retired California Supreme Court Justice, the Honorable Carlos Moreno, conducted interviews and gathered information on UCLA policies and procedures to investigate the UCLA campus racial climate. The Moreno Report (PDF) was submitted in October 2013 and offered recommendations to address bias and discrimination against faculty of color. Then California Attorney General Kamala Harris met with UCLA Chancellor Gene Block on January

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10, 2014, to discuss the University’s plans to implement the Moreno Report recommendations. MRIC provided detailed information to assist the Chancellor, the EVC/P, senior leadership, and the wider community develop a comprehensive approach to faculty equity, diversity, and inclusion at UCLA. The Report we issue today documents areas of success and challenge. It also offers ideas for consideration, evidence of “Promising Practices and Initiatives,” and recommendations for continued progress towards achieving Inclusive Excellence at UCLA. Our recommendations are based on analysis of the university faculty landscape, institutional practices, and the narratives of faculty of color. This Final Report represents both a record and an assessment. Our committee hopes it will also provide a reflection on, and roadmap to, achieving UCLA’s core values. We will be meeting with UCLA leadership to discuss our findings and recommendations. We are confident improvement is possible with leadership from faculty and senior administration and with full engagement of the campus community. As UCLA marks its first century, Chancellor Block frames a central issue before us: “How should our society acknowledge, counter and make amends for long-standing racism targeting Black Americans and other people of color?” Toward the end of improving campus Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion, he promised “. . .to take a hard look at how UCLA can better fulfill its commitment to welcoming, supporting, and protecting all members of our community. We will continue to champion the change that is needed to move the campus to a place of true equity, where we honor our deepest values and fulfill our highest aspirations as a public university” (Chancellor Gene Block, “True Equity,” UCLA Magazine, October 2020). Respectfully submitted, The MRIC Committee https://equity.ucla.edu/news-and-events/final-report-of-the-moreno-recommenda tions-implementation-committee/

“I Appreciate You:” Thanks for Gifts of Homage and Respect Over my career, I have been pleased, humbled, and frankly often surprised by honors, awards, and special recognition bestowed from my community, students, colleagues, and the profession. Since my earliest years, I have viewed honors and awards as clarion calls to work harder, strive higher, and do even more. I created quite a stir in high school when recognized as best all-around senior with the “Babe Ruth Award.” I accepted the Award from the Mayor of Kansas City, thanked him and the school for the honor, and then walked off the stage directly to the office to place it in the school trophy case. I declined the established tradition of carrying the trophy around my classes for the rest of the day. I appreciated the Award but felt it was time to get busy with the next set of challenges. In short, I feel compelled to “live up to,” or honor, the aspirations and recognition awards represent. I am driven by the mantra I seek to instill in all my students and mentees: Do not compare yourself to others – this is a “Catch 22”; someone will always be shorter and/or taller. Instead, measure

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your growth and accomplishments by a personal standard, “Be determined each day, in every way, to be better than you were the day before.” This sets my internal compass, or “North Star,” toward constant striving for self-improvement in an unrelenting quest after elusive, stellar, unsurpassed excellence. It also allows me to celebrate my progress each day.

Selected Honors American Academy of Arts and Sciences, Honorary Society for Career Distinction (2022) John Hope Franklin Distinguished Career Award, Diverse Issues in Higher Education (2020) Fulbright Scholar Awards: Israel (2011), Russia/ Moldova (2006), and Zimbabwe (1984–1987) National Academy of Education, Elected for Distinguished Career Achievements (2018) Presidential Medal for Distinguished Achievement, Association for Study of Higher Education (2017) American Educational Research Association Fellow, Distinguished Career (2009) Sociological Research Association, American Sociological Association (1991) Harriet and Charles Luckman Distinguished Teaching Award, UCLA (1996) Faculty Recognition Award, Office of the President, University of Michigan (1988) Distinguished Leadership Award, United Negro College Fund (1985) Certificates of Recognition: Mayor, City of Los Angeles (2020, 2005); Los Angeles County Supervisors (2020); Los Angeles City Council (2020); California State Senate (2020); Association for Study of African American Life and History/Los Angeles (2020); and Mayor, Kansas City MO (1993)

“The Next Adventures” For better or worse, this biographical chapter shares My Truth. I do not claim it is The Truth. I do not even claim it fully reveals or probes My Truth. This is simply my candid, albeit flawed, attempt in this moment to make sense of complex, contradictory, gratifying – and ongoing – life and career realities and reflections. Moreover, this reflection intentionally departs from the traditional social science framework – problem statement, data and methods, and conclusions. Using a music analogy, I flatter myself to hope this chapter reads more like a free-flowing jazz improvisation than a structured, predictable classical score. An even better analogy might be a humanistic framework, where the messiness and complexity of real life is acknowledged versus being artificially ordered by arbitrarily imposed, unnatural structure.

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Throughout history, White America has asked Black Folks, “Who Are You?” “What Do you Want?” and “Do you even have a Soul?” Such questions are asked without really wanting to hear answers or truths. Anita Hill’s courageous testimony, against the confirmation of Clarence Thomas for US Supreme Court Justice, revealed how speaking “Truth to Power” incurs great risks and consequences. She symbolizes the long succession of battles – large and small, public, and obscure – waged by Black people over our history in this country. White supremacy, patriarchy, and other “-isms” silence truths spoken and lived by those most dominated, degraded, and exploited. Our uncomfortable truths challenge this nation’s foundational ideals of “life, liberty, equality and justice for all.” We are living proof how these ideals too often become myths trampled by base instincts, violence, degradation, exploitation, and profit motives. To prosper – or survive life – behind the veil, Blacks learn early to be “shape shifters” and “code switchers,” to mask our true selves as we live parallel, often concealed lives. This has been a necessary “survival strategy” which protects self from the harm “Hostiles” of many stripes – especially Whites – would inflict given the slightest opening, vulnerability, or protest. From chattel slavery to now, the circumstances of Black life and coping required we “keep our lights under a bushel.” America’s racial caste system has always denied Black people full citizenship and personhood. White supremacy demands (to greater or lesser extent) we appear to be less than what we are and other than who we are. “Black faces at the bottom of the well” spare Whites feeling guilty, uncomfortable, threatened, or expected to grant us equality. The evidence is clear and persuasive: from Harriette Tubman to Emmitt Till to George Floyd to Breonna Taylor to thousands and thousands of Black people raped, lynched, exploited, humiliated, and denied humanity. Some may argue my relatively “protected status,” as Distinguished Professor late in career, eliminates risks or consequences associated with speaking racial truths and acting on conscience. However, I was taught to always be true to self, to follow my North Star conscience, the inner moral compass, and sense of right, wrong, and fairness. So, I determined to defend Black humanity, risks or consequences be damned. To do otherwise would be to dishonor the “Blood Memory” of Blackness. I owe debts to the ancestors who gave me life and to future generations who I am sworn to protect. Stances taken on principle inevitably defy and anger powerful, established interests. I understood and accepted the negative blowback of labels like “poor colleague,” “difficult,” and “overly race conscious.” I knew publications would be denied, grants rejected, and promotions deferred. Still, I had no choice but to affirm the beauty, richness, and power of Black people – our culture, institutions, history, and immense contributions. To have done otherwise in my life’s work of research, teaching, mentoring, and public service would have been the ultimate betrayal. . .. and denial of self. It would have been suicide. Whenever I wavered, I drew strength from the courageous example of my mother, a single, working Mom on welfare supporting eight children. Threatened with termination, when she pushed for a hospital cafeteria workers union, my mother forcefully declared, “I was looking for a job when I found this one!” Drawing on her

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strength, rooted in the “Blood Memory” of Black Resistance, I chose to “Fight the Power.” At the same time, I pragmatically followed my University of Chicago mentor Professor Edgar G. Epps’ advice to go home after “fighting the good fight” and write two papers for publication – plus one grant application! I learned a simple reality early, “Black people must be twice as good to get half as far.” I not only wanted to engage in significant battles for racial equity and social justice but I also wanted to win! I owe great debts to family, friends, and colleagues, too numerous to mention, who covered and compensated for my shortcomings. I have been especially sustained and lifted these past few years by my “posse” of distinguished, righteous, strong Black Brothers – Aldon Morris, Johnie Hamilton, Bruce R. Hare, Pedro Noguera, Shaun Harper, Tyrone Howard, and Mace Abdullah. Fortunately, I have been surrounded by a spectacular, strong, community cocoon of love, positive validation, vital support, and empowerment which inspires, lifts, and corrects. Thanks to Spirit and Ancestors’ Grace, “I Continue to Have Way Too Much Fun (and Success)!!” Background and context supplemental information for this biographic essay 1) “UCLA Students 2020 Oral History Interview Highlights Transcription” Part 1: https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/ssdxgqemewpk6gkhzynic/walter-allen-inter view-transcription-part-1.pdf?rlkey¼djfr9emdhscmkb691x3s0zx73&dl¼0 Part 2: https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/8hmtkhu0ovjqh9qi0000q/walter-allen-inter view-transcription-part-2.pdf?rlkey¼ryk2vcqsqrz2v598hg9vfxr4x&dl¼0 2) “Walter Allen Building Capacity for All College Students” by Joanie Harmon (Dec. 2022) https://seis.ucla.edu/news/walter-allen-building-capacity-for-all-college-students 3) Walter R. Allen Curriculum Vitae (2022) https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/t2fmqcgpswgg0vfqmzjri/Walter-Allen-CVArielle-Edit-Draft-v5-FNL.docx.pdf?rlkey¼adzzygdm4uxighmayj5mg7i4e&dl¼0

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Walter R. Allen is the Allan Murray Cartter Professor in Higher Education in the Graduate School of Education and Information Studies at the University of California, Los Angeles. He is Distinguished Professor of Education, Sociology and African American Studies, as well as co-director of CHOICES, a longitudinal study of college attendance among African Americans and Latinos in California. He is also co-investigator for “Educational Diversity in U.S. Law Schools,” a national, longitudinal study of how race and ethnicity impact teaching and learning in legal education. Dr. Allen heads the socio-economic outcomes group for the “Central Africa Climate Change and Bio-Diversity” project, an interdisciplinary study of effects, consequences, and policies related to global warming in Gabon and Cameroon rainforests. Professor Allen’s general research interests include social inequality and disparities by race, gender, social class, and ethnicity in education, health, work, family, and community. Dr. Allen earned Ph.D. and M.A. degrees in Sociology from the University of Chicago and majored in Sociology for the B.A. degree at Beloit College (WI). He grew up in Kansas City, Missouri. Professor Allen’s over 150 publications include: Mitigating Inequality: Research, Policy and Practice in an Era of Massification and Stratification (2015); Higher Education in as the World Turns: Global Higher Education (2012); Towards a Brighter Tomorrow: College Barriers, Hopes and Plans of Black, Latino/a and Asian American Students in California (2009); Till Victory Is Won: The African American Struggle for Higher Education in California (2009); “Everyday Discrimination in a National Sample of Incoming Law Students” (2008); Higher Education in a Global Society: Achieving Diversity, Equity and Excellence (2006); Enacting Diverse Learning Environments: Improving the Climate for Racial/Ethnic Diversity in Higher Education (1999); College in Black and White: African American Students in Predominantly White and Historically Black Public Universities (1991); and The Colorline and the Quality of Life in America (1989). Presentations before professional associations include: International Sociology Association; American Educational Research Association; American Sociological Association; Association for Study of Higher Education; American Public Health Association; Population Association of America; American Statistical Association; America Association for Advancement of Science; American Psychological Association; Latin American Studies Association; and Law Schools Admissions Council. Media interviews include: The Oprah Winfrey Show, McNeilLehrer Reports, CBS Sixty Minutes, NBC Evening News with Tom Brokaw, British Broadcasting Corporation, GLOBO (Brazil), Jet Magazine, Le Nouvel Observateur, Chicago Tribune, Black Enterprise, New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and U.S. News and World Reports.

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W. R. Allen Professor Allen is consultant to courts, communities, business, and government. He was expert witness in key affirmative action and higher education desegregation court cases: Coalition for Excellence and Equity in Maryland Higher Education v. Maryland; Grutter and Gratz v. U Michigan; Castenada v. UC Bd. of Regents; US and Ayers v. Fordice; US and Knight v. Alabama. He has testified before the U.S. House of Representatives Committee on the Changing US Population and Labor Force and the United Nations Committee for Elimination of Racial Discrimination (Geneva). He has also been external consultant for universities in the USA, South America, Africa, China, the West Indies, Russia, and Europe. Professor Allen’s honors include: American Academy of Arts and Sciences; Fulbright Scholar Awards to Zimbabwe, Russia and Israel; UCLA and University of Michigan Teaching Awards; and Distinguished achievement awards from the American Educational Research Association, the American Sociological Association, the Association of Black Sociologists, and the Association for Study of Higher Education. He is honored in Marquis “Who’s Who in the World” (2015) and “Outstanding Intellectuals of the 21st Century” (2014). He has also received civic awards from the Los Angeles County Supervisors, the Mayor of Los Angeles, and the Mayor of Kansas City, MO. Walter Allen is married to Attorney Cathy R. Daniels. He also is the proud father of two daughters and two sons and a doting grandfather to seven grandchildren (five boys, two girls) and three great grandchildren (two boys, one girl).

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Black Higher Education: A Historiography of Perseverance and Triumph Eddie R. Cole and Cameron L. Burris-Greene

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Firsts: Black People in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Black Colleges and Universities: Origins, Development, and Role . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Fight for Black Access, Equity, and Justice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion: Black Perseverance, Triumph, and Next Steps in Higher Education History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

Numerous policies and practices undermine Black access, equity, and justice in American higher education today. The Supreme Court recently struck down how race can be used in college admissions decisions, and some state legislatures are attempting to dismantle faculty tenure. Many states are defunding diversity, equity, and inclusion programs and others are banning the teaching of some aspects of Black history at all levels of education, while the nation’s Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) operate against decades-long underfunding and neglect. These contemporary issues facing Black people and American higher education grow from historical developments in Black education. In this chapter, we analyze the historiography of Black higher education. We first examine how historians and other scholars have studied Black firsts (e.g., students and faculty) on majority-white campuses. Next, we appraise research about HBCUs, demonstrating how the study of these institutions has evolved since

Christine Ogren and Marc Van Overbeke were the Associate Editors for this chapter. E. R. Cole (*) · C. L. Burris-Greene University of California, Los Angeles, Los Angeles, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] © The Authors under license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 39, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-38077-8_2

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the late 1800s. Then, we turn to how historians and others have written about Black struggles for access, equity, and justice in higher education. After appraising more than 100 years of scholarship, in the conclusion we make recommendations for new directions in future research on Black higher education. Keywords

African American education · History · History of education · History of higher education · Black higher education · HBCU · Racism · Diversity · Equity · College access · Racial justice · Inclusion · Historiography

Introduction There is an intricate relationship between Black people and American higher education. It is a relationship that has existed since before the founding of the United States. The forced labor of enslaved Black people was critical to the development of the colleges founded in colonial America and many other institutions established within the nation’s first century (Wilder, 2013). The enslavement of Black people also made institutions of higher education a social and political battleground over racial equality. Prior to the Civil War, the campus became a critical site for debate as scholars, state and federal officials, abolitionists, and others flocked to the halls of the academy to argue over abolishing slavery (Brophy, 2016; Sugrue, 2000). After the war, new debates emerged over Black access to higher education as the recently freed Black people equated learning with citizenship and immediately sought formal education in antebellum America (Anderson, 1988; Baumgartner, 2019; Williams, 2005). Black churches and white missionary societies and philanthropic organizations founded private Black institutions, while federal legislation expanded access by establishing public Black land-grant campuses. State and local practices, however, often limited Black access. This push-and-pull relationship between Black people and education was so prevalent that Walter Herbert Mazyck, a Black attorney who was educated at Howard University, argued in 1926: “One of the virulent factors in strengthening the grip of racial prejudice against the Negro in North America is its system of education” (Mazyck, 1926, pp. 7–8). Mazyck’s searing appraisal of race and education is useful nearly 100 years later, as American higher education continues to affect nearly every aspect of Black life. There are decades-old legal challenges to affirmative action programs, and the June 2023 Supreme Court ruling on race-conscious admissions decisions has heightened concern about Black student admissions at many historically white institutions (Bellamy-Walker, 2022; Students for Fair Admissions v. Harvard, 2023). As federal officials receive calls for loan forgiveness, Black people have accrued a disproportionate amount of student debt (Grabenstein & Khan, 2022). The burden of student debt that Black people carry reflects income disparities that have increased further due to campus expansion efforts that have inflated nearby property values Empirical or Interpretive displaced thousands of people, particularly Black households (Baldwin, 2021). Furthermore, school boards and state legislators in most states have proposed or passed policies and laws that ban the teaching of “critical race theory” (CRT) in K-12 through higher education. CRT

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was developed in law schools as a sophisticated framework for understanding how the law can oppress people of color and maintain racist systems of inequality (Crenshaw, 1998, 2001; Crenshaw et al., 1995). However, some opponents use CRT as a catchall term to refer to instruction on some aspects of Black history, which they seek to halt (Blain, 2022; Steinberg, 2022). Those laws and policies attempt to ban histories that explain important aspects of American higher education’s complicated relationship with Black people: how prominent colleges and universities influenced federal housing policy that negatively affected Black neighborhoods near campuses (Cole, 2020); how the nation’s oldest colleges profited from the institution of slavery (Wilder, 2013); how law enforcement officials and social scientists manipulated or used faulty crime data to expand police presence in Black communities (Muhammed, 2010); and how several states’ officials spent decades withholding billions of dollars from Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) (Adams & Tucker, 2022; Harris, 2021; Lumpkin et al., 2022). Yet, despite a contentious relationship with the broader higher education system, HBCUs have provided Black people with opportunities for upward social mobility (Hammond et al., 2021). The contemporary issues facing Black people and American higher education have grown from historical developments in Black education at all levels. Therefore, scholarly attention to the development and evolution of Black education is important, as previous historiographies have demonstrated. For example, in 1988, Ronald E. Butchart published “‘Outthinking and Outflanking the Owners of the World’: A Historiography of the African American Struggle for Education.” Butchart (1988) explained how the first historical studies of Black education had two conflicting themes: “Black historians dominated one tradition, writing corrective histories; white southern historians dominated the other, producing white supremacist accounts” (p. 334). These first histories were written between the 1890s and the Great Depression. Afterward, “a new generation” of scholars spent the 1930s through the 1960s creating “new interpretive foundations” of the previous period (Butchart, 1988, p. 341). While Butchart (1988) credited historians of the mid-twentieth century for scrutinizing Black industrial education, he also pointed out that this “second generation” of historians “generally failed to study systematically the differences between rural and urban schooling” (p. 342). That said, Butchart (1988) determined that the third period – which started in the 1960s – had scholarship that “featured great diversity in approaches, methodology, foci, and premises” that offered “unparalleled richness” in the field (p. 352). Historians in that latter period studied Black education beyond the South, scientific racism, and the perils of white philanthropy, while also producing institutional histories (Butchart, 1988). This historiography was pivotal because Butchart (1988) not only assessed where Black educational history had been but also issued a challenge to historians in the field: “While African American education history is and will remain an independent, autonomous field of research, the field must begin to enrich other fields with its insights and findings if it is to have any impact on the historical profession, on educational practice, and on the society” (p. 363). Butchart’s call for future histories to enrich other fields is reflected in recent historiographies. Adah Ward Randolph’s 2013 History of Education Society presidential address – titled “African American Education History: A Manifestation of Faith” and later published in History of Education Quarterly – offered a

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historiography on Black education and faith. To Butchart’s (1988) comment that “Like schooling, history, too is inescapably political” (p. 333), Randolph (2014) added: “I would argue further that for oppressed people, not only is history of education all of those things, but for African Americans in slavery and in freedom education was spiritual” (p. 4). Randolph (2014) shed important light on the development of Black education by demonstrating the role of faith and spirituality among Black educators. She focused on studies that highlighted faith in selfdetermination (i.e., enslaved Black people’s fight for literacy), foot soldiers (i.e., the work of Black teachers during segregation), and communities (i.e., collective belief in social advancement) (Randolph, 2014). Randolph (2014) presented a model response to Butchart’s challenge to historians because she connected Black educational history to religious studies, Black theological studies, and Black studies writ large. Other historians have taken parallel approaches to historiographies of Black education. In 2022, Michael Hines and Thomas Fallace published “Pedagogical Progressivism and Black Education: A Historiographical Review, 1880–1957,” an analysis of how historians discussed the development of progressive teaching methods in schools that merged educational history with philosophy. In 2023, Derrick P. Alridge, Adah Ward Randolph, and Alexis M. Johnson’s “African American Historians of Education and the Griot’s Craft: A Historiography” focused on Black historians of education specifically and explained how those scholars advanced Black educational history and Black studies. These historiographies are valuable assessments, but they focus primarily on histories about Black education at the primary and secondary levels. Few historiographies of Black education have focused on higher education, and among those that have, the emphasis is on only one aspect of Black higher education (see Gasman, 2007a; Kinchen, 2014). This chapter offers a more comprehensive historiography of Black higher education. It examines past scholarship – books, journal articles, book chapters, and the occasional dissertation or thesis – on Black higher education history. We define Black higher education broadly, exploring research about Black people at historically white institutions and HBCUs, inclusive of 2-year and 4-year institutions. Based on this across-the-board approach, we have organized this chapter’s analysis of historical scholarship into three themes, which we present in three sections. The first theme recaps how scholars have discussed the first Black people – students and faculty, and Black areas of study – in higher education. Black people long sought formal education even when laws outright banned Black education or severely limited Black educational opportunity. Therefore, this section on Black firsts is important because it highlights that historians have always found Black trailblazers an important area of study. We demonstrate how historians in the first 30 years of the twentieth century presented overviews of the first Black students at historically white campuses but rarely named the individuals or provided any biographical information about them. Through the middle of the twentieth century, however, historians’ writings evolved to start naming Black firsts – students and, occasionally, faculty – alongside presenting previously absent biographical information and acknowledging the first Black adult education programs. Starting after

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civil rights and Black Power protests, historians’ study of Black firsts shifted to center how racism shaped the experiences of the first Black students and faculty on white campuses. In total, this section demonstrates the sustained and shifting scholarly interests in the first Black people to overcome racial barriers in higher education. The second theme discusses the robust body of scholarship on the origins, development, and role of Black colleges and universities. This is the longest section because American higher education has been formally or informally segregated throughout most of its history. Historians’ earliest work during the early 1900s in the origins, development, and role Black institutions of higher education was mostly descriptive. Scholars first documented founding dates, curricular offerings, and other general information about Black colleges and universities. From the mid-1930s into the 1970s, historians – and education researchers in their then-contemporary studies – started to evaluate Black institutions’ histories in the context of federal court cases that challenged segregated higher education. Those studies often focused on the contributions of Black colleges and universities to demonstrate Black colleges’ important role in American higher education. By the mid-1970s through the 1990s, historians answered a call for deeper study of Black institutions by producing scholarship that focused on new perspectives and new discoveries. Histories during that period explored Black institutions’ innovative teaching techniques, how Black women had been overlooked, and how laws impacted HBCUs, among other views that occasionally demonstrated how racism shaped those campuses. Finally, by 2000, at a time when some elected officials and political pundits questioned the continued need for HBCUs, research interests focused on tracing the history of how those campuses have served as social engines – and benefited society at large. The third and final section of this historiography investigates research about Black access, equity, and justice in American higher education. We find this section valuable because it demonstrates how historians – particularly Black historians – have studied Black higher education from an equity-centered perspective, not purely as an objective exercise. Since some historical studies under this theme focus on HBCUs and/or white campuses, the research discussed in this section could fit within the first or second sections; however, we included said studies here because of their broader focus on access, equity, and justice. In doing so, we find that, starting in the 1930s, historians forcefully critiqued the history of white control of Black colleges and universities. By the 1970s through the 1990s, as more Black students and faculty entered white campuses, historians turned attention toward histories of racial discrimination in the professoriate, Black student protests, and Black women administrators’ activism. Finally, and more recently, the 2000s presented new histories that recount the student activism of the 1960s and 1970s and elevate previously overlooked individuals’ (e.g., Black women activists and college presidents) collective contributions to Black people’s struggles for educational access, equity, and justice. The equity-centered focus enhances the historiography by demonstrating how Black historians in particular have led the evolution of the study of Black higher education.

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This historiography offers a far-reaching snapshot that centers Black people in historical research about American higher education. Within each theme, we follow key scholarly arguments in chronological order. This approach allows us to demonstrate how the study of Black higher education evolved over time. In the process, the chapter argues that Black access is the most contested idea in American higher education because the historiography reveals constant Black struggle for access and opportunity in higher education. This is evident in the study of Black firsts; the systemic underfunding of Black colleges and universities; and Black campus protests over racism. The chapter displays the critical role of history in understanding Black higher education today. Past scholarship – and the past more generally – provides a guide for how to make sense of the present, and this historiography pinpoints how Black people have persisted and achieved enormous successes throughout the history of American higher education.

The Firsts: Black People in Higher Education Black people sought formal education in the United States even before the Civil War and emancipation (Anderson, 1988; Baumgartner, 2019; Williams, 2005). They made these efforts despite many southern states’ laws forbidding Black education (Span & Anderson, 2005). Following the war, Black people led the campaign for universal, public education in the years when formal education at the secondary level was woefully limited for most Americans (Anderson, 1988), and access to American colleges was even more limited and, for all intents and purposes, nonexistent for Black people. Those circumstances explain why historians have long focused on Black firsts: doing so was crucial at a time when Black access to education was nonexistent or severely limited. It was important to celebrate these firsts, and starting in the early 1900s, historians offered broad overviews that looked at the first Black people to earn bachelor’s degrees from colleges and universities. By the middle of the century, as Supreme Court decisions desegregated some southern white law schools, historians turned their attention toward documenting the first Black people to earn graduate and professional degrees, the first Black adult education programs, and the first Black faculty on white campuses. From the late 1970s to the present, historians occasionally built upon that national focus by producing regional histories that charted Black firsts, and, as more archival evidence has become available, historians’ scholarship on Black firsts has added more depth to this area of study – enhancing the story of Black triumph and perseverance in American higher education. Our analysis of scholarship about Black firsts must be framed within the context of the broader debate regarding Black higher education at the turn of the twentieth century because scholarship on Black firsts highlights firsts in the more professional realm of higher education. Historians have commonly framed that debate by the views of Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. Du Bois. In summary, Washington was born enslaved and eventually became the leader of Tuskegee Institute and promoted industrial education, while Du Bois was born shortly after the Civil War, earned

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degrees from Fisk and Harvard universities, and promoted a liberal, classical education for Black people. Over the past century, historians have added more nuance to this simple dichotomy in their ideas. Norrell (2009) noted that the two men were friendly before a series of events led to the perception of disagreement. There was an attempted “truce,” but it failed, and “the estrangement between the two was personal before it became ideological” (Norrell, 2009, pp. 224–228, 268). Kendi (2012) later argued that the debate between Du Bois and Washington had been “overplayed” by previous historians, and that the overriding issue with Black higher education was “the pervasive sway of white capitalists and paternalists. . .” (p. 17). The capitalist, economic-centered view shaped broader racial perspectives around whether Black people should pursue professional or vocational and industrial jobs, and scholarly attention on Black firsts in American higher education began in this context. In 1913, Edward T. Ware published one of the earliest scholarly accounts about the first Black people within American higher education. His article, titled “Higher Education of Negroes in the United States,” provided historical context to Black people’s limited access to higher education. It was important scholarship as many Americans debated whether Black people should or could attain higher education. Ware (1913) reported that the first three Black people to graduate from American institutions of higher education attended Bowdoin College, Middlebury College, and Ohio University during the early 1800s. It was a rarity for most Americans to attend and graduate college prior to the Civil War, and that feat was even rarer among Black people. “Only 34 Negroes were graduated before emancipation, and over two-thirds of these from Oberlin College” (Ware, 1913, p. 209). Historians later recognized that Oberlin in Ohio was among the first American colleges to openly admit Black students (Bigglestone, 1971); however, Ware (1913) did not specify why Oberlin was important in his article. Nonetheless, Ware’s writing about the first Black students was an important early attempt to document Black higher education at a time when scholars had largely ignored Black presence – as students or as enslaved labor – in higher education. Shortly after Ware’s 1913 article, historian Carter G. Woodson helped accelerate the study of Black people and education. In 1915, Woodson published his landmark book, The Education of the Negro Prior to 1861. His goal was “a small volume [of] the leading facts of the development of Negro education” (Woodson, 1915, p. iii). While Woodson’s book focused on primary and secondary education, it was important because he sprinkled in some facts about Black firsts. For example, Woodson (1915) noted that, in 1828, John Russwurm became the first Black college graduate when he earned a degree from Bowdoin College in Maine [historians later noted it was 1826]. Two years later, the 1830 Colored Peoples Convention in Philadelphia sought to “establish a Manual College at New Haven” where Black people could attain a classical education (Woodson, 1915, p. 260). Woodson did not elaborate on why the college never came into fruition, but Banks (1996) and other historians later noted white residents’ opposition blocked the project. By 1840, according to Woodson’s account, racism still limited Black access to higher education. As a result, no more than “fifteen Negroes were admitted to higher education institutions in this country before 1840” (Woodson, 1915, p. 265).

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Woodson’s book had a tremendous impact on the study of Black education and Black life in general, as did the Journal of Negro History, which he founded in 1915, and the Associated Publishers publishing company, which he established in 1920. Soon, many other Black scholars accepted Woodson’s call for the study of Black history, and some took up the study of Black higher education. By the late 1930s, however, scholars’ attention to Black firsts shifted from general accounts that acknowledged the institutions that graduated the first Black college undergraduates to more expansive investigations that named Black people. That shift coincided with the Maryland Court of Appeals’ January 1936 ruling in Raymond A. Pearson et al. v. Donald G. Murray. The court decision resulted in Murray, a Black man, being admitted to the segregated University of Maryland Law School. The court stated: “The case, as we find it, then, is that the state has undertaken the function of education in the law, but has omitted students of one race from the only adequate provision made for it, and omitted them solely because of their color” (Raymond A. Pearson v. Donald G. Murray, 1936). The lack of equality in educational provisions, particularly for Black adults seeking training beyond traditional undergraduate age, was important to some scholars. The same year as Pearson v. Murray, Ira De Augustine Reid published a short book, Adult Education Among Negroes, that examined the first adult education programs for Black people. Although adult education was different from traditional higher education, the lingering effects of the Great Depression warranted scholarly attention to economic recovery through various forms of education. Reid (1936) acknowledged that some Black people had formal education beyond primary and secondary education, but observed, “in spite of all this, there has been no group program of adult education for Negroes” (Reid, 1936, p. 17). Reid’s study asserted that rural adult education, typically supported by college extension services for Black farmers, was a form of adult education that worked well for Black people. Otherwise, when it came to Black adult education in urban centers or for non-farmers, the nation lacked group programs before the 1930s (Reid, 1936). This historical study of adult education is interwoven with the evolution of colleges and universities. For example, Reid (1936) said the first Black adult education programs were launched with support from the American Adult Education Association. In 1931, grants totaling $46,000 from the Carnegie Corporation of New York and Julius Rosenwald Fund were used for 3-year adult education programs in Black neighborhoods in Atlanta, Georgia, and New York, New York (Reid, 1936). Reid (1936) argued that these first two Black adult education programs revealed that more effort was needed to secure additional private and public funding, adjust programs to better meet people’s needs instead of expecting people to adjust to the program design, and encourage more guidance from institutions of higher education (Reid, 1936). The latter point – about guidance from colleges and universities – further demonstrated how studying the first Black adult programs enhanced understanding of higher education’s historic role in expanding Black access to higher education. Two years later, Fisk University sociologist Charles S. Johnson published his book, The Negro College Graduate. It was a comprehensive study of the history of Black graduates of college and professional schools, as well as a contemporary

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assessment of Black graduates’ residential locations, earnings, and motivations for attending college (Johnson, 1938). Like Woodson (1915), Johnson (1938) also acknowledged that John Russwurm was the first Black person to graduate from a college in the United States when he completed his studies at Bowdoin College – although Johnson stated the degree was conferred in 1826 and Woodson said 1828. Johnson’s book also augmented the data that that Edward T. Ware had provided 25 years earlier. Whereas Ware (1913) stated that 34 Black people earned college degrees prior to the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863, Johnson (1938) noted that by 1860, a total of 28 Black people had earned college degrees. Regarding Black firsts during that period, Johnson (1938) explained that no region or location was better than any others when in providing higher education opportunity: “The Negro population, however, even in the free northern states, was separated from this intellectual luxury not only by a cultural chasm of formidable proportions but by economic and social restrictions of a most compelling sort” (p. 7). “So severe were these restrictions” that James McCune Smith – an American – had to travel abroad to become the first Black person to earn a professional degree; Smith earned a doctorate in medicine at the University of Glasgow in Scotland in 1837 (Johnson, 1938, p. 7). Johnson’s study was significant in that it further quantified the first Black college graduates. Also, in studying Black firsts, Johnson (1938) specifically focused on Black college graduates more than Ware (1913), who was focused on Black colleges and institutions. Furthermore, Johnson’s (1938) research was timely in that it was published the same year the US Supreme Court in Missouri ex rel. Gaines v. Canada ruled in favor of Lloyd Gaines, a Black man. The court declared that the state of Missouri must provide its Black residents with an option to study law since the University of Missouri Law School – the state’s only law school – was a segregated white institution (Endersby & Horner, 2016). Johnson (1938), alongside the Supreme Court’s ruling, spurred a series of other studies exploring Black firsts. For example, one study was by Marion Thompson Wright, who, in 1940, became the first Black woman to earn a Ph.D. in the field of history (Hodges, 2021). In 1941, her dissertation-turned-book, The Education of Negroes in New Jersey, was published by Teachers College Press as a broad study of the first educational opportunities for Black people in New Jersey (Wright, 1941). While Wright focused on first opportunities in a single state, Harry Washington Greene (1946) built upon Johnson’s study of Black college graduates and Wright’s trailblazing scholarship in his book, Holders of Doctorates Among American Negroes. Greene’s ambitious book focused on the years 1876–1943, and it was the culmination of five previous articles he had published regarding Black people who had earned a Ph.D. (Greene, 1928, 1932, 1933, 1934, 1937). Greene (1946) acknowledged Johnson’s 1938 book, The Negro College Graduate; however, as a scholar who had studied Black graduates at length, Greene considered Johnson’s work in that area “quite inadequate and incomplete in their treatment of the particular problem at hand” (p. 16). The problem, Greene argued, was the struggle for Black colleges and universities to earn and maintain accreditation, and faculty with doctorates were essential to addressing the problem. As Greene (1946) explained, “standardization or accreditation of colleges among Negroes is a recent

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development” (p. 139) since the Southern Association of Colleges and Secondary Schools (SACS) rated its first Black college in 1930. Therefore, Greene (1946) presented an overview of Black doctorate holders’ specializations, honors and awards, and research in various disciplines and fields of study. Its wide scope aside, Greene’s most important contribution was that he compiled lists of the first Black doctorate holders by field or discipline into a single volume. In 1895 at Harvard University, W. E. B. Du Bois became the first Black person to earn a Ph. D. “in the field of social science” (Greene, 1946, p. 46). The University of Pennsylvania awarded the first doctorate in economics to a Black person when Sadie T. Mossell Alexander earned hers in 1921, while the first Black doctorate in the field of history was awarded to Charles H. Wesley at Harvard in 1925 (Greene, 1946). Greene (1946) presented similar Black first doctorate holders in many other fields. In education, Charles H. Thompson earned a doctorate at the University of Chicago in 1925, and the first Black women to do so in the field were Alethea Washington at Ohio State University and Jennie Porter at the University of Cincinnati, both in 1928 (Greene, 1946). In other professional fields, Greene (1946) noted that Julian H. Lewis earned a medical doctorate from the University of Chicago in 1915; Charles Hamilton Houston earned Doctor of Juridical Science from Harvard in 1923; and John Wesley Edward Bowen earned a doctorate in religion from Boston University in 1887. Greene (1946) presented similar Black firsts in physical sciences, literature, biological sciences, and philosophy, among other fields and subfields. The book was the most comprehensive study of Black firsts in higher education in the first half of the twentieth century. Starting with Edward T. Ware’s 1913 article that only briefly mentioned the colleges that educated the first Black college graduates and ending with Harry Washington Greene’s study of Black doctorate holders, scholarship that identified Black firsts had moved from brief sketches of Black firsts nationally to become more comprehensive. Greene (1946) was also attentive to gender by highlighting the first Black women to earn doctorates in certain fields. That more expansive approach continued even as, by the late 1940s, significant legal challenges to segregated education were culminating before the US Supreme Court. For example, in 1950, Robert L. Gill, a professor of history and government at Morgan State College, published an article about the first Black professors on many predominately white campuses. Gill (1950) focused on more recent history and offered short biographical overviews of some of the professors mentioned, expanding the study of Black firsts in higher education. Prior to that point, most attention was directed toward Black firsts as students (as well as the first Black adult education programs). Gill (1950) emphasized how the recent decade, the 1940s, had created more Black firsts within the professoriate. Gill (1950) added: “The Negro professors [at] non-segregated colleges and universities are fortunately no longer rare birds. Indeed, they now form rather a large flock with representatives at schools as distant geographically as Harvard and the University of California. . .” (p. 8). Gill (1950) recorded that W. Allison Davis, when hired by the University of Chicago in 1942, became the first Black person to be hired as a full-time professor. “The Negro college professors in mixed universities are no longer guinea pigs,” Gill (1950)

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wrote, adding, “They have proven themselves” (p. 29). Gill (1950) was optimistic in his appraisal, as future historians further demonstrated that the first Black professors on white campuses were, in fact, treated like “guinea pigs” and “rare birds.” This reality was true at a time when racial segregation in American education was at the forefront of national conversations, and in 1954, the Supreme Court’s Brown v. Board of Education ruling deemed school segregation unconstitutional. Despite the significance of Brown, historical research on Black firsts did not see a notable shift immediately following that Supreme Court decision. Historians continued to provide comprehensive accounts that named Black firsts. For example, Walter Crosby Eells published “The Higher Education of Negroes in the United States” in 1955. The article began with a series of questions, including: “Do Negroes in America have a chance for higher education?” Eells framed that as a common question heard by American citizens when abroad, particularly after World War II as the United States touted global democracy but maintained racial segregation. This question was important since the central focus of the article was Black colleges and universities, but Eells also highlighted the limited access Black people had to predominately white institutions. For example, Eells stated that, in 1876, the first Black person to earn a Ph.D. from an American university was Edward Alexander Bouchet at Yale University (Eells, 1955; Mickens, 2002). In 1921, three students became the first Black women to earn a Ph.D. from American universities (Eells, 1955): Georgiana Rose Simpson from the University of Chicago; Sadie T. Mossell Alexander from the University of Pennsylvania; and Eva Beatrice Dykes from Radcliffe College (Banks, 1996; Eells, 1955; Evans, 2007; Perkins, 1997; Presidential Committee, 2022). While the earliest scholarship in this area did not typically name individuals, Eells’s (1955) work reflected the period since the 1930s as named individual Black people in discussing Black firsts. The previous eras featured historical accounts of Black firsts that did not interrogate the experiences of the first Black students and faculty, but by the civil rights unrest of the late 1950s and 1960s, scholars discussed Black firsts alongside the racial conditions that awaited them on white campuses. One notable book – Henry Allen Bullock’s A History of Negro Education in the South: From 1619 to the Present (1967) – attempted to make sense of racial conditions in the United States by looking to the past. Just prior to the publication of Bullock’s book, in 1961, 1962, and 1963, three segregated white southern institutions – Universities of Georgia, Mississippi, and Alabama – were the center of national attention as segregationists publicly, and sometimes violently, opposed desegregation (see Cohadas, 1997; Cole, 2020; Daniels, 2001; Doyle, 2002; Hollars, 2013; Lambert, 2010; Tilford, 2014). Bullock (1967), in a chapter titled “The Bid for Desegregation,” briefly discussed the first Black students who enrolled at formerly segregated white universities after successful lawsuits filed by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). Bullock (1967) noted that, “beginning in 1935 and with the border states where resistance was believed to be softer,” a series of attempts were made to desegregate white institutions (pp. 226–227). Bullock (1967) discussed first Black students in the context of the previously mentioned Pearson v. Murray (1936) at the University of Maryland. The court ruling, Bullock (1967)

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argued, meant “the NAACP had broken an important link in the chain of segregation” (p. 227). Bullock (1967) also discussed Supreme Court cases in 1948 and 1950 that resulted in Ada Lois Sipuel and Heman Merion Sweatt – like Murray at Maryland and Gaines at Missouri – being admitted to the law schools of the University of Oklahoma and the University of Texas, respectively. Bullock (1967) presented and named Black firsts, but he paid more attention to the civil rights challenges that the said Black firsts faced. This was an important departure from prior scholars who had only named Black firsts, and other historians soon adopted a similar approach. For example, in 1974, Barbara Lewinson used a regional lens in studying the first Black graduates of nine colleges in the Northeast. Among them, Herman Dreer graduated from Bowdoin College in 1910 (Lewinson, 1974). Dreer was still one of the first Black students at the college despite graduating nearly a century after John Russwurm in 1826 (Lewinson, 1974). The article, titled “Black Students in Eastern Colleges, 1895–1940,” also discussed Black firsts at Amherst College, Bates College, Dartmouth College, and Brown University, among other northeastern colleges. Lewinson (1974) observed, “what these men have accomplished beginning with their college days can be considered even more significant than the achievements of other students since they had many additional pressures which resulted from the color of their skin” (p. 87). In doing so, Lewinson (1974) – like Bullock (1967) – situated the discussion of Black firsts within the context of racism on white college campuses. Over the next two decades, the most notable contribution of histories about Black firsts was how those studies of the past informed contemporary studies. By the 1970s and 1980s, the immediate post-segregation years resulted in increased numbers of Black students enrolled on white campuses. As a result, scholars in the 1980s who assessed Black higher education frequently, albeit briefly, cited historical facts that historians had uncovered. One example is Charles V. Willie’s and Donald Cunnigen’s 1981 literature review on Black college students. The study focused on 1965 to 1980, but Willie and Cunnigen (1981) also noted John Russwurm, as the first Black college graduate, as a way to acknowledge that “black participation in American higher education has been determined by the changing status of blacks in the society” (p. 117). It is important to note that not much historical research about Black firsts happened during the 1980s and early 1990s. Most Black higher education research during that period focused on HBCUs, as will be discussed in the next section of this chapter. Scholars were able to identify issues facing Black students in the 1980s and 1990s and use histories of Black firsts to demonstrate how racism had been prevalent for centuries. The use of Black firsts to frame present-day assessments remained common through this period, but the most significant contribution to the historiography came nearly 20 years later when Linda M. Perkins published a Harvard Educational Review article focused on the first Black women enrolled at the Seven Sisters colleges – a group of private, historically women’s liberal arts in the Northeast. Like Bullock (1967) and Lewinson (1974), Perkins (1997) also discussed Black firsts within the context of their racial experiences as trailblazers. Perkins (1997) also broke important ground in paying historical attention to long overlooked Black

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women in white academic spaces. Prior to Perkins (1997), most histories only acknowledged Black women’s firsts by noting when they had graduated, paying more attention to Black men. Perkins (1997) discussed the Black women who first graduated from this collection of elite institutions. She explained that, in 1887, Harriett Alleyne Rice became the first Black graduate of Wellesley College, and in 1898, Alberta Scott achieved the same feat at Radcliffe College (Perkins, 1997). Martha Ralston earned a college degree from Mount Holyoke in 1898, while Otelia Cromwell became Smith College’s first Black graduate in 1900 (Perkins, 1997). Perkins (1997) also discussed Black firsts at Bryn Mawr College, Vassar College, and Barnard College. Perkins (1997) not only named Black firsts, however. She offered a more complete understanding of Black higher education history by analyzing the racial climate that awaited those Black women. For instance, Perkins (1997) uncovered how in 1903, a Black woman named Jessie Fauset finished at the top of her high school class in Philadelphia and received a scholarship to attend Bryn Mawr College, but “when it was discovered that Fauset was Black, President [M. Carey] Thomas raised money for Fauset to attend Cornell [University] (Thomas’s alma mater) rather than have a Black woman attend Bryn Mawr” (p. 733). Regarding Vassar College, Perkins (1997) said campus officials “felt that the presence of African-American women, even those with a slight tinge of Black blood, would detract from the image it sought to project as an institution for the aristocratic and genteel woman” (pp. 737–738). Perkins (1997) also explained that the discrimination did not stop at admissions or in campus housing. Postcollege opportunities were limited for the first Black women graduates due to their race. “It was sometimes believed by the administrations of these institutions that most of the African American women graduates would be employed in a Black setting,” and they “routinely faced discrimination in hiring and had little choice but to go South to teach in segregated high schools” (Perkins, 1997, p. 749). The article was important to expanding and reframing how historians discussed Black firsts (see also Perkins, 1998). Following Perkins, other historians expanded upon the study of Black firsts by adding more racial context to the discussion. Noliwe Rooks’s 2006 book, White Money/Black Power: The Surprising History of African American Studies and the Crisis of Race in Higher Education, focuses on curricular Black firsts. Similar to Reid’s (1936) work on adult education, Rooks (2006) discussed the first Black studies programs and Black intellectual thought in her study focused on the role of white philanthropy in shaping Black studies programs in the United States. Yet, unlike Reid (1936), who simply discussed the first Black adult education programs, Rooks (2006) provided rich context around racism, student unrest, and political changes that shaped the moment that birthed Black studies programs. Therefore, Rooks (2006) not only discussed Black firsts in terms of access but she also acknowledged firsts in terms of curricula and academic programs built for Black students. Similarly, in 2007, Stephanie Y. Evans’s Black Women in the Ivory Tower, 1850–1954 provided further insights into Black women pioneers in higher education. In the same ways as Perkins (1997) discussed Black firsts and their racial

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challenges, Evans (2007) explored Black firsts through Black women’s intellectual contributions. The book was divided in two parts: Educational Attainment and Intellectual Legacy. The initial part discussed firsts among Black women in American higher education within the context of their racial experiences. For example, Evans (2007) explained that “Oberlin College was a beacon of light for antebellum black scholars, but in a geographically limited sense: the majority of students came from the North or Midwest” (p. 21). Her inclusion of that fact demonstrated how, by the late 1990s and early 2000s, historians discussed Black firsts by offering a more robust and critical understanding of context – even for institutions previously celebrated as antebellum safe spaces. In part two of the book, Evans (2007) demonstrated how Black women – many of them being the firsts in various roles – were intellectual contributors to research, teaching, and service. These three works – Perkins (1997), Rooks (2006), Evans (2007) – are critically important to the historiography of Black higher education, and they highlight how the study of Black firsts evolved over time. The legacy of racial discrimination in formal education explains scholars’ consistent interest in the study of Black firsts. This area of research calls attention to the pioneering Black people who, despite various formal and informal barriers, entered American higher education as students and faculty. The earliest histories about Black firsts often acknowledged the institutions that admitted and educated the first Black students but did not name the individual Black graduates. Starting in the 1930s, however, historians and other scholars started to name the first Black graduates at the undergraduate and graduate levels, provide biographical background on said graduates and the first Black faculty, and highlight specifical programs for Black people (e.g., adult education). The last 50 years – following the racial unrest of the 1960s and 1970s – has seen the historiography on Black firsts evolve to include the racial experiences and other societal influences that came along with being a Black first in American higher education. In summary, historians have demonstrated that Black firsts – students, faculty, curriculum changes, adult education, and other aspects – had been difficult to achieve throughout American higher education history. Furthermore, uncovering the stories and names of many Black firsts remains difficult because, as Perkins (1997) explained, some Black students’ skin complexion allowed them to pass for white. Additionally, institutions did not always welcome Black people, and, in turn, archival records did not record their presence. These challenges explain why, despite Black firsts being critically important to the field, the bulk of scholarship on Black higher education has been on the institutions that did admit Black students.

Black Colleges and Universities: Origins, Development, and Role When studying Black higher education, most researchers have focused on Black college campuses – known today as Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs). This section is longer than the previous section because historians and other scholars have written at length about the origins, development, and social role of Black colleges and universities. To manage the volume of research on HBCUs,

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this section examines how researchers have made sense of the origins, development, and role of Black institutions by briefly highlighting significant publications prior to the Brown decision in 1954 and primarily focusing on research after that Supreme Court ruling. Embedded within this scholarship are debates over social status, curricular offerings, inequitable funding, and governance of those campuses – issues scholars have grappled with for more than a century. The earliest histories from the late 1890s to 1935 were primarily descriptive and initially described basic facts about Black institutions. Historians and other scholars during the period focused on founding dates, founding entities, and other general information regarding the origins of these institutions. From the mid-1930s to the mid-1970s, studies started to evaluate the numerous contributions of Black colleges and universities to demonstrate their essential role in American higher education. This research was important since several federal desegregation cases emerged during that period that raised questions about the necessity of Black institutions. From the 1970s through the 1990s, historians responded to a call to further expand the research on Black higher education by preparing studies that accounted for new perspectives and discoveries. These new perspectives and discoveries occasionally revealed how systemic racism stifled Black campus development, and within the last 20 years, scholars have explored the history of the larger social influence of Black colleges and universities and how those institutions have positively influenced society – not just academia.

Historiography: 1898–1935 The historiography on Black colleges and universities begins with W. E. B. Du Bois’s 1898 article titled, “The Study of the Negro Problems.” The article was a broad call for the sociological analysis on the status of Black people at the end of the nineteenth century, but his essay was also rooted in the importance of history. Du Bois (1898) argued, “One cannot study the Negro in freedom and come to general conclusions about his destiny without knowing his history in slavery” (p. 12). To address challenges faced by Black people, Du Bois (1898) said, “it would seem to be the clear duty of the American people, in the interests of scientific knowledge and social reform, to begin a broad and systematic study of the history and condition of the American Negroes” (p. 15). The study of history was the first step, and Black colleges were essential to conducting such historical study (Du Bois, 1898). Du Bois (1898) added: We hear much of higher Negro education, and yet all candid people know there does not exist to-day in the centre of Negro population a single first-class fully equipped institution devoted to the higher education of Negroes; not more than three Negro institutions in the South deserve the name of college at all; and yet what is a Negro college but a vast college settlement for the study of a particular set of peculiarly baffling problems? (p. 22)

The Black college would be essential to solving “the Negro problem,” but the history of those institutions was interwoven with neglect by white actors in the public and private sector. Therefore, Du Bois (1898) concluded: “Without doubt, the first effective step toward the solving of the Negro question will be the endowment of

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a Negro college which is not merely a teaching body, but a centre of sociological research. . .” (p. 22). Two years later, Du Bois accepted his own challenge when, in 1900, he published The College-Bred Negro, his first study of Black colleges and universities. Du Bois (1900) evaluated which Black institutions offered college-level coursework, but before doing so, he offered a historical overview of when and why those institutions were founded. Du Bois (1900) explained, “Omitting all institutions which have not actually graduated students from a college course, there are today in the United States thirty-four institutions giving collegiate training to Negroes and designed for this race” (p. 6). Among those 34 colleges, Lincoln University and Wilberforce University were founded “before the war and represent the Abolition movement,” as they were established by Presbyterians in Pennsylvania and African Methodists in Ohio, respectively (Du Bois, 1900, p. 6). Du Bois (1900) categorized 13 other Black colleges, including Fisk, Howard, and Atlanta universities, as “Freedmen’s Bureau Schools” (p. 6). The bureau was established by Congress in 1865 with the responsibility of aiding newly freed Black people in various aspects of life, including education (Du Bois, 1900). The remaining institutions among the 34 colleges listed were categorized by their founding as “Church Schools,” “Schools of Negro Bodies,” and “State Colleges” (Du Bois, 1900, p. 7). Most of Du Bois’s (1900) book was an evaluation of Black colleges and universities at the turn of the century, but the study is important to Black higher education historiography because it compiled, perhaps for the first time, an overview of what entities founded those institutions within the context of the Civil War. Du Bois conducted a follow-up study, also titled The College-Bred Negro, in 1910 with Augustus Granville Dill. Du Bois’s historical research on Black colleges was primarily descriptive as he focused on establishing basic facts about the institutions (e.g., founding entities and founding dates), but he laid the foundation for other historical studies that followed. In one of the first studies that followed Du Bois’s evaluations of Black colleges and universities, Ware (1913) opened his article on the first Black college graduates in the United States by stating: “Since 1823, there have been graduated from American colleges about 5,000 Negroes, 1,000 from Northern colleges and 4,000 from colleges established especially for Negroes in the South” (p. 209), thus noting the significant role that Black colleges and universities played in expanding educational opportunity. Despite comprising a small percentage of American colleges, by 1913, Black colleges had bestowed 80% of the college degrees that Black people had earned (Ware, 1913). Like Du Bois, Ware (1913) provided a descriptive history of Black colleges and universities. Ware (1913) credited the Freedmen’s Bureau, missionary societies, and state governments for establishing Black institutions. Wilberforce University in 1856 became the first Black institution to establish a “college department” and the only one to do so before the Civil War (Ware, 1913, p. 211). It was important to document when some Black institutions had developed from secondary schools to legitimate institutions of higher education. Other universities followed Wilberforce and established college departments, including Lincoln University in 1864, Howard

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University in 1868, Straight University (now defunct) in 1869, Leland University (now defunct) and Shaw University in 1870, Fisk University in 1871, and Atlanta University in 1872 (Ware, 1913). A total of 11 Black colleges had college departments by 1880 (Ware, 1913). Ware (1913) also briefly explained the amount of money private entities and state governments earmarked for Black higher education. For example, in 1912, the state of Alabama appropriated $17,000 to the Alabama State Normal School while the state of Florida provided $12,000 to Florida A&M College (Ware, 1913); however, Ware (1913) did not discuss or analyze how those appropriations compared to those for similarly sized white colleges and universities in those states. Du Bois (1900), Du Bois and Dill (1910), and Ware (1913) reflected the concern of the earliest histories of Black colleges and universities with basic facts and milestones. This was a simple, yet important, approach to studying Black higher education. As Du Bois (1898) explained, the first step in solving the problems facing Black Americans was to study history, and Black institutions with their focus on expanding access to higher education were critical to that study. Therefore, scholars’ earliest attention was geared toward documenting the origins and development of those institutions – and such focus remained prevalent for the next two decades. By the 1930s, historians and other educational specialists took an even greater interest in Black higher education, likely due to the Great Depression and its dramatic impact on the lives of all Americans and organizations. Scholars continued to produce mostly descriptive histories of Black higher education, but again, those studies had great significance. In 1930, Ullin W. Leavell published the book Philanthropy in Negro Education. Leavell (1930) traced the history of white philanthropy toward Black people since 1619 – the year that 20 enslaved Africans became “the first group of Negro slaves that was sold in the colonies. . .” (p. 1). After a brief overview of Black education during enslavement, Leavell (1930) focused on Black education after the Civil War, and he emphasized five private, white-run funds – George Peabody, John F. Slater, General Education, Anna T. Jeanes, and Julius Rosenwald – that supported educational access. He reported, “Administrative forces have been established and maintained by these agencies in order to reach the southern Negro directly and to assist in the development of adequate facilities for the colored race” (Leavell, 1930, p. 59). Although the book did not offer much delineation between Black primary and secondary education and higher education, Leavell (1930) provided a list of those private funds’ expenditures and receipts for training schools and high schools, the construction of teachers’ homes, and buildings and property. As mentioned earlier, many Black colleges began as secondary schools before developing college departments. Therefore, the book measured the financial significance of the private entities that Du Bois (1900) and Ware (1913) recognized for founding future Black colleges and universities. Two years later, in 1932, Theophilus E. McKinney Sr., dean at Johnson C. Smith University, a private college for Black students, coordinated a celebration for the 25th anniversary of Henry Lawrence McCrorey serving as that institution’s president. McKinney ensured that the ceremony’s eight public addresses – the first of which was delivered by Woodson – covered “practically every aspect of the higher

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education of the Negroes in the United States during the last quarter century” (“Theophilus Elisha. . .,” 1932, p. 502). Afterward, McKinney published the addresses in the edited volume, Higher Education Among Negroes (McKinney, 1932). In addition to Woodson’s address, titled “Twenty-five Years of Higher Education Among Negroes,” other notable Black educators Kelly Miller, Mary McLeod Bethune, and James Ward Seabrook also spoke (“Theophilus Elisha. . .,” 1932). McKinney’s (1932) volume was foundational to history of Black colleges and universities as it was a comprehensive volume that brought together multiple voices interested in documenting various foundational facts about Black institutions. In 1933, Fred McCuistion, executive agent of the Southern Association of Colleges and Secondary Schools (SACS), published a report titled Higher Education of Negroes: A Summary. As the titled suggested, the report summarized enrollment data as of 1932. McCuistion (1933) noted that 109 Black colleges and universities reported offering college-level courses, and on these campuses, enrollments spanned from as few as 10 college students at Coleman College in Louisiana (now defunct) to roughly 2000 at Howard University in Washington, DC. Offering an assessment of the current state of Black institutions, McCuistion (1933) reported that in 1932, SACS rated 6 four-year Black colleges as “Class A” and 22 as “Class B” (Leavell, 1930). Like Du Bois (1900), however, McCuistion’s (1933) work was important to the historiography because it was among the first evaluations of Black higher education by SACS – a white-run accrediting agency. SACS had refused to rate Black colleges and universities until 1930 when it rated Fisk University as a Class “A” institution, a significant milestone because accreditation meant that graduates of Black colleges could be admitted to predominately white graduate schools without having to repeat some undergraduate coursework (“Talladega College Given ‘A,’” 1932). The decision by SACS to rate Black colleges and universities prompted other studies of Black institutions. For instance, also in 1933, Ambrose Caliver published “A Personnel Study of Negro College Students” in the Journal of Educational Research. As more Black colleges were deemed actual “colleges,” Caliver (1933) evaluated Black college students’ career interests and home lives. He noted that most Black people who attended college during that era came from a “fairly substantial economic background” (p. 132). Related to this line of scholarship, Frazier (1933) assessed the status of graduate-level course offerings and observed the common objectives of graduate education at Black colleges and universities. While these first attempts to evaluate Black institutions were not historical studies, Caliver (1933) and Frazier (1933) remain valuable because both enlightened scholars who soon conducted historical studies on how Black colleges arrived at their status in the 1930s. Shortly afterward, a few Black soon-to-be presidents of Black colleges and universities published history books about Black higher education. One of them was Dwight Oliver Wendell Holmes, whose book The Evolution of the Negro College, was the first major history of Black colleges and universities. Holmes (1934) aimed to

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present, within the limits of a single volume, the circumstances surrounding the establishment and development of the Negro college, in order to furnish an integrated background upon which to project the problems that arise from an inquiry into the present place and function of this group of schools in the scheme of American higher education. (p. 3)

Holmes (1934) studied history with the goal of better understanding the present. To do so, the book explored private and public Black institutions alike while acknowledging the role of “organized philanthropy” (Holmes, 1934, p. 163), although not to the extent that Leavell (1930) did. Still, Holmes (1934) broke new ground with his wide scope, as he discussed Black colleges, philanthropic organizations, missionary groups, and federal legislation such as the Morrill Acts that established land-grant colleges in 1862 and 1890. Instead of focusing solely on basic facts, Holmes (1934) acknowledged the role of racism as evident by segregated higher education, explaining that “there are seventeen land-grant colleges for Negroes at the present time, one in each of the states that maintain a dual system of schools” (p. 150). Holmes (1934) divided the history of Black colleges into four periods: 1860–1885, 1886–1916, 1917–1928, and the then-current period. Holmes (1934) also used history to make recommendations for the future: “This study has been made as an historical investigation, for the purpose of recording what has happened in the past rather than to project the future.” Holmes (1934) added, “The findings, however, exhibit conditions which seem to justify further comment, followed by forecast and recommendation” (p. 208). In his assessment of the present, Holmes (1934) determined that many Black colleges lacked “definite and clear-cut objectives” and most had “an entirely inadequate income” (p. 209). This approach – a thorough investigation of the past to appraise current conditions – was the most comprehensive response to the challenge Du Bois (1898) issued three decades earlier. This era included the first institutional histories of Tuskegee Institute (Thrasher, 1901) and Hampton Institute (Peabody, 1922), but the work was most valuable in providing an initial comprehensive study that future historians then used when writing more detailed histories. By widening the scope and acknowledging racism, Holmes closed the era of histories of Black colleges and universities that were primary descriptive, and other works soon expanded the historical study of Black institutions.

Historiography: 1935–1975 As previously mentioned, the Pearson v Murray (1936) and Missouri ex rel. Gaines v. Canada (1938) decisions were significant blows to segregation at the University of Maryland and University of Missouri, respectively; other federal rulings in favor of desegregation in the 1940s through the 1960s raised urgent questions about Black higher education across the entire South. The primary question was whether Black colleges and universities remained relevant in a desegregated society, and historians and scholars answered in the affirmative by revealing the historical contributions of Black college graduates, how those institutions provided rare opportunities for Black people to attain graduate-level studies, and how Black colleges had long produced most Black teachers, among many other contributions. In total, the studies during

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this period highlighted Black institutions’ various contributions to demonstrate the essential place they held in higher education, regardless of whether American colleges and universities desegregated. One of the first examples of this new scholarly focus was Charles S. Johnson’s The Negro College Graduate (1938). Johnson (1938) evaluated the accomplishments of the graduates of Black institutions, and in the first two-thirds of the book, he primarily assessed Black college and professional school graduates’ residential locations, earnings, professional occupations, and motivations for attending college; however, in the latter third of the book, he offered a detailed historical account of the founding of the Black colleges that educated most of the Black college graduates. Johnson (1938) featured chapters dedicated to the founding of private Black colleges, including discussion of the major donors to each college prior to 1908; the development of Black teachers, especially for secondary schools; and the history of Black doctors, dentists, and lawyers. Johnson (1938) used that history to conclude: “Negro college graduates are most likely to disturb the custom on social and racial matters and also most likely to contribute constructively to social adjustments” (p. 355). Johnson (1938) is a clear example of scholars’ historical shift from fact-finding histories to analyses geared toward arguing that Black colleges made important contributions. It was a fitting study, too, considering the context of legal challenges to racial segregation across southern states. Over the next decade, three Supreme Court cases – Sipuel v. Board of Regents of the University of Oklahoma (1948); McLaurin v. Oklahoma State Regents (1950); and Sweatt v. Painter (1950) – successfully challenged segregated white graduate programs in Oklahoma and Texas, while indirectly highlighting the underdevelopment of Black colleges in those states. Following Johnson (1938), alongside the Supreme Court rulings, historians also produced state-level histories of Black colleges and universities that discussed those institutions’ contributions. For example, the first half of Range’s (1951) history of Black colleges in Georgia provided a general description of the origins and development of Black higher education in the state (similar to the earliest studies of Black institutions); however, the latter half discussed the contributions of the state’s Black institutions. For example, Range (1951) said: . . .out from the [Atlanta University School of Social Work] went graduates to become case workers, medical workers, probation officers, Urban League secretaries, settlement residents, institutional managers, day nursery heads, employment secretaries, school attendance officers, government administrators, and workers in education, health societies, religious social service, community centers, travelers’ aid bureaus, and YMCAs. (p. 179)

This history of Black higher education in Georgia also noted that 70% of the state’s graduates of Black colleges “remained to live and work in the state” (Range, 1951, p. 209). As with Du Bois (1900) and Holmes (1934), Range (1951) used a state-level history to highlight Black institutions’ academic and economic contributions. Three years later, in 1954, the Supreme Court ruled in Brown that the “separate but equal” doctrine in education was unconstitutional. Yet, the Court’s ruling against

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educational segregation did not level the playing field in higher education. Therefore, the study of Black colleges and universities continued with important studies that documented the various contributions of these institutions. For example, one of the first important inquiries following Brown occurred in 1958 when Aaron Brown, a project director for the Phelps Stokes Fund, published an article titled “Graduate and Professional Education in Negro Institutions” in the Journal of Negro Education. Exploring the challenges faced by Black colleges and universities in providing graduate-level education, Brown (1958) pointed out that many of these institutions originated as church-related ones and later transitioned into public funded institutions (Brown, 1958). Therefore, the institutional names did not always reflect the range of academic programs they offered. Brown (1958) discussed how, until the mid-twentieth century, few Black colleges met the standards set by white accreditation bodies. Despite this reality, notable institutions like Howard University and Atlanta University emerged as pioneers in offering graduate programs. Gaining financial support, improving facilities, and being free from political pressures in segregated southern states were crucial for promoting higher education opportunities for Black students (Brown, 1958). Among the numerous challenges faced by Black colleges and universities in providing graduate-level education, Brown (1958) specifically addressed hurdles in program development, faculty recruitment, student enrollment, and overall support systems, all of which were further exacerbated by the racial climate prevalent in southern states even after formal racial segregation had been deemed unconstitutional. Brown (1958) surveyed 22 Black institutions, revealing that 15 offered graduate programs, with 12 specializing in professional fields. The study drew attention to notable institutions, such as Howard University, which had a rich history of offering graduate programs as early as the late nineteenth century (Brown, 1958). Brown also highlighted Atlanta University’s development of graduate programs in 1930, alongside the university’s earlier-established School of Social Work. The study illuminated the historical challenges encountered by Black institutions in providing advanced education, while emphasizing the significant contributions made to advance graduate-level education opportunities for Black students. Also in 1958, Charles H. Thompson published “The Negro College: In Retrospect and in Prospect,” which examined the origin, development, and future of Black colleges and universities. First, Thompson (1958) discussed the history of Black colleges as products of segregation. He explained how, despite some white people who viewed Black higher education as a waste of resources, visionary leaders persisted to establish Black colleges. Financial support – something that Brown (1958) also identified – was a crucial factor in the history and development of these institutions. In using history to first establish context, Thompson (1958) later addressed how some Black leaders and college officials feared that funding and support for Black colleges might decline and potentially pose additional strains for these institutions (Thompson, 1958). In turn, Thompson (1958) offered a hopeful outlook regarding the prospects of a few institutions, and he provided valuable guidance for Black colleges and universities in navigating the changing educational landscape to continue to make valuable contributions.

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Studies by Brown (1958) and Thompson (1958) both highlighted various contributions of Black colleges. But among the publications in 1958, Frenzies A. Logan’s “The Movement in North Carolina to Establish a State-Supported College for Negroes” was the most focused on history. The article explained why the concerns highlighted in Brown (1958) and Thompson (1958) existed by chronicling the efforts to create a state-supported college for Black Americans in North Carolina during Reconstruction. Logan (1958) highlighted key individuals and organizations who advocated for the college, including Black congressmen James E. O’Hara and John A. Hyman. Additionally, Logan recounted a plea made in 1885 by a Raleigh public school teacher to establish a state-supported college specifically for the Black residents. However, the proposal faced opposition from most white North Carolinians, who were reluctant to allocate funds for Black higher education (Logan, 1958). Logan (1958) noted that 6 years after the initial campaign for a college for Black Americans, and 1 year after the passage of the Second Morrill Act in 1890 provided federal funding for the establishment of land-grant colleges for Black people, North Carolina Governor Daniel Gould Fowle recommended the establishment of an agricultural and mechanical college for Black Americans. Fowle recognized the need for accessible educational opportunities in the absence of viable alternatives (Logan, 1958). Despite the initial rejection of bills proposed by Isaac Alston, a Black legislator from Warren County, a separate bill – proposed by white North Carolina elected official John Dillard Bellamy Jr. on March 5, 1891 – eventually gained legislative approval (Logan, 1958). Approximately 6 months later, Greensboro was selected as the college’s permanent site (Logan, 1958). In providing a comprehensive historical account of establishing a state-supported college for Black people in North Carolina, Logan (1958) illustrated the advocacy, challenges, and eventual success in securing legislative approval for a Black college. In doing so, Logan’s (1958) was the first history post-Brown that provided in-depth context to explain why Black institutions’ contributions were remarkable. In another state-level history of Black colleges and universities, Leedell W. Neyland (1964) discussed the slow development of Black institutions in Florida. His 1964 article, “State-Supported Higher Education among Negroes in the State of Florida” provided the history of Florida A&M University in the context of an overview of the growth and progress of state-supported Black higher education in the state. Although Neyland (1964) did not emphasize white resistance to Black higher education like Logan (1958) had, he explained how Florida A&M began as a normal school in the 1880s and evolved into a 4-year college in 1909 (Neyland, 1964), although Anderson (1988) later noted that Florida A&M offered few collegiate-level courses at this point. Nonetheless, Florida A&M eventually achieved university status in 1953, and Neyland (1964) highlighted key leaders and the institution’s growth, including curricular expansion, the addition of agricultural and mechanical programs, and how it gained financial support. This Florida history, like Logan’s (1958) history of North Carolina, was important to framing why Black institutions’ contributions were significant.

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Continuing the exploration of the history of Black colleges and their impact on communities, Felix James’s 1971 article, “The Tuskegee Institute Movable School,” explored the pioneering efforts of Booker T. Washington and the Tuskegee Institute in uplifting rural Black Americans in the South. Booker T. Washington, the prominent educator and founder of Tuskegee Institute, played a pivotal role in advocating for Black education and vocational training. Under his leadership, Tuskegee Institute became a beacon of hope for Black students, offering practical education that emphasized industrial and agricultural skills. Washington’s philosophy centered on economic self-sufficiency, racial harmony, and the uplift of the Black community through education and hard work. The Tuskegee Institute’s extension department, as highlighted by James (1971), further exemplified Washington’s vision by reaching out to underserved rural communities. James (1971) focused on the establishment of the extension department and the creation of the Movable School, an itinerant program designed to provide agricultural education and resources to Black farmers. James (1971) detailed the initiatives the Movable School undertook, including practical demonstrations, mass meetings, and the promotion of land ownership and self-sufficiency. James (1971) emphasized the Movable School’s importance in transforming Black farmers’ lives and fostering positive race relations in rural communities. He stated, “The school destroyed the superstitions that were so prevalent among the blacks and served as a council of human relations between the two races. The movable school did much in gaining for the New South a more intelligent, peaceful and contented citizenry” (James, 1971, p. 209). By examining the establishment of the extension department and the creation of the Movable School, James offered a unique perspective on the transformative initiatives undertaken by Tuskegee Institute to provide agricultural education and resources to Black farmers (James, 1971). Published in Agricultural History, this article made a significant contribution by centering the innovative approach of the Movable School and its impact on rural Black Americans’ economic stability and self-sufficiency. James (1971) highlighted the financial support received from the General Education Board and the involvement of Seaman A. Knapp, the originator of the Farmers’ Cooperative Demonstration Work, in facilitating the expansion of the Movable School. The article also acknowledged the role of Thomas Monroe Campbell, the first Black Demonstration Agent, in disseminating improved agricultural methods and inspiring confidence among Black farmers. Furthermore, the article underscored the significance of federal support through the Smith-Lever Act of 1914, which played a crucial role in advancing agricultural education and outreach across the United States. The Smith-Lever Act established the Cooperative Extension Service, a partnership between the federal government and land-grant universities, with the objective of disseminating agricultural knowledge and research findings to farmers and rural communities. This federal support paved the way for the expansion of the Movable School, amplifying its impact on rural Black Americans and contributing to their economic stability and self-sufficiency (James, 1971). Overall, James (1971) enhanced the understanding of the efforts and various contributions made by Booker

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T. Washington and the Tuskegee Institute in uplifting Black farmers and fostering progress within rural communities in the New South. In the same year, St. Clair Drake published “The Black University in the American Social Order.” It was a groundbreaking article that not only pointed out the contributions of Black institutions but it also more forcefully discussed the racist structures that these campuses combatted in order to make their contributions. Specifically, Drake (1971) emphasized the role of slavery and racial prejudice in shaping the development colleges and universities. It served as a call to action, advocating for collective efforts to mobilize communities, build coalitions, and strive for structural integration to ensure continued progress and success (Drake, 1971). Through his research, Drake shed light on the historical context and, similar to previous scholars, he considered the contributions of Black colleges and universities in the educational landscape. According to Drake (1971), these institutions contributed to the fight to overcome racial barriers – an argument akin to Johnson (1938). In closing, Drake (1971) used history to call for a collective effort to uplift and empower Black colleges and universities so that they could continue to contribute to a more equitable and thriving educational system. In 1973, the University of Massachusetts Press posthumously published The Education of Black Americans: Ten Critiques, 1906–1960, a collection of speeches and essays by influential scholar and activist W.E.B. Du Bois (Du Bois, 1973). This collection offered a rich historical perspective and provided thought-provoking insights on Black institutions’ historical contributions despite the challenges faced by Black higher education over several decades. Du Bois (1973) delved into ten critiques that illuminated critical issues within the history of Black higher education. His work addressed the limited access Black students had to higher education due to segregation and discriminatory practices, emphasizing the struggles faced in attending historically white institutions (Du Bois, 1973). Simultaneously, he highlighted the chronic underfunding of Black colleges and universities, which resulted in disparities in resources, facilities, and faculty salaries, and shaped the growth and development of these institutions (Du Bois, 1973). An essential aspect of his critiques was the need for a more well-rounded and inclusive curriculum at Black institutions, one that recognized and valued the cultural heritage and contributions of Black Americans (Du Bois, 1973). For Du Bois (1973), the Black college and university made its greatest contributions by fostering intellectual and cultural development among Black individuals, empowering them to thrive academically and contribute to their communities (Du Bois, 1973). Du Bois’s body of work did not focus on Black institutions’ contributions as providers of graduate-level study, graduates who challenged racial norms, or alumni who helped local economies by not leaving the South. Instead, Du Bois emphasized Black institutions’ intellectual contributions. In 1974, J. Irving Scott’s The Education of Black People in Florida explored the educational experiences of Black Americans in the Sunshine State, building upon Neyland’s (1964) earlier work that focused on the history and progress of statesupported Black higher education there. While Neyland (1964) provided an overview of the growth and development of Florida A&M University in the context of state-supported Black higher education, Scott (1974) delved deeper into the

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broader educational experiences of Black individuals in Florida, including their access to primary, secondary, and higher education opportunities. The book comprised chapters addressing different aspects of Black education in the state, including a chapter titled “Development of Higher Education for Negroes in Florida.” After emancipation, Black Floridians faced the challenge of securing access to primary, secondary, and higher education opportunities. In response, Black churches and church organizations played a significant role in supporting higher education for Black individuals. Three out of the four Black institutions of higher learning in Florida were originally organized by Black churches and continued to receive support from the church (Scott, 1974). The main purpose – and main historical contribution – of Black higher education in Florida, particularly in the early stages, was to train teachers for the growing Black school population (Scott, 1974). As a result, the four Black colleges and universities discussed in the chapter – Edward Waters College, Florida Memorial College, Bethune-Cookman College, and Florida A&M University – played a vital role in producing a significant portion of Black teachers in Florida (Scott, 1974). Scott (1974) thus highlighted the enduring contributions of these Black colleges and universities in training teachers and shaping the educational landscape for Black students in Florida. The mid-1970s concluded the period in which most histories of Black colleges and universities focused on documenting the many contributions of those institutions. The period included far-reaching studies that chronicled the contributions of Black college graduates, Black graduate and professional schools, and state histories of Black colleges. Yet, embedded within the histories from the mid-1930s to mid-1970s were frequent acknowledgments of how those contributions were made despite how race and racism negatively affected the development of Black colleges and universities. The next period in Black higher education historiography moved the discussion from assessing contributions to emphasizing new discoveries and perspectives about Black colleges and universities.

Historiography: 1975–2000 By 1975, American higher education had started to settle from more than a decade of student unrest on campuses. Black students at Black colleges led civil rights boycotts and sit-ins during the early 1960s, and their Black contemporaries who enrolled at historically white campuses joined them by the late 1960s and early 1970s in confronting a host of racial issues in society and on campuses. The impact of those moments – as well as the broader, off-campus societal unrest – helped shift historians’ focus in their examinations of Black colleges and universities. The ensuing period from 1975 to the turn of the century featured new histories of Black higher education that moved beyond highlighting the many contributions of Black colleges to demonstrate their value within American higher education. In many ways, the social unrest was a reaction to the unwelcoming experiences of Black students as their numbers increased on predominantly white campuses, which, by comparison, demonstrated the value of Black institutions. Therefore, historians shifted to focus on different aspects of Black institutions, such as their pioneering teaching techniques, role of racism in shaping Black colleges and universities, and

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how the law had stifled growth on those campuses. In short, this period offered more complex histories. Up until this point, there had been a proliferation of historical research about Black institutions, but new discoveries in research further helped the historiography evolve. There were two bibliographies published that coincided with historians’ shift. In 1975, Lenwood G. Davis, an instructor in the Ohio State University Black Studies program, published A History of Blacks in Higher Education, 1875–1975: A Working Bibliography. The bibliography provided a list of references on the history of Black people in higher education during the previous 100-year period. The bibliography included various sources: general reference works, Black periodicals, and books and articles on the history of Black colleges and universities. Davis (1975) also discussed doctoral dissertations about Black institutions, highlighting their limited scope and lack of student perspectives, which he attributed to historical biases and the prevailing emphasis on administrative viewpoints. However, Davis (1975) recognized the importance of Black schools’ histories and called for more attention to be given to them. Building upon the work of Davis (1975), Frederick Chambers’ Black Higher Education in the United States provided a selected bibliography on Black higher education and Black colleges and universities. Chambers (1978) included chapters about doctoral dissertations, institutional histories, periodical literature, master’s theses, books, and miscellaneous entries. The bibliography served as a valuable resource for researchers exploring the history and scholarship of Black higher education (Chambers, 1978). Combined, Davis (1975) and Chambers (1978) served as a valuable resource for researchers by compiling a comprehensive bibliography covering a century of Black higher education history and, more importantly, encouraging further exploration of the contributions of Black colleges and universities to Black communities and American society. Davis (1975) and Chambers (1978) marked a significant shift in the approach of scholars reevaluating existing perspectives on Black colleges and universities, and soon thereafter, historians started publishing studies beyond the traditional narrative about Black institutions’ contributions. Among these shifts, New Perspectives on Black Educational History, edited by Vincent P. Franklin and James D. Anderson in 1978, stands as a prime example. This volume aimed to foster dialogue and promote advanced research in Black Americans’ educational history, covering both K-12 and higher education. The book featured a collection of essays that offered fresh insights and explored various aspects of Black education in the United States. The essays covered a range of topics, including the founding and significance of Black institutions, such as the Institute for Colored Youth, Fisk University, Howard University School of Law, and Meharry Medical College, and the climate of systemic racism in which these colleges operated. In one notable essay in the Franklin and Anderson (1978) volume, Linda M. Perkins dove into the history of the Institute for Colored Youth (now Cheyney University) in Pennsylvania from 1852 to 1903. Perkins highlighted the Institute’s vital role in providing educational opportunities for Black individuals during a crucial period in American history. Her essay not only shed light on the historical

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significance of the Institute but also underscored its impact in shaping the lives and aspirations of Black students. In another compelling essay, James D. Anderson explored the influential role of northern philanthropy in the training of Black leaders at Fisk University. He showcased how white trustees and philanthropists played a pivotal role in shaping the institution’s trajectory to maintain social stability within the context of racial tensions and inequalities. Anderson’s examination of Fisk University’s history provided valuable insights into the complexities of Black higher education and the interplay between philanthropic support and the pursuit of Black leadership and progress – a perspective not previously explored. Together, these essays in the Franklin and Anderson (1978) volume emphasized the crucial roles these institutions played in educating Black individuals and shaping Black leadership. Through their fresh perspectives, the authors encouraged further research and discussions on the intricate and often overlooked aspects of Black education in the United States. Also published in 1978, Black Colleges in America: Challenge, Development, Survival, edited by Charles V. Willie and Ronald R. Edmonds, aimed to challenge the practice of having the majority speak for the minority. The book featured a diverse range of contributors, including Black and white individuals, and younger and senior scholars, who addressed various experiences in Black schools and colleges. In their comprehensive work, Willie and Edmonds (1978) thoroughly analyzed the significant role and impact of Black colleges and universities. They highlighted the institutions’ remarkable achievements and innovative educational methods that fostered academic excellence (Willie & Edmonds, 1978). One of the innovative approaches employed by these institutions was the emphasis on cultivating a supportive and nurturing learning environment (Willie & Edmonds, 1978). Black colleges and universities prioritized providing personalized attention and mentorship to students, ensuring that they received individualized guidance to excel in their studies and personal growth (Willie & Edmonds, 1978). Additionally, Black colleges and universities were early pioneers in implementing experiential learning opportunities (Willie & Edmonds, 1978). They emphasized practical, hands-on training and real-world applications of knowledge to complement traditional classroom instruction. This approach aimed to empower students with the skills and experiences needed to succeed in their chosen fields after graduation (Willie & Edmonds, 1978). Furthermore, these institutions emphasized the importance of community engagement and social responsibility (Willie & Edmonds, 1978). Previous studies had not emphasized community engagement and responsibility, nor assessments on Black college faculty pedagogical approaches. Therefore, the Willie and Edmonds (1978) volume introduced new perspectives about Black institutions. Black colleges and universities encouraged students to actively participate in community service, racial justice initiatives, and civic engagement (Willie & Edmonds, 1978). This approach aimed to instill in students a strong sense of social consciousness and a commitment to making a positive impact on their communities and society at large (Willie & Edmonds, 1978). Overall, the innovative educational methods implemented by Black colleges and universities not only nurtured academic excellence but also fostered a sense of identity, empowerment, and social

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responsibility among their students (Willie & Edmonds, 1978). Black colleges and universities strongly emphasized racial advancement and participation in democratic processes, setting them apart from many predominantly white institutions (Willie & Edmonds, 1978). By employing an open admissions policy from their inception, Willie and Edmonds (1978) argued, Black colleges and universities provided a form of liberation through education. In the article “State Leadership and Black Education in Florida, 1876–1976,” Arthur O. White (1981) built on and extended the historiography (see Neyland, 1964; Scott, 1974) of Black education in Florida. Specifically, White (1981) examined the historic role of state leadership in shaping the educational opportunities and experiences of Black Americans. White (1981) delved into Florida’s political and social context from the Reconstruction era to the mid-twentieth century. He closely analyzed the actions and policies of state officials concerning Black education, revealing how white leaders implemented practices that perpetuated racial segregation in education, disenfranchised Black voters, and limited the resources and opportunities available to Black schools (White, 1981). White (1981) provided a detailed historical analysis of state leadership’s negative impact on Black educational opportunities, uncovering discriminatory practices while highlighting the resilience of Black educators and activists in their fight for equal access to quality education. White (1981) identified the specific policies implemented by state leaders in Florida that perpetuated racial segregation in education and limited opportunities for Black schools. These policies included enforcing separate but unequal facilities, which maintained a stark divide between Black and white schools, with Black schools often receiving inadequate funding and inferior facilities compared to their white counterparts. Moreover, the article highlighted the disenfranchisement of Black voters, a strategy used to further marginalize the Black community and hinder their ability to advocate for improved educational opportunities. Furthermore, White (1981) explored the influence of educational leaders like William N. Sheats, whose paternalistic racism endorsed the philosophy of industrial education promoted by Booker T. Washington. This approach emphasized vocational and manual training for Black students, reinforcing narrow societal roles and limiting their access to broader academic and intellectual pursuits. Through an examination of these discriminatory policies, the article shed light on the systemic barriers faced by Black students and educators, illustrating how these policies hindered their educational progress and opportunities for socioeconomic advancement. Compared to Neyland (1964) and Scott (1974), White (1981) presented a more direct analysis of how racism affected Florida higher education. Despite those racial challenges, White (1981) also highlighted the resilience of Black educators and activists who, in the face of adversity, persevered and fought for equal access to quality education, paving the way for progress and change in Florida’s education system. In 1982, the landscape of new histories of Black higher education saw a significant advancement with the groundbreaking article by Spelman College professor Beverly Guy-Sheftall titled “Black Women and Higher Education: Spelman and Bennett Colleges Revisited.” This pioneering work provided a gender analysis within the context of Black higher education and shed light on the often-overlooked

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history of Black women’s education in America. Guy-Sheftall (1982) pointed out the glaring omission of Spelman and Bennett Colleges from authoritative works on women’s higher education, despite their pivotal role in shaping Black women’s educational opportunities and achievements. The article specifically focused on the unique educational experiences provided by these single-sex colleges in the South and their emphasis on training Black women for leadership roles, particularly in teaching (Guy-Sheftall, 1982). It highlighted the profound impact of these institutions on their alumni, who played significant roles in their communities, further underscoring the importance of their education. Despite growing dissatisfaction with single-sex education and the trend of many women’s colleges beginning to accept male students and elite men’s colleges accepting women, Guy-Sheftall (1982) argued that Spelman and Bennett Colleges continued to meet the specific educational needs of Black women in ways that coeducational institutions could not. By offering this gender analysis and delving into the unique contributions of Spelman and Bennett Colleges, Guy-Sheftall’s (1982) article provided a comprehensive and much-needed perspective on the history of Black women’s higher education, advancing critical scholarship in the field. Also in 1982, Jean L. Preer examined issues surrounding Black higher education from educational and legal perspectives in Lawyers v. Educators: Black Colleges and Desegregation in Public Higher Education. Preer (1982) examined landmark cases, such as Missouri ex rel. Gaines v. Canada (1938), Sipuel v. Board of Regents (1948), Sweatt v. Painter (1950), and Florida ex rel. Hawkins v. Board of Control (1950), focusing on their implications for equal access and opportunity in Black higher education (Preer, 1982). In this analysis, Preer (1982) offered fresh perspectives and insights on the law and challenges faced by Black colleges and universities during the desegregation efforts, distinguishing this work from other books that discussed these cases. Preer (1982) also explored the influence of key pieces of federal legislation, including the Morrill Act of 1890 and the Civil Rights Act of 1964, on the status and development of Black colleges and universities. These legislative acts shaped the financial support and legal framework for racially separate, state-supported land-grant colleges, contributing to the dual systems of higher education (Preer, 1982). The book highlighted the constitutional question of whether states could deny access to publicly supported colleges based on race and the problem of inadequate funding and limited educational roles faced by separate Black colleges and universities (Preer, 1982). Preer (1982) argued that the inability of Black educators and Black lawyers to distinguish between the legal aspects and the educational aspects of public higher education presented a unique challenge for the Black educators left to navigate between legal requirements and educational policy, emphasizing the significance of equal access and the advancement of Black institutions (Preer, 1982). In The Education of Blacks in the South, 1860–1935, historian James D. Anderson (1988) contributed to the critical reinterpretations in Black educational history by focusing on the Reconstruction period through the start of the Great Depression. Anderson (1988) meticulously charted the development of formal Black education at all levels from its early stages to the 1930s, shedding light on a unique

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public and private education system that emerged during this time, specifically designed by and for Black southerners. This system set Black educational institutions apart from those of other Americans due to the distinctive social context in which Black individuals lived. Through his analysis, Anderson unraveled the motivations, strategies, and ideologies that influenced the organization and content of Black education. In doing so, Anderson highlighted the interplay between education and the politics of oppression. He delved into the complex dynamics surrounding philanthropic efforts, the roles of private institutions like Tuskegee Institute, and the establishment of public land-grant Black institutions. Three significant groups emerged as key supporters of Black higher education. First, northern philanthropists and religious missionaries were among the first champions of Black higher education in the South by establishing and funding schools, colleges, and universities for Black students motivated by religious and humanitarian concerns. Second, newly emancipated Black communities played a pivotal role in supporting and advocating for Black higher education, recognizing the importance of education for social and economic advancement while pooling their own resources to establish and sustain schools and colleges. Finally, the federal government, particularly during Reconstruction, became a crucial source of support for Black higher education, driven by political and civil rights considerations, with initiatives like the Freedmen’s Bureau assisting in the creation of educational institutions and federal laws ensuring equal access to higher education for Black students. Anderson’s exploration of these groups’ contributions and motivations offers valuable insights into the complex and evolving landscape of Black higher education in the South, emphasizing the intersection of education, politics, and social progress during a period marked by racial discrimination and systemic oppression. By examining the ideological debates about the social purposes of Black education, Anderson illuminated structure, ideology, and content of Black education to reveal how these educational institutions were fundamentally different from those of other Americans due to the racist social system in which Black individuals lived and their efforts to restructure and control their lives in the face of oppression. Anderson’s history of Black education presented a new perspective – one that focused on Black agency, not just the contributions of white philanthropists. Anderson concluded: “The ex-slaves split with their closest allies, Yankee missionaries, over the question of who should control the educational institutions for Black children. Black southerners entered emancipation with an alternative culture, a history that they could draw upon, one that contained enduring beliefs in learning and self-improvement” (p. 281). Five years later, Historically Black Colleges and Universities: Their Place in American Higher Education, by Komandur Murty and Julian Roebuck, continued to add new perspectives to the study of Black colleges and universities. The authors addressed the history and development of Black colleges and universities, their current structure and functions, and the ongoing debate surrounding their place in higher education (Murty & Roebuck, 1993). For example, the book started by synthesizing the existing literature on Black colleges, offering a history of these institutions divided into five periods: the antebellum period (preceding the Civil War), the postbellum period (1865–1895), the separate but equal period

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(1896–1953), the desegregation period (1954–1975), and the modern period (1975–1993). Murty and Roebuck (1993) also explored current demographics, academic programs, enrollment patterns, and faculty composition of Black colleges and universities. Among Murty and Roebuck’s more unique contributions, however, was their presentation of data on race relations among Black and white students and faculty at Black colleges and universities, and their argument that the unique student-teacher relationships were characterized by a close-knit and supportive learning environment, where faculty members often served as mentors to students, fostering a sense of community and mutual respect (Murty & Roebuck, 1993). The teaching methodologies employed in Black colleges emphasized experiential learning, active class participation, and a focus on the practical application of knowledge to real-world issues faced by Black communities (Murty & Roebuck, 1993). This approach allowed for a more culturally responsive and inclusive educational experience, enabling students to connect their academic learning to their lived experiences and societal challenges. Additionally, the authors emphasized how the multifaceted composition of the faculty in these institutions, which encompassed individuals from diverse racial and national backgrounds, as well as visiting scholars, political figures, business leaders, and artists, contributed to a richer exchange of ideas and perspectives. This diverse mix of faculty members promoted a more inclusive and transformative educational environment for all students, regardless of their racial background (Murty & Roebuck, 1993). Advancing the Willie and Edmonds (1978) focus on Black institutions’ teaching techniques, Murty and Roebuck (1993) used history to frame the discussion about teaching methodologies, adding further depth to the study of Black colleges and universities. From the mid-1970s through the 1990s, the most significant studies of Black colleges and universities emphasized new perspectives on these institutions. Prior to that period, most historians and other scholars highlighted these institutions’ contributions to demonstrate their important role within American higher education; however, from 1975 to 1999, research emphasized telling new stories about Black colleges and universities. Some historians explored the dynamic in-class experiences that accompanied the unique teaching methods employed at Black colleges and universities. Other scholars focused on how laws and racist state leaders affected the growth and development of Black institutions, while additional researchers added more nuance to the study of these campuses by reconsidering Black women in their analysis. These approaches led to new discoveries about Black agency to sidestep white philanthropy and control their own institutions. In total, this period witnessed more complex study of Black colleges and universities from previously overlooked perspectives.

Historiography: 2000–Present Since 2000, an important shift has occurred in histories of Black colleges and universities. As previously demonstrated, many histories from 1975 to 2000 made new, exciting discoveries that highlighted old debates or critically focused on structural racism and discrimination and how both affected Black colleges and universities. Many of the topics that emerged in the mid-1970s through the 1990s

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from scholarship about Black institutions (e.g., philanthropy, gender, and law) continued to be prominent after the year 2000 as new scholars added new depth to areas that scholars like James D. Anderson, Beverly Guy-Sheftall, and Charles V. Willie had uncovered; however, the new century’s most important studies of Black higher education shifted away from new perspectives on specific aspects of Black institutions and turned their attention toward how those colleges and universities influenced society at large. A few important studies illustrate this new focus. The first notable study to take this approach was M. Christopher Brown’s and James Earl Davis’s exploration of the unique role and contributions of Black colleges. In their article, “The Historically Black College as Social Contract, Social Capital, and Social Equalizer,” Brown and Davis (2001) used history to frame their argument that Black colleges and universities served as “social agencies” fulfilling a social contract by providing equal educational opportunities for Black Americans and all students (Brown & Davis, 2001, p. 33). The article added a historical dimension to the discourse about Black colleges and universities by highlighting the concept of social capital and emphasizing how these institutions distributed and reproduced social networks and resources for their students and graduates. Brown and Davis (2001) explained that Black institutions from before the Civil War through the Morrill Acts of 1862 and 1890 acted as intermediaries between the broader nation and Black America, facilitating educational attainment and equal access to education (Brown & Davis, 2001). They emphasized “the role of HBCUs as a source and generation of social capital” (Brown & Davis, 2001, p. 44). Brown and Davis (2001) thus represented an important turn in the study of Black colleges and universities, past and present. Whereas during mid-twentieth century, particularly from 1935 to 1975, historians and other scholars focused on Black institutions’ contributions to show the value of those institutions within the broader higher education landscape, Brown and Davis (2001) invited scholars to think about those campuses’ social influences even beyond academia. The same year, in 2001, Henry Drewry and Humphrey Doermann, in their book Stand and Prosper: Private Black Colleges and Their Students focused on 45 private historically Black 4-year colleges to highlight the significant role of private Black colleges and universities in providing educational opportunities for Black Americans during a time of segregation when their access to mainstream white institutions was limited. By examining the founding principles and philosophies of private Black colleges and universities, Drewry and Doermann (2001) underscored those campuses’ commitment to academic excellence, cultural preservation, and leadership development among Black students. The authors – like many scholars before them – highlighted private Black colleges’ unique challenges, such as financial difficulties and limited resources, and the creative strategies that they employed to secure funding, such as philanthropy, partnerships, and alumni support. Through their analysis of the curricula and academic programs offered by private Black colleges, Drewry and Doermann (2001) showcased the emphasis they placed on liberal arts education, professional training, critical thinking, and cultural awareness. They also highlighted the

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significant contributions of private Black colleges to the education and development of Black students by featuring successful alumni in various fields. Drewry and Doermann’s (2001) book highlighted the essential role of private Black colleges and universities in fostering a strong sense of community, cultural identity, and social responsibility among students – which, in turn, influenced society at large. Their historical research emphasized how community engagement initiatives contributed to the holistic development of Black students, adding to the existing historiography celebrating the transformative impact of these institutions. Drewry and Doermann (2001) enriched the historiography on Black colleges and universities by emphasizing their vital role in empowering Black students and communities throughout history. Six years later, in their 2007 article “Historically Black Colleges and Universities: Honoring the Past, Engaging the Present, Touching the Future,” Walter R. Allen, Joseph O. Jewell, Kimberly A. Griffin, and De’Sha S. Wolf reviewed the existing literature on Black colleges by discussing how these institutions evolved over time within the broader sociohistorical context. In a section titled, “The Origins of the Black College (1865–1950s),” Allen et al. (2007) explained the wide range of Black students who attended Black institutions. Previous histories, the authors argued, “reveal that students being educated at HBCUs, due to the open admissions policy, were quite diverse, particularly in terms of academic ability and socioeconomic class” (Allen et al., 2007, p. 268). Enrolling such a wide range of students positioned Black colleges and universities to fulfill their mission of educating the Black community (Allen et al., 2007). Allen et al. (2007) argued that these institutions provided equal educational opportunities and attainment for all students, but especially Black Americans. Furthermore, they highlighted the role of Black colleges and universities in generating social capital, which included the distribution and reproduction of social networks and resources that benefited their students and graduates (Allen et al., 2007). Allen et al.’s (2007) work marked a significant shift in the historiography by celebrating the strengths of Black colleges and universities as “social equalizers” within a racist, hierarchical society (Allen et al., 2007, p. 273). This brief section highlighted how recent scholarship has focused on how Black institutions provided educational opportunities to historically marginalized individuals and promoted their full social participation. This historiographical shift represented a departure from the previous period of 1975–1999, in which historians primarily focused on new discoveries and perspectives about Black institutions. While the histories of the last 20 years has offered more depth to such discoveries, the most important recent studies specifically about Black institutions emphasized the empowering role of Black colleges in fostering social equality and opportunity. The empowerment of Black students and Black communities and, in turn, society at large are valuable takeaways from recent studies of the history of these institutions. Yet, while these scholars have demonstrated the social influence of Black colleges, another group of historians has focused more explicitly on Black access, equity, and justice.

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The Fight for Black Access, Equity, and Justice For nearly a century, historians and other scholars have written about inequities and the subsequent activism regarding Black people’s experience and fight for justice on college campuses. While racism played a role in determining “firsts” in Black higher education and increasingly appeared as a factor in the historiography of Black colleges and universities, this section reviews historical research that has directly confronted the various ways that racism has shaped the Black collegiate experiences and the power of Black protest in higher education. This review discusses scholarship focused on both Black and primarily white college and university settings and demonstrates how histories of Black access, equity, and justice have expanded rapidly in the last 20 years. While more recent Black higher education histories have especially focused on racism and Black agency in the face of racism, Black scholars have long questioned inequities and injustices in American higher education. In 1933, Carter G. Woodson, in the previously mentioned The Mis-Education of the Negro, criticized white control of Black colleges and universities. “It is often said, too, that the time is not ripe for Negroes to take over the administration of their institutions, for they do not have the contacts for raising money,” Woodson (1933) recounted, “but what becomes of this argument when we remember what Booker T. Washington did for Tuskegee and observe what Robert Russa Moton and John Hope are doing today?” (p. 30). Woodson (1933) argued that Black academic leaders were successful, and the failure of Black colleges to produce Black leaders was an indictment of the white leaders who had led Black colleges. Woodson was not alone in his appraisal. John W. Davis, the president of West Virginia State College, echoed such sentiment. Davis was among the few Black presidents of Black colleges at the time Woodson wrote. In 1933 and 1938, Davis published assessments of the struggles facing Black land-grant colleges. These were not simply historical overviews of the origins of those institutions. Instead, they were indictments of the low levels of state and federal funding, and they called out the inequities in American higher education (Davis, 1933, 1938). For example, Davis (1933) emphasized whites’ racial resentment: “It cannot be set forth enthusiastically that many of the states in which land-grant colleges for Negroes were established were fully committed to the complete educational development of the colleges” (p. 317). Five years later, Davis (1938) assessed that, unless federal government were to ensure equitable land-grant appropriations, “the Negro will get little or nothing of the educational program or of the money which is appropriated to support the program” (p. 285). Davis also made his critiques plain in public speeches, once stating: “For the good of America, racial segregation must go” (“Gov. Lane Hints,” 1948). Woodson (1933) and Davis (1933, 1938) are early examples of scholars who engaged in serious, critical scholarly inquiry into Black higher education, but few other scholars would follow suit through the middle of the century (see Boykin, 1957; Jenkins, 1952). By the 1970s, however, Black access, equity, and justice had become the focus among more historians as well as scholars in other fields. One of the most valuable

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contributions in this area was made by Michael R. Winston, a longtime Howard University professor and administrator. Winston (1971) provided a detailed study of the racism Black academics faced throughout American history. The article started by recounting how, in 1939, historian Rayford W. Logan, a Howard professor, was informed that he and his fellow Black colleagues would have to “enter through the back door” of the segregated New Orleans hotel hosting the national meeting of the American Association of University Professors (AAUP) (Winston, 1971, p. 678). Through such examples, Winston (1971) argued that three things controlled the “fate of Negro scholars in America: racism, the development of Negro colleges, and the nascent mobilization of Negroes for ‘intellectual self-defense’” (p. 679). Furthermore, Winston (1971) noted that 317 Black people earned the Ph.D. between 1930 and 1943, but the 3 universities that awarded the most doctorates to Black scholars – the University of Chicago, Columbia University, and the University of Pennsylvania – refused to hire their Black doctoral graduates. Winston (1971) added, “. . .white schools still excluded Negro scholars (only three Negro Ph.D.’s were employed by white universities in 1936). . .” (p. 695). Two years later, in 1973, Allen B. Ballard offered an equally searing assessment of Black opportunities in higher education. In his book, The Education of Black Folk: The Afro-American Struggle for Knowledge in White America, Ballard (1973) argued that the “explosion in the Black student population in white colleges over the past five years was a phenomenon for which neither the colleges nor Black intellectuals were prepared” (p. 80). While he briefly presented an early history of Black higher education, Ballard (1973) focused more on higher education after 1960 and stated, “The history of the Black struggle for higher education is punctuated by the basic complacency of the white university. . .” (Ballard, 1973, p. 142). Ballard (1973) added, “The problems of educating Black youth in higher education have changed very little over the years” (p. 142). The contemporary critique preceded by brief history has remained insightful for understanding the long struggle toward Black access and equity in higher education. The long struggle was the focal point of Raymond Wolters’ 1975 book, The New Negro on Campus. In the aftermath of widespread campus Black power protests in the late 1960s and early 1970s, Wolters (1975) provided important context for understanding Black student resistance. In his book, Wolters (1975) highlighted Black student activism on Black college and university campuses during the 1920s, which coincided with the New Negro Movement – a cultural movement of Black, outspoken expression in art that challenged segregation. Wolters (1975) credited W. E. B. Du Bois, who is a consistent figure in this historiography, for igniting such outward resistance on Black college campuses: “The spirit of W. E. B. Du Bois hovered over the black college rebellions of the 1920s. The editor of the Crisis instigated the confrontation at Fisk University and publicized and celebrated collegiate protest throughout the land” (p. 18). Focusing on equity, Du Bois had grown tired of the paternalism that stifled Black intellectual growth as several private Black colleges – Fisk, Howard, Hampton, and others – were led by white administrators and had majority or almost all-white faculties. Therefore, many of these campuses adhered to racist norms despite their Black student body (Wolters, 1975). In the

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1920s, Wolters (1975) explained, many Black students rebelled against white leaders in demanding fair treatment and a just education. The rebellions were significant because they demonstrated “a growing racial consciousness and a larger ambition” among “black students and alumni” (Wolters, 1975, p. 340). Winston (1971), Ballard (1973), and Wolters (1975) presented timely studies regarding the history of Black access, equity, and justice in higher education a decade after the first affirmative action programs in higher education had been implemented. In July 1963, US President John F. Kennedy was forced to take immediate action about racial segregation, in part because it had become a foreign policy embarrassment to the United States that belied the nation’s stated commitment to democracy (Cole, 2020). Kennedy asked academic leaders of Black and majority-white campuses to implement “special programs” to address civil rights problems (Cole, 2020, p. 283). The goal was for affirmative action to address the legacy of racism in the United States, and one approach was for white campuses to actively consider race to admit Black students. By the late 1970s and 1980s, however, Americans witnessed the first formal attacks on affirmative action programs in higher education. In 1978, the Supreme Court ruled in Regents of the University of California v. Bakke – a case that challenged racial considerations in college admissions – that colleges and universities could not use racial quotas (e.g., reserve a certain number of admitted slots) but could consider race as one factor among many in admissions. During the same period, historians published a series of books and articles that put the history of racism in higher education at the forefront of discussions. For example, John E. Fleming published the book The Lengthening Shadow of Slavery: A Historical Justification for Affirmative Action for Blacks in Higher Education (1976). This history traced, from enslavement to the present, various past white actions aimed at denying Black people equal educational opportunity. Because of this history, Fleming (1976) argued, “affirmative action should be utilized in all aspects of American employment, but especially in the area of education” (p. 124). Three years later, Marcia G. Synnott published “The Admissions and Assimilation of Minority Students at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, 1900–1970” in History of Education Quarterly. The article focused on student admissions by religion and race at “the Big Three” of the Ivy League institutions: Harvard, Yale, and Princeton (Synnott, 1979, p. 285). Synnott (1979) first discussed the history of religious quotas in admissions during the 1920s into the 1930s. World War II, however, demonstrated that “The United States could remain a superpower only if it utilized the talents of all individuals, regardless of ethnic, racial or social background” (Synnott, 1979, p. 286). This realization ignited a slight uptick in the Big Three expanding the scope of who they were willing to admit. As a result, “the first minority groups to benefit conspicuously from these opportunities were Catholics and Jews, but vigorous recruitment programs also opened up the educational ladder to newer groups, especially to blacks” (Synnott, 1979, pp. 286–287). The study’s most valuable contribution to understanding Black access and equity is its attention to affirmative action’s impact on these campuses. For example, Yale received 37 applications from Black students in 1960 but that number increased to 755 in 1970 (Synnott, 1979).

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As histories by Fleming (1976) and Synnott (1979) focused on equity and access to white colleges and universities, other historians wrote state-level histories exploring the same issues at Black colleges and universities. For example, in 1980, Martha Settle Putney published an insightful study about the history of Black colleges and universities in Maryland. Of all states, Maryland was the last to offer public higher education for its Black residents (Putney, 1980). “The state founded no postsecondary schools for blacks; belatedly it assumed control of existing black institutions” (Putney, 1980, p. 341). Putney (1980) chronicled Maryland’s white officials’ resistance to investing in Black colleges and universities. In one instance, some Black campuses were not allowed to “institute a standard normal curriculum” until after “agitation by blacks for more equitable facilities in higher education” (Putney, 1980, p. 336). Putney used these facts to support the argument that it was Black people who “petitioned, agitated, remonstrated, lobbied, brought law suits, and boycotted” to have Maryland provide Black residents with access to higher education (p. 341). Two years later, Spivey (1982) also focused on state neglect in an article about Oklahoma and its only public Black institution, Langston University. Spivey (1982) argued that scholars were “neglecting one of the most crucial issues in American society: the crisis facing this nation’s one hundred and twenty black colleges and universities” (p. 430). Spivey (1982) focused on Langston’s history as the only Black college or university to attempt to gain “complete autonomy” from the state (p. 430). As the 1980s featured debates about inequitable funding for Black colleges and universities, Spivey (1982) outlined how Langston was founded in 1897 in an all-Black Oklahoma town focused on separatism. The article also shed light on white resistance to Black control of Black institutions. Spivey (1982) explained, “White Oklahoma opposed the premise of equal opportunity for black Oklahoma” (p. 434). In the face of this resistance, Spivey (1982) emphasized, “The Langstonites wanted an institution that would give unlimited educational opportunity to black Oklahomans, a university free from the traditional limitations associated with the ‘Negro’s place’ in society. . .” (p. 434). White resistance to Black access, equity, and justice remained a central theme in the 1990s as historians continued to expand their study of Black higher education. For example, historian James D. Anderson (see also Anderson, 1988; Franklin & Anderson, 1978) discussed race and meritocracy in the professoriate in 1993. It was a fitting topic considering how meritocracy had long been raised as a point of concern when Black people entered the white academy (see Cole, 2020; Johnson, 2020). Anderson (1993) discussed how, despite old legal debates that focused on “‘color-blind’ laws, procedures, and policies” (p. 150), other policies and practices still limited equity for Black scholars. Anderson (1993) noted that in 1940, no white universities in the United States had any full-time Black scholars as faculty “no matter how qualified, how many degrees he or she had earned, or how many excellent articles he or she had published” (p. 153). White academic leaders, particularly at non-southern institutions, denied any prejudicial practices while acknowledging that they had not hired any Black scholars despite, as Winston (1971) noted, several Black scholars having earned graduate-level training from those same white institutions.

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Anderson (1993) presented copious details on the qualifications of Black scholars to demonstrate the inherent racism in meritocracy. For instance, Anderson (1993) discussed how the Rosenwald Fund once compiled a “list of African American scholars who were qualified for faculty posts at northern white colleges and universities [that] was certainly impressive” (p. 160). The list included Black scholars in nearly 30 fields and disciplines, with several of them having earned doctorates from the leading research universities: University of Chicago, Harvard University, Columbia University, University of Michigan, Yale University, Cornell University, Radcliffe College, Brown University, and others. As a result, Anderson (1993) assessed, “The scholars as a class were highly qualified to hold faculty posts in any American college or university” (p. 161). Anderson (1993) added, “By the 1940s, there were scores of African American social scientists and historians who were eminently qualified to serve on the most distinguished faculties in northern colleges and universities” (p. 163). Anderson (1993) laid out in great detail not only Black scholars’ educational credentials but also their robust experiences working in various industry jobs, federal roles, or at Black colleges while being denied opportunities to teach and research at white universities – further expanding the historiography of Black higher education and issues of equity and access. Linda M. Perkins picked up this idea 3 years later in a study of Howard University’s Lucy Diggs Slowe, the first Black woman to serve as a dean of women. Like the Black people that Anderson (1993) mentioned, Slowe took her graduate-level degree from a white university, yet her only option for working in academia was at a Black college or university. Slowe was valedictorian of the Howard University class of 1908 and later earned her Master of Arts from Columbia University in 1915 (Perkins, 1996). In 1922, she was promoted to dean of women at Howard and became president of the National Association of College Women (NACW) (Perkins, 1996). Although Slowe was the “first formally trained student personnel dean on a black college campus,” her contributions to creating equity in Black higher education were not limited to the area of student affairs (Perkins, 1996, p. 91). For example, during her NACW presidency, the organization formed a Committee on Standards to assess Black colleges’ academic programs (Perkins, 1996). Slowe had the committee assess the colleges by enrollment, admissions and graduation criteria, faculty credentials, financial status, and physical plant (Perkins, 1996). NACW also surveyed presidents of Black colleges. “Standards and leadership for black college women were paramount issues of the NACW under Slowe’s leadership” (Perkins, 1996, p. 91). The ongoing themes around access and equity were hallmarks of Slowe’s career, and, as Perkins (1996) found, “Slowe did not hesitate to address issues of racism as well as sexism” (p. 101). As historians entered the twenty-first century, their focus on student activists expanded in scope and depth. In many ways, the next wave of scholarship about access, equity, and justice in Black higher education stood on the intellectual shoulders of Anderson and Perkins as scholars – now 30–40 years removed – looked back at the 1960s and 1970s with fresh perspectives. In 2003, Joy Ann Williamson’s (now Williamson-Lott) Black Power on Campus used the University of Illinois as a historical case study to understand student unrest in the late 1960s and early 1970s.

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Zeroing in on equity, access, and justice, Williamson’s (2003) first sentence captured the essence of historians’ focus for the next two decades: “The history of Black students at predominantly white colleges and universities is a complicated one of discrimination, racism, protest, and resilience” (p. 1). The book went on to use Illinois – a campus not often associated with the most pivotal moments of the Black Power campus era – to understand Black student organizing on that campus and beyond (Williamson, 2003). Williamson (2003) contextualized Black students’ demands of the 1960s by first providing a brief history of Black students on white campuses generally and at the University of Illinois. The mid-1960s, as Williamson (2003) explained, “continued to be difficult for African American students at the University of Illinois in terms of numerical isolation and alienation from campus social activities” (p. 35). That climate ignited Black student protests when, as a result of a special program, more than 500 Black students arrived at Illinois in 1968. Williamson (2003) also analyzed gender dynamics in Black students’ demands for racial equity on campus. Among a group of Black students arrested in protests that fall, “almost half” were women since “Black women were neither absent nor subservient” (Williamson, 2003, p. 108). Williamson (2003) added that “women often initiated and dominated the discussion of gender roles” (p. 109). Black Power on Campus served as a model for rigorous historical study of Black equity on a single campus and introduced a gendered analysis of Black Power movement. Two years later, Deidre B. Flowers also focused on gender to study the Greensboro, North Carolina, lunch counter sit-ins in 1960. On February 1, four young Black men enrolled at North Carolina A&T launched a sit-in at a whites-only lunch counter. Flowers (2005) wrote, “While much has been written about the sit-ins, primarily concentrating on the four young men from NCA&T who participated in the February 1st sit-in, little attention has been given to other participants in the Greensboro protests” (p. 56) and made an eloquent argument that the women enrolled at nearby Bennett College, a private Black women’s college, were the actual long-term organizers of student civil rights activism in that city. Flowers (2005) chronicled the month-by-month participation of Bennett women until the lunch counters were desegregated in July and explained how Bennett President Willa B. Player, the first Black woman to serve as president of a 4-year college, supported the students’ sit-ins. Flowers (2005) surmised that “younger generations of African Americans, including black women attending Bennett College, were not as tolerant of the slow pace of social change in the United States” (p. 60). In 2005, Katrina M. Sanders also emphasized social change and Black higher education in her history of the Fisk University Race Relations Institute. Focused on the years 1944 and 1969, Sanders (2005) stated that the institute was guided by four research areas: “race and racial theories,” “racial aspects of social problems,” “methods, techniques, and community planning,” and “the role of personal religion in human relations” (p. 41). The institute was the brainchild of Fisk sociologist Charles S. Johnson, who wrote The Negro College Graduate in 1938. Sanders (2005) explained that Johnson wanted the institute to be a space “where social scientists, educators, and community leaders could come together and work to

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build racial tolerance” (p. 23). Although it engaged in a different type of activism than what Williamson (2003) and Flowers (2005) discussed, Sanders (2005) showed how the institute’s regular convenings and research studies that refuted racist ideas demonstrated the central role of Black scholar-activists in shaping society and advancing Black equity, access, and justice. Aside from Sanders’s (2005) analysis of the activism of Black intellectuals in general, most historians that followed focused on Black student activism and its effects on Black and white college campuses. The next year, Noliwe Rooks published a book about the influence of the Ford Foundation in shaping and developing the first Black Studies programs following Black student protests across the United States. Rooks (2006) focused on protests of Black students in the 1960s that led to many Black studies programs, but also explained how the dependence on white money devastated the growth of the newly formed Black studies programs. “Although described as innovative,” Rooks explained, “most [Black studies programs] were dependent on traditional department for support, funding, and legitimacy, and that reality, while fully supported by Ford, was having a destabilizing impact on the field as a whole” (p. 114). Rooks (2006) offered a clear connection between Black campus activism and curricula, and 2 years later, Joy Ann Williamson continued that focus in Radicalizing the Ebony Tower, a history of Black colleges and Black freedom struggles in Mississippi. The book not only chronicled mid-twentieth century Black activism on private and public campuses but it also analyzed how that activism affected academic freedom and faculty activism. Williamson (2008) wisely demonstrated that inequities in a state like Mississippi were campus-wide regardless of field or discipline. Additionally, whereas a prevailing narrative in earlier studies of civil rights framed public Black colleges as under more state pressure than private Black colleges (see Chafe, 1981; Zinn, 1964), she demonstrated that, in Mississippi, even a president of a private Black college was fired by their board of trustees (Williamson, 2008). Therefore, Williamson (2008) further complicated historical understanding of state politics, academic freedom, and Black activism using Mississippi as a case study. In 2009, Stefan M. Bradley’s Harlem vs. Columbia University continued attention on Black student activism with a riveting history of how Black students at Columbia University challenged campus policy, and by proxy federal housing policy, as the university displaced residents in nearby and predominately Black Harlem. Whereas Rooks (2006), for example, focused on Black inequities in the classroom, Bradley (2009) made it clear that these issues existed outside of the classroom, on and off campus. Bradley (2009) unveiled new historical perspectives on campus expansion and underscored how questions of Black access, equity, and justice have never been confined to Black people affiliated with colleges and universities. “While black resentment of white America had accompanied the first slave ship that arrived in the English colonies, Harlem’s resentment of Columbia University developed mostly in the 1950s and 1960s” (Bradley, 2009, p. 21), when news broke that Columbia University had acquired part of Morningside Park – a public park that served Harlem and Morningside Heights residents. That a wealthy,

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white university was about to use public land and space to build a gymnasium sparked widespread protests. “In the late 1960s, the gym in the park became more than a symbol; it also provided a rallying point for black people in the community and at the school to gain a say and some power in predominately white America” (Bradley, 2009, p. 40). Bradley (2009) demonstrated that the fight for Black access, equity, and justice in higher education was not confined within campus borders, and like most historians in the early 2000s, he used a case study to make that argument. However, in 2012, two books – Martha Biondi’s The Black Revolution on Campus and Ibram X. Kendi’s (then Ibram H. Rogers) The Black Campus Movement – offered national accounts of the Black student protests of the late 1960s and 1970s. While similar in historical focus and timeframe, each made a unique contribution to Black higher education history. For Biondi (2012), the inclusion of Black activism on community college campuses as important to the national movement departed from the usual focus on 4-year campuses. Stating that “in many cities, the Black student movement was based, to a large degree, at community colleges,” (Biondi, 2012, p. 101), Biondi highlighted that the first Black studies program in California was offered at Merritt College, a 2-year institution in Oakland, before she chronicled Black activism at Crane Junior College (now named Malcolm X College) in Chicago. This framing was important in shifting understanding of Black activism. One of Kendi’s (2012) major contributions was the contextualization of Black student activism within the long history of Black student activism on Black college campuses – dating back to the 1800s. “Just as the traffic for civil rights and black power did not begin in the 1960s, neither did the mass, concerted activism of black collegians” (p. 29). These two national histories – both published in 2012 – helped set the foundation for important, far-reaching studies over the last 10 years that have further expanded the Black higher education historiography. Within the last decade, however, perhaps no book has shaped academic dialogue and administrative actions more than Craig Steven Wilder’s Ebony and Ivy: Race, Slavery, and the Troubled History of America’s Universities. Wilder (2013) revisited the history of American higher education by looking at how its oldest colleges actively benefited from the enslavement of Africans. Whereas most histories of American higher education rarely, or only briefly, mentioned enslaved Black people on campuses (see Geiger, 2014; Lucas, 2006; Rudolph, 1962; Thelin, 2004; Thwing, 1906; Westmeyer, 1985), Wilder (2013) placed that fact front and center. He argued that enslaved Black people’s free labor was essential to the physical development and maintenance of these earliest colleges, and, furthermore, that the colleges’ trustees and other donors profited from various aspects of global enslavement (Wilder, 2013). In turn, Wilder (2013) demonstrated that the oldest – and often wealthiest – universities along the eastern seaboard grew large endowments because of enslavement. This research prompted dozens of college leaders to launch formal investigations into how their institutions also profited from forced Black labor. In the last 5 years, several acclaimed books have further reshaped how Black higher education has been viewed in terms of equity, access, and justice. Stefan M. Bradley’s published Upending the Ivory Tower: Civil Rights, Black Power, and

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the Ivy League (2018) offered an examination of the eight Ivy League campuses and Black students’ activism between the 1940s and 1970s. Bradley (2018) explained, “Where some scholars have focused mostly on Black presence and admissions in the Ivy League, Upending the Ivory Tower delves into the activities and activism of black students” (p. 6), which were significant because the Ivy League is socially influential. In the same year, Joy Williamson-Lott’s Jim Crow Campus also took an expansive look at race and the social influence of higher education. Whereas Bradley (2018) focused on the Northeast, Williamson-Lott (2018) focused on the South. In doing so and in studying how higher education was used to maintain social order in southern states, Williamson-Lott (2018) challenged some “familiar assumptions” that previous historians had perpetuated (p. 3). For Williamson-Lott (2018), historians had assumed that the primary means for studying white supremacy in higher education was through examining the mid-twentieth century battles between states and the federal government. Other assumptions included seeing on-campus student activism as largely confined to a limited period of 1964–1970; and understandings of faculty, academic freedom, and anti-communist sentiment that did not account for regional differences (Williamson-Lott, 2018). Focusing on anti-communist sentiment demonstrated a global understanding that Black access, equity, and justice were not confined to the United States and that American campuses have been important to understanding the international struggle against communism. In 2019, two books picked up on Williamson-Lott’s (2018) idea. First, Joshua M. Myers’s We Are Worth Fighting For focused on the global South African conflict, apartheid, and the student protest at Howard University in 1989. Howard – like many Black colleges and universities – was a critical location for campus and community work and for raising social awareness. “Since community organizers considered Howard a strategic location to house discussion, debate, and consciousness-raising, this necessarily affected the students on campus and, just as significant, the surrounding DC Black community” (Myers, 2019, p. 63). Second, Jelani M. Favors’s Shelter in a Time of Storm: How Black Colleges Fostered Generations of Leadership and Activism charted the full history of Black student activism on Black campuses. Notably, the book’s first chapter focused on the Institute for Colored Youth (now Cheyney University) and explored Black student activism in antebellum America as part of the abolition movement (Favors, 2019). While Favors (2019) covered the early 1800s through the 1970s, the decision to emphasize the international struggle to abolish enslavement was insightful because it centered Black college students’ activism within the global freedom struggle. Additionally, Favors (2019) introduced the “second curriculum” concept to explain how Black colleges and universities also prepared their students to serve and demand racial justice. In 2020, Eddie R. Cole’s The Campus Color Line: College Presidents and the Struggle for Black Freedom reversed the historical lens regarding Black access, equity, and justice. While other histories on Black student activism on Black or white campuses commonly framed college presidents and university chancellors as adversaries to Black activists, Cole (2020) focused on how college and university presidents shaped racial policies and practices during the mid-twentieth century. This shift in focus demonstrated how academic leaders were not simply reactive to Black

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protests but, on the contrary, were quite proactive. In many instances, white presidents of white institutions maintained racist systems through federal housing policy, free speech practices, and affirmative action programs (Cole, 2020). But most notably, Cole’s (2020) first chapter explained how Black presidents – those leading private and public institutions – used silent networks among themselves to challenge white supremacy and dismantle racial segregation. Black presidents frequently met with each other during regional conferences, sent letters, or spoke on each other’s respective campuses to deliver messages they were unable to voice on their own campuses due to white surveillance. “It is this ‘quiet’ work of Black presidents that is most important in understanding how these academic leaders were able to shape racial practices beyond the gaze of white state legislators, governors, and trustees” (Cole, 2020, p. 65). Cole’s (2020) attention to the covert, silent networks among Black administrators notably shifted how Black presidents appeared in the historiography. Earlier scholarly accounts often framed Black leaders as deferential pawns of white powerbrokers (again, see Zinn, 1964); however, Cole (2020) challenged that notion by framing many Black academic leaders as activists within their own right while many other Black people were unable to adopt visibly public activist roles. Cole (2020) and other historians have continued to uncover new aspects of the history of Black access, equity, and justice in higher education. In 2021, Jarvis R. Givens expanded upon Cole’s (2020) chapter about Black networks with his book Fugitive Pedagogy. Givens (2021a) offered a thorough investigation of how Carter G. Woodson’s early twentieth century call for the study and teaching of Black history shaped how Black teachers taught Black children. As previously mentioned, Woodson (1933) was critical of white control of Black higher education, and Givens (2021a) demonstrated how that critique influenced the daily activities of Black educators, who found ways to use their own networks to teach honest accounts of Black history without white school officials being aware that such instruction was occurring. Although the focal point of Givens (2021a) was K-12 classrooms, the book served as a reminder that Black colleges and universities trained and prepared the Black teachers who went on to use liberating teaching pedagogies. Givens (2021a) broke new ground and built upon decades of research into Black higher education by rethinking the scope, nuance, and strategies that Black people had historically deployed to achieve access, equity, and justice. Black access, equity, and justice is an important theme that emerged from the historiography on Black higher education. From Woodson (1933) to Givens (2021a), the histories discussed in this section could easily be situated within the previous sections about Black firsts or the origins of Black colleges and universities. However, these historians focused more explicitly on the ongoing contest for Black freedom as those struggles unfolded within the halls of Black or white college campuses. In the 1970s, historians shed light on the past struggles for college access in the context of that decade’s Supreme Court decision on affirmative action in college admissions. By the 1980s, scholars published state-level histories of the inequalities faced by Black colleges and universities. The 1990s featured histories

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that uncovered how campuses in the Northeast and Midwest were as racist as those in the South toward Black students and academics, while historians in the 2000s looked at Black student activism from varying perspectives. Finally, the last decade offered critical histories that reframed what was known about slavery, international freedom struggles, college presidents, and Black educators.

Conclusion: Black Perseverance, Triumph, and Next Steps in Higher Education History This historiography has demonstrated that contestation over the idea of Black access shaped the history and historiography of Black firsts, Black colleges and universities, and Black equity and justice. This is the overarching theme throughout historians’ and other scholars’ various discussions, arguments, and analyses of many aspects of Black higher education history. To recap, we have discussed the scholarship on Black firsts – the first Black college graduates and faculty, the first Black adult education and Black studies programs, and the first Black graduates’ experiences on historically white campuses; research on the origins, development, and role of Black colleges and universities; and histories about the fight for Black access, equity, and justice in higher education. These subjects have been prevalent across more than 130 years of historical research about Black higher education. While we have tried to be comprehensive, we have not discussed every published study about Black higher education. We have omitted discussion of the following categories of scholarship: specific, narrow Black institutional histories written for local audiences; biographies and autobiographies of key Black higher education leaders; and histories of Black higher education organizations. There are numerous and valuable scholarly contributions that fit within these categories, and we want to acknowledge some of them. Many relevant institutional histories aid our understanding of Black higher education. Regarding current public Black colleges and universities, see histories of Tennessee State University (Lamon, 1973; Lovett, 2012), Florida A&M University (Neyland & Riley, 1963), Texas Southern University (Pitre, 2018), Langston University (Patterson, 1979), Central State University (Goggins, 1987), Cheyney University (Conyers, 1960), and Southern University (Lane, 1970), among others. There are far more institutional histories of private Black colleges and universities. One of the earliest is about Tuskegee University (Thrasher, 1901). Others include histories of Hampton University (Peabody, 1922), Howard University (Dyson, 1941; Logan, 1969), Wilberforce University (McGinnis, 1941), Atlanta University (Bacote, 1969), Tougaloo College (Campbell, 1970; Campbell & Rogers, 1979), Fisk University (Richardson, 1980), Talladega College (Jones & Richardson, 1990), and Meharry Medical College (Summerville, 1983), among others. These institutional histories of Black colleges and universities complement the numerous biographies or autobiographies of the same institutions’ prominent leaders and faculty, such as Benjamin Elijah Mays (Cook, 2009; Jelks, 2012; Mays, 1971; Roper, 2012), Mordecai Wyatt Johnson (Edge, 2008; Mays, 1978; McKinney, 2000), Lucy Diggs Slowe (Beauboeuf-Lafontant, 2022; Miller &

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Pruitt-Logan, 2012; Perkins, 1996), Fanny Jackson Coppin (Perkins, 1982a, b), and Jacob Lorenzo Reddix (Reddix, 1974). We also could have included histories of Black organizations, such as the United Negro College Fund (“79+ Years Strong,” n.d.; Gasman, 2007b). Even though it excludes institutional and organizational histories and biographies, this historiography of Black higher education offers a central analysis of Black people and higher education across multiple periods, institutional types, and thematic areas. As mentioned in the introduction, previous historiographies of Black higher education focused on specific moments or themes, but our approach provides a comprehensive overview of Black higher education history. Furthermore, we argue that the historical study of Black higher education is essential to understanding American higher education writ large. Considering the roles that Black people have played in higher education, from enslavement to the present, histories of higher education should account for how race and racism have influenced all aspects of university life. Therefore, our historiography also contributes to the study of the broader history of higher education through the direct connections it suggests between the Black past and several contemporary issues in higher education. For example, our careful analysis of Black firsts demonstrates how historians, in only the last 30 years, have started to more fully contextualize the achievements of Black trailblazers within the context of their racist academic experiences. The isolation of being the first, or among the few, Black students or faculty resounds throughout experiences today. Furthermore, whereas historians first studied Black colleges and universities in descriptive terms, we explain that scholars eventually started to focus historical attention on structural racism and these institutions’ societal contributions despite decades of underfunding. The remnants of decadeslong funding inequities looms over HBCUs today after the recent Supreme Court decision to strike down the direct use of race in college admissions. Finally, this chapter’s attention to historians’ focus on Black access, equity, and justice is also timely. As state legislators across the United States consider legislation that limits the teaching of Black history, our historiography highlights dozens of histories that could likely be banned from instruction. Therefore, our comprehensive approach in this chapter is modeled after many of the early scholar-activists who also wrote about Black higher education. Just as Du Bois (1898) argued that solutions to Black issues must be paired with investment in Black higher education, we argue that future historians must understand and acknowledge American higher education’s oversized influence in maintaining racial inequalities on campuses and beyond. The past-to-present connections are evident in historiography discussed throughout this chapter. Across our three themes, historians have further developed their studies of Black higher education through advances in research methods and perspectives shaped by national moments. Regarding methods, archival records have naturally advanced over the past 150 years alongside new discoveries. An extraordinary example of this development is the 2009 discovery of the papers of Richard T. Greener, the first Black Harvard graduate, in an old home being demolished in Chicago (“First Black Alumnus’s...,” 2012). Such discoveries of well-known and lesser-known Black figures have helped advance Black higher education history

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over time. Similarly, historians have brought new perspectives to old topics in exciting ways. Therefore, the historiography has developed as scholars have asked new questions about old materials, and often significant social moments (e.g., Brown decision, civil rights unrest, and Bakke decision) have shaped and invited new perspectives over time. This historiography also presents opportunities for new historical directions and perspectives on Black higher education moving forward. Regarding Black firsts, we invite future higher education historians to continue to pursue this area of study. For as many names and histories that we do know, there are many more remarkable stories to be told. New histories of Black firsts can also elevate new topics and subjects. For example, we know there were once segregated regional accrediting agencies, such as the Association of Colleges and Schools for Negroes (Walker, 2009). Histories that center Black people’s first strategic, self-contained academic organizing would further expand the study of Black firsts. Furthermore, new types of histories about Black firsts, such histories of the first Black organizations in various fields, would move research away from a focus on “firsts” within only white academic spaces. There are numerous opportunities to write new histories about HBCUs despite the several studies that currently exist. New directions could include attention to Black intellectual thought regarding desegregation. Historians have evaluated how desegregation affected HBCUs after Brown (see Gasman, 2004; Samuels, 2004), but that scholarly approach focuses on reactions among HBCUs; however, many Black academic leaders and faculty were proactive in raising potential concerns about desegregation before the Brown decision. Rich intellectual analyses in this area would help to further understanding of HBCU history in new ways. Similarly, with few exceptions like Myers (2019), most HBCU histories end at the 1970s. We invite scholars to grapple with the history of more recent decades and bring the history of these institutions into the twenty-first century. Finally, regarding new histories that center Black access, equity, and justice, we are excited about recent scholarship in this area. Like Wilder (2013), the new perspectives from Favors (2019), Cole (2020), and Givens (2021a) have received widespread engagement across education, history, and Black studies as well as broad public interest – with each scholar using their historical research to speak on contemporary issues (see Cole, 2021, 2023; Favors, 2023; Givens, 2021b, 2023). Similarly, historian Crystal R. Sanders has a forthcoming book, tentatively titled America’s Forgotten Migration, that presents a history of how southern states funded Black college students’ education through out-of-state scholarships instead of desegregating all-white universities. Scholars for decades have mentioned these out-of-state programs, yet it is only now that Sanders has taken on the heavy, complicated work of analyzing how those programs and funding worked as a method to limit Black access and equity across the South. These critical perspectives – on Black firsts; HBCUs; and equity, access and justice – are steps toward rethinking and reevaluating long accepted narratives about American higher education, because it is important for historians to make plain the deliberate attempts to undermine Black higher education. New histories may tarnish,

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or at best complicate, the legacies of long-celebrated white historical figures, institutions, and scholars. But as Du Bois (1935) argued, “We have too often a deliberate attempt so to change the facts of history that the story will make pleasant reading for Americans” (p. 584). The history of Black higher education is an extension of the history of Black America, and its facts are not always pleasant to read. For centuries, aspects of that history have been whitewashed and scrubbed of remnants of white supremacy, while for just as long, critical historians – often Black historians – have produced counternarratives. Our historiography demonstrates this dynamic, and in doing so, it serves as a reminder that Black higher education is truly a story of perseverance and triumph.

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White, A. O. (1981). State leadership and Black education in Florida, 1876–1976. Phylon, 42(2), 168–179. Wilder, C. S. (2013). Ebony and ivy: Race, slavery, and the troubled history of America’s universities. Bloomsbury. Williams, H. A. (2005). Self-taught: African American education in slavery and freedom. University of North Carolina Press. Williamson, J. A. (2003). Black power on campus: The University of Illinois, 1965–75. University of Illinois Press. Williamson, J. A. (2008). Radicalizing the ebony tower: Black colleges and the Black freedom struggle in Mississippi. Teachers College Press. Williamson-Lott, J. A. (2018). Jim Crow campus: Higher education and the struggle for a new southern social order. Teachers College Press. Willie, C. V., & Cunnigen, D. (1981). Black students in higher education: A review of studies. Annual Review of Sociology, 7, 177–198. Willie, C. V., & Edmonds, R. R. (Eds.). (1978). Black colleges in America: Challenge, development, survival. Teachers College Press. Winston, M. R. (1971). Through the back door: Academic racism and the Negro scholar in historical perspective. Daedalus, 100(3), 678–719. Wolters, R. (1975). The new Negro on campus: Black college rebellions of the 1920s. Princeton University Press. Woodson, C. G. (1915). The education of the Negro prior to 1861. Associated Publishers. Woodson, C. G. (1933). The mis-education of the Negro. Associated Publishers. Wright, M. R. (1941). The education of Negroes in New Jersey. Teachers Colleges Press. Zinn, H. (1964). SNCC: The new abolitionists. Beacon Press.

Eddie R. Cole, Ph.D., is an associate professor of education and history at the University of California, Los Angeles, and a 2023–2024 fellow at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University. He is also the author of The Campus Color Line: College Presidents and the Struggle for Black Freedom (Princeton University Press). Cole has written for The Guardian, The Washington Post, and Los Angeles Times and appeared as an expert commentator for CNN, MSNBC, and BBC World News. He earned his bachelor’s degree at Tennessee State University. Cameron L. Burris-Greene is a Ph.D. student in higher education and organizational change at the University of California, Los Angeles. He earned his bachelor’s degree at Morehouse College.

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Notes on Being a Black Woman in STEM: A Review of Existing Research Concerning the Experiences of Black Women Pursuing Undergraduate STEM Degrees Krystal L. Williams

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . What Is STEM?: Defining a Complex Concept . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The National STEM Policy Agenda and Legacy of Federal Support . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tracing Components of the Federal STEM Policy Agenda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Agencies, Cabinet Departments, and Federal Investments in STEM Equity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Framing the Issue: Prevalent Rationales Supporting an Increased Emphasis on STEM Participation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Who Is Underrepresented and Where?: Exploring the STEM Representation Terrain for Black Women at the Discipline Level . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Primer on Theory: Frameworks and Concepts Common in the Literature on Black Women in STEM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Double Bind: Framing Issues of Underrepresentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Critical Race Feminism: An Anti-Essentialist Critique of Feminism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Black Feminist Thought: A Critical Lens Focused on the Unique Experiences of Black Women . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Intersectionality: Compounding Systems of Oppression . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Thematic Review of Existing Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Race, Gender, and the Complexities of Intersectional Marginalization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stereotypes as Mechanisms of Marginalization: Gender-Normed, Mammified, Jezebelled, and Misidentified . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Isolation and Subordination: Unwelcoming Environments and the Loneliness of Onliness for Black Women Studying STEM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Resolve Re-examined: Resilience and Its Unanticipated Negative Consequences . . . . . . . . HBCUs and Black Women in STEM Fields: The Nuances of Racial Identity Spaces . . . . Making Conceptual Connections Across the Literature: A Role Strain and Adaptation Model for Black Women’s Student Development in STEM Fields . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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A Path Forward: Recommendations for Future Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120 References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121

Abstract

This chapter focuses on the experiences of Black undergraduate women, with an emphasis on factors that hinder and help to promote their successful progression to STEM degrees. In doing so, the chapter explores existing research concerning how their experiences may be shaped by their gender and race, as well as the combination thereof. The chapter begins with some important contextual information to frame the discussion of literature that follows. This entails defining STEM as a concept, as well as a discussion of the national STEM policy agenda. The second section of the chapter provides a thematic review of current higher education literature concerning Black women’s experiences in STEM, detailing frameworks that are common in the literature and covering issues such as the complexities of race-gendered stereotypes in STEM, along with Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) and Black women’s STEM experiences. The third section of the chapter proposes a conceptual framework that combines the literature concerning Black women’s challenges pursuing STEM degrees and their sources of support to better understand how both can ultimately impact their STEM success. The chapter closes by highlighting important limitations in existing research and offering suggestions for future work. Keywords

Black women · Higher education · Intersectionality · Critical Race Feminism · Double bind · Black Feminist Thought · Role strain and adaptation · Equity · Broadening participation in STEM · STEM education · Undergraduate students · National STEM policy · Underrepresented groups · HBCUs · Higher education environments · Race · Gender · Resilience · Stereotypes · STEM

Introduction I’m in this lecture that is like 300–400 students. I know I’m going to walk in and be one of five Black students, almost certainly going to be the only Black woman in the room. . .We wanted to make sure that Black women were (at) the center because the issue at hand was being Black and a woman. (Gabrir, 2023)

In 2022, a group of Black women undergraduates at Arizona State University (ASU) took a trailblazing, space-creating step to establish a student organization focused on addressing the needs of and creating community for Black women pursuing STEM majors. The opening quote from the organization’s Vice President (Debbie Kariuki) provides context for why this organization was desperately needed. Similar to ASU, many Black women pursuing STEM degrees at other universities find themselves in academic spaces where they are one of only a few Black students in the room, and

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the only Black woman—underscoring the need to center their unique experiences as being Black and woman simultaneously. The representation challenges concerning Black undergraduate women in STEM exist within a larger, global context of gendered and race-gendered inequities. Many parts of the world have entered what is commonly referred to as the Fourth Industrial Revolution—an era in which technologies (e.g., artificial intelligence and the Internet of things) are changing the way that people live, work, and interact (Schwab, 2017). Despite the increasing entwinement between technology and everyday life, there is a growing global concern about the educational and professional opportunities for women in many STEM fields that are at the forefront of technological advancements. Content from a recent World Economic Forum Annual Meeting illustrates this point by noting the global underrepresentation of women in STEM, the critical connection between gender equity and economic stability, and the need to ensure women’s STEM equity and inclusion for future economic sustainability (Özdemir, 2023). While the report warns of general issues concerning the global underrepresentation of women in STEM fields, it also notes the particular underrepresentation of “women of color.” Unfortunately, the educational and workforce patterns of (under)representation and gender (in)equities that manifest in many STEM fields on a global level are also prevalent within the United States. This is true when considering the representation of all women; women from racially marginalized groups (Rincon & Yates, 2018); and Black women in particular. For instance, women’s underrepresentation in engineering has been longstanding. However, the number and share of women earning bachelor’s degrees in engineering has increased over time—albeit not to a point of equitable representation. In 2008, women earned almost 13,000 bachelor’s degrees in engineering, a number that more than doubled by 2018. Also, the share of all engineering undergraduate degrees conferred to women during that period increased almost 4 percentage points (National Center for Science and Engineering Statistics, 2021). For Black women, the data tells a slightly different story. Similar to all women, Black women also have well-documented representation challenges in engineering. In fact, this field has one of the lowest shares of Black women among the various STEM disciplines. The number of Black women who earned bachelor’s degrees in engineering increased from a little under 900 in 2008 to a little over 1200 two decades later. Despite this increase in the number of Black women who earned engineering degrees, the share for this group decreased from about 1.4% in 2008 to about 1.1% in 2018—both estimates are abysmally low given the general representation of Black women within the US population (National Center for Science and Engineering Statistics, 2021; United States Census Bureau, 2022). At a high level, this data points out a very important takeaway: while there are some overall representation challenges for women in certain STEM fields, this group is not monolithic. Specifically, the representation inequities for Black women can differ from those of women in general. Similarly, Black women’s (under)representation and related experiences in STEM fields can also differ from their Black male counterparts (Charleston et al., 2014b). Because of these important distinctions, a particular body of literature has emerged to explore the unique educational experiences of Black women pursuing undergraduate degrees in STEM—experiences that

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are not only shaped by their gender but also by their race and often their race and gender combined. This chapter synthesizes key aspects of this corpus of research and related topics. The chapter focuses on the experiences of Black women who are undergraduate students with an emphasis on factors that hinder and help to promote their successful progression to STEM degrees as opposed to an explicit focus on particular outcomes (e.g., degree attainment or employment). Accordingly, the discussion of existing literature allows for a critical examination of important factors that ultimately shape the student outcomes that are a common focus of higher education discourse. Furthermore, the chapter discusses existing literature concerning the experiences of Black women as defined by other authors’ use of terms such as “women” and “females” to describe the participants in their studies. The discussion that follows is organized in four distinct sections. The first section begins with some important contextual information to frame the discussion of literature that follows. This entails a close examination of STEM as a concept, including a discussion of how it has evolved over time, the ways it is operationalized within various contexts, and how such operationalization can shape discussions about Black women’s STEM representation. Next, this section outlines the importance of STEM education issues within the USA by discussing the national STEM policy agenda and legacy of federal support in this area. Also, examples of Black women’s contributions to federal STEM policy agendas are provided, as well as a discussion of the ways that these agendas have the potential to shape opportunity structures that impact this demographic. Afterward, various rationales for an increased national emphasis on STEM outcomes are discussed as a way of framing some of the prevailing issues regarding the need to increase STEM participation for diverse populations—especially Black women. The final section of contextual information utilizes recent data from the National Science Foundation (NSF) concerning STEM degree attainment to examine Black women’s representation challenges within specific STEM fields relative to similarly situated demographics that are often marginalized in these disciplines due to their gender (i.e., all women) or their race (i.e., all Black individuals). The second section of the chapter outlines current higher education literature concerning Black women’s experiences in STEM. It begins with a primer on theory, detailing frameworks and concepts that are common in the literature on the college experiences of Black women in STEM. Next is a discussion of literature concerning race, gender, and the complexities of intersectional marginalization based upon Black women’s race and gender. It follows with a discussion of research concerning the stereotypes that many Black woman college students experience in STEM fields (i.e., gender norms, being treated as mammies or jezebel, etc.) and how they work in service to their overall marginalization. Then studies concerning Black women’s isolation and subordination within collegiate settings are discussed, as well as how unwelcoming institutional environments can ultimately create a sense of loneliness and onliness related to their underrepresentation. Thereafter, research findings concerning Black women’s resolve as college students in STEM are considered, with an eye toward their sources of resilience and the unexpected negative consequences of being resilient. The final part of this section of the paper closely examines

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the literature concerning Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) and Black women in STEM, outlining the ways in which these institutions have helped to foster successful outcomes for these students, as well as areas for improvement. The third section of the chapter proposes a conceptual framework (i.e., the role strain and adaptation model for Black women’s STEM success in college) which combines the literature concerning Black women’s challenges pursuing STEM degrees and their sources of support to better understand how both can ultimately impact their STEM success. The chapter closes by highlighting important limitations in existing research and offering suggestions for future work.

What Is STEM?: Defining a Complex Concept As context for discussing extant literature about the collegiate experiences of Black women in STEM, it is helpful to review important background information about the STEM concept, the complexities therein, and how it is commonly defined. The term “STEM” is generally used to refer to science, technology, engineering, and mathematics, and its origins are somewhat convoluted. Some credit the NSF for initially coining the term as SMET (i.e., science, mathematics, engineering, and technology) and later replacing it with STEM—the acronym commonly used today (Salinger & Zuga, 2009). Given the NSF’s role in creating the concept, its definition is often employed as a guiding framework for what fields are encompassed under the STEM umbrella. This definition includes psychology and social sciences (e.g., anthropology, economics, and sociology), along with fields traditionally framed as core sciences (e.g., math, physical science, and computer sciences) and engineering (National Center for Science and Engineering Statistics, 2021). In addition to the NSF, other federal agencies offer a definition of STEM such as the Department of Homeland Security (n.d.) which includes four core areas—engineering, biological sciences, mathematics, and physical sciences—as well as related fields that involve “research innovation or development of new technologies using engineering, mathematics, computer science, or natural sciences.” Just as the STEM concept is used by multiple entities to represent a collection of various fields, variations of the acronym have emerged to emphasize other fields that are either within this overarching moniker or related to the fields therein. Alternate acronyms include things such as STEMM (i.e., science, technology, engineering, and medicine) which underscores aspects of health sciences (“National Academies”, 2022) and STEM/CS which specifically denotes the inclusion of computer science in science, technology, engineering, and math (US Department of Education, n.d.). Moreover, other related acronyms emphasize connections across disciplines not generally affiliated with science, technology, engineering, and mathematics. For instance, STEAM (i.e., science, technology, engineering, arts, and mathematics) highlights the benefits of infusing art techniques in STEM subjects (Catterall, 2017). It should be noted that the overarching STEM concept aggregates a number of fields that have specific subdisciplines. For example, the “E” in STEM includes several areas within engineering such as electrical engineering, chemical

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engineering, computer engineering, petroleum engineering, mechanical engineering, etc. Such nuances can be overlooked when the overarching STEM concept is the focus. However, within education, some note the utility of the overarching moniker in facilitating integrated learning contexts that combine the principals of two or more STEM domains to enhance student learning and facilitate real-world problemsolving (Kelley & Knowles, 2016). While STEM is a complex concept that can be defined in multiple ways, it is important to note that a specific approach to defining STEM may ultimately shape larger discussions about Black women’s representation within these fields. As detailed in a subsequent section, Black women’s representation varies within the different underlying disciplines included within the STEM umbrella. For example, the NSF definition of STEM includes psychology and the social sciences which have larger numbers of Black women. However, the definition provided by the Department of Homeland Security focuses more on engineering, biological sciences, mathematics, and physical sciences where there are fewer Black women represented. Hence, the nature of how STEM is conceptualized can ultimately be a defining characteristic of how related discourse about (under)representation in STEM manifests. Given the varying STEM definitions, the discussion of extant literature later in this chapter will focus on STEM defined in the broadest terms, largely driven by the framing which authors employ in their writing. The studies considered in this review focus primarily on the “core sciences” mentioned previously. In some research, authors specifically note the STEM umbrella and discuss the experiences of Black women across different STEM disciplines. In other instances, authors focus on specific STEM fields (e.g., physics or biological sciences) or even STEM content areas that may cut across various STEM disciplines (e.g., computing which may include computer science, information technology, computer engineering, etc.). To offer the most comprehensive discussion of existing literature, each of these bodies of work are included in the research that is reviewed.

The National STEM Policy Agenda and Legacy of Federal Support In the past year alone, Federal strategic plans and reports have called out the importance of STEM education to achieving national goals in areas including national security, artificial intelligence, cybersecurity, quantum information science, and advanced manufacturing. There can be no doubt that STEM education continues to be a significant priority for the United States. (The National Science and Technology Council, 2018, p. 3)

STEM and STEM education issues have a longstanding history of federal investments, albeit to varying degrees based on prevailing national concerns and changes in administration. The discussion that follows outlines key aspects of the national STEM policy agenda and related investments. In doing so, special attention is given to federal foci on STEM equity issues from various national offices and agencies that either help to shape national STEM and STEM education policy or support existing

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STEM policy agendas. Moreover, examples of Black women’s contributions to those efforts are provided, along with a discussion of the ways in which STEM policy agendas have the potential to shape opportunity structures that impact this demographic. While a detailed discussion of Black women and their overall involvement in the national STEM policy agenda is beyond the scope of this paper, examples of Black women who are often underacknowledged in these areas are discussed to illustrate their contributions to these critical areas of national need.

Tracing Components of the Federal STEM Policy Agenda Some scholars trace the emphasis on STEM education in the USA to the colonial era and Benjamin Franklin’s suggestions to incorporate topics such as planting, mechanics, and grafting in youth education in Pennsylvania (Salinger & Zuga, 2009). Moreover, the Morrill Acts of 1862 and 1890 resulted in the establishment of landgrant institutions which emphasized mechanical arts and agriculture—subjects generally included within STEM content areas (Gonzales & Kuenzi, 2012). An increased federal emphasis on STEM is often affiliated with the Sputnik Era and its focus on the USA’s international competitiveness in relation to technology and innovation. Russia launched the world’s first artificial satellite, Sputnik I, on October 4, 1957, marking the start of a space race between the USA and USSR (NASA History Division, n.d.). In response to Sputnik’s launch, the National Defense Education Act (NDEA) was passed in 1958 to foster educational advancements in science, mathematics, and modern foreign languages, as well as training in technology. Provisions of this act included authorization of the first federal student loan program, along with state funding for (1) instruction in science, mathematics, and foreign languages and (2) programming for gifted students (Gonzales & Kuenzi, 2012). Also, the space race was instrumental in the development of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) under the Eisenhower Administration. President Kennedy continued the push for innovation, expanding the space program in 1961 and committing the nation to landing a man on the moon by the end of the decade (John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, n.d.). Each of these developments was shaped by scientific advancements in another country. The USA’s response illustrates the ways in which international competition has helped to inform federal STEM policy agendas and investments. While the importance of the space race and its influence on technological development is often discussed, what is less known are the important contributions that Black women made to these efforts and, by extension, to meeting federal policy agendas concerning scientific advancements. Black woman scientists were instrumental in helping to advance these policy aims, although their contributions were often hidden. In recent years, popular press has made some of these efforts more visible by highlighting the work of individuals such as Mary W. Jackson, Katherine Johnson, and Dorothy Vaughan whose technical expertise was critical to the initial space missions (National Aeronautics and Space Administration, 2017a). Additionally, other Black women have been acknowledged recently for their role in the

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overall success of the space program. This includes Dr. Christine Darden, a NASA aeronautical engineer renown for her research on sonic boom reduction (National Aeronautics and Space Administration, 2022), and Dr. Patricia Cowings, a NASA psycho-psychologists who studied space sickness among astronauts and ways to control it (National Aeronautics and Space Administration, 2017b). Each of these Black women served as trailblazers whose work supported federal goals in STEMrelated areas. Today, key aspects of the federal STEM policy agenda are reflected within the work of the White House Office of Science and Technology Policy (OSTP)—an office established in 1976 to coordinate federal science and technology policy and to provide the President with guidance on advances in science and technology. The mission of this office is to “maximize the benefits of science and technology to advance health, prosperity, security, environmental quality, and justice for all Americans” (The White House, n.d.-b). Anchored by this overarching objective, the OSTP includes policy teams to advance critical federal science and technology priorities in areas such as energy; health and life sciences; and national security. While each of these policy teams focus on important issues of national concern, the Science and Society Team has a more tailored emphasis on equity issues in science and technology. A more recent addition to OSTP, the Science and Society Team “advances the President’s commitment to ensuring all of America can participate in, contribute to, and benefit from science and technology” by directing efforts to broaden participation in STEM and to “ensure that all Americans have equitable access to the benefits of new and emerging technologies and scientific innovation” among other priorities (The White House, n.d.-a). Furthermore, this team directs an initiative, The Time is Now, which is designed to advance equity across the science and technology ecosystem by removing structural barriers to equitable participation for marginalized and underserved populations (The White House, n.d.-a). Part of this initiative included a series of roundtables to foster public engagement and have candid and robust conversations “to gather valuable feedback that can assist OSTP in assuring that our national science and technology ecosystem is preeminent, equitable, and inclusive” (The White House, 2021c). One roundtable focused on diversity, equity, inclusion, and anti-racism in STEMM (The White House, 2021b), while another focused on the impacts of COVID-19 on women in STEM, noting that “women of color” occupy multiple marginalized identities and have encountered long-standing structural barriers in their STEM career pursuits (The White House, 2021a). Neither roundtable was specifically tailored to examine the unique experiences of Black women in STEM; however, the insights offered may have implications for this demographic. Another important White House science and technology organization that informs current federal STEM education policies is the National Science and Technology Council (NSTC) whose objectives include ensuring that “science and technology policy decisions and programs are consistent with the President’s stated goals” and preparing “research and development strategies that are coordinated across Federal agencies aimed at accomplishing multiple national goals” (The National Science and Technology Council, 2018). In 2018, NSTC published a

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5-year strategic plan for STEM education titled Charting a Course for Success: America’s Strategy for STEM Education (The National Science and Technology Council, 2018). This plan is guided by a desire for all Americans to have lifelong access to high-quality STEM education, and for the USA to be the global leader in STEM literacy, innovation, and employment. Its purpose is to strengthen the federal commitment to equity and diversity; evidence-based practice; and engagement with the national STEM community via nationwide collaborations with key stakeholders (i.e., learners, families, educators, communities, and employers) (The National Science and Technology Council, 2018). The plan includes three aspirational goals: (1) build a strong foundation in STEM literacy for all American citizens via opportunities to master basic STEM concepts; (2) increase diversity, equity, and inclusion in STEM, with an emphasis on historically underserved and underrepresented groups in STEM fields and employment; and (3) prepare the future STEM workforce via authentic learning experiences that encourage young people to pursue STEM careers (The National Science and Technology Council, 2018). While the stated goals do not explicitly target Black girls and women in STEM, they illustrate the ways in which the White House has recently taken up issues regarding STEM representation and increased outcomes as the US citizenry becomes increasingly diverse.

Agencies, Cabinet Departments, and Federal Investments in STEM Equity In addition to organizations affiliated directly with the White House, various federal agencies play a prominent role in advancing aspects of the national STEM policy agenda. In doing so, many of these agencies include support for equitable STEM outcomes within their larger portfolio of work. For instance, the NSF has been instrumental in helping to shape conversations regarding STEM and related education issues, increasingly with an emphasis on expanding opportunities in these fields. In 1950, the NSF was created during the Truman Administration to “encourage and develop a national policy for the promotion of basic research and education in the mathematical, physical, medical, biological, engineering, and other sciences; to initiate and support basic scientific research in the sciences; and to evaluate the scientific research programs undertaken by agencies of the federal government” (The National Science Foundation, n.d.-c). Currently, the agency continues to make substantial contributions to “basic research and people to create knowledge that transforms the future,” noting that this type of support helps to drive the US economy, enhances national security, and generates knowledge that sustains global leadership (The National Science Foundation, n.d.-c). To this end, Congress allocated $8.8 billion to NSF during fiscal year 2022, and this agency supported a quarter of all federally funded basic research conducted by American institutions of higher education. Moreover, the NSF is the major source of federal support in some STEM fields such as mathematics, computer science, and the social sciences (National Science Foundation, n.d.-a, n.d.-b).

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While the NSF generally supports basic research in many STEM areas, the agency also provides targeted funds to broaden participation in STEM. The organization’s portfolio of work in this area cuts across various programs, and specific investments include things such as research centers, capacity building awards, and funded partnerships (National Science Foundation, n.d.-b). Moreover, the NSF review criteria attends to the ways in which proposed projects and activities align with the agency’s efforts to broaden STEM participation. Although the NSF’s broadening participation portfolio includes programs where such an emphasis is one of many, other programs focus specifically on this objective. For example, NSF ADVANCE focuses on equity for STEM faculty and provides grants to “enhance the systemic factors that support equity and inclusion and to mitigate the systemic factors that create inequities in the academic profession and workplaces” (National Science Foundation, 2019). Moreover, the NSF notes that all ADVANCE proposals “are expected to use intersectional approaches in the design of systemic change strategies in recognition that gender, race and ethnicity do not exist in isolation from each other and from other categories of social identity” (National Science Foundation, 2019). Such framing provides fruitful opportunities to explore the experiences of Black women in STEM at the intersection of their racial, gender, and other identities. Similarly, a more recent NSF funding stream, Racial Equity in STEM Education, supports “bold, groundbreaking, and potentially transformative projects that contribute to advancing racial equity in STEM education and workforce development through practice and/or fundamental or applied research” (National Science Foundation, 2022b). Some NSF programs to broaden participation build upon the contributions of minority-serving institutions and provide specific funding for these colleges and universities. This includes programs such as the Tribal Colleges and Universities Program (National Science Foundation, 2021); Improving Undergraduate STEM Education: Hispanic-Serving Institutions (National Science Foundation, 2022a); and the Historically Black Colleges and Universities Undergraduate Program (National Science Foundation, 2023)—all of which support institutions that disproportionately educate racial/ethnic groups that continue to be underrepresented in many STEM areas. As discussed, the NSF offers multiple funding opportunities to explore and address STEM inequities at various levels. Although such foci are not specific to Black women, the broad nature of the content areas and specific attention to intersectional approaches provide opportunities to examine the experiences of this particular group. While these opportunities are an important aspect of a larger emphasis on broadening pathways into and through STEM areas, research suggests the need for more attentiveness to not only what is studied (i.e., the research topical areas and a need to focus on expanding opportunities) but also who is provided NSF support to conduct those studies (i.e., the demographic makeup of Principal Investigators (PIs)). Literature highlights persistent disparities in funding opportunities that advantage White PIs over non-White PIs (Chen et al., 2022). Hence, although

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the topical areas for funding have increasingly afforded opportunities to explore STEM barriers for underrepresented groups such as Black women, evidence suggests a need for more focused attention on diversifying the backgrounds of scholars conducting the research that the NSF funds. In addition to the NSF, the US Department of Education (DOE) is a cabinet department that plays an important role in federal STEM investments. The DOE executes the President’s educational policies and coordinates most federal assistance in educational arenas (US Department of Education, 2010, 2018). While education is often contextualized as a state and local responsibility (US Department of Education, 2021), the DOE supports and complements the efforts of states, local school districts, and other state instrumentalities (US Department of Education, 2018). As noted previously, the expanded federal role in education can be traced back to larger national concerns about science education across the country after the successful launch of Sputnik. Currently, several offices in the DOE support STEM education issues across the education spectrum including the Office of Planning, Evaluation, and Policy Development (OPEPD); Office of Career, Technical, and Adult Education (OCTAE); Office of Elementary and Secondary Education (OESE); Office of Special Education and Rehabilitative Services (OSERS); Office of Postsecondary Education (OPE); and Office of Non-Public Education (ONPE), among others (US Department of Education, n.d.). Moreover, a STEM Newsletter was created in February of 2020 to “increase the Department’s audience and reach and better serve and communicate with our STEM stakeholders.” The DOE makes substantial financial investments in STEM which align with the national policy agenda concerning educational outcomes in these fields. During the 202o fiscal year, the DOE awarded $578 million to STEM projects (US Department of Education, 2020). The specific STEM initiatives that were funded varied; however, one which focused on higher education and has specific implications for Black women is the Minority Science and Engineering Improvement Program (MSEIP) which “assists predominantly minority institutions in effecting long-range improvement in science and engineering education programs and increasing the flow of underrepresented ethnic minorities, particularly minority women, into science and engineering careers.” In fiscal year 2020, $12.6 M was provided to MSEIP (US Department of Education, n.d.). DOE support for equity in STEM education is further illustrated by the guidance the US Secretary of Education, Dr. Miguel A. Cardona, provided regarding discretionary grant programs. Within this guidance, Secretary Cardona outlined six strategic priorities, one of which specifically notes the need for investments in equitable access to rigorous, engaging, and well-rounded approaches to learning which are inclusive across various domains (e.g., race, ethnicity, culture, language, and disability status) and prepare students for college, career and civic life in STEM (US Department of Education, n.d.). Collectively, the work of cabinet departments like the DOE and agencies like the NSF illustrate various aspects of the federal government’s focus on STEM education policy issues, with an increasing emphasis on diversity issues.

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Framing the Issue: Prevalent Rationales Supporting an Increased Emphasis on STEM Participation Various rationales have been offered which undergird and support the aforementioned federal emphasis on increasing STEM participation. Two that are especially prevalent include the need to (1) maintain the USA’s international competitiveness in innovation and technology and (2) develop talent (i.e., students) that has experienced long-standing opportunity barriers to prepare and succeed in STEM. The former rationale has a more general focus on increasing the number of students from all backgrounds in STEM, and the latter emphasizes opportunities for those that are highly underrepresented in these fields. Despite their general utility, neither rationale has been employed broadly to address the unique need to increase STEM participation for Black women. The discussion that follows outlines each of these rationales, noting their limitations with regard to expanding STEM opportunities from an intersectional perspective that impacts Black women. The maintenance of US competitiveness rationale builds upon the narrative which dominated the Sputnik era, focusing on international competitiveness and the USA maintaining a leadership role in technology and innovation. This rationale provides the logic often undergirding many policy discussions regarding the need to chart a different path within the new global environment—one that invests more heavily and intently in the STEM enterprise. The maintenance of US competitiveness rationale is often used to bolster a general push to include more students of all backgrounds in STEM pathways—a point that reflects (1) the limited number of individuals pursuing professions in critical STEM fields of national importance within the USA and (2) an overall need to increase the number of people in those STEM professions regardless of their backgrounds. Examples of this rationale abound. For instance, in a testimony before the US House of Representatives Committee on Science, Space, and Technology titled Losing Ground: US Competitiveness in Critical Technologies, Dr. Diane L. Souvaine, chair of the National Science Board, shared the following insight: “In this new global context, relying on an ever-increasing influx of individuals from other countries is not a sustainable long-term strategy for maintaining a thriving, competitive US S&E enterprise. Our ability to discover, invent, and innovate relies on our ability to develop, attract, and retain our domestic S&E talent while continuing to welcome researchers from around the world” (National Science Board, 2020). A report by the RAND National Defense Research Institute—a federally funded research and development center— echoes the maintenance of US competitiveness rationale. This report titled US Competitiveness in Science and Technology was produced by the Office of Security Defense. In it, the following policy recommendation was suggested which speaks to education and the country’s need for heavy STEM investments to sustain its leadership in science and technology: “Continue to improve K-12 education in general and S&T education in particular, as human capital is a main driver of economic growth and well-being” (Galama & Hosek, 2008). Both examples illustrate an underlying concern about maintaining what is often perceived as a deteriorating US advantage in global STEM competitiveness. However, a general focus on

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expanding opportunities for all may be an insufficient approach to address the needs of Black women in race-gendered ways. The limited number of individuals pursuing STEM professions within the USA has prompted some to advocate for immigration policies that emphasize adding more highly skilled non-US residents to the workforce (Galama & Hosek, 2008). However, as opposed to talent importation, another prevalent rationale for increased STEM educational investments focuses on developing untapped talent within the USA (The National Science and Technology Council, 2018). While there is a general need to increase the number of individuals who pursue STEM professions in many fields, the STEM participation for women and individuals from certain racial/ethnic groups is especially abysmal. The untapped talent rationale illustrates that the push to increase STEM participation and maintain US competitiveness is ultimately undermined by neglecting an important and expanding demographic within the country—those from racially marginalized groups. This rationale is often part of larger narratives regarding social justice and STEM equity (Ireland et al., 2018). It is apparent in testimony given before the US House of Representatives Committee on Science, Space, and Technology in 2019. During this session, Dr. Shirley Malcom, a senior adviser at the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS) and the director of AAAS’ SEA Change Initiative (i.e., an institutional transformational initiative), remarked that having a workforce that will deliver future innovation and meet tomorrow’s challenges will require “expanding the pool of talent, tapping into the vast well of women, minorities, racial and ethnic, and people with disabilities currently underrepresented in STEM.” Dr. James Moore III, Vice Provost of Diversity and Inclusion at the Ohio State University, shared similar sentiments during his testimony concerning the need for early interventions for specific groups often left on the margins of opportunity in STEM, “We need to be innovative and inclusive in the way we recognize talent. . .We are missing too many promising students before they even reach our doorstep simply because of their zip code” (Hoy, 2019). Moreover, the logic undergirding the NSF broadening participation in STEM initiative also reflects aspects of the untapped talent rationale. A key component of the initiative is to increase underrepresented communities’ involvement in science and engineering and to “unleash STEM talent” by developing a more diverse STEM workforce (National Science Foundation, n.d.-b). While the untapped talent rationale highlights the need to expand opportunities for groups that have historically been underrepresented in many STEM areas, it has generally been used to focus on the need to bolster opportunities for either women or individuals from underrepresented racial/ethnic groups. What is less often considered are the unique opportunity barriers for individuals at the intersection of multiple oppressed identities within STEM—such as Black women whose experiences may be different because of their race and gender combined. There have been some recent attempts to highlight these challenges in a more nuanced way. For example, guided by an intersectionality framework, the most recent National Center for Science and Engineering Statistics (NCSES) report titled Women, Minorities, and Persons with Disabilities in Science and Engineering discusses specific degree outcomes for women that are Latinx, Black, Native Hawaiian/other Pacific Islander, and Asian.

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In doing so, the report notes the importance of analyzing differences in science and engineering degree outcomes by race/ethnicity and sex because experiences with racial discrimination and sexism can make racially marginalized women’s experiences with inequality different from that of White women or men from the same racial/ethnic group. While this approach to data reporting may fall short of fully explicating combined forms of oppression in STEM in nonadditive ways, it represents a much-needed movement toward examining the unique experiences of certain groups of women (including Black women) in STEM. Building upon that focus, the next section of this chapter takes a closer examination of data from NCSES with an emphasis on undergraduate outcomes for Black women across various STEM fields, noting how outcomes for this group compares or differs from all women, as well as the general Black populous.

Who Is Underrepresented and Where?: Exploring the STEM Representation Terrain for Black Women at the Discipline Level As previously discussed, the term “STEM” is multifaceted and represents a concept in and of itself, in addition to the underlying disciplines therein. Some scholars note the importance of taking an interdisciplinary and integrative approach to thinking about STEM. Instead of thinking of STEM as four related but distinct disciplines, the suggestion is to think of it as an overarching concept that individuals draw from to generate or validate new knowledge, engage problem-solving, or produce products (McComas, 2014). While it is important to acknowledge the benefits of an interdisciplinary approach that connects various STEM disciplines conceptually, especially in relation to instructional approaches and advancing students’ overall STEM literacy, from an equity perspective, it is also important to disaggregate the data across STEM disciplines for a more detailed examination of representational issues and barriers for certain demographic groups—especially Black women who are substantially underrepresented within many STEM disciplines. While the larger narrative around diversity issues in STEM suggests a general trend of underrepresentation for women and many individuals from racially marginalized groups, STEM diversity issues can often vary within specific STEM fields. Moreover, the representation challenges can differ for specific underrepresented groups. Figure 1 provides some insights into these differences by illustrating baccalaureate degree attainment within specific STEM fields by gender and racial/ethnic background, with a particular focus on all females, all Black individuals, and Black females. This data is displayed for 2018—the most recent year available at the time of this writing via the NSF NCSES. Given the various definitions of STEM previously discussed, this figure focuses on key fields often emphasized by the NSF. In addition to information about representation for these groups, the figure includes estimates of their general demographic representation within the USA as reference points. For example, during 2018, females represented about 51% of the overall US population (United States Census Bureau, 2022); hence, this reference

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Fig. 1 Gender and racial/ethnic representation in STEM fields (2018). (Data sources: NSF National Center for Science and Engineering Statistics and United States Census Bureau)

point (i.e., target) is used as a comparison to determine if their representation within particular STEM disciplines aligns with their general demographic representation. Ideally, a group’s representation in a given STEM discipline will be similar to its overall representation within the USA. The data in Fig. 1 allows for a more nuanced examination of representation issues by gender and race/ethnicity within specific STEM fields based upon degree attainment data for a cohort of recent college graduates. Figure 1 suggests that while the noted groups are underrepresented as graduates within many STEM fields, there is some variation across fields and across groups. Issues concerning representation challenges for Black women can differ from all women, as well as the general Black populous. The data concerning all women suggests that this group is overrepresented among graduates within a number of STEM areas—biological sciences, agricultural sciences, psychology, and social sciences—with the proportion of degrees conferred to this group exceeding 51%. For instance, in 2018, women earned 79% of bachelor’s degrees in psychology and 63% of bachelor’s degrees in biological sciences. In all of the other fields considered, females are generally underrepresented, with their representation being especially low in engineering and computer science where females earned 22% and 20% of bachelor’s degrees in these fields, respectively. Unlike all females, Black females are only overrepresented among graduates in one STEM discipline—psychology. During 2018, Black females comprised about

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7% of the overall US population and earned 9% of bachelor’s degrees in psychology—a 2 percentage point difference. Unlike females overall, Black females’ representation among graduates in social sciences was on par with their general population representation, suggesting representational parity. In all other STEM fields considered, Black females are underrepresented. In many instances, Black females only earned 1% or 2% of bachelor’s degrees in specific fields, suggesting a 5 or 6 percentage point difference between their representation within STEM disciplines and their general representation in the population. To put these numbers into context, in engineering that would be equivalent to an additional 7500 Black female engineers among 2018 graduates if representation inequities did not exist. In computer science, this would represent a gain of almost 4000 Black female computer scientists. Regarding a within race/ethnicity comparison, Fig. 1 suggests representational differences in degrees conferred for Black women compared to all Black individuals. During 2018, Black individuals were underrepresented in each of the STEM fields considered, including slight underrepresentation in psychology—a field where Black women are slightly overrepresented as previously discussed. The representational differences between Black women and all Black individuals reflect a difference in STEM degrees conferred to Black women and Black men. These statistics highlight the benefits of disaggregating data not only by race or gender but by race and gender to better explicate representational challenges for specific underrepresented groups. Moreover, it highlights the need for a more nuanced discussion of individual STEM disciplines and the representational challenges of particular demographics therein. Given that Black women occupy a position of dual underrepresentation in STEM resulting from their race and gender, this chapter seeks to better understand existing literature regarding their unique experiences.

A Primer on Theory: Frameworks and Concepts Common in the Literature on Black Women in STEM Before delving deeply into the literature about the collegiate experiences of Black women in STEM, it is helpful to begin with a primer concerning the theories and frameworks that undergird much of this research. Although some studies employ frameworks such as cultural border crossing and resiliency (Ferguson & MartinDunlop, 2021), and others rely on theories regarding organizational culture and student engagement to investigate the nature of college campuses (Lockett et al., 2018), many studies on Black women’s STEM experiences are situated within critical traditions that critique power and structural subordination. The discussion that follows outlines various frameworks and theories that are central in shaping research concerning Black women collegians in STEM. This includes a discussion of the double-bind concept (Malcom et al., 1976), Critical Race Feminism (Wing, 2003), Black Feminist Thought (Collins, 1990, 2000), and Intersectionality (Collins & Bilge, 2016, 2020; Crenshaw, 1989, 1991). While not an exhaustive treatment of

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these concepts, the following provides important insights about how these schools of thought have helped to inform extant literature on Black women in STEM.

The Double Bind: Framing Issues of Underrepresentation The term “double bind” is often used in literature concerning the experiences of Black women and other women from racially marginalized groups in STEM (Cross et al., 2017; Ireland et al., 2018; Malcom et al., 1976; Ong et al., 2011). It denotes “the exclusion of women of color in STEM and the undermining of their career pursuits because of both racism and sexism” (Ireland et al., 2018, p. 228). The overarching concept dates (at least) as far back as the late 1970s where it was used in a report concerning the Conference of Minority Women Scientists, produced by the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS) Office of Opportunities in Science (OOS) (Malcom et al., 1976). While AAAS is the world’s largest general scientific society with a mission to advance science, engineering, and innovation, the OOS focuses on projects to enhance the participation and advancement of underrepresented groups in science (women, racially marginalized groups, people with disabilities, etc.). The impetus of the conference was the OOS’ observation that its efforts toward broadening opportunities for women were not adequately addressing the unique concerns and experiences of women from racially marginalized groups. Moreover, similar concerns existed about the degree to which efforts targeting “minorities” advanced the concerns of women within that demographic category. As a result, the Conference of Minority Women Scientists was orchestrated to explore the “special problems peculiar to minority women scientists” which were not being addressed because these women were “falling somewhere in between the funded efforts to improve science opportunities for minorities and efforts to advance women in science” (Malcom et al., 1976, p. vii). The convening brought together women within this demographic category in order to better understand their unique experiences and to develop recommendations for addressing prolonged issues within precollegiate, collegiate, career, and professional domains. Solidifying the double-bind concept within STEM lexicon, the report concerning the outcomes of this convening begins by noting that “minority women” represent a disturbingly small proportion of the scientific workforce and their needs are unaddressed by existing programs for “minorities” or women. The authors then note that these women have “traditionally been excluded because of biases related to both their race or ethnicity and gender, constituting a double bind” (Malcom et al., 1976, p. 1). Interestingly, this discussion within AAAS occurred during a point in history where broader discourse concerning historical social agendas related to feminism and gender (in)equality was being critiqued for failing to adequately represent the needs of non-White women (Collins & Bilge, 2020; Pruitt, 2022). Nonetheless, the broader concept of experiencing a double bind related to race-based and gender-based exclusion in STEM and the need to address these issues has provided grounding for work that specifically examines the experiences of Black women in STEM.

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Critical Race Feminism: An Anti-Essentialist Critique of Feminism Critical Race Feminism is also used in studies regarding the experiences of Black women in STEM within various facets of higher education (Charleston et al., 2014b; Decuir-Gunby et al., 2009). Similar to the concept of double bind, this theory emerged out of an interest in better understanding racialized and gendered oppression of non-White women. While Maria Stewart—a Black abolitionist and feminist—is sometimes (though rarely) acknowledged as one of the first women to speak publicly on gender inequality, especially as it relates to Black women (Richardson, 1987), the US feminist movement is often linked to the late 1800s and the Seneca Falls Convention which emphasized women’s social and political rights, along with women’s suffrage (McMillen, 2008; Tetrault, 2014). While this convention was attended by a number of people (men and women) who previously supported abolition, a politically driven chasm in the movement later emerged related to the extension of voting rights to formerly enslaved Black men before White women—a chasm that ultimately disregarded the extension of rights and (in)equality issues afflicting Black women (Hancock, 2022). This historic omission of Black women’s rights in larger feminist discourse provides a framework for understanding critiques of feminism from racially marginalized women and the emergence of concepts such as Critical Race Feminism (Wing, 2003). Adrien Katherine Wing (2003) provides a useful context for understanding the history, significance, and current utility of Critical Race Feminism (CRF). Wing (2003) describes how CRF is an outgrowth of other critical legal philosophies, including critical legal studies and critical race theory (CRT)—another framework whose usage is often advocated for in research concerning Black women in higher education (Howard-Hamilton, 2003). Moreover, CRF engages critiques of gender oppression common to feminist thought, although it makes a clear departure from feminism by emphasizing the unique marginalization of non-White women. Like critical legal scholars, CRF critiques liberal legalism and conservative doctrine, challenging the “notion of law as neutral, objective, and determinate” (Wing, 2003, p. 4). Similar to CRT, CRF situates itself in the larger discourse concerning the subordination of certain racial groups via white supremacy, with specific attention to the nature of race as a social construct (i.e., the social construction thesis); racism as an ordinary part of US society; a rejection of colorblindness in the legal system in favor of color consciousness and identity politics aimed at rectifying racists legal legacies; and the methodological benefits of storytelling (Wing, 2003). Also, CRF embraces critical race praxis as a means to move beyond theorical formulations and instead emphasizes the need to involve those who are marginalized in developing solutions to the problems that they face (Wing, 2003). As it relates to feminist theory, CRF also critiques systems of patriarchy and gender oppression; however, it does so with a more dedicated emphasis on the interest and experiences of women from racially marginalized groups. In doing so, CRF advances the notion of anti-essentialism, noting that feminist traditions position the realities and voices of White middle- and upper-class women as representative of all women (Wing, 2003). Moreover, CRF advances the concept of multiplicative

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identity to note that “women of color are not merely white women plus color or men of color plus gender” further explaining that “their identities must be multiplied together to create a holistic One when analyzing the nature of the discrimination against them” (Wing, 2003, p. 7). While not a theoretical lens that is specific to the experiences of Black women, CRF’s focus on multiplicative gender-based and racebased biases have been used to explain Black women’s experiences with combined race and gendered oppression as they pursue STEM degrees.

Black Feminist Thought: A Critical Lens Focused on the Unique Experiences of Black Women While CRF focuses on anti-essentialism and an equitable analysis of the experiences of various non-White women, Black Feminist Thought (BFT) (Collins, 1990, 2000) provides a more detailed theoretical analysis of Black women’s specific experiences with racism and sexism. Accordingly, BFT is also cited in literature concerning the experiences of Black women in STEM (Allen et al., 2022; Borum & Walker, 2012; Bryson & Kowalske, 2022; Charleston et al., 2014b; Dickens et al., 2021). In some studies, this framework is combined with others such as CRF to further elucidate narrative concerning Black women in these fields (Charleston et al., 2014b). BFT builds upon various theoretical traditions including Afrocentric philosophy, feminist theory, Marxist social thought, critical thought, and postmodernism (Collins, 1990). It starts with the premise that “African-American women have created an independent, viable, yet subjugated knowledge concerning our own subordination” (Collins, 1990, p. 13). Furthermore, it “consists of specialized knowledge created by African-American women which clarifies a standpoint of and for Black women,” and it “encompasses theoretical interpretations of Black women’s reality by those who live it” (Collins, 1990, p. 22). BFT deliberately centers the voices of Black women, and it does so in a manner that is intentionally accessible to this group given the desire to speak to their lived experiences (Collins, 1990). Moreover, it acknowledges the need to include the works of a range of Black women thinkers to avoid treating this group monolithically and to counter the tendency of mainstream scholarship to canonize specific group spokespersons and then ignore any but those chosen few (Collins, 1990). Within the USA, the politics of BFT are rooted in the tension between suppressing African American women’s ideas and their intellectual activism in response to that oppression. Collins (2000) suggests that this oppression manifests within three dimensions to keep Black women in an assigned place of subordination: the economic dimension which notes the historic and contemporary exploitation of Black women’s labor as an essential part of US capitalism; the political dimension which denies Black women the rights and privileges routinely granted to White male citizens; and the ideological dimension which represents Black women in degrading and stereotypical ways as mammies, jezebels, welfare mothers, etc. As a critical social theory, BFT not only embodies knowledge and practices that “grapple with central questions facing US Black women as a group” (Collins, 2000, p. 31); it also

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seeks to empower Black women and advance social justice concerns as a counter to oppression and subjugation. BFT also acknowledges the power of intersecting oppressions based on race, gender, class, sexuality, national origin, and other factors (Collins, 2000). Hence, BFT’s critical nature lies in its objective to advance justice for US Black women, as well as others from similarly oppressed groups (Collins, 2000). In addition to being informed by multiple theoretical traditions, BFT is largely shaped by various forces that have relegated Black women’s voices to the margins— especially in the US social context. One such dynamic involves African American history, and African American women’s push for gender equality within Black social and political organizations that: (1) were largely run by African American men, and (2) did not stress Black women’s issues (Collins, 1990, 2000). Hence, BFT is informed by Black women’s fight to include their issues on the larger social and political agendas concerning Black communities. A similar fight emerged in terms of Black women and the larger framing of gender equity issues. As previously noted, various aspects of feminism and the overall gender rights movement have been critiqued for ignoring the experiences of women from racially marginalized groups (Hancock, 2022). Consequently, BFT emerged out of a need to counter the historical suppression of Black women’s ideas in feminist theory which primarily focused on White, middle-class women’s issues (Collins, 1990, 2000). Collectively, BFT seeks to disrupt the “masculinist bias in Black social and political thought and the racist bias in feminist theory” (Collins, 1990, p. 9). Collins (2000) notes that Black Feminism and BFT remain important because US Black women remain oppressed, with subordination existing within intersecting oppressions. Nonetheless, Collins (2000) acknowledges that BFT is dynamic and must change as social conditions evolve to ensure its continued relevance.

Intersectionality: Compounding Systems of Oppression Stemming from traditions similar to BFT, intersectionality is also frequently used in higher education literature concerning Black women in STEM. In fact, these two theoretical positions have often been combined in studies given their similarities (Sanchez et al., 2019). While BFT is positioned as an epistemological standpoint, intersectionality has been described as a paradigm or interpretive framework that can be used to explain social phenomena (Collins, 2000). This framework is common in higher education literature concerning Black women (Charleston et al., 2014a; Harris & Patton, 2019; Haynes et al., 2020; Ireland et al., 2018; Museus & Griffin, 2011; Patton & Ward, 2016). Intersectionality can be employed to examine how various systems of oppression interact to shape the unique experiences of marginalized groups (e.g., racism, sexism, classism, etc.); however, within STEM contexts, it has been primarily used to better understand the race and gendered experiences of Black women in fields where they often encounter a double bind from reinforcing oppressions due to race and gender, specifically (Malcom et al., 1976).

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There are various perspectives about the history of intersectionality as a concept, with some scholars suggesting that there is no single legitimate origin story (Collins & Bilge, 2016, 2020). While intersectional thought, advocacy, and social justice work pre-date intersectionality’s manifestation in academic settings (Collins & Bilge, 2016, 2020), Kimberlé Crenshaw (1989, 1991) is often credited for coining the term and indoctrinating it within the academy—specifically within legal scholarship. Crenshaw’s (1989, 1991) work is noted as an important “marker that shows not only intersectionality’s growing acceptance in the academy, but also how this acceptance subsequently reconfigured intersectionality as a form of critical inquiry and praxis” (Collins & Bilge, 2016, p. 81). As articulated by Crenshaw (1989, 1991), intersectionality offers a Black feminist criticism about the treatment of race and gender as “mutually exclusive categories of experience and analysis” (Crenshaw, 1989, p. 139). Moreover, it situates Black women, and by extension women from other racially marginalized groups, as knowledge-creators whose voices are obscured because of their social locations (Collins & Bilge, 2016; Crenshaw, 1989, 1991). In doing so, intersectionality disrupts the use of single-axis frameworks which dominate antidiscrimination law, feminist theory, and antiracist politics, noting how these frameworks distort the experience of racially marginalized women, and theoretically erases them by focusing on the most privileged of the oppressed whose experiences represent only a subset of the larger group (Crenshaw, 1989). Similar to BFT, intersectionality problematizes feminist theory for focusing primarily on the experiences of White women—especially those with greater financial resources. Crenshaw (1991) specifically notes instances where the experiences of poor and Black women have been objectified only to garner support and bolster protection for White women and not to “disrupt the patterns of neglect” that permitted problems to continue as long as it was imagined to be a “minority problem” (p. 1260). Moreover, in terms of Black people and antiracist politics, Crenshaw (1989) criticizes Black liberatory spaces for a failure to critique patriarchy. She notes that Black women often must set aside their concerns about gendered intraracial oppression in order to present a form of solidarity among the Black community. The struggle against racism results in the “subordination of certain aspects of the Black female experience in order to ensure the security of the larger Black community” (Crenshaw, 1989, p. 163). Crenshaw (1989) suggests that this largely results from the racial otherness that Black women experience along with Black men the prevents “Black feminist consciousness from patterning the development of white feminism” (1989, p. 162) given that White women do not have to battle subordination due to color and culture. Hence, the context of racism in which Black women operate makes the development of a political consciousness that is oppositional to Black men a challenge. Crenshaw (1991) suggests that this is also true for other women who experience intersecting race and gender marginalization. Moreover, Crenshaw (1989) indicates that “. . .the intersectional experience is greater than the sum of racism and sexism” (p. 140); hence the entire framework of feminist theory and antiracist policy discourse must be restructured analytically.

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There are several commonalities among the various concepts and frameworks previously outlined. The most noticeable common feature is their attention to the ways that racial oppression and gender oppression combine to create a unique space of discriminatory practice. Accordingly, a number of scholars have used either one of these lenses or a combination thereof to explore the racialized and gendered experience of Black women collegians pursuing STEM disciplines. The following section examines this literature in more detail.

A Thematic Review of Existing Research A number of themes emerge from extant literature concerning Black women collegians and their experiences pursuing STEM degrees. Some literature emphasizes the challenges that these students encounter during their academic pursuits, especially with regard to their raced and gendered experiences; the various ways in which marginalization manifests for Black women in these fields; and how STEM environments on many college campuses can be spaces of isolation and subordination— particularly at predominantly white institutions (PWIs). Other literature discusses the resolve of Black women pursuing STEM degrees, noting how supports from key individuals such as family and peers can help to foster positive outcomes; however, some research also cautions that resilience comes at a price. Another aspect of the literature examines Black college environments—specifically the experiences of Black women pursuing STEM degrees at HBCUs, along with the strengths and challenges that manifest within these institutions that influence Black women’s STEM academic success. The following sections examine each of these themes, outlining the tapestry of higher education literature concerning this topic. The vast majority of literature in this area is qualitative and centers the actual voices of Black women to provide a deeper understanding of their unique experiences traversing collegiate STEM environments. Accordingly, specific text from existing studies is incorporated in the discussion as appropriate to offer the reader intimate insights into the literature and the data that the authors drew upon to shape their analyses and findings. While each of the studies mentioned includes an analysis of multiple pieces of data, quotes from current research are highlighted in the text that follows to provide specific insights about how the various themes discussed emerged within the literature.

Race, Gender, and the Complexities of Intersectional Marginalization I get to [location name] and the first question someone asked was if I was someone’s secretary. . .because I’m Black? A woman? I can’t tease those things apart. (Charleston et al., 2014b, p. 171)

As previously discussed, a number of studies regarding the experiences of Black women in STEM employ intersectionality as a framework to explore the

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race-gendered biases that they encounter which can hinder their academic and professional trajectories in these fields (e.g., Charleston et al., 2014a; Dickens et al., 2021; Ireland et al., 2018; McGee & Bentley, 2017; Sanchez et al., 2019). It is also worth noting that many of these studies provide a glimpse into the complexities of negotiating intersecting forms of oppression due to race and gender, with a number of instances emerging where it was often hard to disentangle or differentiate if Black women’s experiences resulted from their race, gender, or race and gender combined (Charleston et al., 2014a, b; McGee & Bentley, 2017). These complexities manifest at different points along Black women’s academic trajectories in higher education. The opening quote illustrates this point, in which Charleston et al. (2014b) highlight the complexities of intersecting racial and gender identities in their qualitative study of Black women in computing. Moreover, the authors indicate that context is important in order to understand the most salient identifier for many Black women in STEM, noting that a greater emphasis may be placed on their race, gender, or both based upon the educational environment or social space. This finding echoes that of similar research (Charleston et al., 2014a). While pinpointing the source of marginalization was challenging in some studies (i.e., race, gender, or both), in other instances Black women identified race as a primary source of their mistreatment within STEM departments and their general experiences with discrimination (Charleston et al., 2014a, b; Dortch & Patel, 2017; McGee & Bentley, 2017). At times race and racism were more often identified as sources of marginalization than gender discrimination (Dortch & Patel, 2017). While discussing their encounters with racism, many Black women connected their experiences with broader issues related to bigotry and questions concerning Black intellect (Charleston et al., 2014a, b; Dortch & Patel, 2017; McGee & Bentley, 2017). This is illustrated in the following example by McGee and Bentley (2017) in their qualitative study of high-achieving Black undergraduate and graduate women in STEM. In this example, a doctoral student is explaining her unsupportive interactions with a faculty member and feeling left out because of her racial background. I’m dissertation stage. He didn’t even know that I wanted to be faculty. How is that possible? How. . .you’ve been with me now for years. How do you not know what I want to do when I leave here? But because we have this cultural difference. . .and he em—and sometimes it does feel funny when he embraces the other cultures and. . .and leaves me out. (p. 279)

Other research provides similar examples of racial discrimination. The following quote from Charleston et al. (2014a) offers insights about how some faculty in STEM departments subscribe to discriminatory ideas which circumscribes Black women’s potential and contributions in STEM. This statement reflects a comment that a faculty member made to an Asian student concerning a Black woman in his program: I don’t think she has talent. I think White professors gave her grades because of her race and they felt bad about slavery. I don’t think there are any real computer scientists who are Black, and maybe she can be the first. (p. 283)

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Both quotes from existing research illustrate how racism limits Black women’s STEM educational experiences, specifically. They also illustrate how racism is often top-of-mind in the ways that Black women describe their experiences and how key institutional actors (i.e., faculty members) (mis)construe these students’ potential. Some scholars have framed these experiences as reflections of anti-Blackness’ global entrenchment in STEM areas which situates Black people as “unsuitable to the demands of STEM education and employment” (McGee & Bentley, 2017, p. 279). Various studies indicate the racism that exists within STEM fields and the toxicity for individuals in those fields that are from racially marginalized groups (Charleston et al., 2014a; McGee, 2020, 2021; Park et al., 2022). While much of the literature highlights how discriminatory mindsets concerning Black women’s race and gender identities can present unique risks, drawing from the work of bell hooks (1989), one author suggests that “the margin can be a site of resistance and empowerment rather than simply a place of deprivation and domination” (Morton, 2021a, p. 314). From this vantage point, one study in particular explores how Black women’s racial and gender identities can be positive and empowering, thereby operating as a protective factor (Morton & Parsons, 2018). In a strength-based phenomenological study of undergraduate women’s STEM identity development and how it is shaped by race and gender, Morton and Parson (2018) found that although their study participants were aware of the historical and contemporary racial struggles afflicting Black people (e.g., stereotypes, discrimination, etc.), they also found “solace, pride and support in their Black racial identity” (p. 1384) which served as a protective mechanism contributing to their STEM persistence. Hence, this study offers initial insights and a complementary perspective about how facets of Black women’s identity can operate in both positive and negative ways.

Stereotypes as Mechanisms of Marginalization: Gender-Normed, Mammified, Jezebelled, and Misidentified One of our professors [from a] different culture, he said, ‘You could learn a lot from the women in my culture.’ Because [he’s] telling me to do something, I’m saying, ‘Okay, well, that sounds good, but in my class I learned this procedure. You don’t think that this would be a better procedure?’ He just looked at me. ‘You could learn a lot from women in my culture.’ So basically you’re telling me to shut the hell up, is what you’re saying to me. (McGee & Bentley, 2017, p. 281)

An overwhelming body of literature discusses the marginalizing experiences of Black women in STEM, with a particular emphasis on the various stereotypes that they encounter. Often noted are the gender norms to which Black women are expected to subscribe (Charleston et al., 2014b; McGee & Bentley, 2017; Rosa & Mensah, 2016) as well as their being misidentified as incapable because of assumptions concerning their intellect or lack thereof (Allen et al., 2022; Charleston et al., 2014a, b; Joseph, 2012; Morton, 2021a, b). The opening quote from a study by

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McGee and Bentley (2017) illustrates this as Sonya, a Black women doctoral student in Computer Engineering, describes her interaction with a professor and how his comments suggested African-American culture was deficient. Furthermore, this example illustrates attempts to employ gender norms in a manner that subordinates Black women and silences them in academic spaces, thereby misidentifying them as lacking intellect and rendering their potential contributions invisible. While the quote illustrates such treatment from faculty, other research suggests that students were also culprits, as some male colleagues would question why their Black women peers were not taking care of their husbands and children (Rosa & Mensah, 2016). The following discussion outlines some of the common themes in existing literature concerning how Black women collegians in STEM are marginalized by gender norms—particularly race-gendered norms that position them as “mammies” and “jezebels” (McGee & Bentley, 2017)—as well as cases of mistaken identity with regard to their “place” in STEM academic contexts.

Gender Norms and Black Women’s Race-Gendered Marginalization in STEM Areas Research notes the ways in which STEM fields are often viewed as masculine (Bejerano & Bartosh, 2015). Accordingly, the literature suggests that many Black women must disrupt stereotypes related to their identity as women in largely maledominated fields; however, from a gendered and raced perspective, they also must wrestle with stereotypes resulting from their unique identity as Black women. Some of these stereotypes are related to their behavior and the way Black women are expected to present themselves. As noted by a participant in one seminal study on successful Black women in computing, “There are often assumptions that I am supposed to act a certain way because I am a Black woman” (Charleston et al., 2014b, p. 171). The authors discuss how this student’s reflection relates to assumptions that Black women would be defiant and get upset when faced with unfavorable circumstances. Other research also discusses how many Black women in STEM environments at PWIs monitor aspects of their appearance in response to assumptions about what it means to look professional or smart (Joseph, 2012). While some of these stereotypes related to behavioral assumptions concerning Black women’s attitudes, other authors highlight stereotypes aligned with common tropes regarding Black women, their sexuality, and a social location of subordination deemed appropriate. Such treatment came from men from various racial/ethnic backgrounds, including Black men. The following data highlighted by McGee and Bentley (2017) illustrates this phenomenon: You need to become comfortable with sexual advances, which is cumbersome. Um, it really is. Because how do you prove it? You know, who do you. . .who do you confide in, how do you combat it? You just don’t. You just suck it up and say, ‘I’ve got 1, 2 more years left. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here,’ you know. And it’s not just here, because it is here, make no mistake. Um, but even when I go to conferences,. . .I’ve had a number of men ask to be on my committee, and then solicit me for sex. And so, uh, it sucks.. . .Some days I feel very powerless. Um, I feel like they make me their work wife. So, any time someone needs

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to take notes or run and get an errand and grab something to eat—flunky stuff—it’s typically me who gets those directives. (p. 280)

The authors note how this data does not only reflect stereotypical gender norms that may afflict any woman but are specific to the stereotype of Black women as Mammies (i.e., caretakers, especially of White people) by subjecting them to menial task such as running errands and “flunky stuff.” Moreover, the authors suggest that the example shared situates Black women as Jezebels (i.e., women deemed sexually promiscuous and acquiescent) by creating an environment where sexual harassment is so prevalent that it is deemed a common occurrence. Ultimately, McGee and Bentley (2017) note how such mistreatment positions Black women as a commodity instead of scholars and colleagues in STEM.

Marginalized and Misidentified Another prevalent finding within the literature is related to the ultimate misidentification of Black women in STEM. Such a phenomenon often took one of two forms—misidentification as questioning Black women’s legitimate physical presence in STEM spaces and misidentification as questioning Black women’s intellectual aptitude. Each of these can serve as a form of microaggression which devalues Black women’s roles as students in STEM. While the former ultimately forces Black women to answer questions (such as Are you supposed to be here?), the latter poses questions such as Are you smart enough to be here? It is worth noting that the term “misidentification” is not meant to suggest an innocent mistake on behalf of various individuals in academic settings. Instead, it is meant to convey the contours of mistaken identity that underestimate the potential of Black women to compete in highly competitive STEM fields. In this way, misidentification is used to describe the ways that bigotry, ignorance, and discrimination blind the ability of students, faculty, and other institutional actors to see who these Black women really were, as pointed out in existing literature (Allen et al., 2022; Charleston et al., 2014a, b; Joseph, 2012; Morton, 2021a, b). Research conducted by Allen et al. (2022) illustrates aspects of the misidentification related to Black women’s’ legitimate physical presence. In this study, the authors conducted a longitudinal qualitative analysis of Black women who enrolled at a community college and expressed an interest in transferring to a 4-year institution to major in a STEM field. The findings include the experiences of a computer science student named Kamala who shares how her physical presence was ignored and questioned by a professor at her 4-year institution after he suggested that she come to his office for assistance. The following text is included in the authors findings: When she arrived there, he ‘thought I was the wrong person. Like said, “are you sure you are in the right department and not nursing?”’ When faced with a Black woman, this professor thought that she did not belong in computer science and was looking for help in the wrong department, thereby communicating to Kamala his opinion that people who looked like her had no place in computer science. Kamala noted that this interaction was discouraging and made her ‘not even want to ask the question anymore.’ (p. 14)

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In addition to faculty, research notes how questions about Black women’s legitimate presence in academic spaces also manifested from on-campus staff members. Such microaggressions sometimes emerged in passive aggressive, debilitating ways that depicted differential treatment between Black women and other individuals viewed as legitimate STEM students (e.g., White men). As an illustration, the following data was shared by Dortch and Patel (2017) in their phenomenological study of Black undergraduate women and their sense of belonging in STEM at PWIs. This quote was provided by Brittney who studied physics: The standout things are being carded to go in doors when you see White men going past you who didn’t tap in or anything. That’s so frustrating. Like, stuff like that just rattled me. . .Being asked if I was lost when walking the physics halls. . .Me and my friends have also experienced like, situations where students are like, to our face, ‘You’re only here [in college] because you’re Black.’ (p. 210)

While discussing this data, the authors detail how Brittney experienced harassment from campus security by being carded when entering buildings, while White men who were also students were assumed to be in the right location. This and the previous example illustrate misidentification tied to questioning Black women’s legitimate presence in STEM academic spaces. A large bulk of research concerning Black women in STEM also notes forms of mistreatment which misidentify them as academically and intellectually inept. This can manifest in various ways including being ignored, being inappropriately interrupted while speaking, having their competence questioned, or generally receiving verbal or nonverbal signals that they do not belong (Allen et al., 2022; Charleston et al., 2014a, b; Joseph, 2012; Morton, 2021a, b; Rosa & Mensah, 2016). In their study, Charleston et al. (2014a) note that “identifying as a Black woman conjured a wealth of misperceptions and stereotypes regarding their academic identity as well as their intellectual capacity” (p. 282). The authors continued by sharing the following reflection from a Black woman whose is described as having a White male classmate who questioned her academic competence during a team assignment, made unilateral decisions on group work, and submitted assignments without her input— “Maybe there was the perception that I was female, I was Black, and I was incompetent. His perception was I was going to pull him down” (Charleston et al., 2014a, p. 282). Research from Allen et al., 2022, also reflected a similar phenomenon in the following quote where Serena, a former biology major at a PWI, describes being “talked over, having her competence questioned” (p. 14) and overall messages that she did not belong in her STEM subject. The final shock for me was, I had a lab and it was like me and two White guys and a White woman and one of the guys. . .didn’t talk very much. The other White guy was older and. . .would talk over me and the other young lady in our lab group. . .It was literally just me and him contributing ideas. We were cutting things and examining stuff and if I made a point and said, ‘this is this, I am identifying the body part or whatever,’ and he would always challenge it and call over the TA to settle a dispute. I happened to be right and he would just be, ‘okay, let’s move on,’ but if it was him being right, he would be like, ‘I knew I was right’

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and making a big deal out of it and it was like he would challenge me in ways that he did not challenge anyone else in the group even though he spoke over the other young lady and she was adamant but he wouldn’t call the TA over to ask a question. (p. 14)

The authors discuss how Serena’s negative experiences made her lose her confidence and excitement about STEM. This ultimately caused her to decide to leave the field and switch majors to social science. In explaining this decision, Serena shared, “being a person of color it was going to be 10 times harder for me. It made me think how passionate I am about this? To put up with this. I decided I wasn’t. I love it but not that much” (Allen et al., 2022, p. 9). The insight offered by Serena illustrate how many Black women in STEM fields, even those with great academic potential, can have their value and belonging questioned in ways that not only misidentifies them but also pushes them away from continuing in their initial majors. Furthermore, this example illustrates how Black women can often be treated differently from other women in these fields. Other studies note how Black women in STEM can have difficulty finding support or allyship with other non-Black women students in their field (Charleston et al., 2014a, b; Dortch & Patel, 2017).

Isolation and Subordination: Unwelcoming Environments and the Loneliness of Onliness for Black Women Studying STEM It took a good six weeks before people were finally opening up to me. (Charleston et al., 2014a, p. 282)

Various studies within higher education note the critical influence of academic environments on students’ experiences and outcomes (Museus, 2013; Williams & Taylor, 2022; Taylor & Williams, 2022). An overwhelming finding in literature concerning Black women in STEM illustrates the ways in which these students find these fields and, by extension, STEM academic settings, unwelcoming. As a result of these characteristics, research suggests that Black women often feel isolated and, in many instances, subordinated as one of a few, if not the only Black women represented within the academic settings of these fields—a phenomenon representing the loneliness of onliness. The opening quote from the work of Charleston et al. (2014a, b) illustrates this point, as they describe the experiences of Black women in computing as inundated with isolation that is “precipitated by the lack of support from faculty and their respective institution alike. . .” (p. 282). The text that follows provides further insights into this phenomenon as evidenced by existing literature. A common theme across the literature on Black women in STEM suggests various unwelcoming aspects of these disciplines. Many studies situate STEM environments as toxic, noting issues such as structural racism, sexism, race-gendered biases, problematic institutional culture, and problematic disciplinary practices designed to weed out students (Allen et al., 2022; Borum & Walker, 2012; Charleston et al., 2014a; Joseph, 2012; McGee & Bentley, 2017). For instance, the work of

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Charleston et al. (2014a) discusses the unwelcoming nature of the computing landscape in particular and problematic institutional culture—especially at PWIs. The study generally notes the “enduring presence of racism and sexism throughout the STEM and computing science educational trajectory” (p. 285), while emphasizing Black women’s progression from undergraduate to graduate study and highlighting power relations that manifest at the intersections of race and gender. Similarly, other research on Black women in STEM has described the departmental climate at PWIs as chilly (Allen et al., 2022; Joseph, 2012) and culturally insensitive (Dortch & Patel, 2017). Dortch and Patel (2017) shared the following quote in their study on Black women doctoral students reflecting upon their undergraduate experiences in STEM. In this excerpt, a Black woman in their study discusses experiences with racial microaggressions during her nursing program. I had some racial experiences based on patients. One encounter was, they kept asking if I was Hispanic because I look racially ambiguous. Then they went on this tangent on how Mexicans shouldn’t be in this [country]. This is before I had told them that I was Black and White and they assumed that I was Mexican. They said that Mexicans should just go back over the border, just said some horrible racial things about Mexican people and that was like, I was just like, you just like assume that I was Mexican and then you said all this nasty stuff! It was completely inappropriate and I remember going to my professor and clinical instructor and she was like, ‘Oh, that’s horrible.’ Period. That’s it. And so this was outrageous. I remember reading that some of the nursing books that said when you press down your skin, you should turn pink; my skin doesn’t turn pink, so I was pissed like from the literature that we were reading, from my clinical and interactions with patients who didn’t wanna work with me because I was like brown. And you’re not gonna address this? You’re not gonna say nothing, I was told about cultural competence and I was like, I was very upset. . . (p. 209)

The authors note the faculty member’s complacency in responding to the student’s concern about the racist remarks made by a patient. They also discuss the systematic lack of cultural competence in her field as reflected in the learning materials used during coursework, framing these collective issues as microinsults against Black women that are “promoted and reinforced in STEM cultures and environments” (p. 212). Other research has captured the negative influence of structural institutional and departmental challenges by examining Black women who were enthusiastic about pursuing STEM degrees initially and how their interests subsided as they transitioned from supportive collegiate environments to those where support was nonexistent. Allen et al. (2022) conducted a longitudinal qualitative study of Black women in STEM, their transition from a community college to 4-year institutions, and how their experiences differed according to institutional context. While in community college, the students were excited about the opportunities ahead of them and confident about their potential in these fields, although they knew they would be underrepresented. They indicated positive experiences with instructors who were described as helpful, passionate about teaching, and willing to put in extra effort to build relationships with students. Moreover, students indicated overwhelmingly supportive and positive relationships with peers—connections that often remained

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even after transferring. Despite a promising start in the community college environment, when interviewed 3 years later, each of the Black women in the study had either left STEM, were planning to leave, or regretted staying. Many of the students who left STEM cited climate issues as their motivation, reporting transfer shock resulting from an unsupportive institutional environment; instructors that were dismissive and uncommitted to teaching; and peers that did not want to work with them and/or questioned what they knew. Collectively, the authors described these incidents as reflective of a chilly climate in STEM. Moreover, the authors explained how these experiences resulted in systematic discouragements related to Black women’s race and gender, along with their social class at times. Other work notes how the trauma of unsupportive STEM environments has damaged Black women’s self-esteem and resulted in their leaving programs without the intended degree, second guessing their degree ambitions or enrolling a different institution (Borum & Walker, 2012). Also, complimentary research notes how perceptions about the degree to which particular STEM fields are (un)welcoming shape Black women’s STEM career choices and their related academic decisions (Jackson, 2013). Problematic STEM cultures and environments are closely connected to negative interpersonal experiences that are also quite common in the literature on Black women in STEM. Given the limited number of Black women in many STEM areas, unwelcoming STEM environments often create facets of onliness which ultimately leave many Black women feeling alone, out-of-place, and without sufficient opportunities to develop race and gender peer social networks (Allen et al., 2022; Charleston et al., 2014a; McGee & Bentley, 2017; Sanchez et al., 2019). To be sure, not all Black women in STEM express concerns about isolation from peers, faculty, etc. due to their race or gender (Borum & Walker, 2012), and other work notes the need to attend to variations that may also manifest within this demographic (Winkle-Wagner et al., 2019). Nonetheless, the ark of the literature notes common acts of isolation against Black women in many STEM fields, including limited social interactions with peers, exclusion from peers during group-related activities (Charleston et al., 2014a, b; Dortch & Patel, 2017; McGee & Bentley, 2017), and (as noted earlier) general mistreatment from faculty who were sometimes described as the central contributors to Black women’s isolating experiences (Allen et al., 2022; Borum & Walker, 2012; Charleston et al., 2014b). As a result, many Black women felt the need to deal with various problems alone and/or the need to overcompensate as the only Black women in their programs in order to serve as a positive example of their abilities (McGee & Bentley, 2017; Morton, 2021a; Sanchez et al., 2019). In some instances, Black women also felt obligated to function as cultural brokers with their non-Black peers, being responsible for exposing them to aspects of Black culture given that they were the only Black students in their departments (Joseph, 2012). Literature suggests that the presence of other non-Black women did not help to alleviate isolation, with these women often being unable to relate to the experiences of their Black women colleagues and their need to find community with students of a similar background (Charleston et al., 2014a, b; Dortch & Patel, 2017; Rosa & Mensah, 2016). Also, the role of Black male colleagues in helping to assuage isolation is mixed. While some research

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discusses how Black males were resources to Black women in dealing with some aspects of mistreatment—especially matters related to sexual harassment (McGee & Bentley, 2017)—other studies note the ways in which some Black men “othered” their Black female colleagues in STEM academic settings. The “othering” process was sometimes related to perceptions of relative (un)importance. Recognizing that White males are viewed more favorably in STEM—particularly from professors— some research suggests that Black men were more inclined to try to develop relationships with their White male counterparts than their Black women peers (Charleston et al., 2014a, b). Other work documents intra-racial and gender microinvalidations that Black women experienced from Black men based upon their physical attributes (Dortch & Patel, 2017). Hence, the literature suggests that, in some instances, Black men were not reliable sources of camaraderie or social support and instead helped to perpetuate the loneliness of onliness for Black women who were underrepresented because of both their race and gender. This phenomenon appears to manifest despite the shared racial identity between these two groups of students.

Resolve Re-examined: Resilience and Its Unanticipated Negative Consequences Given the social and academic isolation that many Black women experience while pursuing STEM degrees, literature notes the various strategies they employed in attempts to traverse challenging STEM environment successfully. This included things such as having a strong commitment to their goals (Joseph, 2012); actively working to demonstrate their academic competence in attempts to prove themselves (Morton, 2021a); trying to establish relationships with others in STEM, with a particular emphasis on networks of students from underrepresented groups (Morton, 2021a; Rosa & Mensah, 2016); and becoming heavily involved in various activities in their department to try to feel more included, albeit often without the anticipated outcome (Joseph, 2012; Rosa & Mensah, 2016). The literature also underscores the importance of faith and religious beliefs in helping Black women to get through challenging situations as students in STEM fields (Ferguson & Martin-Dunlop, 2021; McGee & Bentley, 2017), and how their STEM commitments were often sustained by their desire to increase Black women’s representation in STEM and ultimately change the field for future generations (Dortch & Patel, 2017; Lane & Id-Deen, 2023; McGee & Bentley, 2017). Another common thread across the literature points toward the role of family in not only helping to cultivate Black women’s interest in STEM but also sustaining their persistence (Allen et al., 2022; Charleston et al., 2014a; Ferguson & Martin-Dunlop, 2021; Jackson, 2013; Lane & Id-Deen, 2023; Morton & Parsons, 2018; Morton, 2021a). While many studies note the utility of these factors in helping to foster successful outcomes, often framing them as sources of resilience, other research also emphasizes the unanticipated negative consequences of such resolve. The following sections discuss these aspects of existing research in more depth.

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Family and Family Redefined A number of studies emphasize the important role of family in shaping Black women’s STEM trajectories. Family influence is discussed from two vantage points throughout the literature. One aspect focuses on family via blood relatives—a common definition. Another aspect focuses on the critical role of parakin or fictive kin family (i.e., individuals who do not share blood connections, but are treated as family) and the role that these individuals play in providing necessary supports (Williams, 2014a). Regardless of how family is defined, the overwhelming bend of the literature suggests that familial connections are instrumental to Black women’s success in STEM. From a pathway perspective, research underscores the important role of blood relatives on Black women’s early STEM academic trajectories, emphasizing how these individuals help to cultivate their initial STEM aspirations and encourage them to pursue STEM degrees in college (Allen et al., 2022; Ferguson & Martin-Dunlop, 2021; Lane & Id-Deen, 2023). Moreover, a study by Ferguson and Martin-Dunlop (2021) provides useful insights about stories of resilience among Black women in STEM areas. The authors discuss how Black women’s motivation to engage in STEM often resulted from spending time with family members who shared similar interests. They note that parents play an important role by helping Black girls and women to become more efficacious about their ability to achieve their STEM goals. They also emphasize the benefits of high levels of parental involvement and encouragement within grade school and beyond—even if the parents had no prior collegiate experiences to help inform their guidance. Moreover, the authors frame high parental expectations as a source of resilience—expectations that encouraged Black women to remain steadfast despite challenges such as racism and bullying. In addition to a general discussion about parents, the role of mothers in particular has been noted in research (Lane & Id-Deen, 2023; Jackson, 2013; Morton & Parsons, 2018). The following quote from a study conducted by Lane and Id-Deen (2023) illustrates how mothers nurtured Black women’s STEM interest and helped them to develop the capital necessary to achieve in these fields. It was just my mom trying to keep us active. ‘Here, try something new out. You don’t have to just go do basketball or something like that. Let’s do something to stimulate your mind.’ I remember every Saturday; I would spend my entire Saturday learn[ing] Javascript. Of course, I wasn’t too excited about 13 years old, going, yeah. Missing my Saturday. But. . .I’m glad my mom made me do it cuz it just opened up my eyes and now I’m here [in college]. (p. 17)

This quote illustrates mothers’ commitment to enhancing Black girls’ STEM exposure and investments. The authors continue by discussing mothers’ dedication to ensuring that their Black daughters had access to STEM programming during early points in their academic trajectories and to helping facilitate their daughters’ participation (Lane & Id-Deen, 2023). In other studies, mothers are cited as sources of support and inspiration for Black women to persist in STEM fields despite challenging circumstances (Morton &

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Parsons, 2018). In some instances, mothers also traversed challenging STEM environments during their academic training, and their professional outcomes and success helped to facilitate positive STEM identity development for their Black daughters (Jackson, 2013). Drawing from their blood relative support systems, research notes how many Black women were proud of the pride their families had about their accomplishments, which ultimately helped to further fuel their desires to succeed (Lane & Id-Deen, 2023). Moreover, some Black women felt that their success was not only important for them individually but also to the family unit. One motivation to succeed was rooted in a desire to serve as a positive example for other family members, and another was rooted in their desire to financially support their families after graduation (Lane & Id-Deen, 2023). In addition to blood relatives, studies note the ways in which chosen family (i.e., parakin relatives) were also important sources of support for Black women in STEM areas, serving as an extension of individuals with biological connections. In some instance, these familial relationships manifested within the context of programs specifically designed to provide academic resources to Black women in STEM. For instance, using Yosso’s (2005) community cultural wealth framework, Lane and Id-Deen (2023) situated supportive interactions with program staff in STEM summer programs as sources of familial capital which supported Black women’s and girls’ academic, socio-emotional, and professional needs; helped to develop a sense of purpose, self-awareness, belonging, and responsibility; provided spaces for students to be themselves with care and support from staff to cultivate academic outcomes and personal well-being; and helped to foster critical consciousness that prioritized community well-being and group success over individual achievement. Along with structured support from administrators within programs, studies also note the importance of Black women’s relationships with each other to help sustain their STEM commitments (Charleston et al., 2014a; Morton, 2021a). Some work discusses the importance of sister circles for Black women’s resilience and persistence in STEM fields, situating these as sites of “fellowship, friendship, support, and community” (Morton, 2021a, p. 307). Literature notes how such communities can provide opportunities for Black women in STEM to discuss, assess, and validate aspects of their race-gendered experiences—particularly their experiences with microaggressions. Furthermore, such intragroup interactions provided emotional social support and safe avenue for members’ personal expressions (Morton, 2021a). Beyond the specific context of sister circles, literature notes the unique value that Black women bring to each other in collectively disrupting racist and sexist stereotypes about them (Charleston et al., 2014a).

At What Cost?: The Trauma of Resilience As a parallel to research concerning Black women’s resilience in STEM and the factors that enhanced their persistence, another branch of research explores the various sacrifices that Black women make while pursuing STEM fields and the challenges that can often accompany such resolve (McGee & Bentley, 2017; Morton & Nkrumah, 2021; Rosa & Mensah, 2021). While this research does not devalue Black women’s steadfastness and how it has helped them to actualize success, it

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critiques an over emphasis on resilience at the expense of discourse that (1) critically examines the toxicity of STEM disciplinary and academic environments and (2) disrupts problematic systems of oppression which necessitate resilience. Some of this research discusses the physiological toil of resilience on Black women’s health. For instance, in a study concerning the troubled success of high-achieving Black women in STEM fields, McGee and Bentley (2017) discuss the stress that some Black women experience in racially charged STEM environments where they feel the need to prove themselves and how that can ultimately result in negative physical consequences. The following insights are provided from a student in their study who developed a neurological condition because of the stress she experienced as a STEM student. Again, it was so difficult studying in an environment that seemed to loathe your very presence. So, as I was gearing up to take the qualifier the spring of 2010, I studied so hard and I stressed so hard I ended up getting sick, really sick. I don’t know if you know what Bell’s palsy is. Bell’s palsy is when a part of you may be paralyzed and one of the causes is stress. And so, I ended up, the right side of my face was paralyzed. And it ended up going away, but from then on, I was like, ‘I gotta take care of myself.’ But. . .that’s how hard I studied. I took the qualifying exam; 14 people took it at that time I believe. And I ended up failing; I failed that time.

The authors continued by describing how the hostile racial climate and race-related stress that the student experienced resulted in racial battle fatigue—“the psychological and physiological stress that racially marginalized individuals experience in response to specific race-related interactions between them and the surrounding dominant environment” (Smith et al., 2020, p. 86). Other research on Black women in STEM also highlights connections between stressful environments, physical health issues, and racial battle fatigue (Morton, 2021a). In addition to physiological challenges, research discusses the negative psychological consequences of STEM environments that are laden with racial biases, and how Black women’s resistance and persistence in oppressive environments can be described as unhealthy coping (Morton, 2021b; Morton & Nkrumah, 2021). In doing so, this work notes how a focus on coping promotes individual reform instead of a focus on larger structural issues in STEM disciplines (Morton & Nkrumah, 2021). As an alternative, a number of scholars argue a need to examine Black women’s experiences in STEM fields using a critical assessment of the environments that these students traverse (McGee & Bentley, 2017; Morton & Nkrumah, 2021; Rosa & Mensah, 2021) and radically transform STEM spaces so that high levels of resilience—especially around race and gender issues—are not necessary for Black women’s success (Morton, 2021b; Morton & Nkrumah, 2021; Rosa & Mensah, 2021). Furthermore, some authors suggest redefining what success looks like in STEM to employ a more communal lens focused on service to others (Rosa & Mensah, 2021). Collectively, this body of work points toward the possible trauma of resilience and a need to change STEM spaces to help facilitate Black women’s success therein—not to change Black women to better fit into the toxicity found in many of these fields.

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HBCUs and Black Women in STEM Fields: The Nuances of Racial Identity Spaces Similar to Black women (and the Black communities from which they come), HBCUs often experience organizational challenges and deficit framing that is rooted in anti-Blackness sentiments which position them as inferior to PWIs in STEM disciplines and other domains (McGee & Bentley, 2017; Williams et al., 2019a). However, prevailing research consistently underscores these institutions’ important contributions to the production of Black STEM professionals (Williams & Taylor, 2022; Anderson et al., 2018; Dillon et al., 2021a, b). In addition to research concerning the role of these institutions in producing Black STEM professionals, some studies specifically note the experiences of Black women in STEM at HBCUs. As a contrast to the literature focusing largely on the negative experiences of Black women in STEM at PWIs, a substantial portion of the literature concerning their experiences at HBCUs emphasizes the ways in which these institutions can be culturally affirming and creates supportive environments for Black women’s academic and professional development. However, some studies also suggest limited levels of support for Black women at some HBCUs as the faculty and student demographics on these campuses shift such that these institutions may be primarily Black but certain STEM departments are not. The following sections discuss these attributes of HBCUs, and the nuances of Black women’s STEM experiences within the context of these academic spaces of racial identity.

Faculty, Administration, and Institutional Commitments to Black Women’s STEM Success The overall thrust of literature suggests that many Black women have positive STEM experiences at HBCUs, thereby underscoring these institutions’ unique ability to create spaces of affirmation for many of these students. The following quote from an analysis by Jackson (2013) of Black women who transferred from a community college to an HBCU illustrates this point: Developing a STEM identity was not challenging for me at all. I heard many people say oh STEM oh STEM it is so hard and you really have to work at it and it is challenging for certain groups. Well it definitely helped that at [SPU] my peers looked like me and had many of the same goals and values so that was an easy transition and took away some of my fears. Now that that is out of the way, I can focus on being a STEM student. When I think about it, I guess I can see the challenges if I was to go to a school that was all white. Ok yeah then I would have to find people who looks like me and that I get along with and then on top of that find people who look like me in my area [STEM]. So yeah, I would definitely have to say that. (p. 264)

As indicated in this quote, HBCUs provide an environment where many Black women can focus on developing their STEM identity without the challenges of racial biases. Literature notes that these affirming spaces are often the result of institutional characteristics that emphasize support over weed-out dispositions and the attentive

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work of faculty and administrators to help Black women in STEM to achieve their academic goals. For example, in a case study of Spelman College—an all-women’s HBCU—Perna et al. (2009) examined how institutional policies and practices mitigate barriers to Black women’s attainment in STEM, such as inadequate STEM preparation before college and financial barriers therein. The findings suggest that faculty at Spelman were intentional about the following for these students: reinforcing their aspirations; finding ways to help lower-performing students in difficult core courses; and fostering their self-esteem even when students encounter academic setbacks. Like other research concerning the detrimental impact of students’ financial strain on STEM outcomes (Rosa & Mensah, 2016; Williams, 2014a), this study notes how financial difficulties related to college costs were sometimes a barrier to educational attainment. In response, faculty helped to alleviate some of these issues by recommending students for paid undergraduate research opportunities. Unlike other studies which note the hands-off nature of faculty in terms of establishing study groups at PWIs and how that disadvantages Black women (Morton, 2021a), Perna et al. (2009) suggest that faculty at Spelman promoted student participation in these groups, sometimes helping to craft them in a way that mixed students who were doing well with those who were not so that they could learn from each other. This ultimately reflects a faculty disposition toward collective achievement instead of exclusion. At an institutional level, the Black women in the study indicated that it was apparent that the institution invested a lot of resources in STEM research and creating an environment to nurture their development. This included having small class sizes and locating faculty offices in areas that students can easily access. Other research on HBCUs and Black women in STEM also notes the benefits of small class sizes on their academic development (Borum & Walker, 2012). Perna et al. (2009) note that many students chose to attend Spelman because of its reputation of producing successful Black women in STEM and faculty commitments to students’ success. Similarly, other research discusses the positive experiences of Black women in STEM at Spelman and how attending that institution enhanced their confidence in their ability to make substantial contributions to STEM fields (Morton, 2021a; Jackson & Winfield, 2014). In addition to studies that are specific to Black women’s colleges, research also examines how senior administrators on various HBCU campuses have been instrumental in helping Black women to succeed in STEM. Lockett et al. (2018) conducted a multi-site case study of 71 Black women STEM students and 6 HBCU presidents across 10 HBCU campuses to explore how these institutions shape Black women’s STEM degree ambitions. The study generally underscores the positive impacts of engagement between senior-level administrators (i.e., deans, provosts, vice presidents, and presidents) and Black women in STEM, noting how these interactions help these students to feel supported and motivated which contributed to their success. This often included encouragement and motivating words of affirmation. Moreover, the authors suggest that senior administrators helped to shape an overall supportive organizational ethos reflective of the familial culture of care at HBCUs and their historical commitments to community uplift that is often

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noted in other literature (Winkle-Wagner & McCoy, 2018; Williams et al., 2022, 2021). From this vantage point, the research suggests that senior-level administrators were purposeful about putting institutional supports into place to help matriculating students and implementing organizational changes to be responsive to students’ feedback—particularly as it relates to feelings concerning their treatment on campus. Specifically, the authors noted that “students believe that their opinions are valued by senior administrators and woven into an institutional culture of community” which helps them to be successful (Lockett et al., 2018, p. 9). Ultimately, this research suggests that many HBCU senior-level administrators (including presidents) saw student support via direct engagement with students as a priority in addition to their general administrative duties—a form of practice that is not always apparent within many higher education institutions. While the previous studies focus squarely on the experiences of Black women in STEM on HBCU campuses, other studies have taken a different approach by comparing the experiences of Black women in STEM at HBCUs and PWIs (Borum & Walker, 2012; Johnson et al., 2019; Joseph, 2012; Morton, 2021a). Relative to PWIs, this body of literature generally highlights that HBCU environments are more supportive because of positive experiences that Black women in STEM have with faculty, staff, and their peers (Borum & Walker, 2012; Joseph, 2012; Morton, 2021a; Rosa & Mensah, 2016); affirm Black women’s potential by instilling a strong self-belief in their abilities (Joseph, 2012); encourage advanced educational pursuits in STEM (Joseph, 2012); offer co-curricular activities that help to facilitate Black women’s success in STEM (Borum & Walker, 2012); and provide positive exposure to potential role models (Johnson et al., 2019; Joseph, 2012). Literature also notes how these environments instill a sense of social responsibility (Joseph, 2012), an important attribute given other research which notes the value of Black women being able to connect their STEM pursuits to helping their communities (Dillon & Williams, 2020a, b). Authors also note how, relative to Black women in STEM at PWIs, Black women at HBCUs often experience a higher sense of belonging within the institution and within STEM (Johnson et al., 2019). This finding is likely related to broader educational logics that undergird many of these institutions and that can manifest within some HBCU STEM departments (Williams & Taylor, 2022).

Black But Limiting: Negative Implications of Black STEM Spaces that Reflect Anti-Blackness and Male-Domination While many studies note the positive experiences of Black women in STEM at HBCUs, some literature also points toward the complexities of their race and/or gendered experiences on some HBCU campuses, suggesting that there can be some variations in how Black women experience these environments (Morton, 2021a, b; McGee & Bentley, 2017). This smaller body of work illustrates the downfalls of Black educational spaces where Black women’s gender, race, or race-gendered identities are not centered, thereby making these institutional environments Black but also limiting. For instance, Morton (2021b) illustrates the gender-related

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challenges of underrepresentation for Black women at a Black institution. In a study of Black women in an undergraduate research experience (URE) at an HBCU, Morton (2021b) outlines how the institution’s racial makeup facilitated support by validating students’ racial identity. Also, the STEM URE incorporated aspects of students’ personal interests within the learning environment which created a space of affirmation. However, the author discusses how the limited number of Black women faculty at the HBCU that could serve as STEM mentors (an aspect of the department that reflects larger representation issues in the field) had detrimental impacts on Black women participants by reifying STEM culture as White and male-dominated. The author then discussed how this can ultimately result in alienation, isolation, and minoritization even within the context of a Black institution. Other work takes a critical look at HBCU environments for Black women in STEM and how they can evolve from supportive to isolating due to shifts in student and faculty demographics or institutional policies. As an example, McGee and Bentley (2017) provide insights about a Black woman in their study who had drastically different experiences at her HBCU as an undergraduate and graduate student in STEM. This individual discussed having positive undergraduate experiences at her HBCU, where faculty supported students’ development and helped to prepared them for various opportunities postgraduation. Later, that same environment was different when this person returned for graduate training. After completing her undergraduate degree, the STEM department at this institution experienced student and faculty demographic changes that privileged non-Black individuals. These changes were described as related to broader structural issues, including defunding scholarships for Black students and racist ideologies that favored the hiring of Middle Eastern and Asian faculty who were generally thought to be smarter than Black candidates. The authors note how these non-Black faculty members mistreated Black students by being unsupportive and disengaged, exhibiting a lack of commitment to these students’ success without being held accountable. They situate this type of treatment within an HBCU as indicative of the “pervasiveness of anti-Black racism in STEM” (McGee & Bentley, 2017, p. 280) and discuss how “global anti-Blackness is playing out at HBCUs and against the recent mantra of diversifying STEM fields” (McGee & Bentley, 2017, p. 279). Similarly, other studies document how policy shifts and related politics rooted in structural racism have transformed STEM spaces on some HBCU campuses from supportive and inclusive of Black students to isolating, particularly when Black students evolve from the majority to an minoritize minority (Darnell, 2015). To be sure, research notes the ways in which non-Black faculty who position themselves as allies can support Black women in STEM despite racial/ethnic differences (Johnson et al., 2019; Rosa & Mensah, 2016). However, these findings illustrate instances in which Black women in STEM can feel racially marginalized in HBCU spaces that are no longer Black-centered and underscore the need for research to attend to the current demographics and commitments of institutions in addition to their traditional or historic missions. This is especially important given the increased levels of diversity prevalent in STEM departments at many historically Black institutions (Mobley et al., 2017).

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Making Conceptual Connections Across the Literature: A Role Strain and Adaptation Model for Black Women’s Student Development in STEM Fields As previously discussed, many of the current studies on Black undergraduate women in STEM employ lenses such as CRF (Wing, 2003), BFT (Collins, 1990, 2000), and intersectionality (Collins & Bilge, 2016, 2020; Crenshaw, 1989, 1991) to articulate the race and gendered experiences of Black undergraduate women in STEM. What is missing is a holistic framework which illustrates how various important elements shape these experiences, guided by these conceptual underpinnings. Building upon the literature previously reviewed, this section offers a framework concerning the experiences of Black women in many STEM fields which synthesizes two largely disparate bodies of work in this area—one which focuses on Black women collegians’ challenges and another which focuses on their sources of resilience. In doing so, the framework that follows brings together these bodies of literature, making conceptual connections between them in a dialogic fashion. The proposed conceptual model is informed by a number of theoretical traditions, including BFT (Collins, 1990, 2000) and intersectionality (Collins & Bilge, 2016, 2020; Crenshaw, 1989, 1991) previously detailed. Both lenses underscore the unique experiences of Black women from an epistemological standpoint and the importance of theoretical considerations that reflect their specific realities. Additionally, given the nature of the current cannon of research which discusses Black women collegians’ challenges and resilience in STEM, the model draws upon social psychological theories concerning role strain and adaptation (Bowman, 2006). Such lenses discuss the interplay between strain (i.e., challenges) that individuals may have in a highly valued life role (i.e., being a student), as well as strengths they may pull from in attempts to overcome those challenges (e.g., resilience). These parallel facets of Black women’s experience in STEM emerged from the thematic discussion of extant literature previously outlined. Role strain and adaptation framing has been used in various studies concerning marginalized students and their experiences in STEM (Burt et al., 2018, 2019; Williams, 2014a, b, 2020; Williams & Davis, 2021; Williams et al., 2016, 2019b). One prominent framework often discussed in this body of research is the Bowman role strain and adaptation model (BRSAM) which describes how strain and adaptation combine to influence successful outcomes. A central aspect of the BRSAM is its utilization of role strain theory which has been used in fields such as sociology (Goode, 1960), psychology (Bowman, 2006, 2012), and more recently, education (Williams, 2020; Williams & Davis, 2021; Williams et al., 2019b). Role strain theory suggests that individuals can encounter various life difficulties (i.e., strains) that have the potential to hinder successful outcomes in a particular life role (Goode, 1960). Building upon role strain theory, the BRSAM acknowledges the strains that individuals can encounter within a life role (e.g., as a student) but situates strain within a confluence of other important factors that ultimately impact these challenging experiences. These factors include structural social inequalities and stratification related to individual’s background characteristics; life course and biological factors

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such as age and parental status; and social psychological (i.e., psychosocial) risk factors that manifest at personal, social, and ecological levels (i.e., multilevel psychosocial risks) which can encourage risky behaviors in response to role difficulties. Although the BRSAM centers upon the concept of role strain, as a strength-based model, it also centers the concept of role adaptation. Role adaptation represents the ways in which resilient individuals (e.g., resilient students) mobilize multilevel strengths in response to role difficulties, thereby promoting successful outcomes (e.g., academic advancement) (Bowman, 2006). The model suggests that role adaptation and related coping strategies can be shaped by multilevel psychosocial strengths which operate as protective factors at the personal, social, and ecological levels as well. The role strain and adaptation model for Black women’s STEM success in college presented below (Fig. 2) combines the epistemological underpinnings of BFT and intersectionality, with the conceptual insights from the BRSAM to offer a specific framework for understanding the experiences of Black women collegians in STEM in a manner informed by existing research in this area. In doing so, I adapt and extend the BRSAM to more explicitly articulate: the structured inequities that many Black woman collegians encounter in STEM as a result of their intersectional identities; how those inequities shape the overall STEM academic opportunity structure of Black women in these fields; and important components of Black woman collegians’ multilevel psychosocial strengths and risks—particularly factors related to STEM departments, overall institutional environments, and disciplinary logics noted in existing research. As the model is discussed, relevant connections to existing research are noted as useful contextual information. Given the various outcomes that were considered in the literature, as well as studies that examined Black women’s experiences generally, this model focuses on Black women’s overall success in STEM fields as a broad concept which includes outcomes such as future academic plans and other metrics related to successful progression toward STEM MULTILEVEL PSYCHOSOCIAL STRENGTHS

ƒ Ecological o Institutional Environment (e.g., Institutional Policy Resources; Affirming Educational Logics) † o Departmental (i.e., Supportive Environments) † ƒ Social (e.g., Faculty, Peer and Familial Support) ƒ Personal (e.g., Goal Commitment)

MULTILEVEL PSYCHOSOCIAL RISKS ƒ Ecological o Disciplinary (e.g., Unsupportive Logics) † o Institutional Environment (e.g., Lack of Diversity)† o Departmental (i.e., Unsupportive Environments) † ƒ Social (e.g., Negative Interactions w/ Peers & Faculty) ƒ Personal (e.g., Racial Battle Fatigue)

SOCIAL STRATIFICATION Structured Inequities in STEM † ƒ Socioeconomic Status ƒ Gender/Gender Role ƒ Race/Ethnicity ƒ Intersectional Identities (e.g., Gender & Race/Ethnicity) †

STEM ACADEMIC OPPORTUNITY STRUCTURE †

STUDENT ROLE STRAIN

COPING BEHAVIORS ƒ Adaptive Strategies ƒ Risky Strategies

PHYSCIOLOGICAL WELL-BEING † (e.g., Negative Medical Conditions)

STEM SUCCESS & RELATED EXPERIENCES † (e.g., Persistence, Degree Completion, etc.)

Fig. 2 Role strain and adaptation model for Black women’s STEM Success in College. († Denotes extensions of the Bowman Role Strain and Adaptation Model)

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degrees and careers. Specific notations are included in Fig. 1 to highlight how the model extends and builds upon the BRSAM. Like the BRSAM, the model in Fig. 2 first situates social stratification as an important point of entry, acknowledging various ways that structural inequities in STEM can influence Black women’s ultimate student development in these fields. Considering social stratification in this manner builds upon research about Black women’s intersectional identity and the theoretical contributions of BFT to understanding important aspects of their overarching experiences (Collins, 1990, 2000; Collins & Bilge, 2016; Crenshaw, 1989, 1991). As noted in the previous discussion of literature, important structured inequities include biases due to Black women’s race/ethnicity, gender/gender role (i.e., societal behavioral and attitudinal expectations associated with a particular assigned sex; Lindsey, 2020), and the intersections thereof. The literature discussed generally does not distinguish Black women’s gender identity (i.e., the internal sense of one’s gender), gender expression (i.e., expression of this internal sense of self), and sex (i.e., a label assigned at birth based on biological characteristics)—often using terms such as female and woman interchangeably. Nonetheless, the author acknowledges distinctions between these concepts and that there may be role expectations associated with an individual’s assigned sex that create structured inequities in STEM regardless of a person’s gender identity or gender expression. In addition to race/ethnicity, gender/gender role, and their intersection, some studies indicated that finances and family background were important considerations that ultimately shaped the behaviors of Black undergraduate women in STEM (e.g., major choice, leaving STEM, or desires to be in a future financial position to support family; e.g., Allen et al., 2022; Lane & Id-Deen, 2023; Rosa & Mensah, 2016), as well as faculty who work closely with those students (e.g., sharing information about paid research opportunities to alleviate possible financial barriers; e.g., Perna et al., 2009). Hence, stratification that may manifest due to Black women’s socioeconomic status is also included in the model. While not specifically illustrated in Fig. 2, it should be noted that intersectional identity may involve race/ethnicity, gender/gender role, and socioeconomic status as described by intersectionality theory (Collins & Bilge, 2016, 2020; Crenshaw, 1989, 1991). Figure 2 suggests structured inequities in STEM influence Black women’s STEM academic opportunity structure (i.e., the general opportunities in STEM to which they have access). While beyond the scope of this review, complementary research concerning the K-12 experiences of Black girls in STEM underscores the limited early academic opportunities that they often encounter which ultimately has lasting impacts on their trajectories into STEM majors within higher education contexts (Butler-Barnes et al., 2021; Davis, 2020; Morton et al., 2020). Both social stratification and the STEM academic opportunity structure influence the multilevel social psychological (i.e., psychosocial) risks that Black women encounter in STEM environments. Moreover, key aspects of Black women’s identities also shape their multilevel psychosocial strengths. Psychosocial risks and strengths manifest at multiple levels— ecological (e.g., important aspects of the environment), social (e.g., relational), and personal (e.g.,

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individual). At the ecological level, the model suggests that risks and strengths can exist within: STEM departments (i.e., unsupportive or supportive departmental environments; e.g., Allen et al., 2022; Joseph, 2012; Perna et al., 2009) and institutions (i.e., a lack of diversity which can diminish sense of belonging or affirming educational logics; e.g., Charleston et al., 2014a; Williams & Taylor, 2022). Furthermore, the model indicates how ecological risks can manifest at a broader discipline level in STEM with regard to unsupportive logics discussed in existing literature (e.g., a culture of weeding out and competition; Borum & Walker, 2012). In addition to ecological risks and strengths, the model also includes these elements at the social level. Such factors were often reflected in research concerning interactions between Black women and peers or faculty, with negative interactions resulting in these women generally having negative experiences in STEM (e.g., isolation or stereotypes; Charleston et al., 2014b; McGee & Bentley, 2017), while positive interactions helped to increase their persistence (e.g., sister circles; Morton, 2021a). At the personal level, the model indicates how psychological experiences such as racial battle fatigue (Smith et al., 2020) can hinder Black women’s STEM development as students (McGee & Bentley, 2017; Morton, 2021a) and motivation such as goal commitments may enhance such development (Ferguson & MartinDunlop, 2021; Joseph, 2012). In addition to outlining aspects of multilevel psychosocial risks and strengths, the model also illustrates a possible interplay between these factors as discussed in the literature. For example, because some non-Black peers isolated them (i.e., a social risk), and because of a general lack of diversity at many PWIs (i.e., an ecological risk), research indicated that Black women looked to spaces of community such as sister circles for support (i.e., a social strength) (Morton, 2021a). Moreover, the model suggests that Black women’s multilevel psychosocial risks can influence the level of strain that they experience in their student role (i.e., student role strain). Other literature connects psychosocial risks with the concept of strain in a similar fashion (McGee & Bentley, 2017). Risks and strengths can influence Black women’s coping behaviors and such behaviors can be either adaptive or risky. Adaptive strategies noted in the literature include things such as advocating for oneself or engaging faith traditions to facilitate resilience which can help to foster Black women’s STEM development via outcomes like persistence (Ferguson & Martin-Dunlop, 2021). Risky strategies may include things such as dropout ideation (Allen et al., 2022). Nonetheless, research suggests that coping can be accompanied with unanticipated negative physiological consequences which can ultimately reduce Black women’s STEM success (e.g., developing a negative medical condition; McGee & Bentley, 2017; Morton, 2021a).

A Path Forward: Recommendations for Future Research This chapter closes with a number of recommendations regarding fruitful areas for future research. While a lot of useful information has been amassed from the growing body of literature on Black women studying STEM fields in college, the suggestions that follow are informed by gaps in existing literature which create

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opportunities to expand what has been studied presently. Below is a list of key research questions worthy of further investigation regarding this topic. How do Black women’s challenges and strengths combine to impact their overall STEM experiences and outcomes in college? As previously discussed, a number of studies highlight the challenges that Black women encounter pursuing STEM degrees. This literature often critiques prevalent issues regarding biases these students experience because of their race, gender, and a combination thereof. Other research highlights the various factors that help to foster success, including things such as support from family and other Black women. While each of these bodies of work provide important information about Black women’s overall STEM experiences during college, what is missing is a discussion of how the challenges and factors that promote success interplay or combine to ultimately influence Black women’s STEM outcomes. The role strain and adaptation model for Black women’s STEM success in college provides a useful conceptual lens to help inform future research in this area. Such an analysis could provide some insights about how (or to what degree) those success-promoting factors assist Black women with overcoming the challenges that they may also encounter simultaneously. Moreover, suggested by role strain and adaptation model for Black women’s STEM success in college, this analysis should seek to explore the interplay of strengths and strains within multiple domains (i.e., personal, social, and ecological). Are current policy-related initiatives regarding diversity equity and inclusion in STEM helping to address the unique needs of Black women who are students in these fields? Conversations regarding diversity issues and underrepresentation in STEM fields are long-standing as previously noted. Relatedly, a number of policy-related initiatives have been put into place to help develop a more diverse pool of future STEM professionals. While some initiatives provide resources directly to students who pursue STEM disciplines (e.g., financial assistance), more recent initiatives critically examine STEM institutional environments and a need for more structured changes to promote successful outcomes. Future research might explore the efficacy of each of these approaches and the degree to which they ultimately move the needle concerning the representation and inclusion of Black women in various STEM disciplines. As suggested by the role strain and adaptation model for Black women’s STEM success in college, future studies might explore the degree to which policy serves as an effective lever for change with regard to the following: • Disrupting structured inequities in STEM related to Black women’s (and other students’) background characteristics. • Expanding the academic opportunity structure to be inclusive of a more diverse group of students.

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• Dismantling multilevel risk outlined within the model—particularly negative departmental and institutional cultures, and larger unsupportive disciplinary logics which can ultimately result in personal risks such as racial battle fatigue (Smith et al., 2020). • Building upon the things shown to be effective such as creating supporting and affirming institutional and departmental environments. To accomplish these changes, ultimately it will be critical to connect funding priorities with initiatives that focus on these outlined issues. Moreover, other research and related work has begun to emphasize the need for policy-shift that focus on changing environments (Williams et al., 2022; AAAS, n.d.) Are Black women’s experiences different based upon the STEM degree that they are pursuing? As discussed in the previous section, there are variations in Black women’s level of (under)representation within a number of STEM fields. Hence, it is feasible that Black women’s experiences in these fields may differ based upon the number of other Black women who are also pursuing degrees in a particular STEM discipline. Nevertheless, very few studies examined Black women’s experiences within a specific STEM field (Charleston et al., 2014b; Dillon & Williams, 2020a, b; Rosa & Mensah, 2016). Instead, many studies employed the STEM acronym in a manner that positions these disciplines as a collective. While in some instances, it may be helpful to frame and talk across all of the fields included within the STEM umbrella, future research should consider Black women’s experiences within specific STEM areas given the varying degree of representational challenges they may encounter based upon their field of study. What were the experiences of Black women who are no longer pursuing STEM degrees? Why did they leave? Much of the existing literature focuses on the experiences of Black women who are currently pursuing STEM degrees or who have successfully traversed these fields. What is missing is a detail examination of the Black women who left these fields and what their experiences were. Such an examination would enrich what is currently discussed in the literature and could shed light on additional barriers or challenges that ultimately led to these women no longer pursuing their interests in these fields. Are there differences in Black women’s experiences base upon their ethnicity? Within higher education research, there is often a tendency to conflate race and ethnicity and to refer to Black students in monolithic ways that fails to appreciate within group differences. Such framing can ultimately essentialize the experiences of all Black individuals without proper attention to possible ethnic differences within

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this racial category. Some research has started to explicate how Black students’ collegiate experiences in STEM may differ based upon their ethnic backgrounds (George Mwangi et al., 2016), yet additional research in this area is sorely needed. Furthermore, analyses that attend to differences between Black women in STEM from various ethnic backgrounds could be a compelling addition to the current body of research. Are there differences in Black women’s experiences base upon institutional type? Some of the research discussed previously examined Black women’s experiences within PWIs vs HBCUs (Borum & Walker, 2012; Joseph, 2012; Morton, 2021a). Additional studies that examine these issues across various institutions could also be helpful. Moreover, it would be interesting to explore Black women’s experiences within the context of different HBCUs. For example, are there differences in Black women’s experiences within HBCUs that are women’s colleges (i.e., Bennett College and Spelman College) versus HBCUs that serve women and men? Literature notes the importance of Black education logics at HBCUs and how that can help students to be successful in STEM (Williams & Taylor, 2022). While there are studies to support this phenomenon, it is plausible that such logic can vary by institution and/or the specific STEM discipline. This is especially important to consider as the faculty composition at some Black institutions continues to evolve in ways where the representation of Black faculty may be diminishing—especially in some STEM areas. Furthermore, a logic that affirms Black students may not operate the same for Black women and Black men given their gendered differences. In general, these gaps in existing literature highlight possible areas for further exploration. Are there ways in which quantitative data might be employed to complement the important insights gained from qualitative studies? The overwhelming majority of the literature concerning the experiences of Black women in STEM utilizes qualitative research methods—the most common of which are phenomenology (e.g., Charleston et al., 2014b; Dortch & Patel, 2017; McGee & Bentley, 2017) and case-study approaches (e.g., Joseph, 2012; Lockett et al., 2018; Perna et al., 2009). This largely qualitative body of work centers the voices of Black women in very important ways to provide a deep and rich description of the challenges that they encounter pursuing STEM degrees, as well as various assets that help them to overcome those challenges. Building upon this seminal body of research, future scholarship might employ complementary quantitative methods. This might include a largescale national survey of Black women collegians in STEM which explores relationships between the various elements outline in Fig. 2 (i.e., the role strain and adaptation model for Black women’s STEM success in college) and their association with outcomes often explored within higher education literature (e.g., persistence, degree completion, workforce outcomes, etc.). Future research might also combine qualitative and quantitative methods (i.e., utilize mixed methods or multiple methods) to tap into the strengths of various methodological traditions by using qualitative insights to further explicate

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quantitative findings or quantitative data to explore the degree to which associations discussed in qualitative research also manifest on a greater scale. Identifying ways in which quantitative insights might help to complement the current qualitative canon will help to extend the methodological reach of the existing corpus of work. The listed questions provide a number of paths forward, as scholars continue to explore Black women’s experiences in STEM, and the things that hinder or enhance their success. Such questions will remain relevant as the USA continues to grapple with concerns about the future STEM workforce, and broadening participation for groups that have a history of underrepresentation and isolation in STEM academic environments, accentuating the need to re-examine the efficacy of many STEM diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts. This list is not meant to be exhaustive; however, it provides some initial, high-level guidance concerning the research areas that future scholars may explore as they expand this area of research.

Conclusion The preceding discussion of existing literature provides an overview of the current body of research regarding the experiences of Black women as they traverse collegiate environments in pursuit of STEM undergraduate degrees. This thematic review is contextualized by insights about the evolution of STEM as a concept; the larger policy discourse regarding STEM equity issues and rationales for an increased emphasis on opportunities in this area; and the STEM representational terrain with a focus on differences within particular STEM disciplines. The literature review highlights the complexities of Black women’s intersectional marginalization in STEM due to their race and gender, combined; how stereotypes operate as tools of marginalization; the unwelcoming institutional environments that Black woman STEM collegians often encounter which make many of them feel isolated, and often subordinated; the ways in which family (i.e., blood relatives and “chosen family”) can be sources of resilience in the face of challenge; and how trauma can sometimes be an unanticipated consequence of resilience, particularly in terms of damages to Black women’s physiological well-being. Drawing upon this body of work, along with related research concerning racially marginalized groups in STEM (Burt et al., 2018, 2019; Williams, 2014a, b, 2020; Williams & Davis, 2021; Williams et al., 2016, 2019b) and critical lenses concerning these groups in general (Bowman, 2006, 2012) as well as Black women in particular (Collins, 1990, 2000; Collins & Bilge, 2016, 2020; Crenshaw, 1989, 1991), this chapter offers the role strain and adaptation model for Black women’s STEM success in college as a framework for understanding how the challenges that many Black women encounter while pursuing STEM degrees, their strengths, and their coping strategies coalesce to ultimately shape their success in these fields. Moreover, recommendations for future research are offered to help inform work that hopes to shape policy and practice in ways that expand opportunities for these groups. As reflected in the literature discussed, there has been a growing emphasis on examining the unique experiences of Black women in STEM. Unfortunately, this discussion is not novel. While advances have been made in certain areas, extreme

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opportunities for growth remain in others—especially as it relates to disrupting the social, disciplinary, institutional, and departmental environments that create barriers to Black women’s STEM success. As the push for change continues, it will be especially important to understand the ways in which Black women’s STEM experiences may not be solely raced, but simultaneously gendered. Theories like CRF (Wing, 2003), BFT (Collins, 1990, 2000), and intersectionality (Collins & Bilge, 2016, 2020; Crenshaw, 1989, 1991) guide us to better appreciate Black women’s intersectional experiences in STEM, particularly the double bind (Malcom et al., 1976) that often manifests due to racism and sexism. Accordingly, efforts to expand opportunities to Black women in these fields should reflect this important detail.

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Williams, K. L. (2014a). Financial impediments, academic challenges and pipeline intervention efficacy: A role strain and adaptation approach to successful STEM outcomes for underrepresented students [Unpublished doctoral dissertation]. University of Michigan. Williams, K. L. (2014b). Strains, strengths, and intervention outcomes: A critical examination of intervention efficacy for underrepresented groups. New Directions for Institutional Research, 2013(158), 9–22. https://doi.org/10.1002/ir.20042 Williams, K. L. (2020). Contextualizing math-related strengths and math achievement: Positive math orientations, social supports and the moderating effects of prior math knowledge. Journal for STEM Education Research, 3(3), 317–342. Williams, K. L., & Davis, S. C. (2021). Math challenges, strengths, and achievement: Toward a theory of strain-induced performance-perception misalignment for racially marginalized students. Journal of Women and Minorities in Science and Engineering, 27(4), 59–90. https://doi. org/10.1615/JWomenMinorScienEng.2021035527 Williams, K. L., & Taylor, L. D. (2022). The Black cultural student STEM success model: A framework for Black students’ STEM success informed by HBCU environments and Black educational logics. Journal of Women and Minorities in Science and Engineering, 28(6), 81–108. https://doi.org/10.1615/JWomenMinorScienEng.2022036596 Williams, K. L., Burt, B. A., & Hilton, A. A. (2016). Math achievement: A role strain and adaptation approach. Journal for Multicultural Education, 10(3), 368–383. Williams, K. L., Burt, B. A., Clay, K. L., & Bridges, B. K. (2019a). Stories untold: Counternarratives to anti-Blackness and deficit-oriented discourse concerning HBCUs. American Educational Research Journal, 56(2), 556–599. https://doi.org/10.3102/0002831218802776 Williams, K. L., Mustafaa, F. N., & Burt, B. A. (2019b). Black males and early math achievement: An examination of students’ strengths and role strain with policy implications. Journal of Women and Minorities in Science and Engineering, 25(4), 325–352. Williams, K. L., Russell, A., & Summerville, K. (2021). Centering blackness: An examination of culturally-affirming pedagogy and practices enacted by HBCU administrators and faculty members. Innovative Higher Education, 46(6), 733–757. Williams, K. L., Mobley, S. D., Jr., Campbell, E., & Jowers, R. (2022). Meeting at the margins: Culturally affirming practices at HBCUs for underserved populations. Higher Education, 84(5), 1067–1087. Wing, A. K. (Ed.). (2003). Critical race feminism: A reader (2nd ed.). NYU Press. Winkle-Wagner, R., & McCoy, D. L. (2018). Feeling like an “Alien” or “Family”? Comparing students and faculty experiences of diversity in STEM disciplines at a PWI and an HBCU. Race Ethnicity and Education, 21(5), 593–606. Winkle-Wagner, R., Kelly, B. T., Luedke, C. L., & Reavis, T. B. (2019). Authentically me: Examining expectations that are placed upon Black women in college. American Educational Research Journal, 56(2), 407–443. Yosso, T. J. (2005). Whose culture has capital? A critical race theory discussion of community cultural wealth. Race Ethnicity and Education, 8(1), 69–91.

Krystal L. Williams, Ph.D. is an Assistant Professor at the University of Georgia Louise McBee Institute of Higher Education. She directs the Education Policy and Equity Research Collective (Ed_PERC), and her research explores issues regarding race and public policy with an emphasis on Historically Black Colleges and Universities, and broadening participation in STEM. She attended the University of Michigan where she completed her doctoral studies in Higher Education and Public Policy in the Center for the Study of Higher and Postsecondary Education. She also attended Clark Atlanta University where she earned a BS and MS in mathematics and graduated valedictorian.

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Critical Race Theory in Higher Education: Where We Are and Where We Need to Go Antar A. Tichavakunda

Contents What Is CRT and Why Write About CRT in Higher Education Now? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Moral Panic: The Political Context of CRT and Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Scholarly Context: Established Yet Questioned . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Articulating the Argument and Significance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Where I Enter This Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conference Wisdom: A Personal Narrative . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CRT: A Legal Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Critical Legal Studies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Break from Critical Legal Studies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . What Is Critical Race Theory? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Antidiscrimination Law and CRT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thinking with CRT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CRT’s Path to Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . How Is Critical Race Theory in Higher Education a Critical Theory? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Methodological Considerations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . What About CRT Concepts, Tenets, or Specific Forms of CRT? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CRT in Higher Education at a Glance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . What Is Being Studied? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Which Methods Are Scholars Using Alongside CRT? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Doing CRT in Higher Education: Patterns in Theorizing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Aggregate/Tenet Approach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Focused/Legal Principle Approach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Interest Convergence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Racial Realism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Whiteness as Property . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . What CRT Is Not: The Superficial Approach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Could This Paper Have Been Written Without CRT? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . How Is This Analysis Connected to CRT’s Legal Roots? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . How Am I Thinking with Tenets? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Where Does CRT in Higher Education Need to Go? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . On Pedagogy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . On Collective and Individual Action . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . On Inheritance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

Critical race theory (CRT), a legal theory of race and racism, is increasing in popularity throughout the academy and beyond. Higher education scholars, in particular, have employed CRT as a theoretical framework for decades. This chapter engages with two central research questions: (1) How is CRT being thought with in research and used in practice within higher education? (2) What can scholars do to enrich and exercise CRT analyses for higher education in the future? The author reviews how higher education scholars frame CRT, what tenets or propositions they employ, who they are citing, and how they use CRT to analyze data. The author argues CRT research in higher education will be theoretically enriched by greater engagement with its theoretical foundations in legal scholarship. Further, the author suggests that Kristie Dotson’s work on inheritance provides a generative approach to thinking about CRT in a manner more attuned to its theoretical foundations. Keywords

Critical race theory · Theory · Race · Higher education

At a time of crisis, critics serve as reminders that we are being heard, if not always appreciated. – Derrick Bell (1995)

Critical race theory (CRT) is more popular than ever. Certainly, CRT is not new to controversy and has been a popular theory in the academy for over two decades (Crenshaw, 2011). But things are different now. As a result of highly publicized antiCRT discourse from a past US president and anti-CRT legislation across the nation (Clifton, 2021), CRT has become a household name beyond the walls of the ivory tower. White suburban mothers are forming collectives, coming to school board meetings, and speaking out against what they believe is CRT being taught in their schools (Vollers, 2023). CRT’s popularity has also increased in popularity within the academy. Although CRT began in the legal field, CRT is now being employed across disciplines from public health (Cross, 2018) to social work (Quinn & Grumbach, 2015) to education (Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995). In the field of higher education, scholars use CRT to name and analyze how racism is embedded and continually reproduced within universities (e.g., Baber, 2016; McCoy & Rodricks, 2015; Patton, 2016). CRT is a popular topic at national higher education conferences and has been

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discussed in the Association for the Study of Higher Education presidential addresses (e.g., Stewart, 2022). Because of its popularity, perhaps, critiques of CRT can already be found in a leading higher education journal (Anderson, 2012; Cabrera, 2018). Further, of the 74 articles holding the phrase “critical race theory,” published in the Review of Higher Education, the official journal for the Association for the Study of Higher education, 35 appeared in the last 5 years. CRT is only growing in its popularity within the field of higher education and is used to analyze and challenge racism in higher education, from highlighting how policies and campus offices are racialized (e.g., Lee, 2018; Whitman & Exarhos, 2020) to how race shapes higher education stakeholders’ experiences and outcomes (e.g., McCoy & Rodricks, 2015). Yet, CRT is mired in confusion, controversy, and even fear. Conservative thought leaders stoke the flames of a moral panic surrounding CRT (Henry et al., 2023; Wallace-Wells, 2021). Donald Trump has even called for violence in the battle against the distorted idea of CRT they created: Getting critical race theory out of our schools is not just a matter of values, it’s also a matter of national survival. We have no choice, the fate of any nation ultimately depends upon the willingness of its citizens to lay down and they must do this, lay down their very lives to defend their country. (Levin, 2022, par. 3)

What CRT is and is not becomes even more confusing as school districts and university systems consider “anti-CRT” policies (Pollock et al., 2022; Miller et al., 2023; Weissman, 2023). Because of such confusion and popularity, articulating what CRT is and is not is a necessary and timely endeavor. The time is ripe to review research employing CRT in the field of higher education. Most reviews highlighting the landscape of CRT in education focus on the K-12 sector (e.g., Busey et al., 2022; Dixson & Rousseau Anderson, 2018; Howard & Navarro, 2016; Ledesma & Calderón, 2015). Reviewing CRT in higher education research, however, is useful as higher education is intrinsically tied to CRT as we know it. As Baber (2016) pointed out, CRT is intrinsically tied to the postsecondary context because CRT came about through the activism of students and professors in law schools. Ladson-Billings (2006) described the articles in a Race Ethnicity and Education issue – one of the first special issues on CRT in education – saying, “The articles in this issue take different approaches to explain where we are and where we need to go” (p. 115). In a like manner, but on a smaller scale, I aim to do the same in this chapter – describe where we are and where we need to go concerning the intersection of CRT and higher education research. In this chapter, I engage with two central research questions: 1. How is CRT being thought with in research and used in practice within higher education? 2. What can scholars do to enrich and exercise CRT analyses for higher education in the future?

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To engage with the above questions, I focus on how higher education scholars are thinking with CRT. By thinking with CRT, I mean I am curious about how scholars frame CRT, what tenets or propositions they employ, who they are citing, how CRT guides analysis, and how scholars engage CRT in practice. Echoing other CRT scholars (Baber, 2016; Busey et al., 2022; Crenshaw, 2011; Dixson & Rousseau Anderson, 2018; Donnor et al., 2016; Ladson-Billings, 1998; Ledesma & Calderón, 2015; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002; Tate, 1997), I argue CRT research in higher education will be theoretically enriched by greater engagement with its theoretical foundations – legal scholarship. Past CRT scholarship offers a wellspring of theoretical resources and inspiration for scholars interested in employing CRT. In what follows, I first offer a brief description of what CRT is before providing context, describing the current political and scholarly milieu in which I write this chapter about CRT. Next, I describe CRT’s legal roots and its path to education research. I then synthesize how scholars are using CRT in higher education both topically and theoretically. In charting a way forward for CRT in the field of higher education, I suggest that Dotson’s (2015) work on inheritance offers a generative way to think about CRT and provides a way we can think with CRT legal scholars’ thought to enrich CRT research.

What Is CRT and Why Write About CRT in Higher Education Now? Understanding the societal and scholarly context of this chapter is tantamount. Yet, to ensure the reader has a general idea of what CRT is, I first offer a very brief description of what CRT is and is not. I will, however, return to such themes later in the text to explore in depth. CRT was birthed out of protest in the legal field in the 1980s. A group of legal scholars (e.g., Bell, 1980; Crenshaw, 1988; Delgado, 1989; Harris, 1993; Matsuda, 1987; Williams, 1991), primarily Scholars of Color, were unsatisfied with the progressive legal movement of Critical Legal Studies – a push to name and challenge the law’s role in reproducing class hierarchies – and its relative silence on the role of race in inequality (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001). Many racially marginalized legal scholars critiqued Critical Legal Studies for “its failure to come to terms with the particularity of race” (Crenshaw et al., 1995, p. xxvi). In 1989, the first CRT conference, legal scholars began to identify and discuss common principles of the movement and theory (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001). While CRT scholars were and continue to be diverse in their thinking about race and the law, critical race theorists are united in their interests of (1) understanding how White supremacy has historically shaped and continues to shape social realities and life outcomes and (2) fighting for racial justice (Crenshaw et al., 1995). In short, CRT began in legal scholarship and is a critical theory of race and racism. To be clear, however, a number of critical theories of race exist. Such critical theories of race include but are not limited to Afropessimism (Wilderson, 2020), racial formation theory (Omi & Winant, 2014), racial capitalism (Hill & Cohen, 2022), and racial literacy frameworks (Rogers & Mosley, 2008). Although some

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concepts or ideas overlap, CRT is its own theory with a unique history and distinct theoretical tools birthed in legal scholarship. This point is important to acknowledge as some critical theorists of race are sometimes incorrectly labeled critical race theorists. Understandably, this is a potentially confusing point. To understand this relationship between CRT and other critical theories of race, consider the geometrical rules of squares and rectangles. Every square, for example, is a rectangle but not every rectangle is a square. In a like manner, every critical race theorist is critical theorist of race, but not every critical theorist of race is a critical race theorist. Or as Ladson-Billings (2013) reminds readers, “writing about race and racial issues does not necessarily make one a critical race theorist” (pp. 36–37). I tarry on this point given the confusion surrounding who is and is not a critical race theorist in popular media. The 1619 Project (Hannah-Jones, 2019), for example, is sometimes cited by popular media as an example of CRT or listed alongside CRT in debates surrounding schooling (Stout et al., 2021). Popular, especially conservative, media often labels Ibram Kendi a critical race theorist (Moore, 2021). Neither Hannah-Jones’ 1619 Project nor Kendi’s scholarship, however, is CRT. To be clear, both Kendi and Hannah-Jones are critical theorists of race who produce critical racial theory scholarship, but their work is not technically CRT. This, of course, is not to say their work is somehow less critical or important. To the contrary, their scholarship overlaps with and sometimes informs CRT scholarship as CRT is interdisciplinary in nature. Their approaches to scholarship are simply different approaches to analyzing race and racism with different theoretical and conceptual tools. CRT scholars are unique in that they all draw from its legal foundations to inform their thinking and analyses.

A Moral Panic: The Political Context of CRT and Higher Education CRT has come to mean everything and nothing in popular media and politics. As mentioned, a past US president has publicly denounced CRT as hateful propaganda (Rupar, 2020). A professor has created a database of universities teaching CRT courses to warn parents about the “negative impact” of CRT on education (Critical Race Training, 2021). Lawmakers debate bills banning courses related to CRT or identity more broadly (O’Grady, 2021). The moral panic even extends beyond education as the Southern Baptist Convention declared CRT “incompatible with the Baptist faith and message” (Shimron, 2020, par. 3). The confusion and controversy surrounding CRT is not by accident, but by design. It is well documented, for example, that a conservative strategist manufactured a panic around CRT (Wallace-Wells, 2021). Further, the information being spread by many conservative think tanks, media personalities, and rightleaning news outlets about CRT and its aims are completely false (Jayakumar, 2022; López et al., 2021; Miller et al., 2023). The spread of incorrect information about CRT can usefully be understood as a product of disinformation campaigns and misinformation (Granados, 2023; Ray, 2022).

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The distinction between disinformation and misinformation provides insight to conservative attacks on CRT and general popular confusion surrounding CRT. Disinformation is information or a narrative created with the purpose of deception (Granados, 2023). Misinformation, however misleading, is not created to deceive and might simply be incorrect or wrongheaded. The difference lies within intention and strategy. A conservative political strategist spreading lies about CRT with the intent to stoke fear and panic from the public is an example of disinformation (i.e., Wallace-Wells, 2021). An example of misinformation, however, might be a college student, who does not know anything about CRT, sharing a TikTok video from a social media personality that mischaracterizes CRT. Consider Trump’s words about CRT being taught in schools as an example of the disinformation surrounding CRT: “If we allow the Marxists and Communists and Socialists to teach our children to hate America, there will be no one left to defend our flag or to protect our great country or its freedom” (Levin, 2022, par. 3). First, CRT is a legal theory that is not being taught in K-12 schools. Second, Marxism is a completely different theoretical framework with its own concepts and lineage, built to examine economic and political structures. Third, CRT does not teach people to hate the United States. When truth does not matter to politicians’ rhetoric surrounding CRT and race more broadly, CRT’s aim of racial justice as well as naming race and racism becomes even more important. CRT is not new to controversy. Critical race theorists have witnessed and challenged “conservative Crit-baiting” for decades (Crenshaw, 2011, p. 1311). Certainly, much of the critiques of CRT from the outside are undoubtedly done in bad faith and from those invested in a White supremacist status quo. Rarely, if at all, do CRT’s detractors in politics and popular media substantively engage in reading foundational CRT scholarship. With continued scrutiny and mischaracterizations of CRT from the outside and the permanence of racism, articulating what CRT is and is not remains important for those interested in advancing racial equity (LadsonBillings, 2013). Despite the fact that politicians campaigning against CRT grossly mischaracterize CRT, anti-CRT bills have taken hold across the nation as the moral panic surrounding CRT reaches as fever pitch (Henry et al., 2023). Most anti-CRT legislation is aimed at the K-12 level, yet anti-CRT campaigns are a higher education problem as well. Policymakers in nearly 30 states, for example, put forth bills targeting diversity, equity, and inclusion programming as well as CRT (Miller et al., 2023). A Texas Republican lawmaker, for example, proposed an anti-CRT bill that would prohibit universities teaching CRT from benefiting from any state funding (Madden, 2023). As of December 2022, according to Miller et al. (2023), eight states – Florida, Idaho, Iowa, Mississippi, New Hampshire, Oklahoma, South Dakota, and Tennessee – passed legislation with language that targets or even bans CRT in institutions of higher education. Because CRT has become a catchall phrase for anything pertaining to race, identity, or diversity, such laws threaten the work of many scholars, regardless of if they consider themselves critical race theorists or not (Palomar et al., 2022).

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The Scholarly Context: Established Yet Questioned Scholarly work is a conversation. I locate this paper within a decades-long scholarly discourse and tradition of CRT in education. Consider, for example, where this paper might be located genealogically, in the field of education. I write this paper 30 years after Ladson-Billings and Tate (see Ladson-Billings, 2013) submitted a proposal for the 1994 American Educational Research Association conference, 28 years after Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995) published their germinal “Toward a Critical Race Theory of Education,” 26 years after Solórzano (1997) arrived at five tenets for a CRT of education, 11 years after Harper identified higher education’s issue of naming race without analyzing racism, and 7 years after Patton (2016) put forth propositions for a CRT of higher education. Given CRT’s legal roots, national conferences and workshops have been happening for over 30 years. The first CRT workshop in the legal field, for example, occurred in 1989 (Onwuachi-Willig, 2008). Since its introduction to education by Ladson Billings and Tate (1995), CRT continues to increase in popularity in education fields. The Critical Race Studies in Education Association, for example, is the first organization in the field of education to focus on CRT and has held national conferences for over a decade. One might argue that CRT has even reached buzzword status and is a familiar phrase in media and academe. Foundational CRT scholars in education have alluded to the idea that some education researchers adopt CRT because of its popularity, constructing CRT as a “sexy” or “trendy” framework to talk about race in education (Donnor & Ladson-Billings, 2018; Ladson-Billings, 2013). Or consider how, in their thorough review of CRT in social studies education research, Busey et al. (2022) pointed out, “Since its introduction as an analytic and theoretical tool for the examination of racism in education, CRT has proliferated as the most visible critical theory of race in educational research” (p. 2). The words “critical race theory” could be found in 20 separate presentations in the 2022 Association for the Study of Higher Education National Conference program (ASHE, 2022). CRT is established in the field of higher education. Despite CRT’s increasing popularity, the field of higher education has a unique CRT problem. As I highlight in latter sections, detractors have questioned the rigor and theoretical usefulness of CRT since its inception. CRT is uniquely questioned in higher education scholarship. Citing an introduction to a special issue in a sociology journal (Treviño et al., 2008), Cabrera (2018) suggests that “while insightful” the tenets of CRT “do not contain the ‘intellectual architecture’ to be considered social theory” and lack a racial theory (p. 211). Rather, according to Cabrera (2018), CRT might be thought of as more of “a theorizing counter-space as opposed to a theory in-and-of-itself” (p. 213). Cabrera’s (2018) work is published in a high-impact journal and has been the most widely read piece in the journal for at least 2 years (Review of Higher Education 2022). Further, citing Cabrera (2018), more scholars suggest that CRT is not a theory (Nishi, 2021). CRT is attacked politically from the outside of the academy and disrespected intellectually from the inside of the

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academy. The words of the foundational legal scholar, Derrick Bell (1995), offer guidance in how scholars might think about critiques of CRT: “At a time of crisis, critics serve as reminders that we are being heard, if not always appreciated” (p. 908). Indeed, CRT in higher education is being heard. Yet, how might scholars of higher education understand and employ CRT in higher education given this unique context?

Articulating the Argument and Significance Over 20 years after the founding of CRT as an intellectual movement, Carbado (2011) offered a reflection about the evolution of CRT, stating, “because CRT can neither speak for itself nor do its own work, CRT scholars should continue to frame CRT in terms of both the work the theory is performing and the work CRT might still need to do” (p. 1607). My two goals in this chapter are similarly in this CRT tradition of theoretical reflexivity. First, I offer a review of higher education research employing CRT as a theoretical framework. Although CRT is an established framework in higher education research, few reviews of CRT in higher education exist (i.e., Baber, 2016; McCoy & Rodricks, 2015). I extend this work by offering a critical review of scholarship at the intersection of CRT and higher education that might provide insight and guideposts for scholars interested in learning more about where CRT has been, how scholars are currently thinking with CRT, and where scholars might take their CRT analyses in the future. The second aim of the chapter is tied to the first – I suggest that while CRT scholarship has proven generative in analyzing racism in higher education, scholars might benefit from more intentional and substantive engagement with foundational CRT legal scholarship. Education scholars have pushed those interested in applying CRT to educational contexts to tap into CRT’s legal roots (e.g., Baber, 2016; Busey et al., 2022; Dixson & Rousseau Anderson, 2018; Donnor et al., 2016; Ladson-Billings, 2006; Ledesma & Calderón, 2015; Tate, 1997). Citing Dixson and Rousseau’s (2005) argument from their review of CRT research in education, Ledesma and Calderón (2015) point out that, “it is only when Critical Race education scholars recouple their work with Critical Race legal literature that CRT’s commitment to eliminate all forms of oppression can be more fully actualized” (p. 206). Without coupling analyses with CRT’s legal scholarship, scholars employing CRT in higher education are missing out on CRT’s deep intellectual reserves. In this chapter, I explore to what extent higher education scholars have heeded this call. I also offer approaches to how scholars might more closely couple their analyses with the legal literature. CRT scholars in education must intentionally and substantively think with CRT throughout their scholarship. Ledesma and Calderón (2015), for example, concluded their critical review of CRT in education research reminding scholars, “that it is not enough to sprinkle CRT here and there in your work” (p. 218). Similarly, and echoing other scholars (Baber, 2016), I suggest that paraphrasing or quoting a group of tenets or themes in a theoretical framework section does not equate to a

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thorough CRT analysis. Tenets or themes might be usefully thought of as launching pads or guideposts rather than the beginnings and endpoints of analysis. In neighboring social science fields such as sociology, anthropology, and geography, scholars figuratively think alongside or with theorists’ scholarship. While scholars might think with a theory, more broadly, it is not uncommon to think with theorists, specifically. For example, rather than leveraging a broad Black feminist thought framework, one might think with the work of specific Black feminist philosophers such as Patricia Hill Collins, bell hooks, and/or Joy James. Similarly, consider social capital, a framework used to understand the power or resources within networks. One might adopt a social capital framework, more broadly, or one might think alongside specific thinkers’ theorizations of social capital, thinking deeply with Pierre Bourdieu, James Coleman, and/or Ricardo Stanton-Salazar. As such, I offer an alternative or supplement to the “tenet” approach to CRT. I am suggesting that while one might certainly use specific tenets or propositions of CRT, scholars might also find value in an inheritance approach to CRT, thinking with foundational CRT scholars, in their analysis. I adopt the language of “inheritance” from the Black feminist philosopher, Kristie Dotson (2015). Dotson’s (2015) work about theory and epistemology in relation to the work of Patricia Hill Collins has shaped how I have grown to approach theory. For example, one might inherit the CRT approach of Derrick Bell, Mari Matsuda, and/or Richard Delgado. Such an approach, I argue, offers a nuanced, enriched CRT analysis tightly wound to its legal and theoretical roots.

Where I Enter This Work I write this chapter in the critical race tradition, including hallmarks of CRT that might defy norms of what might normally be on the pages of the Handbook of Theory and Research. Aligned with the CRT tradition of using storytelling (Montoya, 1994; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002), or using narratives to highlight the racialized realities of the marginalized, I include first-person accounts and reflections of my own experiences to animate arguments. Further, I do not write this chapter as a dispassionate author, coldly analyzing texts, searching for gaps in hopes of a scholarly intervention. Rather, I write this as higher education scholar and critical race theorist who hopes to push the field and fellow CRT scholars in how we might better tap into the potential of CRT in higher education. Describing one’s positionality is especially important from an inheritance perspective, which, as I mentioned, is informed by Black feminist philosophy. Dotson (2013), for example, introduced how her identity shapes her work, saying, “the voice you hear is located somewhere, belongs to someone, and is influenced by some such embodiment” (p. 38). Similarly, from a CRT perspective, scholarship is never separate the scholar (e.g., Dalton, 1987; Lawrence, 2002; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002). I am a cisgender Black man and tenure-track professor. I have traversed predominantly and historically White institutions of higher education as an undergraduate student, as a graduate student, and as an assistant professor. My experience

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in higher education and navigating such contexts has led me to studying the sociology of race and higher education. My positionality is perhaps even more important to consider for this chapter as I am making recommendations on how scholars might employ CRT in a different way. To be clear, I am not making suggestions from the “outside” but offering a contribution to a tradition I locate myself within. In different pieces, from journal articles (e.g., Hypolite & Tichavakunda, 2019; Tichavakunda, 2022b), to a monograph (Tichavakunda, 2021), to op-eds in popular media (Tichavakunda, 2022a), I have thought with CRT. Or consider how CRT directly shapes my research agenda. Bell (1992b) created a theory of racial realism which was built upon the assertion that racism is permanent in society. My research agenda engages with a question directly informed by racial realism – how can we better understand and support Black students and communities in a society that is permanently racist? Lastly, this chapter is written with love and care in mind. Doing CRT is a risk in polarizing times where anti-CRT rhetoric is commonplace. As such, any critiques I make concerning CRT scholarship in higher education come from a place of solidarity as a fellow critical race theorist fighting for racial justice. I demonstrate this solidarity through the presentation of my critiques, as well. Some of the same suggestions I offer CRT research in higher education more broadly could have been employed for some of my own CRT scholarship. In other words, this paper is not about admonishing other scholars, but about pushing CRT scholarship in higher education. CRT scholars challenge conventional forms of scholarship and often share stories to make theoretical arguments about race and racism (e.g., Bell, 1992a; Calmore, 1991; Delgado, 1989; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002). Williams (1991), for example, wrote of her dreams and other deeply personal stories to demonstrate tensions and make arguments at the intersection of race, gender, and legal property rights. CRT scholars in education also make use of sharing personal narratives and creating chronicles to enliven their arguments (e.g., Jenkins et al., 2021; Ladson-Billings, 2013; Yosso, 2013). As such, I share a personal story both to explain more about my approach to theory and to bring life to my argument that CRT scholars of higher education need to more deeply engage with CRT’s legal foundations.

Conference Wisdom: A Personal Narrative I learned the importance of reading the theoretical foundations of scholarship early in my academic career. As a second-year doctoral student, I attended my first American Educational Research Association conference. At the time, I was interested in learning more about Pierre Bourdieu’s (1986) sociological theory and how he leveraged concepts of cultural and social capital. While at the conference I attended a few sessions of scholars employing Bourdieusian frameworks. After one session, I approached a presenter who had mentioned a Bourdieusian concept I had never heard of. I asked her what advice she might have for a student who hoped to learn more about Bourdieu. Her advice, which I am paraphrasing here, has stuck with me:

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“You have to read Bourdieu yourself. Everyone will have their own interpretations of his work. Don’t just read how other people interpret his scholarship.” What does Bourdieu have to do with CRT? The advice I received shapes how I engage with and learn about theories and theorists in general. While reading scholars’ descriptions and applications of Bourdieusian thought is helpful and necessary, scholars should also read Bourdieu’s original scholarship. The same goes for CRT. Reading Ladson-Billings and Tate’s (1995) monumental “Toward a Critical Race Theory of Education” is integral. CRT scholars in education must also read the work of the CRT legal scholars that Ladson-Billings and Tate initially read to theorize CRT in the education context. In short, reading about how one scholar has interpreted CRT and applied it to education is not enough to understand CRT.

CRT: A Legal Theory When scholars employ CRT in higher education research, they often mention CRT’s legal origins. If mentioned, higher education scholars typically allude to minoritized legal scholars’ critique of Critical Legal Studies’ (CLS) inattention to race and the subsequent creation of the CRT movement. Consider how my coauthors and I have introduced CRT’s legal origins in past scholarship. In one piece, we write, “Drawing from CRT and the legal field, Ladson-Billings and Tate first introduced CRT to education in 1995” (Jenkins et al., 2021, p. 153). On another occasion and with greater detail, we write: CRT began as a response to Critical Legal Studies. Although intended as a social justice framework for addressing and challenging oppression, the Critical Legal Studies approach was limited. A group of scholars argued that proponents of Critical Legal Studies focused largely on class and diminished the role of racism. (Hypolite & Tichavakunda, 2019, p. 4)

Other higher education scholars adopt similar language to refer to CRT’s legal roots and its relationship to CLS. To be sure, word and page limits in higher education journal articles limit what scholars can reasonably mention about CRT’s legal background. Yet, what is beneath CLS and the legal tradition that higher education scholars make quick reference to? CRT scholars in education have long argued that understanding the legal roots of CRT is critical to understanding and employing CRT as a theory in education (Busey et al., 2022). Knowing that CRT has legal roots and grew out of a critique of CLS is not enough. Tate (1997), for example, urged scholars of education interested in CRT to also study the relationship between CRT and CLS, arguing, “The distinctions between CRT and CLS are important for those interested in how race and racism are framed in intellectual discourse” (p. 198). In another example, Ladson-Billings (1998) noted that CRT can be thought of as “both an outgrowth and a separate entity from an earlier legal movement called Critical Legal Studies” (p. 10). By understanding CLS and what compelled progressive legal Scholars of Color who were once interested in CLS (henceforth Scholars of Color) to abandon the CLS

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movement, scholars will better understand the theoretical underpinnings of CRT. As such, one must understand the layered rationale for the Scholars of Color critique of CLS because this critique laid the foundation for what would become CRT. As such, I take time here to offer more of a background on CLS and how the CRT movement came about in response.

Critical Legal Studies Critical Legal Studies (CLS) began as a leftist, activist movement at Yale Law School in the 1960s (Hardwick, 1991). Over 150 people, mainly comprised of legal scholars and students, were affiliated with CLS in the 1980s. CLS scholars trace their lineage to two critical intellectual traditions: critical social theory and American legal realism (Hardwick, 1991). Critical social theory provided CLS with tools to critique class hierarchies and study how those in power use law as a vehicle to remain in power. Inspired by American legal realism, CLS scholarship argued that the law is neither objective nor inherently just (Bell, 1992b). Both traditions hold that laws are used to reproduce class hierarchies and protect the material and economic interests of the ruling class. Drawing from this lineage of scholarship, CLS became the dominant progressive legal movement in the 1980s. A core assumption within CLS scholarship is that laws are manipulable legal rules bent by those in power for their own ideological and material interests (Hardwick, 1991). As mentioned, detailing the specifics of the CLS movement is, is often out of scope in CRT scholarship in higher education. What is important to highlight is that CLS was a leftist legal movement, radical in its own right. CRT scholars were not diametrically opposed to CLS. Rather, as Crenshaw (2011) put it, conversations with CLS scholars “about law and social power started steps ahead of where similar conversations began in other spaces” (p. 1289).

The Break from Critical Legal Studies White men with Ivy League pedigrees dominated the CLS movement in numbers and leadership. Given CLS’ staunch critique of the law’s role in reproducing inequity in society, however, minoritized legal scholars sought an intellectual homeplace within CLS. Despite the large share of White men in CLS, the movement’s progressive politics drew feminist legal scholars across race and racialized minorities (Crenshaw, 2011; Dalton, 1987; Matsuda, 1987). The CLS movement, however, struggled with inclusivity at both a relational and scholarly level. CLS seemed open to evolving and expanding its approach to scholarship. Crenshaw (2011), for example, referred to a feminist turn in CLS where feminist legal scholars led conversation and debate around labor, family, and patriarchy. Conversations about race at CLS, however, seemed “hotter, harder, and messier than the gender turn” (Crenshaw, 2011, p. 1290). In 1985, Crenshaw (2011) organized a session at the national CLS conference that centered on the question “What is it

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about the Whiteness of CLS that keeps people of color at bay?” (p. 1290). Two years later, the national CLS conference focused on race with the theme “Sounds of Silence: Racism in the Law” (Dalton, 1987). After this conference, Crenshaw (2011) recounted that the intellectual legal movement to study and challenge the central role of racism in the law had outgrown the field of CLS. CRT scholars in higher education often refer to the CLS movement’s inattention to race and racism in their analyses. Branching from this central critique of CLS, however, were more specific critiques that shed light upon CRT’s theoretical underpinnings. Scholars of Color who were at the margins of CLS named three main issues with CLS (Dalton, 1987; Hardwick, 1991; Matsuda, 1987): (1) the White male dominance of CLS, (2) the critique of rights as a tool for social justice, and (3) the question of praxis and a positive program of social reform. CLS scholars argued that investing energy in pursuing or fighting for legal rights was wrongheaded in the path to a more just society. According to CLS doctrine, fighting for citizens’ legal rights should take a backseat to raising the political consciousness of the masses and showing how those in power manipulate laws to their benefit (Gabel & Harris, 1982). Focusing on obtaining rights, incrementally, would only maintain an oppressive status quo. By abandoning the pursuit of rights, the citizenry would have no choice but to see law for what it was – a tool of the politically powerful – and fight for radical changes that would benefit the average person. Many Scholars of Color found this approach paternalistic, privileged, and out of touch with reality (e.g., Dalton, 1987; Delgado, 1987; Williams, 1991). Delgado (1987) offers an example to show the issue of law professors pushing the citizenry to abandon the fight for incremental legal rights: A court order directing a housing authority to disburse funds for heating in subsidized housing may postpone the revolution, or it may not. In the meantime, the order keeps a number of poor families warm. This may mean more to them than it does to a comfortable academic working in a warm office. (pp. 307–308)

For the marginalized, rights, and their absence, were felt, shaping their life on a material level. For some CLS scholars, rights were primarily constructed as an abstract concept to be debated. Conversely, Scholars of Color argued that fighting for rights was a viable and important strategy in the larger project of social justice. From their perspective, it was possible, even necessary, to believe two conflicting ideas: (1) The politically powerful bend the law to their corrupt needs, and (2) the subordinated can and should use the law as a mechanism for social justice (Matsuda, 1987). CLS scholars trashed the idea of legal rights. Trashing, a hallmark of CLS scholarship, is the process of delegitimizing through deconstruction, “. . .a process by which law and social structures are shown to be contingent, inconsistent and irrationally supportive of the status quo without good reason” (Delgado, 1987, pp. 308–309). Any institutionalized structure, practice, or law that reproduced the oppressive status quo of societal relations was fair game for trashing. Through

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trashing, CLS scholars took aim at “legal education, the bar, legal reasoning, rights (including civil rights), precedent, doctrine, hierarchy, meritocracy, the prevailing liberal political vision, and conventional views of labor and the free market” (Hardwick, 1991, p. 150). Scholars of Color on the periphery of CLS found the scathing critique of oppressive social structures useful (Hardwick, 1991). Yet, Scholars of Color were not content with a program narrowly focused on trashing without a philosophy of practice. Describing the CLS tendency of trashing without meaningful action to better the lives of the marginalized, Matsuda (1987) argued: Like a pack of super-termites, these scholars eat away at the trees of legal doctrine and liberal ideals, leaving sawdust in their paths. That they do it so well, and so single-mindedly, is compelling; it suggests that this is what the smartest are doing. Never mind that no one knows what to do with all the sawdust. (p. 330)

For example, Scholars of Color might have been concerned about what practical benefit trashing the idea of a legal right such as antidiscrimination law might have on Students of Color applying to predominantly White universities. The point about rights is related to the third overarching critique of CLS leveed by Scholars of Color – CLS did not have a positive program of social reform or seem to value praxis (Dalton, 1987). Trashing, while seemingly theoretically sophisticated, did little for those who experienced marginalization. CLS scholars’ radicalism seemed confined to sentiment and scholarship, rather than organizing and activism. For Scholars of Color, activism and praxis – the intertwined practice of theory and practice – would have to be part of any theory of racial justice. Because of such political and theoretical divergences, many Scholars of Color and others at the periphery of CLS created another space, an intellectual movement and legal theory that would later be known as critical race theory (CRT). The rationale for splitting from CLS provides insight to what CRT is about – advocacy beyond scholarship, centering and trusting the voices and experiences of the racially subjugated, and endeavoring to name, analyze, and challenge racism in all of its forms.

What Is Critical Race Theory? So just what is CRT? In response, Mari Matsuda (2012) wrote: It is the deconstruction of liberal legal ideology using texts written in blood by our ancestors. It is the refusal, ever, to ignore harm to human bodies. It is the elevation of poets and the unclothing of liars. It is theory with an end, called liberation. (p. 5)

CRT is a critical theory of race that began in legal scholarship in the 1980s. CRT scholarship is preoccupied with race, racism, and the law, viewing societal inequalities and structures through a prism of racism. This does not mean that CRT scholars neglect all other forms of identity-based oppression. Rather, this means that CRT

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examines how racism shapes and interacts with other forms of oppression such as sexism or homophobia (Crenshaw, 1991). Race, as most critical scholars and biologists today would agree, is socially constructed (Omi & Winant, 2014). CRT is attuned to the role of law in this construction. As such, CRT scholars do not assume that race exists outside of the law and that the law is responsive to external racial ideologies (Carbado, 2011). Rather, CRT scholars demonstrate that the law plays a central role in the racialization process, reproducing racist ideas, racist structures, and race, itself (Harris, 1993). After the Civil Rights Movement, popular media, law, and politicians, constructed racism as a problem of one-off, bad actors and individual acts rather than as a structure steeped into the sediment of the foundation upholding the nation (Crenshaw, 1988). CRT scholarship, however, challenges this assumption and demonstrates that racism is a systemic phenomenon. Bell (1992b), for example, even argued that racism was permanent in society. Although not all CRT scholars agree with his conjecture (e.g., Harris, 1994; Lawrence, 2002), all CRT theorists assume that racism is a structuring force in society and contend with this thesis that racism is permanent. In different ways, CRT scholars analyze and put forth concepts to name and challenge the mutually constitutive nature of structural and ideological racism. To identify and analyze the complex nature of racism, CRT scholars leveraged concepts such as unconscious racism (Lawrence, 1987), Whiteness as property (Harris, 1993), interest convergence (Bell, 1980), and racial symbols (Bell, 1992a). CRT scholars leverage such ideas and concepts to tease out the ideological and structural components of racism, challenging the dominant assumption that racism was a product of individual bad actors. Despite the generous page-maximum of this venue, a complete description of CRT in the legal field is out of scope and would call for a manuscript of its own. Consider the diversity within CRT legal scholarship. While CRT is a legal theory broadly useful in analyzing racism in the law, scholars have created offshoots of CRT to better assess specific fields within the law such as evidence (Gonzales Rose, 2016), contracts (Houh, 2004), taxes (Brennen, 2006), and federal pleading (Brooks, 1994). In addition to the diversity of CRT’s application to specific facets of the law, CRT has grown increasingly diverse to meet the needs of various racialized identities. Such identity-based outgrowths of CRT include LatCrit (e.g., Valdes, 2005), AsianCrit (Chang, 1993), and critical race feminism (Wing, 1997). CRT is complex and dynamic. Crenshaw (2011) describes CRT as: . . .not so much an intellectual unit filled with natural stuff-theories, themes, practices, and the like-but one that is dynamically constituted by a series of contestations and convergences pertaining to the ways that racial power is understood and articulated in the post-civil rights era. . .I want to suggest that shifting the frame of CRT toward a dynamic rather than static reference would be a productive means by which we can link CRT's past to the contemporary moment. (p. 1261)

The quote is worth elaborating upon. Crenshaw (2011) is not suggesting an abandonment of theorizing but for a more dynamic, evolving theory that is responsive to

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the unique temporal moment. How one understands and does CRT in 2023 should, necessarily, be different from how one did CRT in 2013. Based on his reading of Crenshaw’s aforementioned quote, Carbado (2011) argued that even more efforts are necessary to name the shifting boundaries and assumptions of CRT. CRT is also activist oriented. Drawing from activist/intellectuals such as W.E.B. Du Bois, Sojourner Truth, and César Chavez, CRT scholars are social justice-oriented. Beyond studying race, the CRT scholar is compelled to fight to eradicate racism. As such, CRT is not simply for journal articles and books, but also for protesting, uncomfortable conversations, and pedagogy with racial justice at the core (Hughes & Giles, 2010; Stovall, 2006). To be a critical race theorist is not just to write about it, but to be about it. Derrick Bell, for example, was a prolific theorist, writer, and speaker. Yet, he was also known for his principled conviction for racial justice and protesting glaring racial inequity in hiring practices at the universities where he worked (Bell, 1994). CRT is full of tensions – therein lies its potential and beauty. CRT scholarship, for example, demonstrates a “commitment to radical critique of the law (which is normatively deconstructionist)” and a “commitment to radical emancipation by the law (which is normatively reconstructionist)” (Bell, 1995, p. 899). CRT scholars operate from this place of aporia, locating paradoxes and tensions as sites of creative theorizing rather than limitations (Matsuda, 1989). The diversity, complexity, and dynamism of CRT, however, are not limitations. As Gonzales Rose (2016) argued, “Part of [CRT’s] richness and insight stems from its diversity and internal debates” (pp. 2248–2249). The diversity and dynamism of CRT is a strength. Yet, because of such complexity, understanding CRT necessarily requires deep study.

Antidiscrimination Law and CRT Early foundational CRT legal literature is in conversation with antidiscrimination laws. CRT scholars watched as politically conservative courts and presidents defanged and diluted civil rights and antidiscrimination laws. Antidiscrimination laws, as Crenshaw (1988) pointed out, were notoriously vague and left up to interpretation. During the 1980s, politically conservative and moderate leaders and thinkers advocated an approach of race neutrality in response to antidiscrimination laws. This approach, adopting a stance where one does not address any aspect of identity at all, is called the antidifferentiation perspective to antidiscrimination law (Colker, 1986). The antidifferentiation perspective views any law or policy that acknowledges or differentiates along the lines of identity (e.g., race, gender, class, sexuality) as unjust. Consider college admissions. According to an antidifferentiation understanding of antidiscrimination, a race-neutral approach to admissions would lead to race-neutral and thereby equitable results. By that logic, a race-conscious approach to admissions would lead to racial preferences and thereby inequitable results. CRT challenges this assumption that is often baked into dominant power structures and interpretations of the law (Carbado, 2011). Conversely, critical race theorists adhere to an anti-subordination reading of the

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law (Colker, 1986). An anti-subordination perspective of antidiscrimination law views subordination as unjust and allows for differentiation along the lines of identity if it rectifies or redresses historical legacies of oppression. In this manner, an anti-subordination understanding of admissions would be against admissions policies that continue to reproduce historical racial disparities in admission. Adherents to the antidifferentiation perspective were likely to suggest that racism was dwindling and that racialized minorities had little to complain about (Calmore, 1991; Crenshaw, 1988). Racism, as CRT theorists argued and racially marginalized people experienced, however, was far from declining. Rather, racism had rebranded. CRT scholars showed that White supremacy was upheld through laws and through the everyday subtle and sometimes vulgar racism of White people. In other words, while White supremacy is clearly embroidered into the hoods of Klansmen, CRT shows that White supremacy is also intricately woven into the fabric of the US legal system. Lawrence’s (1990) description of the interrelated nature of singular racist acts and a larger White supremacist system is worth quoting at length: The goal of White supremacy is not achieved by individual acts or even by the acts of a group, but rather it is achieved by the institutionalization of the ideas of White supremacy. The institutionalization of White supremacy within our culture has created conduct on the societal level that is greater than the sum of individual racist acts. . . the status quo of institutionalized White supremacy remains long after deliberate racist actions subside. (pp. 442–443)

Lawrence (1990) and other CRT scholars in the late 1980s and early 1990s wrote at length about how racism was not simply someone using a racial slur but was far more complex (Calmore, 1991; Crenshaw, 1988; Harris, 1993). As such, much legal CRT scholarship outlines the complexity of racism, showing how racism is ideological and unconscious, but also material and structural. CRT scholars prioritize the experiences of the racially marginalized in their research, activism, and views of justice. To learn more about racism and other forms of oppression, CRT theorists “look to the bottom” (Matsuda, 1987). Matsuda argued that those who experience racism or oppression of any sort have insight about how to analyze and challenge such oppression. Beyond valuation of the narratives of racially marginalized people, CRT legal scholars created fictional narratives imbued with real social science research and concepts on the pages of law review articles (Delgado, 1989; Bell, 1992a). Delgado (1989) described the power and necessity of storytelling: They can open new windows into reality, showing us that there are possibilities for life other than the ones we live. They enrich imagination and teach that by combining elements from the story and current reality, we may construct a new world richer than either alone. Counterstories can quicken and engage conscience. Their graphic quality can stir imagination in ways in which more conventional discourse cannot. (pp. 2414–2415)

Through storytelling, CRT is poised to disrupt racist ideology that renders racism business as usual.

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Although CRT offers a racial analysis, CRT is not singularly occupied with racism. Through the principles of anti-essentialism and intersectionality, CRT scholars are careful to both acknowledge and study how racism intersects with other forms of oppression to shape the material experiences of the marginalized (Crenshaw, 1991). Anti-essentialism addresses the heterogeneity within racial groups or as Delgado and Stefancic (2001) put it, “Everyone has potentially conflicting, overlapping identities, loyalties, and allegiances” (p. 9). Crenshaw (1991) coined the term and theorized intersectionality through her work highlighting the experiences of Black women. Specifically, she looked at victims of gendered violence and demonstrated that their experiences could only be understood through the intersecting oppressions of racist and sexist laws and their histories. Intersectionality reminds scholars that at no moment is a working-class Black woman only one identity. Her racial identity is both classed and gendered. More than a descriptive framework, intersectionality can highlight micro experiences of individuals to learn more about and challenge macro intersecting structures of domination (Crenshaw, 1991).

Thinking with CRT Given the complexity, diversity, and expansiveness of CRT, legal scholars frame CRT in different ways. In addition to the narrative descriptions scholars offer to describe CRT in their articles, scholars sometimes adopt organizing tools such as tenets or propositions. Consider the different ways of organizing a CRT approach. CRT legal scholars have described CRT using six unifying themes (Matsuda et al., 1993), seven Ps of CRT (Gonzales Rose, 2016), five hallmarks (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001), seven tenets from the national CRT workshop in 1990 (Mutua, 2006), and other approaches. As mentioned, CRT legal scholars also alluded to the dynamic nature of CRT as a theory (e.g., Carbado, 2011; Crenshaw, 2011; Mutua, 2006). Because of such diversity, understanding CRT’s intellectual roots is perhaps even more important for scholars in other disciplines such as higher education.

CRT’s Path to Higher Education Since CRT became established as a distinct intellectual movement over three decades ago (Crenshaw, 2011), CRT has extended beyond legal scholarship to varied fields, from health sciences (Cross, 2018), to sociology (Christian et al., 2021), to medical education (Tsai et al., 2021), to information technology (Lin, 2023). CRT arrived in the field of education, more broadly, in 1995. Ladson-Billings and Tate’s (1995) landmark paper “Toward a Critical Race Theory of Education” serves as the foundation of CRT scholarship in education. This work and subsequent scholarship in CRT’s early years in education primarily focused on the K-12 sector of education. Drawing from legal scholarship, Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995) offered three propositions for CRT in education. First, racism is a central force in societal

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inequality. Second, the United States is structured upon property rights. And lastly, the intersection of property and racism is an analytic lens to better understand educational inequality. Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995) think with CRT legal scholarship and sociologists to theorize racial ideology and racial structures. First, in terms of ideology, Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995) draw from Omi and Winant’s (2014) work on racial formation theory at length to “. . .decipher the social-structural and cultural significance of race in education” (p. 50). Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995) also think with Delgado’s (1989) work on storytelling, highlighting how narratives shape the ways “. . .oppression is rationalized, causing little self-examination by the oppressor” (p. 58). Further, concerning unconscious racial bias, LadsonBillings and Tate (1995) point out that “[m]ost oppression does not seem like oppression to the perpetrator” (p. 57) and include a footnote to Lawrence’s (1987) foundational CRT work, “The Id, the Ego, and Equal Protection: Reckoning with Unconscious Racism.” Lastly, to expound upon racial structures, Ladson-Billings and Tate’s (1995) dedicate a section – “The Intersection of Race and Property” – to describing racism as a structuring force in education using Cheryl Harris’ (1993) concept of Whiteness as property. To be sure, Ladson-Billings and Tate’s (1995) piece is much more than what I have briefly offered here. Their work is the foundation for CRT in education scholarship more broadly and primarily focuses on K-12 educational issues. In their review, Ledesma and Calderón (2015) divided CRT in education literature into two distinct “subgenres” – K-12 educational issues and higher education issues. Literature reviews of CRT in education tell a story about how higher education research has engaged with CRT. Given that most CRT research in education has focused on K-12 education, many of the retrospective reviews of CRT literature primarily highlight aspects of K-12 education (Dixson & Rousseau Anderson, 2018; Howard & Navarro, 2016; Ladson-Billings, 2010; Lynn & Parker, 2006). Beyond more CRT research being published in K-12 education, there simply were very few higher education scholars using CRT soon after Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995) introduced CRT to education. CRT did not arrive to higher education as a field of study until years after CRT had been introduced by Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995) to education more broadly. While some early higher education scholarship used CRT to examine attacks on affirmative action (Parker, 1998; Taylor, 1999, 2000), scholars of higher education were generally slower to adopt CRT than scholars studying primarily K-12 education (e.g., Harper, 2012; Patton, 2016). Parsons and Plakhotnic (2006), for example, found no research in seven high-impact policy and higher education journals that employed CRT as a theoretical framework between 1990 and 2001. Of the 1909 articles Parsons and Plakhotnic (2006) reviewed, 90 explicitly focused on the intersection of race and higher education or education policy more broadly. Although important exceptions exist (e.g., Delgado Bernal & Villalpando, 2002; Harper et al., 2009; Jayakumar et al., 2009; Park, 2008; Patton, 2006; Solórzano, 1998; Solórzano et al., 2000; Villalpando, 2003; Yosso et al., 2004), the bulk of the CRT research in the field of higher education was written after 2010.

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Daniel Solórzano’s scholarship (e.g., 1997, 1998), even before 2010, has proved instrumental in spreading CRT through the field of higher education. Solórzano’s impact and reach can also be seen in the CRT scholars of higher education that he has advised, mentored, and collaborated with, which includes the likes of Tara Yosso, Dolores Delgado Bernal, William Smith, Lindsay Perez Huber, and many others. Based on his in-depth study of CRT legal literature, Solórzano put forth five tenets or tenets for a CRT in education: (1) the centrality and intersectionality of racism, (2) the challenge to dominant ideology, (3) a commitment to social justice, (4) the valuation of the experiential knowledge of those who experience racism, and (5) the interdisciplinary nature of CRT (Solórzano, 1998). Accordingly, Solórzano (1998) defines CRT in education as “a framework or set of basic perspectives, methods, and pedagogy that seeks to identify, analyze, and transform those structural, cultural, and interpersonal aspects of education that maintain. . .subordination” (p. 122). The tenets Solórzano has put forth for CRT in education remain useful springboards and guideposts for scholars employing CRT in higher education today. Harper’s (2012) critical review of higher education scholarship’s (in)attention to racism served as an inflection point for CRT and the field of higher education. He found that very few studies between 1999 and 2009 offered a substantive analysis of racism. Of the studies in the review, however, scholars who employed CRT proved to be an exception. CRT analyses, Harper (2012) found, offered more thorough analyses of racism: “Their work demonstrates the utility of CRT in examining complex race-related phenomena and problems in U.S. colleges and universities” (p. 24). At the time of his study, only five articles in the seven higher education journals employed a CRT framework. Patton (2016), in addition to publishing early CRT scholarship in higher education (e.g., 2006), put forth a CRT of higher education. One goal of CRT in higher education, Patton (2016) argued, is disrupting the notion that the university is somehow immune to the racism structuring society. CRT, Patton (2016) demonstrated, has a central role in “disrupting postsecondary prose, or the ordinary, predictable, and taken for granted ways in which the academy functions as a bastion of racism/White supremacy” (p. 317). Three propositions guide a CRT of higher education: 1. White supremacy/racism served and continues to serve a foundational role in US higher education system. 2. The forces of imperialism and capitalism reproduce racism through property rights. These same forces shape higher education. As such, higher education is also a vehicle of racist oppression through property rights. 3. US institutions of higher education are central to the production of knowledge systems and research steeped in racist ideologies. Patton’s (2016) work has been instrumental in providing greater focus to CRT’s usefulness for higher education research in particular. What I have offered thus far is a non-exhaustive description of how CRT came to grow in prominence in journals in the higher education discipline. In mapping the

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genealogy of CRT, one might also point to the role of conferences, other foundational higher education articles, or different scholars that contributed to CRT’s growth in higher education (e.g., Garcia et al., 2018; Iverson, 2007; Villalpando, 2003; Smith et al., 2007). Further, foundational CRT scholars in education have cautioned against attempting to outline a complete genealogy of CRT. Consider, for example, Ladson-Billings’ (2006) reflection concerning how Yosso (2006) constructed the lineage of CRT in her germinal paper on Community Cultural Wealth: “I find Yosso’s CRT family tree intriguing but caution against the construction of such lineages because of the possibility of unsubstantiated alliances or unintended omissions” (p. 216). To avoid such problematics, my aim in this section has been to simply offer the reader an idea of how CRT has travelled from the law to higher education.

How Is Critical Race Theory in Higher Education a Critical Theory? Prior to beginning my review of CRT research in higher education, I first expound upon two interrelated points. First, CRT should be understood as a theory. Second, and relatedly, CRT should be understood as a critical theory.

CRT as Theory To describe CRT and the work of theory, Gillborn and Ladson-Billings (2010) suggest that: . . .theory provides a set of tools to be applied and ideas to be used and refined. In this sense, social theory is always work in progress. But this does not mean that CRT is any less serious about the importance of theory—quite the contrary. From its very first iteration, critical race scholars have staked a claim to the conceptual importance of their work. (p. 38)

While expounding upon CRT’s status as a theory may seem trivial, I take the time to make the point because questions have arisen in higher education concerning CRT’s status as a theory (Cabrera, 2018; Treviño et al., 2008). In an introduction to a special issue in a sociology journal, Treviño and colleagues (2008) note, “CRT has many rigorous concepts and methods, but these have not been coherently integrated in a way that would give CRT the systemic structure – the intellectual architecture – that is representative, and in fact, required, of most social theory” (p. 9). Further, citing Treviño and colleagues (2008), Cabrera (2018) argues that “while insightful,” the tenets of CRT “do not contain the ‘intellectual architecture’ to be considered social theory” and lack a racial theory (p. 211). Suggesting that CRT is not as “theory” as other social theories is not only incorrect but creates a hierarchy of scholarship, implicitly marginalizing the contributions of CRT. Since its inception, however, scholars have critiqued CRT as an intellectual project (Bell, 1995). Posner (1997), for example, called CRT scholars the “lunatic core” (p. 40) of what he determined were radical legal egalitarianists, arguing that their use of narratives and storytelling “. . .come across as labile and

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intellectually limited” (p. 43). I tarry on the point that CRT is indeed rigorous and indeed theory because disciplines weaponize theory, using the classification of theory as a legitimation tool, rendering theory from the bottom, the subjugated, the margins, and the subaltern – any theory that does not mimic dominant theory – as inferior. From philosophy (Dotson, 2013) to sociology (Ladner, 1998), Black scholars have critiqued the narrow, White, Western views of theory that hold currency in their fields. Such works, while certainly distinct, are similar in that they identify and challenge strict notions of what theory is or should be. As many scholars have shown (e.g., Christian, 1987; Collins, 1998; Delgado Bernal & Villalpando, 2002; Kezar, 2006), theory can be understood in varying, even competing, ways. I find inspiration in Collins’ (1998) definition of social theory: . . .doing social theory involves analyzing the changing aspects of social organization that affect people’s everyday lives. Social theory is a body of knowledge and set of institutional practices that actively grapple with the central questions facing a group of people in a specific political, social and historical context. (p. xii)

According to Collins’ definition, CRT is a theory in that it that provides (1) a radical analysis of inequality through racism and its intersecting oppressions, (2) tools and methods to understand how racism is reproduced, and (3) a mode of enduring and resisting racism.

CRT as Critical Theory Many theories in higher education and the social sciences more broadly are rooted in critical theory (e.g., Martínez-Alemán et al., 2015). Critical theory is a paradigm focused on power relations, rooted in liberation, and aimed at identifying and challenging oppressive societal structures, ideologies, and practices (Collins, 2011; Kezar, 2006). Some scholars have also explained what exactly makes CRT, in particular, “critical” (Calmore, 1991; Collins, 2011). Calmore (1991), for example, thinks with John Brenkaman’s description of critical hermeneutics to clarify how CRT is also critical. CRT, Calmore suggests, adopts a critical relation to society through naming and challenging racist structures while also supporting positive reforms that might lead to a more racially just future. Collins (2011), drawing inspiration from Max Horkheimer’s (1937/1972) “Traditional and Critical Theory,” suggests that critical theory has points of divergence and convergence with traditional Western theory and is not purely oppositional. Collins (2011) notes that two meanings of “critical” arise in her “What’s Critical About Critical Racial Theory?” She suggests that the “critical” in critical racial theory can refer to (1) the epistemological criteria of being categorized as critical theory and (2) to what extent theory is essential, or critical, to surviving a racist society. Through a critical paradigm, theory is understood as not only understanding oppressive structures but providing guidance for changing and eradicating such structures. To offer further understanding of CRT in higher education, I now highlight how CRT in higher education is indeed critical.

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Collins (2011) offered epistemological tenets that inform all critical racial theories. First, critical racial theories employ a dialectical analysis reflective of their own place in racial power structures and societal relationships. Critical theorists are aware of the power laden within research and how science or theory can be weaponized to justify subordination (Kezar, 2006). The critical theorist then is mindful and reflexive about the process of knowledge production and what counts as legitimate knowledge. The critical theorist’s suspicion of “legitimate” knowledge production through dominant channels of peer review and academic research frees the theorist to see knowledge production in other ways, such as music, poetry, and storytelling (Calmore, 1991; Matsuda, 1987; Montoya, 1994). CRT scholars in higher education employ such a dialectal analysis that can be seen in the personal modes of methodological inquiry that can rely on personal narrative (Doharty et al., 2021; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002). Further, the fact that CRT scholars of higher education focus on the experiences of other higher education stakeholders and other scholars invested in racial justice reflects an awareness of CRT’s social location within higher education. Second, critical racial theories demonstrate ethical awareness of their own theoretical practices and modes of knowledge production. The CRT scholar then must be reflexive, assessing their own practice and scholarship in relation to the fight for racial justice. Related to this scholarly reflexivity is reflexivity concerning how the theorist’s social location shapes their scholarship. As CRT scholars have shown, one’s CRT scholarship is never absent CRT theorist (Dalton, 1987). The CRT scholar is tied to the research they do because of their social location as scholars fighting for racial justice. Critical racial theories are not bound by disciplinary logic and instead draw from various ways of knowing. All critical racial theories are interdisciplinary, recognizing that their modes of inquiry are located within a universe of other modes of knowledge production. Most descriptions of CRT in education similarly point to its interdisciplinary nature (Solórzano, 1997). Further, it is not uncommon for scholars to use CRT in concert with other theoretical frameworks for their analysis. Lastly, critical theory is not value-neutral. For research or a framework to be considered critical theory, it must advocate a positive program of social change. In other words, when operating from a critical racial theory, “Racial knowledge for knowledge’s sake could not exist” (Collins, 2011, p. 162). Describing the social world is not enough; the point is to explore why and how oppressive structures persist and to challenge such structures (Apple, 2001; Kezar, 2006). Extending a body of literature or filling gaps in research, therefore, is not enough. Patton (2016), for example, argued that “CRT can and should be used as an epistemological lens for studying and transforming higher education as part of a larger social justice agenda” (p. 335). Scholarship of the CRT tradition, like all critical racial projects, can only be considered critical if done in order to advance racial justice. CRT in education exemplifies an activist orientation, and advancing social justice is often listed as a core tenet or proposition of CRT in education (Solórzano, 1997). In their initial critique of CRT, Treviño and colleagues (2008) suggest that CRT scholars do not have an “Archimedean point outside of law on which to stand” (p. 8). Addressing their critique, although misguided, is useful to better understand CRT as

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a theory. Their critique is confusing, for example, because any scholar thinking with CRT – or operating upon a critical or liberatory paradigm – would be suspicious of turning to an Archimedean point or a fictive semblance of objectivity heralded in Western thought. Rather, inspiration and grounding for critical race theorists is found in thinkers such as Toni Morrison, Frederick Douglass, and Langston Hughes; in music like the blues, gospel, and rap; in the bold work of grassroots organizers; in the memories of great-grandparents who made menial wages, making ways out of no way in a Jim Crow society; and in the everyday struggles and insights from workingclass People of Color. As such, CRT stands not upon objectivity or neutrality, but upon the lived experiences of the racially marginalized and those who struggle for racial equity.

Methodological Considerations Recall my overarching research questions: (1) How is CRT being thought with in higher education? (2) What can scholars do to enrich and exercise CRT analyses for higher education in the future? My goal in this review was to take a snapshot of how scholars leverage CRT in higher education scholarship. In other words, my aim was not an exhaustive or systematic literature review. Based on the research I do highlight, I believe the reader will still be able to have an idea about the general landscape of CRT in higher education. This review only includes peer-reviewed journal articles. I prioritized empirical studies or studies where CRT was leveraged to analyze a law or policy. Through reviewing empirical, CRT-led research, I was able to see, in the action of analysis, how scholars were thinking with CRT in their research. Given my aim of learning about how higher education scholars were framing and thinking with CRT, focusing on empirical articles made the most sense for the purposes of this review. This review takes inspiration from Harris and Patton’s (2019) review of intersectionality and higher education. In short, intersectionality is a theory conceptualized by the CRT scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw (1991) that identifies how intersecting oppressions (e.g., racism and sexism) lead to unique forms of violence experienced by marginalized groups. Harris and Patton (2019) ground their review by highlighting how intersectionality is widely debated and misunderstood. They explored, “How do scholars do intersectionality in higher education research” (Harris & Patton, 2019, p. 349). By analyzing how scholars were doing intersectionality, they suggested that they were analyzing how scholars were engaging intersectionality in their work. My work is inspired by Harris and Patton’s (2019) review in at least three ways. First, conceptually, intersectionality is considered a core theme within CRT. Second, CRT like intersectionality is also hotly contested and has become a buzzword. And lastly, I, too, am concerned with how scholars are doing CRT in higher education research. To examine how, and to what extent, scholars were thinking with CRT in their work, I engaged with four primary analytic questions in relation to each article:

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Which CRT legal scholars are cited or thought with? How is CRT legal scholarship engaged? How is CRT framed? How does CRT shape findings and discussion?

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Through these questions, I engaged with my research aim of analyzing how scholars were thinking with or doing CRT in higher education.

What About CRT Concepts, Tenets, or Specific Forms of CRT? This is not a systematic literature review of CRT and higher education research and is limited in important ways. I do not highlight the breadth of CRT research in higher education. For example, I do not include research being led by the various outgrowths of CRT such as LatCrit (e.g., Pérez Huber, 2010), AsianCrit (e.g., Liu et al., 2022; Ngo & Espinoza, 2023), or critical race feminism (e.g., Croom, 2017). I also excluded research that, while similarly within the CRT family tree, only focuses on theoretical outgrowths of CRT that are treated like theories of their own. For example, I do not highlight research led by transformative resistance theory (e.g., Chen & Rhoads, 2016), Community Cultural Wealth (e.g., Means et al., 2022), counterspaces (George Mwangi et al., 2018), or other frameworks within CRT. While such frameworks are under the umbrella of CRT, I wanted to prioritize research that explicitly rooted itself in CRT to learn more about how CRT was being framed. The aforementioned limitation is an important caveat as all of these concepts and related forms of CRT are also within the CRT family. Despite the limitations and the focused scope, however, this review provides insight to how higher education scholars, in general, are thinking with and employing CRT in their research. I did not write this with the intention of this review being seen as a definitive piece on CRT research in higher education. As I highlight in classes I teach and throughout this piece, reading the foundational readings in CRT legal research, CRT in education more broadly, and CRT in higher education is integral to thinking deeply with CRT. This piece might offer helpful starting points for a reader interested in learning more about CRT more broadly and different directions of the currents of research in the field of higher education. In what follows, I highlight how CRT is being leveraged as a framework in higher education journals. I first map the landscape of the articles, offering a high-level review. Then, I examine how CRT scholars are framing and thinking with CRT in their scholarship.

CRT in Higher Education at a Glance In this section, I identify patterns in CRT in higher education research. As mentioned, this section is meant to be read as an “at-a-glance” snapshot of what topics scholars are covering and how they use CRT. This section engages with two

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questions one might ask before asking how CRT is thought with: (1) What is being studied? (2) How, methodologically, are scholars thinking with CRT?

What Is Being Studied? Ledesma and Calderón (2015), in their review of CRT scholarship in education, found that scholars using CRT in higher education focused on three main themes: (1) race-evasive ideologies, (2) admissions, and (3) race relations on campus. Although these themes remain prominent within CRT scholarship in higher education, scholars have since stretched CRT to study a wider variety of topics.

Processes and Policies Scholars have employed CRT to study how various seemingly race-neutral higher education processes and experiences are in fact racialized. Using CRT, researchers highlight how the pathway to tenure and promotion is racialized, illustrating how Faculty of Color navigate racist and gendered obstacles to advance in academia (e.g., Chambers & Freeman, 2020; Durodoye et al., 2020; Espino, 2012; Griffin et al., 2013). Faculty of Color are not passive victims, however. As scholars show through a CRT lens, faculty engage in resistance to persist and create spaces for themselves in the academy (e.g., Chambers & Freeman, 2020; Espino, 2012; Quinteros & Covarrubias, 2023). Nishi (2021) conducted CRT-informed scholarship to explore how college algebra classes were sites of racism, structured to prioritize and empower White students, while excusing and facilitating racism toward Students of Color. Nishi points out that examining college algebra classes is important because they are gateways to STEM degrees arguing that access to inclusive college algebra classrooms is thereby a racial justice issue. From student loan debt (Bostick et al., 2022), to financial aid (Burt & Baber, 2018; Graves, 2023; Hypolite & Tichavakunda, 2019), to academic advising (Lee, 2018), to critique and assessment for art and design students (Unkefer et al., 2023), CRT scholars demonstrate how taken-for-granted aspects of higher education are racialized through and through. In another example of using CRT to examine a seemingly race-neutral facet of higher education, Richards et al. (2018) demonstrate how the methodologies of college ranking systems can be racist, negatively impacting minority serving institutions’ ranks. They argue, “From a CRT perspective this differential treatment operates as a form of systemic institutional racism and classism – the use of metrics that clearly disadvantage minority groups” (p. 299, 2018). CRT research has also identified how in-state tuition resident policies are also racialized, negatively shaping the experiences of undocumented students (Castrellón, 2021; Macías, 2022). Castrellón (2021), for example, demonstrates how institutional agents can potentially aid undocumented students in navigating universities with restrictive in-state tuition policies. Using CRT, scholars also analyzed campus carry policies – the legal possession of firearms on university campuses. Hernández (2021), for example, used CRT in order to analyze how campus carry policies shaped the experiences of Faculty of Color at a public, predominantly

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White institution in Texas. Beyond challenging race-evasive rhetoric, higher education scholars have employed CRT to show how many aspects of universities are shaped by racist structures. Higher education scholars also employ CRT to study explicitly racialized processes and phenomena. Research highlights STEM diversity programs and the work needed to lead inclusive STEM spaces for Students of Color (Baber, 2015; Nakajima et al., 2022). Arday and Jones (2022), in another example, leveraged CRT to examine the “pandemic within the pandemic,” exploring how racism came to fore in the experiences of Black students and staff in the United States and United Kingdom during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. Scholars also leverage CRT to learn more about historical racial injustices. Garibay et al. (2020) used CRT as a lens to learn more about how Black students attending a southern university were impacted by their school’s ties to chattel slavery. Similarly, in my own work (Tichavakunda, 2022b), I employed CRT to amplify Black students’ perceptions of the University of Cincinnati’s memorialization of a noted enslaver. Following the trend identified by Ledesma and Calderón (2015), a wealth of research employs CRT to analyze laws and policies surrounding the intersection of race and admissions (e.g., Ledesma, 2019; Goldstein Hode & Meisenbach, 2017; Maramba et al., 2015; Moses et al., 2019; Park & Liu, 2014; Walker et al., 2021). Park and Liu (2014), for example, employed CRT to challenge the “anti-affirmative action movement’s co-option of Asian Americans” (p. 36). Scholars have also leveraged CRT to analyze Fisher v. University of Texas – a case of a White woman arguing that she was denied admission on account of the University of Texas Austin’s use of race in admissions (Goldstein Hode & Meisenbach, 2017; Walker et al., 2021). Fisher suggested that her rejection was a violation of her equal protection rights of the Fourteenth Amendment. Goldstein Hode and Meisenbach (2017) leveraged a CRT reading of court documents, finding that even pro-affirmative action and pro-race-conscious admissions arguments sometimes employed a logic that relied upon White supremacist ideology. CRT in higher education research also addresses state-specific admissions policies, such as Proposition 209 and the University of California system (Ledesma, 2019) and Texas’ Top Ten Percent Plan (Maramba et al., 2015). With race-conscious admissions again up for debate in the Supreme Court following law suits at the University of North Carolina and Harvard University (Tichavakunda & Kolluri, 2022), CRT will likely still be very useful in understanding and challenging anti-affirmative action positions.

Varied Stakeholders and Higher Education Contexts As Ledesma and Calderón (2015) highlighted, much CRT research in higher education centers on race relations on campus. Aligned with this overarching theme is the trend of using CRT to examine specific groups’ experiences with an aspect of higher education. Consider the many racialized social locations that scholars have used CRT to explore. Within this review, I read articles about groups such as student veterans of color (Hunt et al., 2022; Saunders et al., 2021), student athletes (Donnor, 2005; Harper, 2009; McCoy, 2022), DACA recipients (Macías, 2022), White faculty

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(Haynes, 2023), Faculty of Color (Blake, 2022; Chambers & Freeman, 2020; Griffin et al., 2013; Hernández, 2021; Quinteros & Covarrubias, 2023; Turner et al., 2013), White students (Parker & Neville, 2019), student activists (Hernández, 2021; Quaye & Lange, 2022), graduate Students of Color (Bostick et al., 2022; Fussell-Ware, 2021; Hailu & Chea Simmons, 2022; Harris & Linder, 2018; Gildersleeve et al., 2011; Hypolite, 2022; Johnson & Strayhorn, 2022; Levin et al., 2013; McCoy, 2018; Roberts et al., 2021), postsecondary Students of Color in STEM programs (Grindstaff & Mascarenhas, 2019; Jett, 2011; Spencer, 2021; Watkins & Mensah, 2019), Black student leaders (Jones, 2020), state-level governing boards (Rall et al., 2022), and Latinx community college students (Graves, 2023). Scholars are also employing CRT to analyze increasingly specific identities to provide more precise understandings of people with multiply marginalized identities. For example, CRT research highlights the experiences of Women of Color student veterans in higher education (Saunders et al., 2021), Women of Color chief diversity officers (Nixon, 2017), non-tenure-track Women of Color faculty members (Rideau, 2021), and LGBTQ+ higher education Faculty of Color (Wright-Mair, 2023). Scholars continue to use CRT to amplify the voices and shed light upon the experiences of an increasingly wider array of stakeholders in academia. Beyond increasing the scope of who is studied, scholars are also using CRT to examine the where of race relations. In other words, race relations occur in unique contexts, and CRT can be used to study how university structures shape the racialized experiences of stakeholders. Many articles focused on the predominantly White, 4-year university context more broadly (e.g., Hernández, 2021; Jones, 2020; Lewis & Shah, 2021; Pyne & Means, 2013; Tichavakunda, 2022b; Turner & González, 2011). Increasingly, scholars have investigated how racism structures experiences in other contexts such as Hispanic serving institutions (e.g., Comeaux et al., 2021; Casellas Connors, 2021; Quinteros & Covarrubias, 2023), medical schools (Nguemeni Tiako et al., 2022), community colleges (e.g., Hotchkins et al., 2022; Jain et al., 2011), Asian American and Native American Pacific Islander-serving institutions (Museus et al., 2022), and the Ivy League context (Gasman et al., 2015; Johnson et al., 2022). Some scholars are extending CRT to engage in critical race spatial analyses (Morrison et al., 2017) and examine how race and space intersect to shape enrollment and college access (Puente, 2022; Salazar, 2022). With greater attention to space within a university context, other scholars use CRT to examine racism within residence halls at historically White institutions (Harper et al., 2011; Lane et al., 2022). In sum, scholars are employing CRT in higher education to provide racial analyses of the varied higher education landscape through different university contexts.

Which Methods Are Scholars Using Alongside CRT? CRT research in higher education, overwhelmingly, employs qualitative inquiry. The pattern of employing qualitative inquiry to explore CRT-informed questions has been noted by other education scholars (Garcia et al., 2018; Lynn & Parker, 2006). Baber (2016), for example, found through his review of CRT research in higher

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education that “strong qualitative methods, specifically the use of counternarratives, dominate CRT scholarship in higher education. Less developed are other approaches such as historical or quantitative analysis” (p. 186). A reliance on qualitative inquiry is understandable given the CRT emphasis on storytelling and narratives (e.g., Delgado, 1989; Huber, 2009). Further, although more recent work articulates what CRT brings to quantitative approaches (e.g., Garcia et al., 2018), CRT scholars in education first wrote at length about the potential of using qualitative inquiry and CRT in concert, providing a foundation for CRT scholars interested in qualitative inquiry (Lynn et al., 2002). The qualitative approaches scholars employ are varied, including portraiture (Nishi, 2021), ethnographic case study (Hypolite, 2022), critical race methodology (Rideau, 2021), autoethnography (McCoy, 2018), and in-depth interviews (Quinteros & Covarrubias, 2023). While qualitative research continues to dominate CRT research in higher education, scholars are now using a greater variety of methods alongside CRT. Scholars also employed CRT to interpret varying types of documents and discourses. CRT, for example, guides various approaches to policy analysis (Felix & Trinidad, 2020; Park & Liu, 2014; Mansfield & Thachik, 2016; Whitman & Exarhos, 2020). Other research employed historical and archival methods informed by CRT (e.g., Gasman et al., 2015; Harper et al., 2009; Hernadez, 2013; Stewart, 2019). In other studies, scholars paired critical discourse analysis with CRT (Casellas Connors, 2021; Goldstein Hode & Meisenbach, 2017; Maramba et al., 2015; Rall et al., 2022). One paper made use of discourses on social media, analyzing how Black Twitter users used the hashtag #StayMadAbby to critique and challenge Abigail Fisher, the plaintiff in Fisher v. University of Texas (Walker et al., 2021). Walker et al. (2021) analyzed how users communicated through the hashtag using critical technocultural discourse analysis (Brock, 2018), examining both what was being said and how social media shaped communication. A growing amount of CRT scholarship in higher education employs quantitative methods (Durodoye et al., 2020; Johnson & Strayhorn, 2022; Richards et al., 2018). Although the legacy of employing quantitative methods to study issues of racism and fight for racial justice long precedes the germination of CRT in the legal field (Gillborn et al., 2018), an intellectual movement at the intersection of CRT and quantitative methods called QuantCrit is gaining popularity (e.g., Garibay et al., 2020; Garcia et al., 2018; Sablan, 2019; Pérez Huber et al., 2018; Wofford & Winkler, 2022). As Gillborn et al. (2018) emphasize, QuantCrit is not a branch of CRT. Rather, QuantCrit is “as a kind of toolkit that embodies the need to apply CRT understandings and insights whenever quantitative data is used in research and/or encountered in policy and practice” (Gillborn et al., 2018, p. 170). In this manner, one can see how CRT is shaping methodological approaches and how scholars across disciplines think about quantitative methods. Wofford and Winkler (2022), in their review of critical quantitative research in higher education, found that most QuantCrit scholarship was published in special issues or “outlets with specific aims and scopes concerning principles of diversity, equity, and inclusion” (p. 979). Despite the increased use of CRT alongside quantitative methods, it remains to be seen how commonplace such approaches will become in higher education research.

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Doing CRT in Higher Education: Patterns in Theorizing CRT scholars in education employ and describe CRT in different ways. Encouragingly, scholars have not debated about a “one-best” approach to doing a CRT analysis in education. Rather, the most common concern of CRT scholars in education is the proliferation of scholars employing CRT without a clear grounding in its legal roots. Scholars adopt two primary approaches to thinking with CRT in higher education scholarship: (1) the aggregate approach and (2) the focused approach. As I explain later, the aggregate approach is typified by a more general description of the theory and thinking with a number of tenets or ideas that are within the CRT tradition. In doing so, scholars adopt the general tenor or spirit of a CRT approach. Scholars using a focused approach prioritize or think with one or more specific constructs or concepts that were birthed in CRT (e.g., racial realism, interest convergence, or Whiteness as property). Much overlap necessarily exists between CRT principles, and scholars often use multiple legal principles together to offer a strong CRT analysis (e.g., Bhopal, 2022; Briscoe, 2023; Walker-Devose et al., 2019). To be clear, I am not suggesting either approach is superior to the other. Both approaches, when rooted in CRT’s legal roots and interwoven throughout the text, can offer generative insights building upon the CRT tradition. CRT scholarship in higher education demonstrates a pluralistic approach to doing CRT or an openness to diverse ways of approaching a CRT analysis. A pluralist approach to theory is not the same thing as a relativist approach to theory that implies that “everything goes” (Lamont & Swidler, 2014, p. 155). In what follows, I briefly highlight the tenets mentioned in various uses of the aggregate CRT approach before demonstrating how higher education scholars are thinking with CRT’s legal principles in the focused approach.

The Aggregate/Tenet Approach In their foundational primer to CRT, Delgado and Stefancic (2001) described the diverse ways of doing CRT: “What do critical race theorists believe? Probably not every member would subscribe to every tenet set out in this book” (p. 6). Despite the diverse interpretations of CRT and competing ideas within CRT literature, CRT scholars in higher education often draw from similar scholars to describe CRT. In Table 1, I highlight popular ways higher education scholars introduce and organize CRT in theoretical framework sections. Through tenets, themes, or propositions, education scholars are positioned to conduct a CRT analysis within an operating logic consistent with CRT’s legal roots. An aggregate approach to CRT, at its best, offers a CRT analysis that taps into the general spirit of CRT. Scholars adopting the aggregate approach first allude to CRT’s legal roots and germination before offering a list of CRT tenets or themes that they will apply to their scholarship. The tenets higher education researchers list are typically the tenets earlier CRT legal or education scholars have already put forth

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Table 1 Popular descriptions of CRT in higher education Source Matsuda et al. (1993)

Organization 6 unifying themes

Solórzano (1997)

5 tenets

Delgado and Stefancic (2001)

5 tenets

DeCuir and Dixson (2004)

5 tenets

Patton (2016)

3 propositions

Content 1. CRT holds that racism is endemic to American life 2. CRT expresses a skepticism to claims of objectivity, race neutrality, and meritocracy 3. CRT challenges ahistoricism 4. CRT values the experiential knowledge of people of color 5. CRT is interdisciplinary 6. CRT works toward ending racial oppression as part of the broader project of ending all forms of oppression 1. The centrality and intersectionality of race and racism 2. The challenge to dominant ideology 3. The commitment to social justice 4. The centrality of experiential knowledge 5. The interdisciplinary perspective 1. Racism is ordinary 2. Interest convergence 3. Race is socially constructed 4. The evolving differential racialization of various groups and anti-essentialism 5. Unique voice of color 1. Counterstorytelling 2. The permanence of racism 3. Whiteness as property 4. Interest convergence 5. The critique of liberalism 1. US higher education is rooted in racism and its vestiges remain palatable 2. US higher education is tied with imperialism and capitalism which propels the intersection of race, property, and oppression 3. US institutions of higher education produce and reproduce knowledge and knowledge systems rooted in White supremacy

(i.e., DeCuir & Dixson, 2004; Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Matsuda et al., 1993; Patton, 2016; Solórzano, 1997). In between or after listing tenets, scholars demonstrate how the tenets can be applied for their specific studies. In this manner, scholars use tenets as an operating logic for their study.

The Focused/Legal Principle Approach Scholars adopting a focused approach to CRT analyses identified specific CRT legal principles that led their analyses. In this section, I describe how scholars are making use of CRT legal principles in higher education. First, I point to the principles of storytelling/voice and intersectionality. As I will demonstrate, scholars have already assessed the use of these two CRT principles in higher education research, so I only

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briefly highlight these two CRT principles. Next, with greater depth, I highlight three other CRT principles employed in higher education research that have not been assessed to a similar extent – interest convergence, racial realism, and Whiteness as property. The CRT principle of voice/storytelling is perhaps the most often employed principle in higher education research using CRT. Education scholars have noted that across K-12 and higher education research, CRT scholars often make use of the counternarrative/voice CRT principle (Dixson & Rousseau, 2005; Dixson & Rousseau Anderson, 2018; Ledesma & Calderón, 2015; McCoy & Rodricks, 2015). In their review, for example, Dixson and Rousseau Anderson (2018) pointed out, “Much of the literature on critical race theory in education over the past two decades has focused on offering these counterstories based on the accounts of the experiences of Students of Color” (p. 123). This principle, which is aligned with the CRT education tenet of valuing and centering the experiential knowledge of People of Color, suggests that amplifying the voices of people who experience racism can offer unique insight to racism and how to best challenge such oppression (Matsuda, 1987). Education scholars focusing on this principle often use the critical race methodology of counternarratives/stories which Solórzano and Yosso (2002) define as “a method of telling the stories of those people whose experiences are not often told (i.e., those on the margins of society)” (p. 32). Higher education scholars use the CRT principle of voice or counternarrative to offer powerful insight to how various groups in higher education experience and navigate racism (e.g., Jenkins et al., 2021; Jett, 2011; Jones, 2021, 2022; Johnson & Bryan, 2017; Patrón et al., 2021; Urrieta & Villenas, 2013). Through amplifying the racialized experiences of racially marginalized groups, counternarratives can disrupt the postsecondary prose of race neutrality (Patton, 2016). Intersectionality is another core CRT principle that higher education researchers often refer to and think with. While related to and a core component of CRT, intersectionality often employed as its own theoretical framework (see Harris & Patton, 2019). Given its use as its own framework and the fact that intersectionality has already been thoroughly reviewed at length in the higher education field (Duran & Jones, 2019; Harris & Patton, 2019; Museus & Griffin, 2011; Nichols, & Stahl, 2019), I do not include intersectionality in my review of how CRT legal concepts are taken up in higher education research and encourage readers to view the aforementioned reviews. In what follows, I review research highlighting how and to what extent CRT legal concepts, specifically interest convergence, Whiteness as property, and racial realism, are thought with in higher education research.

Interest Convergence Bell (1980) theorized the interest convergence dilemma to explain how a law like Brown v. Board of Education, which was constructed upon a racial justice imperative, could have been passed in an otherwise racist country. Interest convergence suggests that, “. . .the interest of blacks in achieving racial equality will be

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accommodated only when it converges with the interests of Whites” (Bell, 1980, p. 523). The concept has since been applied to racially marginalized groups more broadly (e.g., Felix & Trinidad, 2020; Yao & Viggiano, 2019). Through interest convergence, one understands that racial justice policy reforms are only passed if they help or do not get in the way of the interests and societal standing of middle and upper class White people. CRT research in higher education often makes use of the interest convergence concept (e.g., Baber, 2015; Felder & Barker, 2013; Gasman & Hilton, 2012; Hernández, 2021; Lewis & Shah, 2021; Moses, 2021; Muñiz et al., 2023; Rall et al., 2022; Yao & Viggiano, 2019). In common, scholars use interest convergence to question or problematize seemingly positive policies aimed at increasing racial equity. Interest convergence nudges the CRT scholar to remain critical, noting how policies or reforms reify racial hierarchies and ultimately serve the interests of those in power. Scholars employ interest convergence to study various topics, ranging from affirmative action and diversity related admissions policies (e.g., Maramba et al., 2015; Park & Liu, 2014; Taylor, 1999) to the experiences of college student athletes (Donnor, 2005; Harper, 2009), to the commodification of international faculty and students in the university context (Yao & Viggiano, 2019). Felix and Trinidad (2020), for example, used CRT, and interest convergence in particular, to analyze California’s Student Equity Policy. Interest convergence, they found, offered a rationale as to why the policy was only adopted after “the language of ‘equity for all’ was adopted” and language attending to race and racial inequalities was removed (Felix & Trinidad, 2020, p. 477). Castagno & Lee (2007) weave interest convergence throughout their qualitative exploration of one Midwestern University and its issues with ethnic fraud and Native mascots. Their succinct argument about racial justice is emblematic of much higher education research employing interest convergence: “we argue that institutions of higher education allow. . .a particular form or level of diversity, but they plateau at a level beneath true equity. Once racial remedies no longer hold value or benefit the institution itself, the status quo is maintained” (Castagno & Lee, 2007, p. 5). They also conclude their paper cautioning scholars to adopt interest convergence as a principle of activism because appealing to liberalism or the morality of racist institutions is a losing game.

Racial Realism The enduring nature of racism is a focal point of concern for CRT scholars. Within CRT, the idea of racism’s permanence comes to fore in Bell’s (1992a) theory of racial realism. Racial realism’s central thesis is that racism is permanent. Although critiqued for being too pessimistic and rife with racial despair (Powell, 1992), Bell’s aim was the opposite. A racial realist perspective, Bell (1992b) argued, “enables us to avoid despair, and frees us to imagine and implement racial strategies that can bring fulfillment and even triumph” (pp. 373–374).

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Not all scholars identifying within the CRT tradition fully agree with racial realism – specifically the idea that racism is permanent. For example, Lawrence (1997/2002), to a crowd of fellow CRT scholars, said, “Derrick Bell says that racism is permanent. One thing is for certain: None of us will live long enough to know whether he is right” (p. xix). Racial realism has a career similar to how Lawrence refers to the idea here – although all CRT scholars may not completely agree with racial realism, all CRT scholars reckon with Bell’s argument that racism is permanent. Beyond the assertion that racism is permanent, racial realism is comprised of four themes (Bell, 1992a). The first theme is temporal – racial progress is not a linear process. In other words, one should not assume that Black Americans, for example, are closer to racial justice in 2023 than in 1980 simply because time is passing. The second theme is economic – racial realism prioritizes the material and socioeconomic positions of the racially marginalized in analysis above ethics and discourse about race. The third theme is spiritual – racial realists find satisfaction and fulfillment in the struggle of fighting for racial justice rather than the outcome of justice itself. The last theme is a call to action – those fighting for justice will have to be realistic about the odds against them, abandoning feel-good ideas or symbols of racial progress. Higher education scholars leverage racial realism in two main ways. First, and most often, scholars mention racial realism to allude to the CRT assumption that racism is ordinary and a structuring force in society (e.g., Haynes & Cobb, 2022; Jenkins et al., 2021; Patton, 2016; Vue et al., 2017). In this usage, racial realism is invoked to point to the racist context of society. In other cases, scholars leverage racial realism as a theoretical tool to think with throughout their study (e.g., Bhopal, 2022; Okello et al., 2021; Stokes, 2023; Tichavakunda, 2022b; WalkerDeVose et al., 2019). Okello et al. (2021), for example, think deeply with racial realism, examining to what extent a course inspired by racial realism shaped Students of Color’s sense of dignity. True to CRT’s interdisciplinary nature, Okello et al. (2021) couple racial realism with insight from other theories rooted in Afropessimist thought and Black studies more broadly. In another example, Stokes (2023) leveraged racial realism to examine Latinx undergraduates’ experiences during the Trump presidency. Through the lens of racial realism, Stokes (2023) problematizes the idea of sense of belonging in that universities, like all institutions, are permanently racist. Racial realism certainly is not an unfamiliar phrase in higher education. As evidenced, scholars are thinking with racial realism in novel and important ways. Most often, higher education research employs racial realism as a background feature, indicating an assumption about racism’s permanence. This is certainly consistent with Bell’s work. More higher education scholars might consider racial realism as a driving theoretical tool. As mentioned, racial realism is much more than a pronouncement of racism’s permanence – it is a theory with its own propositions and might be thought with in many more ways in the higher education context (see Golden, 2022).

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Whiteness as Property Harris (1993) introduced the CRT legal principle of Whiteness as property. Tracing the history of how White Europeans dominated and exploited Black and Indigenous people in America, Harris articulated how Whiteness became associated with privilege in the public and private spheres. Harris demonstrates the interrelated nature of race and property, arguing that Whiteness evolved from an identity into a form of property that is affirmed and protected through the legal system. In short, Whiteness as property is the “legal legitimation of expectations of power and control that enshrine the status quo as a neutral baseline, while masking the maintenance of White privilege and domination” (Harris, 1993, p. 1715). Whiteness as property is one critical race tool of understanding how race, and Whiteness in particular, is not simply abstract and ideological, but also structural, shaping access to material benefits and people’s lives through law and policy. Although higher education scholars often mention Whiteness as property in descriptions of CRT, some work employs Whiteness as property as the driving principle within their CRT analysis (e.g., Bondi, 2012; Harris, 2019; Ozias & Bettencourt 2022; Salazar, 2022; Stewart, 2019; Thompson Dorsey & Venzant Chambers, 2014; Worsley & Roby, 2021). Stewart (2019), for example, conducted a historical analysis, led by a CRT and Whiteness as property in particular, to understand “the ontological and epistemic manifestations of Whiteness underlying the content (inclusion, exclusion, and nature) in student publications” at elite, private liberal art colleges between 1945 and 1965. Stewart (2019) suggests that while noting the obvious, egregious instances of racism is important, Whiteness as property offered a theoretical tool that was sensitive to the subtle, yet violent, nature of the “innocuous and uninterrupted depiction of Whiteness” in college yearbooks and newspapers that rendered Whiteness normal (p. 32). In another example, Salazar (2022) employed a spatial Whiteness as property analysis to study college recruiting practices in different communities. In thinking about Whiteness as property from a spatial perspective, Salazar (2022) argued that “discriminatory practices are enacted through racialized privileges (and disadvantages) ascribed to places” (p. 592). Salazar found that the seemingly race-neutral approaches of enrollment management were actually racialized and that recruiters were more likely to visit schools in White communities than schools in predominantly Communities of Color even when educational achievement and income levels were similar. Scholars interested in studying the intersection of Whiteness and higher education employ a variety of frameworks and often draw from the field of critical Whiteness studies which is distinct from CRT (Cabrera, 2022). Scholars, even when employing a theory other than CRT, often mention or think with Whiteness as property as a useful tool in analyses of Whiteness and higher education (e.g., Cabrera, 2022; Foste & Irwin, 2020; Tapia-Fuselier et al., 2021). Given the growing interest in Whiteness studies and higher education (Matias, 2023), increasing references to Whiteness as property make sense. Yet, Harris’ (1993) original piece on Whiteness as property might also be considered CRT in higher education. Harris (1993), for example,

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highlights how impassioned White resistance to affirmative action is, in part, because affirmative action attacks Whiteness as property. With growing resistance to affirmative action and attacks on CRT in higher education, scholars will continue to find a useful explanatory tool in Whiteness as property.

What CRT Is Not: The Superficial Approach Ladson-Billings (2013) argued that as CRT evolves and increases in popularity, CRT scholars also have a duty to state what CRT is not. As mentioned, incorrect definitions and renderings of CRT abound in popular media and scholars continue to attend to such misrepresentations (e.g., López et al., 2021). Here I highlight different ways higher education scholars adopt superficial approaches to CRT analyses. Taking cues from Renn’s (2020) Association for the Study of Higher Education presidential address, however, I aim to “engage critically but also generously” (p. 926). In the tradition of earlier higher education scholarship engaging in critique of well-intended colleagues’ work (Baber, 2016; Harper, 2012; Harris & Patton, 2019), I make the choice not to cite the scholarship in this section. I also paraphrase quotes in this section while keeping the essence of the sentiment in order to anonymize such research. I anonymize their work because the point of this section is reflection and calling in, rather than critique and calling out. In what follows, I offer three interrelated questions that scholars interested in thinking with CRT might ask themselves in conducting their own research: (1) Could this paper have been written without CRT? (2) How is this analysis/argument connected to CRT’s legal roots? (3) How, if at all, does this work think with tenets?

Could This Paper Have Been Written Without CRT? A number of CRT studies in my review, I suggest, were CRT in name, but not in essence. While many of these studies arrived at interesting and important findings, the scholars likely could have written the exact study by grounding their work in critical theories of race, broadly speaking. Similar to all critical theories of race, such scholars employ CRT as a way to “understand the structurally racist context” or “acknowledge the endemic nature of racism.” Scholars adopting this superficial approach to CRT tend to stop there, stating racism shapes higher education without making use of CRT’s unique theoretical toolkit to identify the mechanisms, policies, ideologies, and practices that structure racism. CRT, like any theory, can and should be interwoven throughout the entire manuscript. For scholars employing CRT in a more superficial manner, the theoretical framework section is often the only section where scholars make reference to tenets and/or CRT scholars. Similar to Baber’s (2016) review of CRT in higher education research, I found that the use of CRT or clear evidence of thinking with CRT in such studies was often muted throughout the remainder of the text.

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Consider, for example, how one scholar suggested that CRT was useful to understand the fact that racism is imbued “within structures of everyday life.” Beyond the theoretical framework section, little was said about CRT or even named in some way, in the findings or discussion sections of this empirical work. This study, in an attempt to study the everydayness of racism for a group in higher education, could have just the same used Essed’s (1991) work on everyday racism. To be sure, CRT and other critical theories of racism are similar and can arrive at similar conclusions. Yet, this is a missed opportunity to rigorously think with the intellectual wellsprings of CRT or any other critical theory of race for that matter. In another example, a paper employed CRT in order to examine racial disparities in college student outcomes. Similarly, neither CRT nor its constitutive parts were mentioned or leveraged beyond the theoretical framework section. Ladson-Billings (2013) made a similar point, observing that scholars studied racism in education such as racial disparities of expulsion rates and special education placement without using CRT. Through such examples, Ladson-Billings (2013) demonstrated “. . .that writing about race and racial issues does not necessarily make one a critical race theorist” (pp. 36–37). Certainly, my observations in this section are not an indictment of such literature. Rather, I make this point to suggest that many scholars are engaged in a superficial use of CRT and are missing out on the unique strengths and potential of CRT to analyze and challenge racism. If one uses CRT only to acknowledge racism but neglects to think with CRT’s literature base or theoretical toolkit in their analysis, then one is engaged in a superficial CRT analysis.

How Is This Analysis Connected to CRT’s Legal Roots? Throughout this chapter, I have emphasized the importance of CRT scholars thinking with and rooting their analyses in CRT legal scholarship. Dixson and Rousseau (2005), for example, noted how both Ladson-Billings (1998) and Tate (1997) “warned critical race scholars in education against moving too quickly away from the foundation provided by the scholarship in legal studies” (p. 9). As mentioned, scholars in higher education are indeed thinking with CRT’s legal roots and concepts in different and substantive ways. Yet, a number of studies did not engage with or even cite any specific CRT legal scholarship. To avoid a superficial approach to CRT, scholars must engage with CRT’s legal roots. One way to learn about CRT in higher education research and its engagement with CRT’s legal foundation is to examine citations. Of course, limited citations to legal scholars does not equate to limited engagement with CRT’s legal foundations. In a like manner, many references to legal scholarship does not equate to meaningfully engaging with the theoretical propositions therein. McKittrick’s (2020) thoughts on citations and the exclusion of Black thinkers, especially Black women, from scholarship are helpful in identifying the limitations, tensions, and potential of citations: “I am not interested in citations as quotable value. I want to reference other possibilities such as, citations as learning, as counsel, as sharing”

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(p. 26). Here, McKittrick suggests thinking about citations more than just sources of quotes to further our arguments, but as sources to think with and learn from. Citations cannot tell the whole story, but citations can still tell a story about how higher education scholars engage with CRT legal scholarship. The most common reference to CRT’s legal foundation in higher education research is Delgado and Stefancic’s (2001) reader, Critical Race Theory: An introduction. What are the implications and potential problematics of higher education scholars primarily relying upon an introductory reader of CRT to make reference to CRT’s legal foundations? With the exception of Derrick Bell, Kimberlé Crenshaw, Richard Delgado, and Cheryl Harris, the scholarship of individual CRT legal scholars was rarely engaged with in a substantive manner. As mentioned, problematically, some studies employing CRT did not include even one citation to any CRT legal scholarship. Of such cases, most mentioned CRT’s legal roots but only cited CRT in education scholars in their descriptions. Who is not referred to, or rarely cited, tells us about how CRT in higher education integrates legal scholarship. Outside of an occasional reference, often times to edited volumes (e.g., Matsuda et al., 1993; Valdes et al., 2002), scholars rarely, if at all, mention central CRT legal scholars such as Mari Matsuda, Charles Lawrence, Devon Carbado, Patricia Williams, John Calmore, Peggy Davis, Margaret Montoya, Robert Chang, Jerome Culp, Francisco Valdes, and/or Angela Harris. The lack of engagement with CRT legal scholars demonstrates, in part, a missed opportunity of deeply engaging with CRT, but this also serves as a potential path forward for future higher education scholarship – by engaging with CRT legal scholars, we might approach CRT work in higher education in a different fashion. Concerning White progressive civil rights legal scholars’ limited engagement with the work of legal Scholars of Color, Delgado stated, “By citing someone, you validate their work and include them in your discursive community” (Delgado & Stefancic, 2010, p. 230). Delgado’s (1992) words offer guidance for scholars interested in doing CRT in higher education: “Routinized, stereotypical citation to one work gives the impression the author wrote only the one. It also conveys the message that insurgent writers can only write one work” (p. 1368). As such, I write this in order to nudge higher education scholars to reflect upon which CRT legal scholars we include in our discursive communities and how, if at all, we think with their scholarship. To be clear, I say this not to chastise other CRT scholars in higher education. In my own scholarship guided by CRT, for example, I found myself primarily citing and thinking with the usual names from the legal field – Bell, Crenshaw, Delgado, and Stefancic. As such, I write this simply as an observation of who potentially is and who is not being thought with and a call for renewed engagement with CRT’s legal foundations.

How Am I Thinking with Tenets? As mentioned, CRT has been presented and organized in different ways, from propositions to themes to tenets. Tate (1997), for example, arrived at five defining

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elements or related questions of CRT legal literature. His description of how to think about these defining elements of CRT, I suggest, is a useful way of thinking about the various ways of thinking about and with CRT’s tenets and themes: These elements of CRT represent a beginning point. Critical race scholars are engaged in a dynamic process seeking to explain the realities of race in an everchanging society. Thus, their theoretical positions and, more specifically, these elements should be viewed as a part of an iterative project of scholarship and social justice. (Tate, 1997, p. 235)

The themes, tenets, or propositions offered by CRT scholars are best understood as flexible starting points of analysis. Yet, as other education scholars have also pointed out, scholars can fall into the trap of thinking of tenets as rigid lines of inquiry (e.g., Baber, 2016; Dumas & ross, 2016). Ladson-Billings’ (2014) words are worth quoting at length concerning the potential problems of listing tenets for CRT without studying CRT in depth: I. . .cautioned education scholars against rushing to appropriate CRT because of the steep learning curve involved in digesting the legal arguments and then applying them to education. I would argue that I have been unsuccessful. CRT has popped up in countless education articles and chapters and as I feared, its treatment has been superficial and/or misplaced. While Tate and I detailed the major tenets of CRT, we found subsequent articles “cherrypicking” the scholarship and attempting to apply the “tenet du jour” to all manner of analysis. (p. 260)

As such, tenets and other methods of organizing and describing CRT can serve as a shortcut to actually studying CRT and thinking with CRT’s legal scholarship in a meaningful way. In my review, I saw a superficial CRT analysis through the use of tenets or themes. I saw much of what Baber observed in his review of CRT in higher education literature between 2006 and 2015, specifically, “. . .limited connection between CRT tenets and data description and analysis” (p. 185). The phenomenon continues today in superficial approaches to CRT. After listing tenets or themes put forth by other scholars I saw limited connection of tents to the rest of the analysis. In other words, some scholars are using superficial approaches to applying CRT by listing tenets without integrating and thinking with tenets.

Where Does CRT in Higher Education Need to Go? CRT continues to be an impactful and important theory for higher education research. Through CRT, scholars have highlighted with various methods and through different policies, populations, and contexts how higher education is racialized through and through. Where, then, does CRT need to go to make even more of a theoretical and practical impact in higher education? The titles of three pieces by foundational CRT scholars offer explicit instructions for the CRT scholar of higher education: “Twenty Years of Critical Race Theory: Looking Back to Move Forward”

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(Crenshaw, 2011), “Critical Race Theory in Education: A Review of Past Literature and a Look to the Future” (Ledesma & Calderón, 2015), and “Introduction to the Special Issue: Sankofa – Looking Back to Move Forward in Critical Race Theory and Education” (Donnor et al., 2016). As I have alluded to and explicitly stated throughout this chapter, scholars need to return to the legal source of CRT in order to truly make use of CRT’s theoretical richness. One cannot understand a decades-old theory through one article or one introductory book. One cannot understand CRT in education without understanding CRT in the legal field (Dixson & Rousseau Anderson, 2018). Reading Ladson-Billings and Tate’s (1995) foundational and pathbreaking work on CRT in education is only the beginning of the intellectual work one must do to understand CRT. Studying CRT calls for reading the likes of Derrick Bell, Mari Matsuda, Kimberlé Crenshaw, Patricia J. Williams, Richard Delgado, Charles Lawrence, Angela Harris, John Calmore, Jerome Culp, and the many other foundational critical race theorists. CRT in higher education is located within a much larger lineage and tradition of CRT dating back to law review articles published over 30 years ago. To locate yourself within a scholarly tradition entails the responsibility to study the tradition’s intellectual genealogy. As such, thinking with CRT entails the work of learning of the intellectual offerings of those before you. CRT in higher education is intrinsically bound to its legal foundations. As such, to understand CRT in higher education without studying its legal roots is akin to thinking with the concept of double consciousness without ever reading Souls of Black Folk (Du Bois, 1903/2008), employing a Marxist analysis without ever reading The Communist Manifesto (Marx & Engels, 1848/2002), or doing an intersectional analysis without ever reading the legal texts of Kimberlé Crenshaw (1991). Many legal scholars and concepts within CRT are rarely thought with in higher education research. My point here is not to chastise scholars doing CRT work in higher education but to suggest that CRT’s legal scholarship has much more to offer higher education research. Patricia Williams’ CRT legal scholarship, for example, is rarely cited or engaged in higher education research employing CRT. A notable exception is Garcia and Dávila’s (2021) generative special issue thinking with Williams’ (1991) concept of spirit murdering, which is “. . .a form of racial violence that steals and kills the humanity and spirits of Black, Indigenous, and People of Color” (Garcia & Dávila, 2021, p. 3). This special issue is an example of the immense potential of looking back to CRT legal scholarship to move CRT in higher education forward. Now consider the fact that the concept of spirit murdering is only one idea of the many within Williams’ (1991) The Alchemy of Race and Rights. Williams also has an entire body of work with multiple books, law review articles, and public-facing essays in popular media. Most of her work has not yet been engaged or thought with by higher education scholars. Further, consider, for example, how Williams (1991) was a leading voice in the minority critique of CLS’ disavowal of rights. She argued that racially marginalized groups used laws and rights in pragmatic and creative ways with racial justice and freedom in mind. How might her work critiquing the CLS movement’s repudiation of rights be applied in the higher education context? CRT and Williams, in particular, demonstrated that

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racially marginalized people can and should use all legal resources and policies available in order to advance the project of racial justice. In a context of anti-CRT laws and growing anti-affirmative action sentiment (Miller et al., 2023), we could use more creative, CRT-inspired thinking about bending laws to more racially just ends. What might a CRT approach look like in higher education when we think with Williams in particular? Or consider the work of Derrick Bell. Over the span of his life, Bell authored a legal text book, seven monographs, and dozens of law review articles. Bell, like any theorist, evolved in his thinking so that Bell’s thinking in Faces at the Bottom of the Well (1992) is distinct from the more spiritual and theological Bell of Gospel Choirs (1996). Bell and other foundational scholars of CRT not only wrote a number of pieces individually, but they also approach CRT in different ways and wrote about different topics of the law. Scholars such as Derrick Bell are often cited, yet to what extent is their work substantively thought with in higher education? Beyond the customary citation, higher education scholars do not often substantively engage with CRT scholars on an individual level to guide their CRT analysis. To think with a body of work or a specific theorist, one must deeply engage with their work. The goal in theorizing alongside or with a theorist is to use knowledge of their prior work in order to make informed decisions about how the theorist might approach or analyze a distinct topic. While studying and thinking with one scholar’s body of work adds a layer of complexity to the study of CRT, this also provides an exciting opportunity for CRT scholars in higher education and other disciplines. CRT is more than a set of themes or tenets. CRT’s legal foundations create a patchwork of scholarship from a diverse group of scholars who employed different theoretical tools to study different racial justice issues. CRT has much more to offer.

On Pedagogy This chapter has implications for how CRT is taught in schools of education. Chezare Warren, a leading scholar of race and education (e.g., Warren, 2021), was the first scholar I have met who has taught a course on race and education in a sequence. Based on conversations with scholars such as Warren, my experience as a student, and my experience teaching CRT at two different institutions, CRT is usually taught in one standalone course. I suggest that one course is not enough to teach CRT. Methodological classes, for example, are often offered in sequences. Students take an Introduction to Research Methods class as a prerequisite to the first course in a Qualitative and/or Quantitative Methods sequence of courses. How might a similar format of sequencing be used to scaffold courses on theory, and CRT in particular? A department, for example, might have a core foundational course about how to understand theory. Students could elect to take a sequence of two courses about CRT – the first class could focus on research on race and CRT legal scholarship, while the second would explore CRT in education. With two sequenced classes, students will have a better idea of what CRT is, what CRT is not, and a deeper understanding of the breadth and depth of CRT as a theory.

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On Collective and Individual Action How and when do fellow CRT scholars of higher education come together? The Critical Race Studies in Education Association conference offers one venue for CRT scholars across education sectors. In the Los Angeles, CA area, Daniel Solórzano (2023) holds a regular Research Apprenticeship Course, or RAC, focused on CRT in education at the University of California Los Angeles. Even as a doctoral student at the University of Southern California, I attended, participated in, and learned from presenters at Solórzano’s RAC. Highlighting and creating spaces where CRT scholars of education, and higher education in particular, convene are important because CRT is not done in isolation. Studying racism without actively fighting racism is not of the CRT tradition. CRT is about action and engaging in advocacy for racial justice. Lawrence (1997/2002) offered guidance concerning CRT scholars’ activism: “In hard times, we must continue to be activists. In hard times, it is important and necessary and good to start small. We cannot teach about liberation without actively engaging in its politics” (p. xviii). In other words, if the only CRT work a scholar engages in is beyond a paywall in peer-reviewed manuscripts, then that scholar is not a critical race theorist. With an assault on CRT, history curriculums, tenure, and a number of other rights, we should all be critical race theorists. At the least, CRT scholars, ourselves, should find ourselves engaged in eager resistance.

On Inheritance Kristie Dotson, a Black feminist philosopher, described her relationship with Black philosophy (2013) and Patricia Hill Collins’ scholarship (2015) as one of inheritance. Dotson’s work on inheritance shapes how I understand CRT in higher education. Dotson (2015), for example, outlines an inheritance map to trace her connection to Collins. An inheritance map, Dotson (2015) notes, “attempts to take stock of what one has been given in a particular project and what one inherits as work yet to do” (p. 2322). More than a starting point, Dotson (2015) suggests, she inherits from Collins “a head start, a baton passed so that I may begin my journey, as a black feminist epistemologist, with more distance travelled, more tools prepared, and more work to do” (p. 2322). With Dotson’s description of inheritance in mind, I turn to considering the work of inheriting CRT in higher education. Inheriting CRT offers a head start in theorizing around race and racism. A prerequisite of inheritance is to take stock of what other CRT scholars have left. The perennial advice offered by CRT scholars of education again comes to fore – study CRT’s legal roots (Baber, 2016; Busey et al., 2022; Crenshaw, 2011; Dixson & Rousseau Anderson, 2018; Donnor et al., 2016; Ladson-Billings, 1998; Ledesma & Calderón, 2015; Tate, 1997). In higher education, we must do a better job of taking stock of what has been done by CRT scholars in the legal field. Inheriting CRT is more than reading CRT scholarship, citing CRT scholars, and employing a CRT framework for a study. Rather, inheritance is a relational process.

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As Dotson (2013) noted, inheritance is about serving the racially marginalized “actively existing in a cultural and social life larger than ourselves, where our labor continues projects started before us and, hopefully, ending when such labor is no longer needed” (p. 42). As such, inheritance calls for a relationship to the scholars whose work one is inheriting. Further, inheritance calls for relationships with other scholars doing similar work and relationships to the community one theorizes in service to. Dotson (2013) emphasizes the hard work of inheritance, explaining, “To produce black philosophy, then, is hard work. In anti-black contexts, it is daring work. It is work that requires a commitment to and trust in black people, in general, and black women, in particular” (p. 43). In anti-Black structures such as institutions of higher education, it takes more work to center and highlight Black theoretical productions such as CRT. Doing CRT in higher education entails working and writing against the grain. Recall that one of the leading journals of higher education published a paper claiming that CRT is not a theory. Consider the anti-CRT climate and the moral panic surrounding anything with a CRT label. Consider the professor watch lists and harassment CRT scholars often endure. Inheriting CRT is both a professional and personal risk. Inheriting CRT in a climate such as this requires trust in and deep respect for the scholarship and intellectual lineage where one locates themselves. Theorizing with inheritance in mind requires work – deep study. Understanding and engaging with complex theories requires deep study, which is difficult work. As the critical pedagogue and theorist Paulo Freire (1985) noted, “A book isn’t always that easy to understand” (p. 4). Yet, inherent in deep study and inheritance is modesty. Freire, for example, suggested that the act of study required, “a modest attitude coupled with a critical attitude” (p. 4). Adopting such an orientation, I suggest, might provide richer intellectual engagement with texts in our studying, writing, and theorizing.

Conclusion In true critical race fashion (e.g., Bell, 1992a; Calmore, 1991; Delgado, 1989; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002), I conclude with a fictional story, or chronicle, to demonstrate the deep work necessary to integrate theory into research. *** I’ve always had a soft spot for libraries. I love the smell of old books, the quiet but urgent energy of people studying, and the peace of a library. I walked into the social sciences library for my appointment with the education librarian. I double-checked the email with the confirmed appointment to make sure I was at the right place – Room 1987. I pushed the slightly ajar door and knocked, “Dr. Albert?” “Come in. Jefferson? Is that right?” I walked in to see Dr. Albert standing, gazing out of a window. “I knew that libraries were battlegrounds. But we are indeed in the thick of it,” Dr. Albert said before turning to me and saying, “Welcome to the frontlines, brother.” We shook hands. Unsure of what to say, I said, “You’re talking about the book bans? I heard that they’re trying to close university libraries in

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Vermont (Cutler, 2023). Scary times.” “Who is the ‘they’ you refer to? You asked about sources pertaining to CRT in education, am I correct? Critical Race Theorists should endeavor to be precise in their analysis, naming power structures, and racism in all of its forms.” Before I could respond, he continued, “So you wanted to learn more about CRT in education, eh?” “Yeah, I’m really just trying to learn more. I’m getting ready for my qualifying exams, and my advisor recommended reaching out to you.” Dr. Albert smiled and, flipping through a book, asked, “How have you been studying CRT so far?” I paused. The simplicity of the question disarmed me. “I’m not quizzing you, Jefferson,” Dr. Albert said, smiling at me before looking back at his book shelves. I responded, “Well, I really liked Ladson-Billings and Tate’s work on CRT in education. And of course, Daniel Solórzano and Adrienne Dixson. Then you have folks like Shaun Harper and Lori Patton Davis. I mean, maybe it would have been more helpful if I gave you my reading list. . ..” “Great! And what legal scholars?” Dr. Albert said, cutting me off. “Derrick Bell of course. Kimberlé Crenshaw. Delgado and Stefancic,” I said, pausing, trying to think of different names I’d seen. Dr. Albert chuckled, “Ah, Delgado and Stefancic. What’s your favorite piece by either of them beyond the reader they wrote about CRT?” I couldn’t think of anything. After about 10 s of silence he asked, “What about Derrick Bell?” “I read a chapter of his in his book. . .um. . .Space Traders? I think that was the title. I love that piece. And his idea of racial realism, the idea that racism is permanent, right? I see that in a lot of research, but do you have any articles. . ..” The smile left Dr. Albert’s face. “Do you know Derrick Bell wrote at least seven books by himself, a textbook, and dozens of law review articles? Or even racial realism. It’s so much more than the assertion that racism is permanent. It’s an entire theory of its own. Read his article in the Connecticut Law Review. Read the entire book, but there’s a chapter on racial realism in Faces at the Bottom of the Well. Get to know Bell’s work, yourself.” At this point, I was mildly irritated. I thought this was going to be a consultation and jumped in, “Dr. Albert, respectfully, I. . .” “Respect?” Dr. Albert said in a loud, incredulous whisper. He continued, “Jefferson, I hope you know I truly want you to engage in the boldest theoretical and practical work. Let me know if I overstep. But I need you to respect the lineage of CRT.” He sighed, and I cooled down. Something told me to take out my notepad and I sat on a couch in his office. “Look at this,” Dr. Albert pointed to a coffee table next to me covered in books and what looked like stapled law review articles. “You’re, I’m sure, familiar with the five tenets Solórzano (1997) has put forth for a CRT of education?” I nodded. “He arrived at those tenets through study – deep study in libraries much like this one. These are all of the sources of CRT legal scholarship he cited. Imagine the work he had to distill to arrive at those tenets. Mind you, this was before Google Scholar. He was in the stacks. Jefferson, can you imagine? Picture it. Have you ever thumbed through a card catalog?” I chuckled, but before I could talk, he continued his stream of consciousness, “Or re-read Ladson-Billings’(2014) scholarship. There’s a reason why she cautions scholars who want to use CRT. Ladson-Billings and Tate were in the trenches of

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the library. This is a battle ground, Jefferson. And if you do this work, you have to do it right. You’ll need all the theoretical resources you can muster. That’s why I’m pushing you.” He paused and then looked at me, “Have you heard of Charles Lawrence?” “The name sounds familiar, but I honestly haven’t read anything by him.” “No worries,” Dr. Albert replied, “Look him up, too. But Lawrence (1997/ 2002) once mentioned that he heard another scholar say, ‘fighting racism in White institutions is hand-to-hand combat. . .we need every warrior we can muster’ (p. xv.). Truly understanding CRT will help us all in the fight for racial justice.” “Not going to lie, Dr. Albert, I definitely need to do more,” I started. “Call me Harlon,” he said, “and before you finish. This is nothing to be embarrassed about. This is the work. Think about the pieces that are cited in foundational CRT in higher education pieces. . .all of these pieces are sophisticated, germinal to how we all might think about CRT in relation to higher education. I want you to consider these articles as beginnings rather than endpoints. Understand these foundational CRT in education pieces as if they are detailed, thoughtful theoretical roadmaps. See where they take you and you’ll find that all roads lead back to CRT’s legal scholarship.” *** Through this chapter, I hoped to demonstrate the importance of engaging with CRT’s theoretical roots and studying CRT’s lineage in order to employ enriched CRT analyses. To do so, I implored scholars interested in doing CRT in higher education to study its legal roots. Although perhaps not hustling backwards, as a field and as scholars invested in racial justice, we are missing out on opportunities to be more impactful, more incisive, more strategic, and more creative in our scholarship by not using the tools CRT legal scholars have offered us. Second, I demonstrated the wide scope and impact of CRT in higher education. I write this chapter in gratitude for the higher education scholars who have ushered CRT in the field of higher education and those who continue to employ CRT analyses and fight for racial justice. The struggle continues.

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Antar A. Tichavakunda is an Assistant Professor in the Gevirtz Graduate School of Education at the University of California, Santa Barbara. He employs Black critical thought and sociological theories to better understand and support marginalized communities in higher education. His most recent book, Black Campus Life: The Worlds Black Students Make at a Historically White Institution, is available with SUNY Press.

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(Re)wiring Settler Colonial Practices in Higher Education: Creating Indigenous Centered Futures Through Considerations of Power, the Social, Place, and Space Nicole Alia Salis Reyes, Christine A. Nelson, Stevie Lee, Alicia Reyes, LaJoya Reed Shelly, and Ethan Chang

Contents Uncovering our Neutral Wire: Writing as a Relational Practice Centered by Collective Positionalities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Coco and LaJoya . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ethan and Alicia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chris and Stevie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Our Relational Writing as a (Re)wiring Process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (Re)Wiring Current from the Live Wire of Settler Colonialism to the Earth Wire of Indigenous Knowledge Systems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Redistributing Electricity Through the Circuit: Power, the Social, and Place and Space (PSPS) as Strands Within the Settler Colonial and Indigenous Wires of the Academy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Power: The First Strand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Social: The Second Strand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Place and Space: The Third Strand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (Re)Imagining and (Re)wiring Decolonial Potentialities for Institutions of Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tribal Colleges and Universities (TCUs) as Exemplar Indigenous Centered Institutions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sharing the Load: How Other Institutions Can Become Indigenous Centered . . . . . . . . . . . . Directions for Future Scholarship and Practice: On Individual and Collective Responsibilities for (Re)wiring Settler IHEs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dreaming and (Re)wiring Vibrant Native Futures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Building Native Futures in the Present . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Anne-Marie Núñez was the Associate Editor for this chapter. N. A. S. Reyes (*) · A. Reyes · L. R. Shelly · E. Chang Department of Educational Administration, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, Honolulu, HI, USA e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected] C. A. Nelson · S. Lee Morgridge College of Education, University of Denver, Denver, CO, USA e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 39, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-38077-8_5

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Expanding Our Relations and Intersectional Solidarity-Making . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Endings and Next Beginnings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Directions for Future Scholarship and Practice: On Individual and Collective Responsibilities for (Re)wiring Settler IHEs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dreaming and (Re)wiring Vibrant Native Futures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Building Native Futures in the Present . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Expanding our Relations and Intersectional Solidarity-Making . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Endings and Next Beginnings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

In this chapter, we seek to illuminate the dangerous, active, pervasive, and personal nature of settler colonialism within US higher education. We use an electrical current metaphor to conceptualize settler institutions of higher education in relation with settler colonialism and to convey how that relationship needs to be rewired to forge Indigenous centered futures in higher education. To accomplish this, first, we reflect on how our personal experiences with settler colonialism brought us together to write this chapter. We also describe how we approached our writing process collaboratively to support one another and to push against settler colonial writing conventions. Second, we contrast Indigenous and settler colonial ways of knowing and being. Third, we offer an analytical framework, which draws on concepts of power, the social, as well as place and space, for making sense of how we encounter Indigenous and settler colonial ways of knowing and being throughout our interactions in higher education. Fourth, we explore the tensions and possibilities of transforming settler colonial institutions of higher education into Indigenous Centered Institutions. Finally, we offer our conclusions and implications for dreaming vibrant Indigenous futures through solidarities against settler colonialism. Keywords

Settler colonialism · Decolonization · Indigenous Knowledge Systems · Higher Education While considering the task of writing this chapter on settler colonialism in higher education in what is now commonly referred to as the US, we have wondered, “Where should we begin? Where could we begin?” Many of the oldest institutions of higher education (IHEs) in the USA, including Harvard College, the College of William and Mary, and Dartmouth College, were founded under the auspices that they would carry out a mission to educate Native Americans in order to bring them into the folds of “civilization” (Wright, 1991). In addition, the Morrill Act of 1862 reclassified lands inhabited and cared for by Indigenous peoples since time immemorial into “public” lands for use by the settler state (Brayboy & Tachine, 2021). These “public” lands total over 10.7 million acres and span 245 Tribal Nations. Today, these stolen lands amount to over $17.7 billion dollars and constitute the material basis for 52 IHEs (Lee & Ahtone, 2020). Tachine and Cabrera (2021) refer to this massive sum of wealth as a still

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unacknowledged and unpaid “land debt” owing to Indigenous Nations (p. 4). Indeed, the roots of settler colonialism in US higher education run deep. However, while these historical foundations of settler colonialism are important to remember, in our considerations, we have been most struck by the ongoing pervasiveness of settler colonialism. Perhaps with the exception of Tribal Colleges and Universities (TCUs), institutions of higher education in the USA, even those with stated aspirations of being Indigenous-serving, continue to carry out the settler colonial imperatives that they were founded upon. While exploiting the richness of Indigenous lands as property (e.g., Ambo & Rocha Beardall, 2023; Tachine & Cabrera, 2021), these settler IHEs contribute to the ongoing erasure of Indigenous peoples and worldviews through their various workings, including the perpetuation of settler ways of knowing as legitimate academic knowledge (Tuck, 2018). For us, as Indigenous scholars and allies who are scholars of color, these settler colonial workings within the academy are very much felt. With that in mind, we recognize that our thinking about the workings of settler colonialism in higher education are inevitably shaped by our own interactions with it (Walsh et al., 2021). Indeed, all who live and move within systems of US higher education may experience settler colonialism in various ways, though for some, especially those who hold marginalized identities and positions within the academy, these experiences can feel much more violent than they do for others. Thus, following discussion on de/coloniality by Walsh et al. (2021), rather than focus our conceptualization on settler colonialism as a noun, something inert and amorphous with presumable borders, in this manuscript, we choose to focus our writing more so on making sense of settler colonialism as a verb, something that is always already in dynamic action. Throughout our process of writing this chapter, we have metaphorically framed our thinking around settler colonialism in higher education as an electrical circuit. To further illuminate our metaphor, we direct readers to Fig. 1. In the figure, there is a power source, which represents the values and actions that inform the operations of the circuit. This power source produces an electrical current, which is carried through a main wire to power a light bulb, which represents settler IHEs. Fig. 1 Electrical circuit metaphor

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Just as important to understanding the three parts of our electrical circuit (i.e., the source, the main wire, and the bulb), this chapter is particularly interested in discussing the wiring components, which create the connections between the source and bulb. The main wire itself is comprised of three inner wires that play specific roles to ensure the flow of electricity: the live wire (carries the electrical current from the source to power an entity), the earth wire (conventionally, the “ground wire,” redirects electrical current in case there is a misfire in the circuit and ultimately helps to minimize danger), and the neutral wire (helps to recirculate the current back to the power source so that the current can continue to move through the circuit). We aim to use the wire/electrical current relationship to interrogate and dismantle settler colonialism. Just like in any circuit, the wires are critical to ensuring that this circuit functions. In Fig. 2, we lean into the live, earth, and neutral wire functions to start naming the components of settler IHEs, which we ultimately hope might be rewired toward Indigenous centered futures. The live wire represents settler colonialism in higher education, which ultimately informs the practices, policies, and realities of higher education. From a circuitry perspective, a live wire, without the counterbalance of other wires, is dangerous because of its coursing power and the immense damage that it can do. When acting solely off a live wire, the circuit, or in this case, settler IHEs, can become dangerous (see Fig. 3). To create a safely functioning circuit, we need to work with careful intention. We cannot simply cut the live wire or shut the electrical current entirely off. By simply cutting the wire, we would become caught by the existing electrifying current, either locked to the wire in surging tension until we succumb to its power or thrown violently from the wire, left to shake off its damaging effects. Rather than take these approaches, we find ourselves looking for ways to locate and to connect earth and neutral wires to complete the circuit and ultimately to redistribute its electrical current. To continue our metaphor, the earth wire counterbalances the live wire when there is an overload of current. For us, the earth wire represents Indigenous paradigms and worldviews as pathways to redistribute electrical currents that inform settler IHEs. Further, the neutral wire helps the electrical current continue its movement across the

Fig. 2 Developing the (re)wiring process

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Fig. 3 Dangers of the live wire of settler colonialism

circuit; ultimately, it is the facilitator of movement across the circuit. In this metaphor, we see people and other actors in higher education, including ourselves, as composing this neutral wire. This suggests that all people and other actors in higher education hold important roles in deciding how the electrical current works. While we (authors) do not claim to be electrical engineers and there is obviously an oversimplification of circuitry in our metaphor (as we do not talk about other components like resistors, transistors, and capacitors), the circuit/wire/electrical current metaphor demonstrates to us: 1. The intertwined nature of settler colonialism and IHEs. 2. The complex wirings across settler IHEs and. 3. The intentional practice needed to establish a safely functioning circuit. These three factors work together to redistribute electrical current across the IHE circuit. We seek to redistribute the electrical current in service toward our own and our communities’ desires, interests, and needs. Ewing (2018) wrote of race in the USA in a similar way, stating: Our culture has an odd relationship with race: it structures every aspect of American social life, but in ways that can often seem invisible and undetected. Like an electrical current running through water, race has a way of filling space even as it remains invisible. (10)

For us, settler colonialism is so ubiquitous in everyday life that it fills every space, often unnoticed. However, in its invisibility lies much of its danger. With these ideas in mind, we write this chapter intending to illuminate the dangerous, active, pervasive, and personal “live wire” nature of settler colonialism within the

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context of US higher education. First, we present the neutral wire, which consists of us reflecting upon our positionalities as actors in higher education, and acknowledging how our own personal experiences with settler colonialism bring us to writing this chapter with one another. We also describe how we have chosen to approach our writing process collaboratively with intentions to support one another in meaningful ways and to push back against settler colonial writing conventions. Second, we introduce the live and earth wires. This section curates an intentional conversation on how settler colonialism and Indigenous ways of knowing and being are in relation with each other. As part of this relational analysis, we offer an analytical framework, called Power, the Social, Place, and Space (PSPS), for making sense of how we encounter Indigenous and settler colonial ways of knowing and being throughout our own interactions in higher education. Third, we explore the overall circuitry of higher education to identify the tensions and possibilities of transforming settler colonial institutions of higher education into Indigenous Centered Institutions. We do this in part by looking at the examples of TCUs as well as to la paperson’s (2017) concept of third universities, Kānaka ʻŌiwi scholars’ (e.g., Goodyear-Kaʻōpua, 2013; Lipe, 2016) metaphor of educational kīpuka, and Bell and associates’ (2020) concept of new universities. Finally, we offer our conclusions and implications for (re)wiring and dreaming vibrant Indigenous futures, working toward our desired futures during the present, as well as building and collaborating through solidarities against settler colonialism. We recognize that our chapter has specific delimitations. Taking the lead from Thelin (2011) and Stein (2022), we acknowledge the pervasiveness of settler colonialism scholarship and how providing an exhaustive survey of the topic would be impossible. Readers should turn to other resources, for example, if they are looking for more detailed historical accounts of settler colonialism in US higher education (e.g., Stein, 2022; Carney, 1999; Patel, 2021; Pewewardy et al., 2022; Wilder, 2013). However, through this chapter, we aim to call attention to the ways that settler colonialism shapes our lives in the academy in multiple and intimate ways. We offer our chapter to provide a framework for making sense of these ongoing personal interactions with settler colonialism and to envision the redistribution of electrical current across the circuit to imagine decolonial resistance in settler IHEs. Thus, rather than focus on the historical beginnings of settler colonialism in US higher education, we ask ourselves and engage you, our readers, through this chapter with the question, “How might we imagine beginning again and generously elevate many projects to decolonize institutions of higher education, past, present, and future?”

Uncovering our Neutral Wire: Writing as a Relational Practice Centered by Collective Positionalities Since the opportunity to write this manuscript first arose, we wanted to create an intentional narrative of decolonial desires in higher education. When we started to liken our process to an electrical circuit, we began to understand that, to interrogate and dismantle settler colonial knowledge production, the voice of this chapter needed to be multi-dimensional and relational. We are familiar with the notion that

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the academy tends to place greater value on individually authored works than on collective authorship (Pulido, 2008). This individualized value reflects settler colonial epistemologies that prefer knowledge production (i.e., publication) that fosters objectivism and intellectual property. Writing as a social practice within the academy can be a settler colonial-charged space that minimizes opportunities for collaboration and regeneration (Bang et al., 2018). With this in mind as we engage in this work, we approach our writing collaboratively, both to reflect Indigenous epistemologies that emphasize knowing through relationships and to push back against the neoliberal pull to accumulate writing and publication opportunities for ourselves. Envisioning people as the neutral wire, the facilitators of current across the circuit of higher education, we thought it vital to reflect on our own collective positionalities as we set out to imagine the (re)wiring process through our writing. To avoid reproducing settler colonial notions of knowledge production as individualistic and objective (Wilson, 2008), we engage this writing as a hui (group, collective) comprised of three dyads, each including a faculty member and one of their former or current graduate students. Two of the dyads work and study at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. There, Coco is an associate professor and LaJoya is a sixth-year doctoral student while Ethan is an assistant professor and Alicia is a firstyear doctoral student. The third dyad is composed of Chris, an associate professor, and Stevie, a former graduate student and current Associate Director of Native American Initiatives, at the University of Denver. Though we ended up working together in different configurations at different points in time throughout the writing process, we deliberately chose to work across scholarly generations to build, to strengthen, and to normalize supportive writing practices with and for one another. Moreover, as Indigenous scholars and allies who are scholars of color, we sought to think intentionally through our collective responsibilities and unique positionalities in working against settler colonialism in solidarity with one another. As researchers are considered to be primary instruments in qualitative research, reflecting on researcher positionality is considered to be essential in the process of conducting and writing up qualitative research (Hays & Singh, 2012). At times, however, authors may approach positionality statements more as an item to check off a list in their research writing, offering shallow descriptions of their identities without engaging deeply in how those identities collide and intimately shape their sensemaking processes. Furthermore, while positionality might be accepted as an essential (albeit, sometimes shallowly engaged) aspect to reflect on in qualitative research, it is often ignored in other forms of research and academic writing. However, we believe that who we are impacts how we approach everything that we do within the academy, including writing this chapter. We offer our positionality and dyad statements below not as ornamental or pro forma pieces of our writing, but as demonstrations of our relational approaches toward writing about settler colonialism and our imaginings of decolonial futures in higher education. Informed by Indigenous epistemologies centered by relationality, we decided collaboratively to reflect on and to write about our positionalities near the outset of our journey in writing our manuscript. In taking this time to reflect, our hope was that we might become more attuned to our subjectivities in relation to our topic and, thus, better

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able to determine how we wanted to proceed with our writing process, from the sharing of our writing responsibilities to the crafting of our collective tone. Indeed, in contrast to decontextualized or static positionality statements, these reflections have been foundational to our ongoing conversations with one another. What follows are our reflections on how settler colonialism has shaped our lives, including both personal and educational experiences. After each pair of individual reflections, each dyad (e.g., Coco & LaJoya) offers a collective response that discusses how each pair of authors entered into this writing space with intentional practices of relationality. Through these relational writing practices, we strive to model a writing style that is grounded in reciprocal and relational value systems and begin to contribute to imagining what decolonial approaches to co-creating academic knowledge could look like. Furthermore, given our diverse backgrounds, discussing who we are and where we come from in this way illustrates how we build alliances and solidarity to challenge settler colonialism together.

Coco and LaJoya Coco’s Story I remember the first time that I saw her photo. In black and white, my Tūtū Mary Keliʻikekulamanu Silva Salis, my father’s paternal grandmother, stood regally, donning a paʻu skirt (a full skirt traditionally worn for the practice of hula), paʻu top (a strapless top typically paired with a paʻu skirt), and several lei (flower wreaths). I did not know much about her before that moment because she had passed away in 1934, when my grandfather was only 4 years old. However, in looking at that photo, I finally understood. Sometimes when I was learning hula that were new to me, my body seemed to know what to do, what direction to go. I knew as I gazed at my great-grandmother’s photo that it was because of her. Tūtū Mary was born in 1895, just 2 years after the descendants of American missionaries and sugar planters led the illegal overthrow of the sovereign Hawaiian Kingdom. Yet, at this time of great upheaval when Kānaka Maoli (Native Hawaiians) and ʻike Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian knowledge) were being denigrated by the occupying government, Tūtū Mary was a hula practitioner who came from an ʻohana (family) of hula practitioners. She was a survivor; and she was within me, living in my very bones. There is an ʻōlelo noʻeau (Hawaiian proverb) that says, “I ka wā ma mua, i ka wā ma hope” (the future is found in the past). One interpretation I take from this is that we must know where we come from in order to discern where we are going. In my own life, I have found this wisdom to hold true. Having spent about half of my life on the island of Oʻahu, kuʻu one hānau (my birth sands, the place of my birth), and half of my life in the Hawaiian diaspora, I have felt caught in an endless struggle to retake what settler colonialism has stolen from me, my ‘ohana, and my lāhui (nation/people). However, with each little bit of knowledge that I have been able to pick up and put back together, I have found my path. And, while I still feel that I have a long way to go, I believe that it is no mistake that I am here as a faculty member of higher education at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, an institution where “arguably, the majority of Kānaka ʻŌiwi

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participating in higher education do so” (Salis Reyes et al., 2020, 242). Although education has been wielded as an instrument of colonization, it might also offer unique opportunities to work toward decolonization, nation building, and self-determination (e.g., Brayboy, 2005; Brayboy et al., 2012, 2014; Salis Reyes, 2014). For, . . .within educational spaces, Native peoples can seek to recognize how colonialism has shaped our experiences, to (re)conceptualize our pasts through a Native lens, to (re)assert the value of Native ways of knowing, and to develop new ways of knowing that will empower Native peoples to live within the contemporary world while still anchored by the beliefs and understandings of our ancestors. (Salis Reyes, 2019, 609–610)

Therefore, I come to this writing as a wahine ‘Ōiwi mother-scholar looking to my past as a means for imagining future potentialities for my own keiki and our lāhui.

LaJoya’s Story I approach this writing as a Black American descendant of slavery with roots in the South. I am the great-granddaughter of an illiterate sharecropper, the granddaughter of working-class community leaders and entrepreneurs, and the daughter of an Air Force veteran, an entrepreneur, and ministers. Who I am and how I approach my work are a direct reflection of the people who raised me, particularly my maternal grandmother, who, despite only completing her secondary education through the tenth grade, has educated our entire family, and countless others. Her wisdom and knowledge are representative of the essence of Black feminist epistemology and serve as a guide for how I approach my research and praxis within the academy. Due to my father’s military enlistment, I was raised in racially diverse, albeit assumed colorblind, environments. Living in military enclaves during my adolescence shaped how my parents, and others like them, discussed race and ethnicity, if at all. This experience of being reared and educated in assumed colorblind environments by predominantly white educators created a psychological distance between myself and my Black identity. As a result, my racial and gender socialization was heavily influenced by the politics of respectability and assimilation. As a result, I struggled to show up in educational settings as my most authentic self. I wore an academic mask (Shavers & Moore III, 2014) to ensure that I only exhibited behaviors that would underscore my worth (e.g., achieving academically and participating in extracurricular activities). Consequently, I experienced tokenism, racial battle fatigue, and other racialized and gendered stressors in educational environments. These early experiences continued throughout my postsecondary education and had a profound impact on my earlier graduate school experiences, in particular the ways in which I approached my research agenda. Prior to beginning my graduate studies, and throughout my first year in the Masters program, my research approach can best be described as racially neutral. My prior secondary and post-secondary experiences led me to believe that my racial and gender identities were not salient to the research process. It is not lost on me that I had to travel across the Pacific Ocean to find myself and to embrace being my authentic self, especially within educational settings. Despite

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the small percentage of Black people living in Hawaiʻi, I have experienced Hawaiʻi as a safe haven (Sharma, 2021) from the overt racism I experienced in the American South and Midwest. It is in this place where I became radicalized and learned to remove my academic mask. The experience of feeling at ease in a place so far away from my own home, while also recognizing the shared legacies of racism, imperialism, and colonization between myself and my Native Hawaiian colleagues is not lost on me. My shared understanding of how legacies of domination have expanded the ways in which I understand race and ethnicity. Not only that, but I understand how place (e.g., living in Hawaiʻi) has informed my racialized socialization. Living and learning in Hawaiʻi is a privilege that has afforded me the opportunity to become more comfortable with my racial and gender identities and has shifted my research and praxis.

The Story of Coco and LaJoya’s Relationship We first met in 2016, when Coco came to the University of Hawaʻi at Mānoa for her job talk and was still in the process of completing her dissertation writing. LaJoya, who was completing her master’s degree at the time, was one of a handful of students who interviewed Coco during her visit. Following Coco’s hiring and her acceptance into the doctoral program, LaJoya decided to ask Coco to serve as her faculty advisor. LaJoya reflected that she was initially interested in asking Coco to be her faculty mentor because Coco began her mother-scholar journey while in graduate school. As such, LaJoya looked to Coco as a possibility model for how she might approach navigating her own journey as both a new mother and a doctoral student. Our relationship further developed through our work together as co-instructors for several courses and as research collaborators. Not only that, but the experience of doing this work while navigating the global pandemic reinforced for LaJoya and Coco the importance of transparency; grace for ourselves, our students, and each other; as well as the importance of mutual understanding and care. As we reflect on what informs how we engage in this mentor/student relationship, we recognize that our shared experiences as Black and Indigenous mother scholars inform our relationship with our students and each other. Specifically, the ways in which motherhood serves as the impetus for the urgency and saliency of our work to create change in the academy, not only for ourselves and our current students, but for our keiki (children). More often than should be the case, faculty–graduate student relationships can be transactional in nature, where the faculty member may see the graduate student primarily as a source of labor and the graduate student may see the faculty member primarily as a purveyor of resources, opportunities, and networks (e.g., Austin, 2002). However, this is not the kind of relationship that we have hoped to replicate. Instead, we have sought to anchor our mentoring relationship through radical care. Grounded in Black feminist thought (e.g., hooks, 1989; Lorde, 1984; Lorde, 1988; Davis, 2016), scholars have discussed radical care as drawing on collective strengths in efforts to disrupt structures of domination and to create social change (e.g., Melonas, 2021; Nayak, 2020). Within the academy, more specifically, Nicol and Yee (2017) have described radical care as “owning and

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directing our lives and choosing with whom, how, and how often we engage in our nested, interconnected worlds so that we can be unapologetically ourselves in the face of unrelenting pressure and expectations to be otherwise” (134). For us, that has meant being concerned first with the person and not just the role that they fulfill or even the work that they complete. We have sought to get to know one another; to check in regularly about how we are doing; and to understand one another’s concerns and interests, both professionally and personally. Especially over the past few years of the pandemic, as Fries-Britt and Kelly (2005) did, we have endeavored to retain one another in the academy, to support one another in the face of the many pressures that are foisted upon and felt especially by Black and Indigenous women. How we have chosen to approach our relationship with one another is also shaped by our shared contexts, Hawaiʻi and an institution that aspires to be a “Hawaiian Place of Learning” as well as an “indigenous-serving and an indigenous-centered institution” (University of Hawaiʻi, 2023, n.p.). In much of the work that we do, we reflect on what we believe it should look like to be in an institution that is both centered by and fosters Kānaka ʻŌiwi ontologies and epistemologies. For us, this means striving to depart from academic norms founded upon settler colonial assumptions of supposed neutrality and meritocratic competition and instead to lead with mutual care and respect in everything that we do.

Ethan and Alicia Ethan’s Story I understand myself as an Asian settler and educator aspiring to be in good relations with Kānaka ‘Ōiwi, whose lands and waters raised and continue to nurture me. Growing up in Hawaiʻi, I did not have a language to make sense of who I was in relation to white supremacy and settler-colonialism. I considered myself a fourthgeneration “local” of Hawaiʻi, whose interests, practices, and ways of knowing and being stood in contrast to haole (white, foreign) residents and tourists. My love for heʻe nalu (surfing) reinforced a misguided sense of localness for me. Hours under the sun darkened my skin in ways that allowed me to blend in with Kānaka and other multiethnic youth. But blending in is rarely a strategy for anti-oppressive solidarity-making. Trask (2000) points out that Asians in Hawaiʻi have historically used the category of “local” to participate in settler colonialism and Indigenous erasure. “We are Hawaiian at heart,” so the settler “move to innocence” goes (Tuck & Yang, 2012, 10). I identify as an Asian settler not simply as a way of marking my identity but as a means of continually reminding and refining my roles and responsibilities in service of Kānaka communities and Native peoples (Fujikane, 2021). I enter into this project from a place of humility and gratitude. I carry with me the insights and wisdoms of Black-Asian and Native-Asian solidarities that Asian American women and organizers have powerfully modeled for me (Fujino, 2009). In particular, I draw inspiration from Boggs’s (2012) dream of a “a higher Humanity

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instead of the higher standard of living dependent on Empire” (p. 72; c.f., Matsuda, 1993; Nguyen, 2022). This collective writing project represents one context that I aspire to live into Boggs’s dream.

Alicia’s Story I am the oldest daughter of Malia Kamaliʻi and the only child of Jorge Reyes. My maternal lineage is Kānaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian) from the islands of Oʻahu and Maui, while my paternal lineage is Mēxihcatl (Aztec) from Nezahualcoyotl, México. I was born and raised in Las Vegas, Nevada, the ancestral homelands of the Nuwu (Southern Paiute). Although I did not grow up in either of my ancestral homelands, my family taught me all they knew and raised me to be grounded in my cultural heritage. I was raised in a poor, working-class family living in the inner city of Las Vegas in predominantly Black and Brown neighborhoods and schools. I had little value in my education as an average-performing student until high school. In high school, I became more motivated to be a good student with the help of sports and my coaches. I started to perform better in my classes and received high grades, but had not even considered going to college. After a campus visit to the University of Nevada, Reno (UNR) in my senior year with my high school government teacher and peers, I knew the university was for me. I applied and was accepted to UNR. Being a first-generation Indigenous college student, I struggled to navigate a Predominantly White Land Grab University (Lee & Ahtone, 2020). I pursued my bachelor’s degree in microbiology and was the only Indigenous student in many of my classes. In addition, the knowledge imposed on me throughout my coursework excluded and devalued Indigenous pedagogies. Being an urban Native and of the Native Hawaiian diaspora, I never had the opportunity to grow up within my own Tribal community, but being in community with Native students on campus, in the local community, and the Multicultural Center has been a source of healing and a way to reclaim my space in education. UNR benefits from the Morrill Act of 1862 while settled on the unceded ancestral lands of the Wašiw Tribe and around various Tribal Nations, a total of 27 within the state of Nevada. Although these are not my homelands, I made close relationships with local Native students and community members. I have had the great privilege to learn from them and understand the disconnect between the institution and local Tribal Nations. Being a student at this settler institution, I understood my responsibility to be a good relative to and stand in solidarity with the issues Tribal Nations faced. These issues have fostered my passion for equity and justice for Native and Indigenous communities at settler institutions. Native students should never struggle to receive an education, especially within their ancestral homelands. All higher education institutions are on Native land and must do the work to build sustainable relationships with local Tribal Nations, especially those that their campus is settled on. I believe all colleges and universities can become Native American-Serving, Nontribal Institutions. The work would involve Indigenizing and decolonizing the institution in hopes of creating accessible pathways for Native students as they navigate higher education and allowing them to reclaim their space on campus.

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My educational journey and personal development as an Indigenous student compelled me to continue to a doctoral program. I saw attending the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa (UHM) as an opportunity to reconnect with my ancestral homelands, be a part of my Indigenous community, and continue to strengthen my research passions. My intentions to pursue a Ph.D. in education was because of the amazing Native Hawaiian women scholars, such as my advisor Dr. Erin Kahunawaikaʻala Wright and Dr. Nicole Alia Salis Reyes at the UHM, with their established work in amplifying the voices of Indigenous students, communities, and Tribal Nations, to create and reclaim spaces in higher education. In my short time back home, I have had great opportunities to connect with my ancestral homelands and family as well as to build a relationship with my fellow Kānaka on campus and in the local community. I continue to reconnect with my Kānaka Maoli identity and learn the relations between the University of Hawai‘i system and my community.

The Story of Ethan and Alicia’s Relationship Alicia and Ethan first met in the summer of 2022. A former graduate assistant who Ethan had the opportunity to work with (Leiʻala Okuda) recommended Alicia as an exemplary scholar and good relative for maintaining relations with elders and co-researchers. Alicia’s moʻolelo and interests in reconnecting with her ancestral homelands informed Ethan’s interests in channeling university resources toward Alicia and inviting her to co-design roles and responsibilities for her graduate assistantship. A primary context in which we have chosen to devote our energies has been through work as haumāna (students) of Kumu Kimeona Kane. Each week, we participate in Kumu Kane’s uhau humu pōhaku (rock weaving) sessions, where we have the privilege and responsibility to put our decolonial commitments into practice. We restore a loko iʻa (fishpond) pōhaku-by-pōhaku (rock by rock) and build pilina with fellow relatives to imagine an education system that can sustain Hawaiʻi. When thinking of who “we” are as authors, we found it difficult to disentangle our relationship from the powerful presence and lessons offered by Kumu Kane and Huilua Loko Iʻa, a Hawaiian fishpond in Kahana Bay. At Huilua, conventional titles (e.g., faculty, student, mentor, mentee) lose their meaning. Through our joint work, we inhabit shared ways of being and engaging in Aʻo (reciprocal teaching and learning), which we then carry with us into UH Mānoa. Ethan has been instrumental in stepping up and stepping back – creating spaces for connection and Hawaiian-led land reclamation projects. Ethan’s related community-grounded work in Hawai’i has also been generative for Alicia’s understanding of responsible and reciprocal scholarship. In turn, Alicia regularly supports Ethan in listening and weaving pōhaku into the kuapā. Alicia has also taught Ethan how to translate our learnings with Kumu Kane into classroom contexts. She has pushed him to be more vulnerable in sharing his moʻolelo and creating space for deeper connections with and among students. We carry these individual and shared lessons into this project and approach our writing as one way to deepen our responsibilities to Kumu Kane, Huilua, and Indigenous Nations and peoples broadly.

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Chris and Stevie Chris’s Story I describe myself as a K’awaika/Diné mother-scholar who studies relationality in higher education. I am constantly drawing parallels between things I see around me and my journey as an academic. I draw from Lupe Fiasco’s (2006) Kick, Push to articulate my understanding of being a mother-scholar. The lyrics describe a young skater moving through his community while feeling angst, love, and energy. Much like the skater being displaced, I often feel a similar sense of displacement when I try to explain the role settler colonialism has in shaping higher education. And just like the skater, I have to adapt and adjust to the environments around me. The song title, Kick, Push, implies movement and effort. The song helps me recognize the ebbs and flows of being an academic. I am drawn to the song’s lyrical hook, “And so he kick, push, kick, push, kick, push, kick, push, coast.” Like the physics of a skater skateboarding, movement must be self-propelled. Being an academic carries a similar sentiment, where movement is motivation. My motivation comes from a very intimate place of family and community, where I can contribute to a long lineage of Indigenous scholars who seek liberation and justice in educational spaces. And as the lyrics indicate, after much kicking and pushing, there will be a coast, a type of coast where the effort may feel less strenuous and more full of moments of enjoyment. However, as the coast dwindles, I am reminded of the forces that restrict and redirect my efforts to contribute. I often ask why I try to sustain myself in an academic space that was meant to eliminate my ancestors. I draw from the lyrics describing a first skating experience as “land[ing] on his hip and busted his lip” yet “he couldn’t fight the feelin’ somethin’ about it.” I am drawn to the academy because I can see the possibilities and hope of education. la paperson (2017) speaks of a third university that can exist within the colonizing university. So I recognize the paradox (Maryboy et al., 2006) that exists for me as a scholar in higher education. I see the damage the settler educational system has brought to communities, but I also see the possibilities. I have realized the damage and possibilities through my family’s complicated relationship with settler educational institutions. On my maternal side, my great-greatgrandfather attended a boarding school in the late 1800s and so did my greatgrandmother and grandmother. Less is known about my great-grandmother’s experience, but from archives and stories, I have learned of my other two elders’ relationships with these settler educational systems. I recollect their passion for supporting their community and seeing the settler institution as an opportunity while continuing to recognize that different institutions have their limitations. Their ability to navigate those institutions while finding meaning has inspired me to imagine the possibilities. As a recently tenured faculty member at an institution that occupies the traditional homelands of the Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Ute, the urge to take action and resist the colonial forces of this university comes from my elders. Just like my elders, I am navigating a complicated space. From them, I have learned about the meaning of heartwork (Minthorn, 2018), where I am willing to be authentic in my Indigeneity while being critically reflexive of my voice and the spaces I occupy. I am unapologetic

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in naming how the colonial forces of exploitation, harm, disassociation, and detachment are coded into higher-ed buzzwords, like “efficiency,” “excellence,” and “independence.” My lived experiences as a K’awaika/Diné mother-scholar teach me that I have a relational responsibility to honor my family and knowledge keepers, both past and present. A relational responsibility means I am not just here to give back or be grateful for the opportunity. Rather, I am here to name how settler colonialism shapes higher education and to be able to offer a narrative that brings collectivity, creativity, and a possibility of the unknown (Nelson et al., 2022).

Stevie’s Story I am a queer Indigenous Scholar, and my approach toward scholarship encompasses the values of relationality and reciprocity. My scholarship engages with communities, their families, and their homelands. Creating scholarship, although challenging through the western lens of adhering to protocols and standards, is also very fun and engaging regarding how and why I engage in higher education institutions. My strong ties to my Diné culture are real, and I live and breathe my family’s stories and history. I have lived away from my traditional homelands for years and remain grounded in my Indigeneity. I am a daughter, a granddaughter, a cousin, and part of a large family who are all home to me. I pursued higher education in part because I genuinely had a curiosity for learning new things and also because my parents and grandparents encouraged me to. I began to see how education weaved into their lives, into their conversations after ceremony, into the reasons why they made decisions for their families and community. My grandparents were happy and thriving, sharing their wisdom with all of us who were younger, including my mom, aunties, and uncles. I realized that our prayers considered all options and possibilities for each of us to grow into our own and to have the opportunity to choose our paths. Acceptance and compassion for what education could be for my future was something that my grandparents prayed for, even though their experiences within the boarding school system were tough and dark. The reality is that settler colonialism has shaped both my family dynamics and my experiences in education. And as I wrestle with those tensions, I go back to what I have been taught, within ceremony and with my family; values, such as reciprocity and relationality. Currently, I work with students, faculty, and other student affairs professionals to create relevant programming and advocate for students navigating this complex institution. Still, the day-to-day advocacy work often goes unrecognized by settler institutional leaders. I wrestle with that tension of uplifting students while remaining positive toward my colleagues and trying to articulate student concerns. The responses I receive from colleagues are solution-oriented, a sharing of resources or who to contact to get “help” for each student. But the picture I am articulating is bigger than only needing contact information; the student concern is greater than the need to pass off this student to another department for “help.” However, I remind myself that this heartwork takes the continual movement to keep trying, to not give into the settler colonial tendencies we, as student affairs professionals, often face. Reciprocity shows up in finding the people who want to listen and to think through the complex situations that students may face as a collective and a community.

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Since I have recently acquired my Ph.D., I am currently learning how to leverage this degree within my current position in student affairs. It was through the dissertation process that I learned how Native faculty navigated the settler spaces of higher education while honoring their Indigeneity, using their lived experiences and their academic knowledge to make meaning within their faculty roles. It is difficult to understand how one can work within a setting and dedicate one’s time and effort toward a space that supports and promotes the ideology of settler colonialism and the eradication of Native and Indigenous communities. The statement of “If not me, then who?” was one that resonated for me when Native faculty described why they continue doing their work. Their stories reminded me of what it means to be relational within higher education while honoring the relations of my ancestors, my family, my environment, and my memories. Through these relationships, I continue to learn and be a better relative and a better student affairs professional. The reciprocity in the teaching and sharing of knowledge between myself and the Native faculty showed me I am not alone in my pathway toward defining what it means to be a queer Indigenous scholar and student affairs professional. There is hope and possibility for change within the settler institution and for the institution to do better in leaning into its own discomfort and wrestling with its own settler tendencies. As a student affairs professional with a Ph.D., I am learning how to navigate this familiar yet new space. I am proud and honored to be doing work with our Native and Indigenous community each day. The years of advocacy work that have gone into creating permanent positions to support our Native and Indigenous students and strengthen relationships with surrounding local Native community organizations has consistently been a struggle for this university to recognize and to take action. Yet, we, as a collective of Native and Indigenous faculty, staff, and students, continue to challenge settler norms.

The Story of Chris and Stevie’s Relationship We first met when Chris did a job talk to join the DU Higher Education program as a first-time assistant professor, and Stevie participated in the student feedback session. Chris shared: I (Chris) recall that session very clearly because I wanted the students to feel connected to me. I also didn’t know that there was a Navajo student enrolled in the program and when Stevie introduced herself in Navajo, I became even more nervous. Typically, in higher education spaces, I am the only Native, so the level of accountability became more personal. And in this case, Stevie was not only from the same tribe as me, but we also shared one of our clans. The responsibility and relational aspects of the dynamic transition from just being qualified, to representing my family in a good way.

When Chris joined DU, our relationship began to grow after Chris took over the role of Stevie’s dissertation advisor in December 2017. From there, we started to check in more frequently, and it became a special place where we could imagine the possibilities of higher education research through an Indigenous lens. Over 5 years later, we reflect upon how our scholarly bond has grown and shaped a different meaning of mentorship.

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At this moment, we are both navigating change in our academic/professional roles. After many conversations about how to process our individual situations of change, we have come to recognize this change is partially a form of grieving. Often grieving is seen as a process one goes through when there is the loss of another person or being (e.g., pets or other living entities). However, we realize that our grieving is connected to Stevie completing her dissertation and Chris gaining tenure. We both agree that the processes we endured required an intense amount of time from ourselves and our loved ones. We agree that these processes are a collectivist venture, and now that we are finished, we are left feeling a little lost in not knowing what our next transformation will be. We are ending an important phase of our lives – where we learned about ourselves and questioned why we are part of the settler institution. We applaud each other for our individual and collective ability to navigate the settler institution. However, we realize how the settler institution has socialized us to recognize progress and completion as achievement. As described in our individual positionalities, we share our tensions about being part of Westernized education. As we continue our professional lives within the settler institution, we realize there is space to reclaim and resist that same institution. Yes, settler educational systems have shaped both our histories in similar and different ways. We both come from families with direct experiences with boarding schools and removal. We both achieved Westernized definitions of academic achievement and were affirmed to be the ones “who spoke English so well” or who “wow, you are really good at [enter subject].” Though we found similar experiences in academic spaces, we also saw the unique ways our individual navigation led us to resist settler educational institutions. As we individually process the notion of grieving, we feel less loss and more meaning and connection. So, whether our process involves completing a dissertation or gaining tenure, our collective relationship, or as the academy may call mentorship, is helping us reframe our achievements as forms of reciprocity and renewal. At a place of reciprocity and renewal, we recognize that, while settler colonialism has significantly influenced our lives and educational pathways, we can activate our agency. And as we proceed into the next phase of our lives in the academy, we move as collectivist individuals working toward liberating and celebrating Indigeneity in higher education.

Our Relational Writing as a (Re)wiring Process As illustrated above, how we bring our backgrounds into our writing and interactions with one another has been as important as the content of what we write. In writing this piece, we have held weekly meetings that have guided us and kept us in community throughout our writing process. Across vast physical distances and yet grounded by our distinct senses of place, we have co-constructed sacred space for our thinking, our writing, and our feeling with one another. During our weekly writing meetings, we sought to name and to hold space for the uneven conditions and caretaking work that structured our engagements with writing this chapter. These joys and hardships included: mourning the death of a colleague and mentor, caring

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for children and attending parent-teacher conference meetings, tending to personal health concerns, loving elders, as well as sustaining relations to members of our ‘ohana across the Pacific and Turtle Island, to name a few. In writing this piece, we took up Arvin’s (2019) encouragement to name the material conditions of this individual and shared work. Arvin elaborates: While we march and protest and write against settler colonialism, there is also food to be made, children to bathe, elders to support. We fight not just to dismantle but to create the conditions for maintaining these practices of caring for each other, for sustaining more life. (239)

We sought to keep kapu (sacred, protected) those essential practices necessary to sustain our bodies, minds, spirits, and relations. Writing was an important dimension of a much broader range of caretaking work. It was by naming and living into radical care that we sought to rewire colonial norms, roles, and routines shaping conventional co-authored projects. With this in mind, we recognize that this writing is not objective, and like the neutral wire, is a relational component of a system. Our writing is a relational praxis where we intentionally blend our scholarly perspectives and intentions as scholars with interests in decolonizing educational structures and practices. We thus approach writing as a deeply personal and political process – what Anzaldúa (1977) described as “organic writing” that begins not on the page but deep from within our innards or guts (170). We draw inspiration from Anzaldúa’s (1977) reflections on writing in the opening pages of This Bridge Called My Back: I write to record what others erase when I speak, to rewrite the stories others have miswritten about me, about you. To become more intimate with myself and you. To discover myself, to preserve myself, to make myself, to achieve self-autonomy. To dispel the myths that I am a mad prophet or a poor suffering soul. (167)

In a world where continuous assaults on human and more-than-human relatives are deemed normal, we wonder whether we are not unlike the “mad prophets” Anzaldúa invokes here. We write to remind ourselves and each other that we are not mad, but, rather, situated in an oppressive societal condition Parker (1985) called “normal madness” that we seek to name, unsettle, and transform – a (re)wiring process.

(Re)Wiring Current from the Live Wire of Settler Colonialism to the Earth Wire of Indigenous Knowledge Systems Within the context of the USA, settler colonialism has shaped, and continues to shape, all facets of society and life (Glenn, 2015). Settler colonialism is defined as a system of displacement and erasure with the intent to eliminate any existence of Indigenous presence and thought (Tuck & Yang, 2012). Through forced processes, the colonizer possesses and reshapes relationships to land, place, and space. Scholars across many disciplines have written extensively about settler colonialism in society.

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Foundational texts around educational systems, and specifically higher education, have also contributed to understanding the pervasiveness of settler colonialism (Masta, 2019; Patel, 2021; Sabzalian, 2019). This growing body of work calls for reclamation of educational spaces by reimagining what education means. To reorient and imagine our decolonial desires, we assert a shift in paradigm through our shared understanding of relationality through Indigenous teachings. Indigenous knowledge systems (IKS) are powerful and inherently grounded within our Indigenous communities and the sacred elements we use to survive and thrive. We learn from both our children and our elders. IKS are about accountability toward our community and responsibility for caring and elevating our community. IKS are present in storytelling, oral histories, songs, and many artistic forms of expression that, in essence, honor our ancestors and the present. To understand different types of IKS, we have to traverse beyond the current use of English, which would require understanding and using Indigenous languages. English is limited in its understandings and can only make feeble attempts at articulating IKS. However, we must engage with the settler language to center IKS within the boundaries of higher education. Kirkness and Barnhardt (1991) elaborate on IKS by noting, “its meaning, value and use, are bound to the cultural context in which it is situated, it is thoroughly integrated into everyday, life, and it is generally acquired through direct experience in participation in real-world activities” (6–7). Kirkness and Barnhardt (1991) articulated the premise that universities and colleges only see the ways that students gain from what higher education has to offer, as opposed to considering the notion that students have much they can offer to universities. Furthermore, settler IHEs do not utilize or even acknowledge Indigenous philosophies or ways of being nor, on the whole, do they seek to understand how to support Indigenous students. Through a relational lens, Native students may be understood to be at the center of why and how we refuse to settle for higher education and its ties to settler colonialism. Respect, relevance, reciprocity, and responsibility, the four Rs, broaden our understanding of Indigenous values that shape Indigenous epistemologies, ontologies, axiologies, and methodologies (Kirkness & Barnhardt, 1991). They help to articulate the ways in which universities could appropriately engage Indigenous peoples and families. Respecting the humanity and being of an Indigenous person requires one to acknowledge someone’s presence and lived experiences. Relevance is seeing an Indigenous person and then extending the ability to support and share knowledge that could expand their skills and views of the world, learning how to navigate higher education for example. Although a settler colonial lens may emphasize the transactional and dichotomous nature of relationships within the academy, reciprocity highlights how relationships that are cultivated between teaching and learning are meaningful and powerful to Indigenous peoples. Finally, responsibility entails caring for and honoring the stories and lives of Indigenous peoples and their communities, within higher education and beyond. The academy must be responsible not only for acknowledging and learning about Indigenous peoples’ violent histories and the impacts of settler colonialism, but also being responsible for creating spaces within the academy that supports, honors, and respects Indigenous

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peoples and their ways of being (Kirkness & Barnhardt, 1991). In many ways, the concept of relationality can be seen at the heart of each of these Rs. It is because we see our relatedness with one another that we give respect, seek to make our work relevant toward engagement in reciprocal processes, and make sense of our own responsibilities to a larger whole. With relationality and the 4Rs in mind, we then ask: How do we go about (re) wiring settler higher education? And more so, how do we go through this process without replicating harm, such as through centering colonizing concepts like dualities or an us versus them mentality (Deloria & Wildcat, 2001)? As we were continually thinking about relationality in settler IHEs, we noticed how our initial conversations would emphasize how IKS were different than settler logics. That is when Chris and Stevie introduced the concept of Indigenous paradox (Maryboy et al., 2006) to our hui, a helpful approach when conceptualizing relationality into practice. Maryboy et al. (2006) state that in a paradox two concepts that do not seemingly go together are actually related and through that relation, they operate on a continuum that is cyclical. While this is a simplified understanding of their metaphysical framing, an Indigenous paradox reminds us that, when we frame settler logics and IKS together, it creates an inherent relation. Through our relational practice and Indigenous paradox, we begin to identify the unique wiring of undoing settler colonialism in higher education and attempt to move toward a relational (re)wiring of IKS in higher education. In this relational (re)wiring practice, we begin by dissecting notions of the public good in higher education. In the next section, we begin to describe, on a more granular level, how the live wire and earth wires are made of other wires, also referred to as strands. We introduce these strands as Power, the Social, and Place and Space, to provide a starting point for (re)wiring settler IHEs and imagining decolonial IHEs.

Redistributing Electricity Through the Circuit: Power, the Social, and Place and Space (PSPS) as Strands Within the Settler Colonial and Indigenous Wires of the Academy Stein (2022) postures that hegemony exists and persists in settler IHEs in the USA through three functions. First, “[t]hat higher education should exemplify and enable continuous progress within its own walls and society at large” (Stein, 2022, 5, original emphasis). Here, “progress” indicates that society and the institution need to seek change and higher education is a promising approach. Second, “[t]hat higher education is, in its truest form, a benevolent public good” (Stein, 2022, 5, original emphasis). As Nelson et al. (2022) point out, the operationalization of the public good in the settler state assumes the public good is accessible to all individuals within a said society. And third, “[t]hat a primary purpose of higher education is to enable socioeconomic mobility” (Stein, 2022, 5, original emphasis). Framing socioeconomic mobility is a primary purpose that supposes an individual is part of that mobility and that mobility allows the individual to access certain social benefits when engaging in higher education. As pointed out by Stein, these three functions

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demonstrate how individualism is embodied and valued in what constitutes a “well functioning institution.” We situate Stein’s (2022) three functions of hegemony in IHEs to identify an emergent framework meant to understand how settler colonialism exists in higher education institutions. As Stein states, these three functions “are common within whitestream narratives of US higher education history and are still widely held today” (p. 76). Most notably, we center the concept of the public good because, although the public good is a common concept utilized across most settler IHEs, it is not often discussed through a critical lens. Building off of Nelson et al. (2022), we assert that the uninterrogated concept of the public good is an all-existing position, hiding oppressive systems in place. Sabati (2019) similarly urges us to attend to the “elisions,” or erasures of racial-colonial violences that produce commonsense ideas of universities as ethical institutions. Thus, when we take the public good for granted, we limit IHEs’ abilities to truly support Black, Indigenous, Brown, and Queer communities. In this framework, also demonstrated by Fig. 4, we identify that strands exist and crisscross within the live, earth, and neutral wires of the higher education circuit. We identify these strands as: Power, the Social, and Place and Space (PSPS). Through these strands, we impress the point that the source of our circuit carries an electrical current that shapes IHEs in terms of how the public good is engaged to support (or to dismiss) Black, Indigenous, Brown, and Queer communities. While the strands of PSPS are not intended to explain all ways in which settler IHEs operate and uphold settler colonialism, they provide a starting point to help us imagine our decolonial desires in higher education.

Fig. 4 The strands of power, the social, and place and space (PSPS)

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In aiming to imagine decolonial desires in higher education, we develop our framework by engaging in a dynamic conversation between three ideas: 1. The concept of higher education as a public good. 2. The wires of settler colonialism (live), IKS (earth), and people and other actors (neutral) in higher education. 3. The inner strands of power, the social, and place and space within those wires. Each section that follows aims to understand and to interrogate how the public good is embodied within settler IHEs, how IKS might be used to (re)wire the public good within settler IHEs, and, finally, through reflecting on our own lived experiences, how we play active roles in (re)wiring by centering IKS and resisting settler colonialism within IHEs. As we note in our introduction, we envision IKS as an earth wire that helps to balance the live wire of settler colonialism in higher education. We ultimately seek to (re)wire electrical currents in higher education in ways that connect, heal, and support rather than oppress, injure, or even kill. We engage in our own (re)wiring processes through intentional relational writing practices and sharing of stories. We recognize that, in the upcoming sections, what we present may be seen as creating dualities, with settler colonialism and IKS as wires in opposition to one another. We acknowledge the hypocrisy of decentering binaries while replicating them in our examples. To help us embody and live out our own intentional (re)wiring processes, we continue to center relationality to understand that, while settler colonial (live) and IKS (earth) wires are described separately, they are still related and inform each other. Taking an approach similar to what Andreotti et al. (2011) has referred to as epistemic pluralism, we see the importance of reconciling differing paradigms to cultivate the (re)wiring of higher education toward liberation and decolonization. In what follows, we identify and further describe each of the three inner strands, starting with power (energy), moving to the social (community), and concluding with place and space (environment).

Power: The First Strand As we (the authors) began identifying specific strands relevant to our conversations, we started by naming them to give us a starting point. Taking the lead from Thelin (2011) and Stein (2022), we recognize that our labels are manifestations of our conversations and theorizing at this point and time. Other folks may refer to these concepts using different labels and that is welcomed. We start with power because of its many meanings and implications for people, organizations, and the environments where interactions happen. Our goal of describing power through a settler lens and then an IKS lens is to demonstrate a relational understanding across the two. We believe that when these two concepts are discussed in tandem, we can begin to understand how decolonial futures can be manifested.

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Constructions of Power Within the Live Wire of Settler Colonialism When drawing upon centuries of literature around “power” (e.g., Aristotle and Plato), we are drawn to political theory, which aims to understand how systems are organized and operate based upon interactions between entities, like people, place, and nature. Political theory is particularly interested in understanding how these interactions center notions of power between actors and how power drives society’s ontological, epistemological, and axiological navigation of life. The strand of power within the live wire of settler colonialism calls attention to how dynamics of power inform the functions of settler IHEs. From a settler perspective, power is positioned to be dominant and oppressive (Deloria & Wildcat, 2001), where the exercise of power ultimately results in a binary between who can exercise power and who has to abide by that exercise of power. la paperson (2017) attributes power as a grand narrative, which arguably contributes to the extractive and oppressive production of the academy. Literature on the role of power in higher education is growing (e.g., Núñez, 2014; Pusser & Marginson, 2012; Pusser, 2015). A common theme that we identified in this body of work is how the machinery of settler IHEs encourages its agents, including administrators, faculty, staff, students, and policymakers, to embody value systems based upon rugged individualism. This rugged individualism highlights and values production and efficiency (or else). The concept of production in the academy suggests that, to maintain an inherent “public good,” agents within settler IHEs must produce goods. Those goods might include graduated students, peer-reviewed journal articles, or enrollment figures to meet budgetary expectations. Whatever the case may be, the idea is that, to contribute to the public good, we need to produce. The production process values efficiency, but when the process of production is not efficient or meeting abstract notions of goals, then the body (person) engaging in this process is forced to exert more labor to stay at production levels or they are thought to be wasteful and lazy (Shahjahan, 2015). Through a grand narrative driven by settler values of production and efficiency, we are drawn to how this narrative centers the bodies of individuals. We recognize the socialization processes embedded with IHEs and how students are indoctrinated into a system that seeks to value production for the institution but also for our individual selves through merit and grit. Well-worn pathways of individual selfadvancement are evident in processes of becoming an academic and are particularly pronounced in doctoral induction processes. Consistent with colonial doctrines of discovery and settled permanence, settler IHEs incentivize graduate students to have the “first” or “last” word – to be the first to propose a new theory or to be the last to announce the final, grand theory (Lipsitz, 2016). Institutional pressures to publish novel ideas can contribute toward feelings of anxiety, overwork, and self-doubt among emerging scholars (Prasad et al., 2019; Teelken, 2012), even pressuring some students to relinquish ideas they are passionate about in favor of faddish or fundable research topics (Schwarz et al., 2017). Christian (1987) named these tensions as the academic “race for theory,” which she argues too often confuses “the desire for power from the need to become empowered” (p. 61). Existing pathways into research within settler IHEs thus tend to reward individual pursuits

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of power even as they disincentivize collective, responsible research rooted in accountable relations.

Conceptions of Power within the Indigenous and Decolonial Earth Wire As we consider the relational connection between production and the body, there is no lack of literature that critiques how systems of power exert control of individual bodies to produce (Foucault, 2001). In our conversations, we found ourselves talking about the cyclical harm that is caused “when our bodies become ‘things’ to be serviced towards the ends of production and efficiency” (Shahjahan, 2015, 494) and found ourselves asking: What is the alternative? There was a sense of despair and frustration that, if power is so pervasive within IHEs, then how can we change it? Calling in our need to imagine decolonial futures, we recognized our tendencies to center our dynamic within a binary of production/no production and rested body/ ragged body. We started to remember that scholarship of the “first” and “last” word are not the only pathways available to us. Lipsitz (2016) offers us the notion of “middle word” scholarship. He writes, “We all have the middle word. Everything came through us from somebody because of somebody else.” To engage in a praxis of the middle word then, “is to be a part of the conversation, to push it along since there’s no problem we can say I have the answer to, but in every problem, we have to think about how we have the answer” (Lipsitz, 2016 p. 56). Middle word scholarship is an ethical praxis of intimating relations and deepening reciprocal accountabilities to past and future knowledge keepers (Kirkness & Barnhardt, 1991; Osorio, 2021; Patel, 2015; Wilson, 2008). Rather than a race for theory, middle word scholarship emphasizes grounded, collective, reciprocal scholarship that troubles the very terms of a race in which there can only be one winner. We reflected on this further, we began to ask, “what if we gave power a different origin story? How would changing our paradigmatic understanding of power shift the political possibilities of IHEs?” In rethinking the origin stories of power, we were quickly reminded of Deloria and Wildcat’s (2001) perspective of relationality. They assert that power is comprised of the energies embodied by all entities, whether we see them as animate or inanimate. In this case, power is not something that is qualified as dominant or oppressive through a production/body framework. Rather, power is an acknowledgment that energies (the electrical current that exists within our conceptual wiring) can be grounded in a worldview that sees all elements as operating in a circular continuum (Maryboy et al., 2006). These energies are in constant relation with each other. Neutral Wire: A Vignette on Transforming “Dead Weight” through Collective Care Practices In this vignette (and others that will follow), we illustrate the energy of the neutral wire in our scholarly process. More specifically, Coco describes feeling like “dead weight” as she struggled with an illness during the process of writing this chapter. Her reflections highlight how the personal (i.e., health and emotion) are intimately impacted by the political (i.e., pressures to produce). Moreover, her co-authors’ collective response to her health struggle evidences the importance of relationality as

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a way to rewire settler colonial emphases on individual striving and achievement in research at all costs. As was customary at the beginning of our weekly writing meetings, we began with check-ins. The intent of our check-in time was to provide space for us both to get to know one another better and to acknowledge ourselves and one another as whole people with different concerns and emotions at different points in time. However, rather than reflect on what was going on in my life at the time, I (Coco) could not help but to focus on what I was not doing. When it was my turn to share, I felt a pit in my stomach and cleared my throat, “I’m sorry. I have not been able to touch our chapter over the last couple of weeks. I feel like I’ve been the dead weight on our project.” I tried to hide my feelings of shame with a nervous laugh, but I knew that my co-authors and friends saw through it. They assured me that I had made valuable contributions to our project; I believed that they meant it. Still, I struggled to shake off feelings of inadequacy within myself. Guenther (2011) defined shame as the feeling of being “out of place, judged by others as unworthy, unwanted or wrong – not only in a particular action but in one’s very existence” (24). In his exploration of the connections between temporality (or, felt time) and shame in the academy, Shahjahan (2020) explained that “[s]hame logics manifests [sic] in three major ways, 1) social shame (What will people think), 2) Existential shame (I am worthless), and 3) Competence shame (I cannot do what I should be able to do)” (787). Looking back, while my co-authors helped to alleviate my feelings of social shame through their words and actions, I had more difficulty letting go of my feelings of existential shame and even competence shame. I was so thankful to have wonderful colleagues who said “yes” when I asked them if they would be interested in collaborating with me on this project to write a manuscript exploring settler colonialism in the academy. With that in mind, I felt a sense of responsibility to act as a lead in coordinating our project and to try to take on more writing and editing tasks to get things done. Moreover, with pressures present within the academy to always be producing in order to be of use, I felt guilty for not using my time more wisely (Shahjahan, 2015). I was letting everyone down because I could not “pull my weight” as I thought that I should. After 2 years of just trying to survive as an Indigenous mother-scholar with two young children during the pandemic, I already questioned whether or not I had it in me to be able to return to research and writing activities. These renewed feelings of uselessness were just more fodder for the fire. Never mind that, during those couple of weeks of not writing, I was tired and my body was healing. It started with what looked like small bug bites or lesions on my thigh, but, for such little marks on my skin, the pain they caused was immense and persistent. I felt like my nerves were on fire, sparking every few seconds even as I tried unsuccessfully to sleep. I was angry at myself. What was happening to my body? Why couldn’t I just heal? And, why was this happening now when there was so much work to do? I struggled to fathom where I could fit a visit to the doctor into my packed schedule for the week. So, I postponed it for a few days until I felt like I could not take the pain anymore. “I think that you have shingles.” My doctor’s words hung in the air like a dialogue bubble in a comic book. “Although shingles usually occur when you are older, they are often triggered by stress and lack of sleep. Have

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you been stressed? Have you been sleeping well?” The real question was, as an Indigenous academic mother, when was I not stressed or tired? Relentless demands for productivity can contribute to feeling worn out and “used up” (Ahmed, 2019, 95). In the academy, that demand is indeed relentless. It seems that there is never enough time to get things done. As Shahjahan (2015) explained, “the multiplying and endless ‘academic tasks’ – countless forms of assessments and hyped up productivity schedules – engendered through neoliberal reforms propagate an ever-present ‘scarcity of time’ affectively and cognitively” (491). But, tiredness seems to beget more tiredness. Ahmed (2019) argued that, when we make ourselves useful to oppressive institutions, we deepen the grooves of well-used paths: “The more a path is used the more a path is used” (40). I had apparently gotten used to taking that path most traveled. However, my body was not up to the task this time. With what felt like no other option, I finally decided to give my body the rest that it demanded. I let my co-authors, my departmental colleagues, and even some of my students know that I had shingles and that I would have to step away from some of my responsibilities for the week so that I could rest and heal. To choose rest is to feel and to honor the weight of our laboring bodies (Hersey, 2022). It is an act of resistance – a carving out of a less used, unofficial path that might leave a trail, however faint, for others to use. I was touched by the responses I received to my small act of resistance. In different ways, and in spite of the pressures of colonial time in the academy, the people around me empowered me to rest. My students sent me messages to “get well soon” and not to worry about rushing feedback to them. My departmental colleagues wished me well and took on a couple of my service tasks for the month. And, my co-authors sent me a wonderful care package. “I got a text from Ethan today. Your writing group would like to treat us to dinner so that we don’t have to worry about cooking tonight. He wants us to send him our orders,” my husband Patrick alerted me as he came home from work that day. A couple hours later, Ethan knocked on the door and handed over to Patrick our delicious meal, flowers, and a card on behalf of our whole writing hui, including him, Chris, LaJoya, Alicia, and Stevie. Feeling genuinely cared for, I cried. Emejulu and Bassel (2020) invite us to reflect on lessons imbued in the familiar declaration, “I’m exhausted” (403). Rather than an individual phenomenon, they direct our attention to “structural exhaustion.” They write, “Focusing on ‘structural exhaustion’ helps us avoid pathologising the exhausted and brings into sharp relief the multiple crises that exact a huge toll on the minds and bodies of women of colour” (Emejulu & Bassel, 2020, 402). Emejulu and Bassel challenge us to examine the contexts that necessitate exhaustion – how Women of Color, particularly in organizing and activist settings, are so often pushed to engage in collective caretaking work in ways that often marginalize care for their own bodies and selves. Exhaustion can thus be a moment of reflection, a glimpse into the cultural and material conditions of oppressive systems, a portal for entering new ways of being and knowing that do not rest on the disposability of Women of Color. In response to the busyness of the neoliberal and settler colonial academy, Shahjahan (2015) has advocated for “being lazy” and “slowing down” in ways that are focused “on building relationships, not about being fixed on products, but accepting and allowing

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for uncertainty and being at peace without knowing outcomes” (497). In later work, he further argued: Ultimately, we need to change our relationship with the contents and frames themselves (i.e. temporality mirror, shame logics) in ways that they no longer define our existence or allocate our desires and investments. As such, we need to move beyond changing our ways of knowing and embrace changing our own ways of being. (Shahjahan, 2020, 804)

Even with the support of colleagues and students, I have struggled to resist the pressures of time and production in the academy to allow myself rest. However, I continue to strive to honor my body and the multiple temporalities shaping my life. I strive to trod new paths that empower others to do the same.

The Social: The Second Strand In this section, we turn to the importance of the Social, and how to cultivate reciprocal relationships as a way to rewire individualistic framings of work in the academy. As we continue to think about how folks engage and resist settler IHEs, we are reminded through the narrative vignette above how our bodies act as a protective barometer from external factors, like the environment. When illnesses like shingles happen, scholars may feel as though they need to choose either to power through or to rest and recuperate. However, as demonstrated in Coco’s vignette, the choices can be much more complicated than that. There is an innate understanding of when one’s body calls for rest, while the grand narrative of rugged individualism and production in the academy says, “Keep going.” The energy (power) embodied by Coco and her surrounding community fostered a dynamic where she was encouraged to listen to what her body needed. Power was being reframed as a collective energy. So, as we continue to ponder what power is, whether through a settler lens, a decolonial lens, or somewhere between, we start to define the social wire as informing both settler colonialism and decolonization. Broadly speaking, the concept of the social can be linked to a community; who is considered to be part of a community, what norms and practices shape that community, and ultimately, how the components of the community interact within themselves and with others. When analyzing settler IHEs through the social strand, we begin to question assumptions settler IHEs make about the public good, such as who is included in the public good and how that “who within the public good” is valued within settler IHEs. As we begin to answer those questions through both a settler and decolonial lens, we can begin to see who (and what) is centered and how that centering informs the norms and practices of settler IHEs. In our positioning, we focus on settler IHEs as a social entity defining and contributing to the public good.

Constructions of the Social within the Settler Colonial Live Wire As Stein (2022) reminds us, settler IHEs are generally positioned as supporting and uplifting the public good. There is extensive research on how higher education

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provides individual benefits, like social and economic mobility, and how that mobility improves the social structures of the broader society (Trow, 1999). In our conceptualization of the social of settler IHEs, we see the public good being primarily framed through human-to-human interactions. Humans make up the everyday functions of bustling civic life and shape the norms and practices of the community. In settler IHEs, humans are the primary producers and benefactors of what settler IHEs produce. However, the distribution of what is produced is distributed in a manner where power dynamics are not equal. As it stands, “experts” (e.g., professionals, professors, leaders) provide educational experiences at settler IHEs and “students” receive those educational experiences. Both the expert and the student become part of a larger system, where settler IHEs are then positioned to continuously show how they contribute to the “public good.” Arguably, the notion of the public good in higher education is partially rooted in deficit thinking, where a primary role of settler IHEs is to improve the socioeconomic mobility of underserved communities (Stein, 2022). There is an unfortunate assumption rooted in the “pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps” mentality that those who do not reach social and economic mobility through their own grit become economic drains on the broader society. Further embedded in that assumption is that settler IHEs equip individuals with knowledge and skills that can be used to improve their social and economic mobility to become better contributing citizens for the “public good.” The expectations for settler IHEs to show how they contribute to the “public good” is also linked to perceptions of whether or not and how much public funding should be allocated to them (Nelson et al., 2022). In other words, to survive, settler IHEs are forced to prove their worthiness in order to receive public funding. The conundrum for settler IHEs is that, even when their worth is shown, public funding is not sufficient to serve the social component of IHEs (McMahon, 2009). Therefore, different sectors of settler IHEs are then forced to do more with less, again for the “public good.” Settler IHEs are then positioned in a perpetual paradox of needing to exist by producing more public goods, while simultaneously perpetuating this notion that certain humans comprise a public that is in need while other humans are those who produce those goods. The humans included among the “public” in need are then labeled as deficit-ridden humans who must be lifted up by the social and economic ranks of a capitalistic society. On a more granular level, and as one example among many, we see this deficit framing transpire in how students from underserved communities are admitted into settler IHEs. From the perspective of settler IHEs, students arrive at the university with the intent to engage and to learn what the institution has to give, with the assumption that IHEs have established policies and processes in order to serve the students and the surrounding society (Kirkness & Barnhardt, 1991). However, this population of students is viewed as needy, underprepared, and in need of remediation by experts in the field. These experts, making judgments on others’ capabilities, are often individuals who have successfully navigated the norms and practices of academic production (e.g., completed a degree, published, or are viewed as an expert in this field). Through a settler mindset of community, students are expected to assimilate and to adhere to universities’ expectations and processes, which are tied to settler IHEs’

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values of individualism and meritocracy. The notion of who is serving who creates an imbalance in power dynamics while fostering a norm that settler IHE communities are only inclusive of humans, those with power and expertise and others without. “Success” then is underpinned by settler conceptions that, (1) expertise is confined to humans and excludes knowledge imbued within and among more-than-human beings; and (2) expertise is hierarchical. In this way, settler IHEs rationalize and reproduce their own existence. Students are tasked to succeed on terms authored and evaluated by those who have already won the ruggedly individualistic, settler race before them. If the underlying assumption remains unquestioned that the social (community) is only comprised of humans, then settler IHEs will only continue to replicate harmful concepts of who the public good includes and for what purpose. By limiting the social of settler IHEs to just humans, we actively ignore the other energies Deloria and Wildcat (2001) reference when power is framed through Indigenous relational understandings.

Conceptions of the Social with the Indigenous and Decolonial Earth Wire When adopting Indigenous relational understandings of power, the concept of the social and community extends beyond human-to-human interactions. Students, particularly students who come from historically and contemporarily systematically underserved communities, are welcomed to settler IHEs differently. Not only are students treated as equals, their knowledge and sensibilities of the world are accepted and valued as part of the social. Santa Clara Pueblo scholar Greg Cajete (1994) encourages us to consider the common threads that connect community. Reflective practices of identifying similarities encourages humans to connect with other beings, both animate and inanimate. Thus, humans can engage in an understanding that: Nature is sacred, humans share the breadth of life with other living beings, we exist within, and or [are] affected by the mutually reciprocal web of interrelationships in a natural community, plants, animals, and other natural phenomenon and entities are imbued with power, the natural world creates through the interplay of opposite yet complementary, primal energies, and there exists a guiding creative force in Nature that affects everything. . . (Cajete, 1994, 91)

Across many Indigenous cultures and communities, relatives do not only come in human form (Archibald, 2008; Simpson, 2017). Lands, waterways, air, plants, and animals are all relatives to humans. These relations, as mentioned through the 4Rs, connect humans to other existences. In this relational praxis, humans are not superior to their relatives, rather there is a desire to be in community with relatives: to learn from each other, to find balance and harmony together, and support each other. An Indigenous and decolonial wiring of the social, engages an energy-based power that broadens an understanding of who is part of the public and by extension what the public good entails. The public good needs to value more than just human advancement and consumption. The axiological shift of the public good requires humans to be mindful, to be intentional, and to listen more. It also allows humans to

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be advocates for their non-human relatives and to assert a new understanding of what it means to be in community and to have a place within IHEs.

Neutral Wire: A Vignette on Recognizing Human and Non-Human Community Members in Higher Education In this vignette, Stevie and Chris recount the experience of welcoming and then mourning the loss of a tipi within the Indigenous community at the University of Denver. Their reflections illuminate how non-humans can contribute to and be in community with humans in higher education as well as how lack of this recognition can alienate Indigenous students (and potentially others) from feeling that they are cared for as community members on their campuses. As we (Stevie and Chris) extend our understanding of the social through a decolonial lens, we are reminded of the Native American/Indigenous students that we work with and how they are our inspiration for seeing how one goes about disrupting settler spaces through relational practices and community. For over a decade, Native Student Alliance (NSA), the undergraduate affinity group for Native American/Indigenous students at the University of Denver, had been requesting the university to provide the funds to welcome a tipi under the stewardship of NSA. For those who are unfamiliar, a tipi is a traditional lodge that certain North American tribal nations use for ceremony, housing, and everyday living. Over the years, it has become a symbol of existence despite the attempts of the US Federal Government to erase Indigenous peoples for land and settler power. Prior to having a resident tipi, NSA would welcome other community members to share their tipi during events like Indigenous People’s Day or the annual powwow. The students would go through many challenges each year trying to ensure they continue the tradition of welcoming a tipi to campus for particular events. In 2022, NSA was finally able to welcome their tipi to campus. At the time, DU administration saw allocation of funds toward the tipi as a typical requisition. There was a purchase order, payment, and scheduled delivery. From an administrative perspective, we imagined that they thought this requisition would be the end of their role with the tipi. From NSA’s perspective, the arrival of the tipi was only the first step in a cascade of intimate human and more-than-human relations. At the time, NSA students had varying connections to the tipi, as some students had previous cultural connections to the concept of a tipi through ceremony, tribal traditions, or community gatherings and others did not. Collectively, however, the tipi welcoming was a sign of presence and agency. Over the next several months, NSA would learn what it meant to bring a tipi to campus. Some experiences were affirming and some experiences were less affirming. A most affirming experience came when NSA students gathered to put up the tipi as a community and gather inside for the first time. Stevie recalls, “The day was beautifully sunny, with a slight breeze, as myself and the Native Student Alliance put up the tipi. One of our seniors was conducting teaching for the other students so that they could practice and become more acquainted with how to put up the tipi. The students all were very involved and were able to put it up. We all walked inside the tipi and

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sat down in a circle. Many stories were shared during this time among the students about what the tipi represented to each of them. I recognized that there was a shared understanding of what the tipi represents to all of us, a place we could call home. The tipi poles are our relatives from up north, providing a shelter for us to exist and feel safe in. We had put up the tipi and Indigenized the lawn in front of Anderson Commons.”

Through these practices, students demonstrated how they were fostering a relationship with the tipi. The tipi became more than just long, elegant poles and the canvas wrapping was no longer just fabric – the tipi became a relative, holding stories of laughter, vulnerability, and growth with care and protection. We understand that that unique relationship was not something that non-Indigenous folks would outright understand, but we had hoped that others would realize that cultural items should be treated and handled with some level of care and attention. So, it was shocking to know that later that evening, after the gathering inside the tipi, the tipi poles were vandalized and taken from their respective resting spot. Non-Indigenous DU students took it upon themselves to break several tips of our relatives, deliberately broke one pole in half, and carried several of them to different parts of campus. The next morning, we learned of what had transpired and began to investigate how this happened. NSA students had sat with the tipi poles (the canvas was previously removed), waiting for facilities to pick up the poles to safely store. Several NSA students stayed with the poles until past dark. After many unsuccessful attempts to contact facilities to pick up the poles, the students decided to return the next morning to attempt to schedule a pick up by facilities. One may think, “why leave the poles? Why not take them with you if you had such a strong connection to it?” For one, the poles required a special transport and at that time there was no building location open to store them. Second, the NSA students parted ways with the poles trusting that, between 9 pm and 7 am, they would remain untouched by the DU community. In this situation, we (as an Indigenous community) trusted they would be safe and unfortunately, that trust was broken. The news of the damage brought our community to their knees with tears of hurt, anger, and confusion. We were left wondering, how could something so violent happen to our relative, who just a few hours prior was protecting our students/ community? Immediately, a letter was written by our Native American/Indigenous Leadership Ad Hoc Committee (NAILC) at the University of Denver (DU), mainly because the university administration treated this act of vandalism as property damage, such that the tipi could be replaced and all would be settled. The letter provided context about the significance of the tipi, what happened, and what reconciliation and healing should look like. As a Native community on the DU campus, we collectively gathered our resources. We decided to lean into the groups that could perhaps provide some support and advocacy for the violence that just occurred to the tipi. The intent of the NAILC was to make sure those who committed the harm were found and held accountable. Below is an excerpt from the letter: The Tipi is Our Relative For several Native cultures, including some well-represented on DU’s campus, including the Lakota and practitioners of the Native American Church, bringing a tipi to campus

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symbolizes and is treated like welcoming a relative. In preparation during the past six months, NSA student leadership stewarded intentional spaces to foster relationship-building between the DU Native and Indigenous students, staff, and faculty and their relative, the tipi. The DU Indigenous community cared for, spoke to, and prayed in and with the tipi. In doing so, the tipi became a relational space in which NSA students experienced welcome and affirmation. The tipi entered the DU community as a relative to NSA and required an institutional obligation to protect and nourish this relational space.

We share this experience to demonstrate what it means to embody energy-based power and how that power can shape the differing and coexisting communities of settler IHEs. The tipi is a relative with energy-based power meant to provide comfort, but to the unknowing eye is just an inanimate item made of up wood, canvas, and rope. The tipi being damaged further teaches us how settler ideas of “who” matters does not include non-human relatives.

Place and Space: The Third Strand To continue the (re)wiring of settler IHEs and the imagining of decolonial futures in higher education, we began by offering a new origin story of power. Stevie and Chris’s vignette further demonstrated how energies (power) are connected to both animate and inanimate entities. As we move further along the PSPS framework, we now continue to think about place and space. When we first started conceptualizing the PSPS framework, we imagined place and space as separate strands. However, upon further discussion, we decided that this separation undermined the intimate relationship that exists between physical place and space, which is imbued with social significance and personal meaning. Power and the social influence how place is understood and space is created and experienced. Whether informing place and space through settler colonial lens or a IKS lens or somewhere in-between, we aim to complicate and push existing sensibilities and realities of navigating place and space within settler IHEs.

Constructions of Place and Space Within the Settler Colonial Live Wire If there is an assumption that the public good is part of the higher education system, then we need to ask, “where is the work of settler IHEs happening?” It goes without saying that settler IHEs within the USA include both physical and virtual spaces that exist on land. Physically, there is a growing body of research that critically examines how the foundations of higher education are founded on and exist upon land stolen from Indigenous communities (e.g., Ambo & Rocha Beardall, 2023; Lomawaima et al., 2021; Stein, 2022). Dissecting the roles that the US Federal Government and individual institutions have had in engaging in the illegal occupation of Indigenous land is beyond the scope of this chapter, but we assert that they play large parts in perpetuating settler colonial projects. The physical land occupied by brick-and-mortar buildings is visually apparent, but one may wonder how virtual settler IHE spaces may also exist on land. Scott et al. (2021) explained how even virtual spaces, which exist through the internet,

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still occupy land, with waters and skies as extensions of that land. The internet, to the naked eye, may seem to exist without physical occupation, but in actuality the internet only functions with wires that run through lands, under oceans, and across skies. Furthermore, the technological devices (e.g., laptops, tablets, and phone) that we depend on to interact with one another virtually are constituted of minerals like coltan and tantalum, which are gathered through settler logics of resource extraction (Emejulu & McGregor, 2019). When we begin to imagine the physical places that settler IHEs occupy and operate within, these places begin to be animated into spaces that hold the experiences related to the functions of higher education. As established earlier, settler IHEs are directed by grand narratives of contributing to the public good through enabling social mobility. If social mobility is valued and human-centric, settler IHEs ultimately count degrees conferred, job offers made and accepted, and even knowledge that informs many facets of society. They create spaces in settler IHEs that la paperson (2017) has referred to as “the first university” or “the first world university” and has described as follows: The first world university charges fees and grants degrees. This university is a machine of accumulation and expansion, increasingly carried out by neoliberal mechanisms that tie the production of knowledge to grant RFPs and revenue-gathering enterprises. (54)

As seen through these actions, first university spaces perpetuate the individualistic agenda of production, efficiency, and capital and mark those who do not align with this agenda as deficit. When looking at power, the social, and place and space within the settler colonial wire of higher education, we can see how each strand is interconnected in ways that secure “the public good” and socioeconomic mobility as normal and simply the way it has to be. However, in this chapter, we consider how the electrical currents of the settler colonial live wire may be balanced by an IKS earth wire. As we look forward to what this means for the future of settler IHEs, we have hope that people and actors who work, teach, and learn within IHEs are becoming more resistant to allowing settler IHE machinery to continue. Yet examining settler IHEs relations to land in monetary terms reifies settler understandings of land as property – a thing, good, possession (Estes, 2019). From a Western perspective, land that is not privately “owned” is uncultivated and available for possession (Hobart, 2019). Moreton-Robinson (2015) argues that white possession – “a mode of rationalization” that is “underpinned by an excessive desire to invest in reproducing and reaffirming the nation-state’s ownership, control, and domination” – constitutes the very foundations of settler colonialism (xii). Unearned and unfair advantages in wealth, access, and time do not only reflect the consequences of white supremacy (Harris, 1993), but what Moreton-Robinson (2015) calls an “epistemological and ontological a priori” (60): settler colonial genocide and illegal possession of land. Moreton-Robinson allows us to comprehend how the Morrill Act rationalized land theft and reified white possession as a normative criteria for what it means to be a full citizen in the settler state.

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Mythological origin stories of terra nullius also inform logics of white possession. The notion of “terra nullius,” which stems from the French, “territoire sans matter” or “land without a master” (Mickelson, 2014, 626) comprehends land as in need of white possession. From this perspective, land is not only capable of being possessed, but requires human “mastery” or dominion. Settler assumptions of land as lifeless, unoccupied, in need of settler development thus constitute the epistemological and ontological foundations for the settler state as a centralized mode of dismantling Indigenous relations to land and legalizing private titles to land ownership. Settler IHEs largely function to reaffirm and to reinvest in societal logics of white possession. Moreton-Robinson (2015) points out, “whiteness operates possessively to define and construct itself as the pinnacle of its own racial hierarchy” (xx). For settler IHEs, white possession underpins a widely agreed-upon orientation to higher education as a process of accumulating (or possessing) grades, credits, and degrees (Blum, 2016). Conventional programs of study overwhelmingly reinforce settler histories, languages, texts, norms, codes of conduct, and understandings of scientific rigor (Kulago, 2018; Pewewardy et al., 2022). If settler IHEs include Indigenous cultures, concepts, and knowledges, these ideas are often included only to the extent that Indigeneity can be possessed (e.g., as an object to service the image of settler IHEs). Indeed, Indigenous scholars constantly and consistently exploit the fissures within settler IHEs (Goodyear-Kaʻōpua et al., 2014). Yet our main point here is that white possession operates as a widely unspoken and taken-for-granted organizing rationale for the everyday roles, routines, and relations that constitute settler IHEs.

Conceptions of Place and Space within the Indigenous and Decolonial Earth Wire In contrast to settler understandings of white possession, Indigenous philosophies share understandings of land as kin, intimate relatives requiring mutual care and respect (Coulthard, 2014; TallBear, 2019). Indigenous peoples acknowledge land as a source of ancestral knowledge and as a teacher. Minthorn and Nelson (2018) point out, “There is an intimate connection that Indigenous peoples hold value to in regards to space and land that is not tied to ownership rather it is a connection that is ancestral and spiritual” (85). Indigenous understandings of land thus carry reciprocal and ethical obligations between peoples and the lands upon which they depend. Indigenous conceptions of land as relative also guide distinctive modes of organizing learning. From an Indigenous worldview, the purpose of higher education is not to possess knowledge or to build individual resumes for further capital accumulation, but rather, to participate in a broad “cycle of giving back” – in which the land is considered a “beloved relative” (Salis Reyes, 2019, 625). Learning is about acquiring the knowledge, skills, sensibilities, and dispositions to respectfully and meaningfully participate in individual and collective healing that is deeply intertwined with active efforts to regenerate lands and waters (Shield et al., 2020). In these ways, Indigenous learning is an active, living, collective social process. It is an interweaving and entangling of people and land in real, direct, and lifelong ways (Wright, 2022). Learning does not end at the conclusion of a course, term, or degree.

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It is a lifelong privilege and responsibility of being and living in right relations with the land and more-than-human beings.

Neutral Wire: A Vignette on What Lands and Waters Can Teach us In this vignette, Alicia and Ethan recount their experiences of practicing uhau humu pōhaku (rock weaving) in community with Kumu (teacher, source) Kimeona Kane and others at Huilua Loko Iʻa, a traditional Native Hawaiian fishpond located in Kahana Bay on the mokupuni (island) of Oʻahu. Their reflections point to how building relationships with ʻāina (land, that which feeds) in turn impacts the relationships that we hold with others and with ourselves. “Before Sam’s Club, you went to the loko iʻa,” remarked Kimeona Kane, Kumu uhau humu pōhaku (source of knowledge of rock weaving). “No Amazon delivery!” Kumu Kane joked. A dozen volunteers from the grocery chain, Sam’s Club, laughed aloud together. A small group of Kānaka ʻŌiwi and non-Hawaiian educators affiliated with UH Mānoa joined in the laughter. This small hui committed to learning with and from ʻāina and Kumu Kane at least one day each week and regularly shared space with volunteers. Kumu Kane explained that Huilua Loko Iʻa was one of over 500 once-thriving fishponds throughout Hawaiʻi that, as a consequence of colonization, fell into disrepair. Today, ecological and food insecurity crises sparked a renewed interest in loko iʻa as highly engineered innovations in aquaculture and sustainable food systems. Kumu Kane explained that our task today was not to finish the fishpond. He reminded, “This is generational work.” Our goal was more modest: to learn and listen to pōhaku, to build a relationship with rock and Huilua, and carry these teachings into our respective relations. Kumu Kane invited us to repair a small section of the kuapā (fishpond wall) that ocean waves toppled since our last visit. Ethan stooped down to lift a pōhaku a few inches larger than the size of his head. “Where can I put this guy?” he asked. “Why is that pōhaku a guy?” Alicia joked. “This person,” Ethan corrected himself with a laugh. “Maybe place them here with the alo [face] on this side,” Niya, another one of Kumu Kane’s haumana, advised. We took turns feeling, holding, turning, and gently weaving each pōhaku into the wall. We took a step back to kilo (observe) and begin again. Most of us have committed to the practice of learning from Kumu Kane for a few years. As novice haumāna of uhau humu pōhaku, it can take up to 2 h to complete a mere ten feet of wall. With Kumu Kane’s guidance, we do not use hammers or concrete to secure each pōhaku. Instead, we listen and ask each pōhaku – each person – to tell us where they want to go, who they want to sit next to in the wall, so that we might make the kuapā paʻa (secure). We catch a glimpse of Kumu Kane returning to offer us feedback. “Hmm. . . interesting,” he observes, loud enough for all of us to hear. We learned to comprehend “interesting” as code for “hema” – loose, unstable. “How come you put this person here?” Kumu questioned, pointing to a pōhaku facing down toward the sand, ready to topple with the next wave. We talk through the contours of each pōhaku,

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debate the length, size, and shape of each. It is through this cyclical practice of building, observing, and rebuilding that we slowly unlearn colonial notions of “expertise,” “mastery,” or “progress” and turn back the clocks of settler time. It is a modest, but radical act of Indigenizing ourselves – learning to laugh at our mistakes, developing a comfort with uncertainty, humbly beginning again and again in the ongoing work of (re)building and (re)asserting Kānaka presence. Through our intimate engagements with pōhaku, we have learned to love the slow, patient, and permanently ongoing work. As we move pōhaku hand-by-hand, pōhaku moves us – strengthening our bodies, minds, and spirits. We weave rock and are woven into new relations (e.g., inter-species, intergenerational, intersectional), ways of knowing (e.g., mele, moʻolelo, moʻokūʻauhau) and ways of being (as stewards, caretakers, protectors). As la paperson (2017) notes, “Only the bad guys build things that last forever” (70). This search for permanence, to have, to hold, to possess are fundamental dimensions of our unlearning with Kumu Kane. Just as the kuapā can be toppled and built anew, so too, might settler IHEs be dismantled and restructured–pōhaku by pōhaku. We understand uhau humu pōhaku as a distinctive theory of change. This shared work is not about documenting “damage” (Tuck, 2009) or “raising awareness” about the ills of settler colonialism (Tuck, 2018, 161). Instead, it is about building a relationship with ʻāina and (re)making ourselves and relations in and through ʻāina (Osorio, 2021). Pōhaku are our kūpuna, our elders and sources of wisdom. By placeing our work in relationship to ʻāina, we take up Tuck’s interests in advancing projects that “bite the university that feeds us” – that move decolonial, land-based projects led by Indigenous communities (Tuck, 2018, 149; c.f., Alfred, 2005). These intentional efforts reflect our attempts to move “as a decolonizing university” (paperson, 2017, 70). By naming settler assumptions about PSPS, we endeavored to (re)wire settler IHEs through IKS. Our vignettes convey how IKS are “bound to the cultural context in which it is situated” and are “generally acquired through direct experience in participation in real-world activities” (Kirkness & Barnhardt, 1991, 6–7). In the following section, we aim to build from these local, place-based examples to consider broader decolonial possibilities.

(Re)Imagining and (Re)wiring Decolonial Potentialities for Institutions of Higher Education As we have demonstrated throughout this chapter, higher education in what is now known as the USA is founded upon and continues to be driven by settler colonialism. Bringing this into focus, Curley and colleagues (2022) noted: The academic institutions in which we work are themselves colonial institutions in which buildings, disciplines, canons, and the faculty who move through these spaces often find themselves, intentionally or unintentionally, upholding empire and white supremacy through their interpersonal interactions and citation politics. (1050)

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This sentence reveals how power, the social, place and space of higher education are often made of settler colonialism itself. Moreover, the settler colonial stuffing of our institutions of higher education is reproductive. This constant reproduction contributes to the perpetuation of myths that pose settler colonial traditions in the academy as immutable, incapable of being anything else. However, in spite of these representations, there is always already the potential for resistance and change through concerted effort. In other words, settler colonialism does not have to be singular or inevitable in the academy. If “the decolonial is always already amid the colonial” as Ngugi wa Thing’o (as cited by paperson, 2017, 11) suggested, then decolonizing forces are present and active even in the face of the settler colonial academy. With this in mind, while in much of our chapter we focus more so on the personal and intimate impacts of settler colonialism in the academy, in this section, we consider how institutions of higher education, though mired in settler colonialism, might also provide space for decolonizing and Indigenizing. This consideration requires hope. Zembylas (2020) suggested “that to speak of hope, is to speak about the capacity or drive of humans for a better future against all odds” (28). From this perspective, hope becomes the precondition needed to imagine and to work toward a future that is distinct from the settler colonial present. Zembylas further theorized: a mode of hope that is explicitly anti-colonial, namely, an understanding of hope that not only recognizes the legacy of colonialism, domination, and exploitation, but also finds ways to resist to [sic] this. Importantly, however, anti-colonial hope is not stuck in negative critiques of colonialism, but rather speaks of the desire to take a stance, a praxis against coloniality by recognizing the dreams and aspirations of people actively resisting coloniality. (30)

Such a hope that calls out settler colonialism and creates spaces for the dreaming of other potential futurities is vital. However, whereas Zembylas uses “anti-colonial” in his theorization to signal a broad stance against “coloniality rather than advocating an actual decolonial or decolonizing project tied to repatriation of land and culture” (29), we assert that it is impossible to separate de/colonial projects from land and culture. As Tuck and Yang (2012) argue, “decolonization is not a metaphor;” it involves a real consideration of land and the relationships that land holds. Indeed, “decolonisation in the settler colonial context must involve the repatriation of land simultaneous to the recognition of how land and relations to land have always already been differently understood and enacted” (Tuck & Yang, 2012, 7). In this section of the chapter then, driven by decolonial hope, we explore the question: what might it look like for higher education institutions, even those with settler colonial foundations (like most, if not all, in the USA), to work toward becoming decolonizing and Indigenous-serving? This question is in part inspired by our own institutional contexts. For more than a decade, the University of Hawaiʻi, in which Coco, LaJoya, Ethan, and Alicia work and study, has proclaimed interests in being/becoming a “Hawaiian place of learning” and, more broadly, a “model Indigenous Serving Institution” (University of Hawaiʻi 2015; University of Hawaiʻi 2025; University of Hawaiʻi – Hawaiʻi Papa o Ke Ao Committee 2012; University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa 2011; University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa Advancement Task Force

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[UHMATF] 2012; UHMATF 2016). Yet, Kanaka ʻŌiwi (“people of the bone,” Native Hawaiian) scholars have pointed to the ways that the university has “obscured its Kānaka ʻŌiwi presence” (Salis Reyes et al., 2020, 242) and “has been predominantly non-Hawaiian by all definitions” (Lipe, 2016, 227) since its founding in 1907. In other words, the university’s stated intentions to be/become a “Hawaiian place of learning” or a “model Indigenous Serving Institution” are yet aspirational; there is still much work to be done before they are actualized. This particular institutional context leads us to wonder more broadly: What could or should it mean for a decolonial or an Indigenous serving institution to be actualized? For us, decolonial or Indigenous Serving Institutions are not limited by or necessarily aligned with federally recognized designations, which are often defined either by student demographics (as in the case of Hispanic Serving Institutions [HSIs] and Asian American, Native American, and Pacific Islander Serving Institutions [AANAPISIs]) or by historical mission (as in the case of Historically Black Colleges and Universities [HBCUs] and Tribal Colleges and Universities [TCUs]). In this chapter then, we define decolonizing and Indigenous Serving Institutions by their intentions and by their actions, how they stand for and work toward decolonizing the academy and serving Indigenous peoples. This definition is based on two assumptions. First, student representation or historical mission alone may not be indicative of meaningful decolonial efforts or Indigenous servingness. Moreover, working toward decolonization and Indigenous servingness in higher education is not limited only to serving Indigenous students (though this work is, of course, vital); rather, it requires an active stance toward transformation that is centered by Indigenous ways of knowing and being. Second, various institutions, without regard to their enrollment of an arbitrarily determined percentage of students and despite their historical founding, might take on the enormous tasks of decolonizing the academy and serving Indigenous peoples. In other words, we suggest the potentiality of even historically White and settler colonial institutions of higher education to become decolonial or Indigenous serving institutions, or what we will call Indigenous Centered Institutions. In what follows, we apply the PSPS analytical framework to explore Tribal Colleges and Universities (TCUs) as exemplar Indigenous Centered Institutions. Next, drawing on la paperson’s (2017) concept of third universities, the Kanaka ʻŌiwi concept of kīpuka as places of sanctuary (e.g., Goodyear-Kaʻōpua, 2013; Lipe, 2016), and Bell and associates’ (2020) concept of new universities, we consider how other types of institutions of higher education might take on the labor of decolonization and/or Indigenization too.

Tribal Colleges and Universities (TCUs) as Exemplar Indigenous Centered Institutions History Settler IHEs were founded upon the ideal of assimilating Native peoples into Western colonial society, forcing them to give up their traditional ways of life and subscribe to a Eurocentric system of learning and being (Wright, 1991). The

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proliferation of settler IHEs to uphold empire and white supremacy necessitated the creation of Indigenous Serving and Indigenous Centered IHEs. Thus, TCUs were created to reject white supremacist ideologies in higher education, center Native and Indigenous ancestral knowledge, and to reclaim spaces in higher education for Native and Indigenous epistemologies. Coinciding with the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s, movements for the self-determination of Native communities, peoples, and Tribal nations to exercise their tribal sovereignty, TCUs were created to reclaim education and to center Indigenous ways of knowing and being (Crazybull & White Hat, 2019; Denetdale, 2015; Dunbar-Ortiz, 2014; Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006). The first TCU, Diné College (formerly known as Navajo Community College), was established in 1968 on the Navajo Reservation in Tsaile, Arizona (Guillory & Ward, 2008). Five additional TCUs joined shortly after, which led to the establishment of the American Indian Higher Education Consortium in 1972 (AIHEC, 1999). TCUs proliferated as a result of various acts of legislation and establishments, specifically the Indian Education Act (1972), the establishment of the American Indian Higher Education Consortium (1973), and the Tribally Controlled College or University Assistance Act (1978). Brayboy et al. (2012) noted that the federal government’s policy of self-determination through self-governance has been predicated on two principles: (1) “providing greater control to tribal citizens and their governments in the planning, designing, implementing, and controlling the public affairs of their respective tribe;” and (2) “maintaining the trust relationship between the federal government and American Indian tribes” (p. 14). As explained by Snipp (2014), the 1975 Indian Self-Determination and Education Assistance Act is considered one of the most important pieces of US legislation in supporting tribal selfdetermination as the act set the wheels in motion for Indigenous communities to (re) claim the vision and driving forces behind their economic, political, legal, and educational processes. As outlined by The Tribally Controlled College or University Assistance Act of 1978, a tribal college is: an institution of higher education which is formally controlled, or has been formally sanctioned, or chartered, by the governing body of an Indian tribe or tribes, except that no more than one such institution shall be recognized with respect to any such tribe. (AIHEC, 1999, 3)

Elsewhere, Warner and Gipp (2009) define Tribal Colleges and Universities (TCUs) as nationally accredited postsecondary institutions that serve the most highly underrepresented group in the USA, Native Americans. Located primarily in the Midwest and Southwest and on tribally controlled lands, there are currently 37 TCUs with 75 distinct campuses to serve students from more than 250 federally recognized Tribal Nations (Youngbull, 2021). Below, we consider how the three strands of Power, the Social, and Place and Space shape TCUs. We utilize an assets-based approach to showcase the strengths of TCUs, to highlight how they push against the oppressive systems in place in IHEs, and to describe the ways in which they model servingness for Indigenous students.

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As conceptualized by Garcia et al. (2019), servingness describes the ways in which Hispanic Serving Institutions (HSIs) model how best to serve Latinx student populations. It looks beyond high enrollments of Latinx students and instead focuses on how institutions create culturally inclusive environments for Latinx students to thrive within. The four major areas around servingness include, “academic and nonacademic outcomes, experiences, organizational dimensions, and external forces” (Garcia et al., 2019, 775–776). Similarly, we make use of the ideas of servingness from Garcia et al. (2019) to best describe the ways TCUs led in serving their Native student populations.

The Power Strand in TCUs The first strand in the PSPS framework describes the ways in which power can be utilized to dominate or to oppress. In educational contexts, power has been utilized to erase Indigenous peoples through invalidating IKS, enacting barriers to the professoriate for Indigenous scholars, and weaponizing research against Native communities. With reference to the power dimension of settler colonialism discussed earlier, across higher education contexts, power is wielded by those who govern. For example, trustees, faculty administrators, and accrediting organizations, utilize their power to determine the priorities of institutions (e.g., workforce development). Conversely, governance at TCUs “affirms the connection between the sovereignty of tribal nations and regional accreditation standards” (Bull et al., 2015, 18). As explained by Guillory and Ward (2008): TCUs, in particular, have been able to successfully tap into their own respective Indian populations where mainstream school systems are often viewed with antipathy and skepticism because of their historical association with the U.S. government’s relentless efforts to assimilate Indians into mainstream society. (91)

In contrast to the insistence on acculturation and assimilation to white heteropatriarchal values within settler IHEs, TCUs create space for Native resistance and self-determination in higher education. Tribal Nations reclaim power in their education through shared governance with their tribal and regional populations to lead TCUs. At settler IHEs, power is traditionally derived from those who govern (e.g., state governments, Board of Trustees). By contrast, TCUs are tribally controlled by their respective governments (Crazybull & White-Hat, 2019). In other words, TCUs are governed through their local tribal communities, such that tribal councils and tribal education offices often convene and support TCUs. Tribal community members also work to share their traditional knowledge in ways that are implemented within the curriculum and the development of TCUs on the whole (Crazybull & White-Hat, 2019). The governance and creation of these institutions by tribal governments is an example of tribal sovereignty (Guillory, 2013). Accordingly, each TCU is intended to serve its distinct Tribal Nation and local Native community. In addition, the curriculum and academic programs offered at TCUs are designed to “promote Native Nation Building and strengthen Tribal sovereignty” (Stull et al., 2015, 4).

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TCUs aim to be empowering spaces for Native students to build strong understandings of their cultural identities and responsibility to their communities, which will lead them to work toward the betterment of their Tribal Nations (Sanders & Makomenaw, 2018).

The Social Strand in TCUs The second strand in the PSPS framework refers to the social relationships that are formed between people (and other actors) and given value within institutions. At settler IHEs, settler colonial conceptions of the social focus on education as a public good without interrogating who constitutes the public, or for whom the public good is supposed to benefit. Not only that, but limited conceptions of the “public good” (e.g., socioeconomic mobility) ignore the good, which already exists within Native communities and TCUs. Unlike in settler IHEs, the conceptualization of the public good is informed by IKS, relationality, and the preservation of lands and peoples in TCUs (Stein, 2022). For example, because Indigenous students and faculty comprise 1% or less of student and faculty populations broadly across settler IHEs, they are often reduced to an “asterisk,” a mark of their statistical insignificance in educational research (Shotton et al., 2013). This further perpetuates harm to Indigenous people in higher education by excluding them from consideration among the overall public good in higher education (Shotton et al., 2013). By contrast, TCUs model servingness (Garcia et al., 2019) for Indigenous students in part by consistently recruiting and retaining Native faculty, staff, and students. However, this servingness is not just determined by sheer numbers of Indigenous faculty, staff, and students but rather by what such representation on campus can create space for. As Sanders and Makomenaw (2018) explain: for many Native students attending a TCU, this will most likely be the first and last time they will attend a school in which they are the majority. For students who are accustomed to being around other Native Americans and are apprehensive about attending a Non-Native College and University (NNCU), TCUs are a perfect choice to begin their academic journey. (55)

The idea here is that such representation can help to foster campus cultures in which IKS is acknowledged and honored and, therefore, in which Indigenous people can feel supported. Taken together, the literature demonstrates how TCUs are designed to provide enriching spaces for Native students to learn among their Native peers and be taught, mentored, and guided by Native faculty and staff. Another aspect to consider when thinking about the social strand in TCUs is the relationships among humans and non-humans (Cajete, 1994; Deloria & Wildcat, 2001). There is a relationship between nonliving entities and students, such as the tribal college as an institution, and the land on which the institution is built. The intentionality and thoughtfulness that goes into designing spaces in a TCU is often directly tied to the local tribal community culture. The shapes and images on the buildings are representative of tribal communities, sometimes depicting origin stories, and highlighting Native artists. In this way, the institutional environment does not exist separate from the students, faculty, and staff who occupy these spaces. Rather, TCUs

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build relationships within and among these spaces, which can support, for example, students’ self-confidence in which they see themselves represented. This dynamic relationship, with the spaces and their surrounding environment, offers students, faculty, and staff opportunities to cultivate and nurture their cultural values and thrive.

The Place and Space Strand in TCUs The third wire in the PSPS framework refers to the physical places and felt spaces that make up institutions. Tachine et al. (2017) capture the challenges that Native students face when having to leave home, such as separation from family, inability to practice cultural traditions, and ongoing marginalization on their college campus. In these cases, home includes reservations, ancestral homelands, as well family, and tribal communities. In this aspect, TCUs are unique as MSIs given their histories and origins. With the intention of creating IHEs that serve Tribal communities and Native students, TCUs are located directly within or near their respective communities. The majority of TCUs are located on reservations and are chartered by a particular tribe. For example, “Sitting Bull College is located on the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation and was chartered by the Standing Rock Sioux Tribal Government” (Guillory & Ward, 2008, 98). According to Sanders and Makomenaw (2018): reservations today mean physical survival, cultural survival, sovereignty, community, and home. Reservations matter to those who grew up on or near them, and the idea of leaving the reservation can be a difficult proposition. (51)

The land and the environment that make up both the tribal college campuses and their surrounding communities, are both integral in understanding how Native students navigate their educational experiences and feel a sense of belonging. Native students at settler IHEs tend to experience isolation, both physically and emotionally, as they are separated from their families and communities (Tachine et al., 2017). By contrast, TCUs relieve Native students from the stress of having to choose between home and education by providing learning space near their homes and communities of origin. In this way, students are supported in pursuing higher education while maintaining their cultural and familial connections. TCUs provide a pathway for students to seek and to understand the value of their education, combining their lived experiences with the knowledge obtained within the institution. Moreover, students, faculty, staff and community members all have the opportunity to have access to work collectively with one another, and ultimately to foster and maintain their cultures and languages (Sanders & Makomenaw, 2018). Space emphasizes the ways in which learning environments are created, designed, and sustained. It is the implementation of Indigenous knowledge across various disciplines that make TCUs empowering spaces, not only for Native students but local Tribal communities as well (Stull et al., 2015). Guillory and Ward (2008) wrote, TCUs support Indian learning styles and foster a family-like atmosphere of respect and cultural sensitivity. For example, it is common for tribal elders and other nontraditional faculty members to teach classes ranging from tribal language immersion classes, arts and crafts, and indigenous medicine. (98)

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TCUs encourage faculty to develop curricula that incorporate cultural knowledge, practices, and traditions (Pavel et al., 2001). As illustrated by Cole (2011), 19.5% of the courses offered in TCUs could be considered ethnocentric, centered by Indigenous knowledge, in comparison to only 2.2% of courses offered within settler IHEs. The data clearly demonstrate TCUs’ commitments to centering Indigenous pedagogical and epistemological approaches, engaging Native students in their studies in ways that are culturally enriching and deconstructing colonial ways of teaching and learning in the classroom (Azure, 2016; Lamb, 2016). These culturally enriching experiences at TCUs extend throughout the campus, as they influence students to value community and collaboration rather than individualistic and self-serving at settler IHEs (Stull et al., 2015).

Limitations and Challenges As we have delineated above, TCUs might be considered exemplar Indigenous Centered Institutions, given the many ways that IKS inform their institutional wiring related to power, the social, and place and space. Yet, while they do so much to center and to be centered by their Indigeneity, they still face a number of limitations and challenges as a result of their positionality in relation to broader systems of higher education in which settler IHEs are normalized, as well as to their tribal governments, state governments, and the US federal government. Tachine (2022) suggests that hauntings of settler colonialism are the root cause of such systemic inequities. She explained: Systemic monsters are the interlocking structures of power rooted in white supremacy, settler colonialism, racism, erasure, heteropatriarchy, and capitalism, that disrupt sovereignty and belonging. Systemic monsters are shapeshifting, morphing in various ways with deep intentions to maintain power over the land and peoples. (Tachine, 2022, 7)

Even as TCUs are demonstrations of tribal self-determination and sovereignty, they nevertheless are haunted by systemic monsters by virtue of being a part of a broader system of higher education across the USA. TCUs strive to be financially accessible to all Native students and lead other institutional types in affordability (Warner & Gipp, 2009). They are intentional about instituting low tuition costs and providing various financial opportunities to cover students’ college expenses. However, TCUs are also severely underfunded. They receive minimal support from the federal government and are not given allowances from their home states (Nelson & Frye, 2016). Legislative acts like the Indian Self Determination and Education Assistance Act of 1975 and the granting of LandGrant Status for Tribal Colleges in 1994 have provided increased financial support for TCUs, but these increases continue to be insufficient. TCUs must also meet national higher education accreditation standards and must adhere to and uphold tribal specific educational standards as well (Warner & Gipp, 2009). In part, the work put forth by TCUs to seek accreditation have led to positive outcomes, such as increases in student enrollment, increases in the number of students persisting, and increases in the number of students transferring to 4-year

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higher education institutions (Benjamin et al., 1993; Jackson, 2003; Warner & Gipp, 2009). However, when accreditation standards are based on settler colonial ways of knowing and being, it can become challenging to meet these standards while also maintaining their commitments to IKS. Majors specific to incorporating IKS pathways may be tougher to gain accreditation approval for, for example. Cultural Standards (Warner & Gipp, 2009) that are used within a specific program in IHEs may not meet the criteria for accreditation according to settler standards, whereas the reason for cultural standards is to affirm IKS within institutional curriculum, and in other areas of the institution. Cultural Standards are defined as “a set of guidelines, principles, and/or values that reflect the cultural essence to which the goals of the particular program or institution are directed and under which it operates,” (Warner & Gipp, 2009, 71). Since the majority of TCUs are community colleges, they are limited in the types of degree offered, particularly with regard to bachelors and especially graduate degree programs. Consequently, Indigenous students must attend settler institutions in order to continue their education at upper division undergraduate, graduate, or professional levels. Bryan (2019) highlights important considerations in the relationship building between TCUs and settler IHEs. TCUs and settler IHEs need to establish relationships and agreements that allow students transfer options. Bryan (2019) asserts, “As institutions are initiating collaboration, it is essential to consider the history of Native American education as these partnerships are being established and both parties must commit to serving each other and their student populations” (59). This places the onus on institutions to engage in developing relationships that lead toward sustainable partnerships that “provide degree pathways for Native students while minimizing barriers such as geographic location” (Guillory, 2013, 68). Finally, perhaps the factors limiting TCUs’ full potential to spread institutional settings that center IKS is that there are only 37 TCUs among the three thousand college institutions in the USA. Yet, while they comprise just a tiny fraction of IHEs in the USA, they enroll and graduate a significant number of Native students in comparison to settler IHEs. There are not enough TCUs or resources for these TCUs to be able to serve all Native communities.

Sharing the Load: How Other Institutions Can Become Indigenous Centered Thus, while TCUs may provide examples of what it means or what it can look like to do higher education in ways that serve Indigenous peoples through centering Indigenous ways of knowing and being, they cannot and should not be expected to bear the burdens of decolonizing and Indigenizing labor in higher education alone. TCUs are complex. While they provide an immense amount of support for students and their communities, they also have limitations and challenges, which they must continually address. Thus, scholars should be mindful of not romanticizing TCUs or their tribal communities, as this can dismiss the realities that TCUs face when it comes to challenges of equity,

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representation, and access. By virtue of being situated on Native lands, all institutions of higher education in what is now known as the USA have some responsibility to engage in this labor. Moreover, as we have revealed throughout this chapter, the settler colonial underpinnings of the academy instigate and perpetuate oppressive, inequitable, and unsustainable conditions within higher education. Thus, many (and not only Indigenous peoples) stand to gain from transforming higher education institutions through the installation of decolonial and Indigenous practices and understandings.

Third University Spaces and Kīpuka Are Already at Work In our introduction, we explained that our electricity metaphor – including a source (which creates electrical current and informs values and practices), a main wire (comprised itself by live, earth, and neutral wires), and a light bulb (representing settler IHEs) – illustrated a simplified version of how circuits work. To represent the work happening at various levels, we can add more components to our circuit, like a resistor. A resistor regulates the electrical current and provides space for certain currents to be limited or allowed. The decolonizing resistors in our metaphor are the TCUs and other third university spaces being cultivated. In terms of settler IHEs, resistors are present, but as they stand, they may not be able to fully illuminate the light bulb in a way that systemically embodies Indigenous servingness. All this is to say that, while there is certainly still an immense amount of work to do to actualize Indigenous Centered Institutions’ potential to center Indigeneity, it is important to recognize that there is already work being done toward creating and maintaining decolonizing and Indigenizing spaces even within higher education institutions that are shaped primarily by settler colonialism. According to Barnd (2017), “space is a production, and is always multiple” (13). In the context of US higher education, this might mean that, as settler colonial spaces are created in the academy, so too are spaces that might be oppositional to or simply other than settler colonialism. la paperson (2017) brings this idea into focus through his conception of the “third university” or “third world university.” According to la paperson, as opposed to a first world university that “accumulates through dispossession” (54) and a second world university that critiques systems of power without actively disrupting them, a third world university is interested “in operating as a decolonizing university” (70). These third universities coexist with and within both first and second universities. In fact, in third university spaces, subversive subjects, covertly and in plain sight, appropriate the resources and technologies of first and second universities in the implementation of transformative and decolonial projects. Drawing on metaphors of technology and machinery, la paperson further described: The bits of machinery that make up a decolonizing university are driven by decolonial desires, with decolonizing dreamers who are subversively part of the machinery and part machine themselves. These subversive beings wreck, scavenge, retool, and reassemble the colonizing university into decolonizing contraptions. (9)

In other words, those who hold decolonial dreams in higher education may enact them through retooling and (re)wiring parts and pieces of the university toward

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decolonial ends. These third university spaces themselves may then become (re)productive, fostering decolonial dreams among those who learn and function within them. Thus, though the creators and protectors of third university spaces might draw from first and second university machinery toward decolonization, they do not ask permission to do so. They simply do the work that must be done. In this way, they echo Fujikane’s (2021) sentiments, “We do not have to wait for deoccupation or decolonization, but rather that we can materialize that future beyond occupation and settler colonialism right now in the present” (12). In some ways, third university spaces, decolonial pockets forged through ingenuity within settler colonial institutions, function similarly to what Kanaka ʻŌiwi scholars have called kīpuka. Literally, a kīpuka represents “variation or change of form, as a calm place in a high sea, deep place in a shoal, opening in a forest, openings in cloud formations, and especially a clear place or oasis within a lava bed where there may be vegetation” (Pukui & Elbert, 1986, 155). Thus, drawing from this last definition in particular, kīpuka more metaphorically represent the first signs of life after hulihia (overturn, overthrow). Kanaka education scholars have drawn on the notion of kīpuka to home attention to those pockets of life and Native thriving within settler colonial institutions (e.g., Kahakalau, 2020; Kukahiko et al., 2020). Goodyear-Kaʻōpua (2013) identifies one such kīpuka in her analysis and reflections on founding Hālau Kū Māna, a Hawaiianbased charter school located on Oʻahu. At Hālau Kū Māna, educators worked within settler state constraints (e.g., Eurowestern achievement standards and test-based accountability) to contest settler-colonial relations of power and knowledge. “The function of the kīpuka,” Goodyear-Kaʻōpua (2013) notes, “is to transform conditions of death and destruction and to renew the potential for life” (8). In higher education, in particular, Lipe (2016) has used the term “educational kīpuka” to describe “Hawaiian places of learning that have grown and flourished despite a variety of challenging conditions” (242). In other words, educational kīpuka include those spaces that are centered by and help to proliferate Indigenous ways of knowing in spite of broader settler colonial contexts that are marked by destruction. These additional metaphors (outside of our electrical circuit), of third university spaces and of educational kīpuka, harken distinct visual representations. The concept of the third university calls us to envision ourselves tangled within the bellies of mechanical beasts. Part machine ourselves, we carry tools in hand, ready to tear down and to rebuild the machine toward decolonial ends piece by piece from the inside out (Paperson, 2017). On the other hand, the concept of educational kīpuka brings us back to the earth. It brings to mind a place of peace, bursting with color and life, in the midst of barrenness. In spite of these differences, both metaphors can be helpful as we imagine potentialities for decolonization and Indigenization in the settler colonial academy. The concept of third university spaces reminds us that we must take intentional action if we hope to (re)wire higher education from the inside out. It will take many people taking things apart and building things up again to create change within the machine. The concept of educational kīpuka reminds us what our work is for, to foster life. As our kīpuka are allowed to thrive and to grow, they have the potential to transform the broader landscape.

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Thus, although the pervasiveness of settler colonialism can sometimes make the work of decolonization and Indigenization in higher education seem hopeless, people and other actors are already at work in virtually all institutions of higher education to forge third university spaces and educational kīpuka. These spaces cannot be taken for granted. They are vital to sustaining decolonial and Indigenous life within settler colonial institutions of higher education, but they take persistent action to create and to maintain. Often, the kīpuka that have been created within the bellies of institutional beasts are sustained primarily by grant funding rather than by institutional allocations or are driven by people, like students, whom settler IHEs severely undervalue and burden with debt. As a result, their existence in the academy is contingent and always something that must be fought for. Indeed, the settler colonial machine always seeks to preserve itself; it breeds hostility and intends to outlast efforts of resistance.

Indigenous Centered Institutions: Imagining beyond the Destruction of the Settler Colonial Given the pervasive nature of settler colonialism in higher education, the task of transforming institutions of higher education can seem daunting, neverending, and nearly impossible. However, if we desire for our institutions to be decolonial, Indigenous Serving, and/or Indigenous Centered, then we must play active roles in determining what that change can and should look like. If third university spaces can be forged only from wrecked machinery and scrap metal, what might be possible in higher education if decolonial spaces were built from custom parts? If kīpuka can be found in the midst of the barrenness of settler colonialism, how might they grow in places of abundance? Along similar lines, contemplating their precarious positions on the peripheries of the colonial academy, Bell and associates (2020) ask, “What would it mean to rewrite ourselves and the academic spaces we inhabit” (850)? Considering the current settler colonial conditions of the settler colonial academy untenable, they propose the idea of creating the New University, decolonial institutions built from decolonial dreams. They further described: The New University, as we imagine it, is rooted, anchored and committed to serving, advocating, and protecting its community of students, faculty, and staff, as well as local surrounding communities, for we are bound to each other. The New University’s classrooms are the communities, settings, and social contexts that are read and discussed but rarely seen, heard, and lived. The New University does not stay silent when injustice unfolds; it speaks up, talks back, and pushes the boundaries of a nation-state. (2020, 856). In this description of the New University, Bell and associates begin to imagine what higher education might look like if power and the social were aligned with decolonial ways of knowing. For us, power and the social might look similar in newly transformed Indigenous Centered Institutions, but, in Indigenous Centered Institutions, power and the social would also be grounded by place and space. Moreover, for Indigenous Centered Institutions, we dream up futures that do not depend on myopic, forward-focused progress, but futures that are grounded by the

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lessons and wisdom of the past and the present in determining something better. This desire for Indigenous Centered Institutions “is about longing, about a present that is enriched by both the past and the future. It is integral to our humanness” (Tuck, 2009, 417). As Imarisha (2015) has done in her cultivation of Afrofuturisms, we ask, “are we brave enough to imagine beyond the boundaries of the ʻrealʻ and then do the hard work of sculpting reality from our dreams” (6)?

Directions for Future Scholarship and Practice: On Individual and Collective Responsibilities for (Re)wiring Settler IHEs We began this chapter by asking where we might begin a conversation on settler colonialism in higher education. Through our relational writing process, we were reminded that any beginning is always a re-beginning: a collective practice of reflection and action aimed at sustaining Indigenous insights and worldviews that settler colonialism could not erase. This (re)beginning is a reminder that we do not always need something new to create new understandings. Our hope is that readers might live into our humble contributions and revisit this chapter in an effort to begin – again and again – the urgent and generational work of decolonizing and Indigenizing IHEs. In the next section, we offer some directions for this work.

Dreaming and (Re)wiring Vibrant Native Futures In this final section, we aim to bring PSPS into more intimate dialogue with the dayto-day realities of living and working within current, non-ideal contexts of settler colonial IHEs. We begin by revisiting our interests in (re)wiring vibrant Native futures as one way to unsettle a “business-as-usual” reality of settler IHEs. We then reflect on the always uncomfortable, yet essential work of bringing others into this work and forging broad-based, intersectional coalitions to sustain struggles for Indigenous Centered IHEs. We conclude by discussing how attempts to transform the world and settler IHEs require relinquishing a search for certainty or innocence, and instead, an openness to being transformed in service of the work. We began with the assumption that prevailing ways of “wiring” settler IHEs so often minimize Indigenous currents of relationality and connectedness. For too long, settler colonial assumptions about PSPS have operated as the taken-for-granted, ostensibly objective, and preferred mode for wiring research, teaching, and learning in IHEs. Our chapter sought already-existing, yet, too often suppressed, currents of Indigenous knowledge in existing higher education scholarship as well as wisdoms and insights contained in songs, chants, cultural practices, physical documents, the original names of winds, lands, rains. These rich sources of insight informed our efforts to (re)wire settler IHEs and deepen the (re)surgence of projects in decolonization led by Indigenous leaders and scholars. PSPS aims to make our distinctive struggles against settler coloniality and for Indigenous resurgence legible to one another to amplify our collective place-based analysis and organizing.

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In Table 1 below, we distill our conceptual contributions through the PSPS framework. We splice each strand (e.g., Power, the Social, and Place and Space) into two rows; whereas the first row offers a brief definition of the specific wire, the second row articulates our understanding of how that distinctive definition may be understood according to perspectives informed by settler colonialism or IKS. In the final column, “Questions to Facilitate Collective Re-Wiring of Settler IHEs,” we offer starting points for readers to begin and/or to deepen their efforts to cultivate Indigenous IHEs. Given that PSPS acquires meaning in the ways that it is taken up and adapted to local land-based contexts, we pose these broad questions as departure points to identify existing webs of relations within readers’ institutional contexts that could be (re)wired toward more vibrant Native futures. Rather than as a cognitive abstraction, we frame PSPS as an evolving relative – a gift that we might consult to (re)wire our day-to-day social and material practices and to shape ourselves and our relations (Nelson & Shotton, 2022). As we have sought to demonstrate, this important (re)wiring begins with and within us. It involves understanding our own moʻokūʻauhau, or genealogy: those “web[s] of relations that shape kuleana, or collective responsibility, to places” (Mei-Singh & Vicuña Gonzalez, 2017, 176). PSPS invites us to locate our distinctive roles and responsibilities in relation to the work of interrupting settler colonialism within and beyond IHEs. Our hope is that readers might visit, talk, dream with PSPS as they would a relative, beginning with the questions: What is the role of my IHE in perpetuating settler colonialism? And, what does this mean for me, given my role within it? We believe that these questions, along with those posed in the last column of Table 1, can provide beginning points for further research and for the improvement of practice in higher education. As examples, future research can further investigate how settler colonialism and IKS might together, in balanced and unbalanced ways, inform: • The energies (power and their sources) that are heeded or ignored in higher education along with the stories that are (un)told in higher education. • The people and other actors who are centered in (or ignored by) institutional missions, visions, practices, and ways of knowing present in higher education, as well a, • The places that ground the work of higher education and the spaces that are constructed and felt within higher education. In our closing reflective conversation with one another, Chris reminded us, “We can talk big words and have complicated sentences, but if our grandmothers cannot understand this, then that’s a problem.” We acknowledged that, even as we remained attentive to our use of academic jargon, we still used complex terms. These reflections prompted a radical rethinking of whether we achieved what we set out to do; as Tink Tinker (Osage Nation) pointed out in his reflections on research and knowledge production: “It [research] must make sense to my people or it isn’t any good” (Walsh et al., 2021, 353). Tinker reminded us that our contributions are only impactful to the extent that those we aim to serve see value and meaning in our work (e.g., PSPS) and

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Table 1 Contrasting settler colonialism and indigenous knowledge systems to (re)wire settler institutions of higher education

Power

Settler colonialism Power as the right to dominate or oppress; as imbued in hegemonic narratives that naturalize rugged individualism, constant production, “merit,” grit Settler IHEs sanction “pull-yourself-up-by-thebootstraps” culture to assimilate individuals into oppressive systems.

Social

Human-to-human interactions that are transactional, dichotomous, competitive-oriented Settler IHEs produce human capital; students must assimilate into IHEs in order to succeed as future workers

Place/ space

Space as universal; place as unnamed, “empty” land, or property that must be owned, mastered, developed by humans Settler IHEs erase attention to place (or ceremoniously name the lands they inhabit) and invest in efforts to promote learning where individuals can master themselves and possess (more and more) land

Indigenous knowledge systems Power as relational, as collective energies embodied by all entities moving in a circular continuum

Indigenous centered IHEs intimate humans and more-than-human relatives to grow collective power, survivance, native sovereignty Human and more-thanhuman relations that are reciprocal, intergenerational, abundance-oriented Indigenous students inform culture of indigenous centered IHEs (and vice versa); indigenous centered IHEs channel resources in ways that amplify mutually caring relations in which students learn and/or deepen their responsibilities Place as specific; land as kin, relative, educator; relations to land are ancestral and spiritual and carry reciprocal obligations Indigenous centered IHEs honor distinctive histories of place and facilitate learning as a living, collective, social process rooted in “cycles of giving back” – Of which land is a central actor

Questions to facilitate (re)wiring settler IHEs Whose stories prevail? How do stories structure the ways individuals and groups expend their energies? Toward what individual and/or collective ends?

Who do IHEs center in their vision and mission? Whose norms, practices, ways of knowing and being do IHEs value?

Where is the work of settler IHEs happening? What responsibilities to place and people – And the pasts and desired futures of native peoples – Do IHEs express in social, cultural, and material terms?

Table 1 contrasts settler colonial and Indigenous understandings of power, social, place/space. Beneath each definition, we specify how settler IHEs and Indigenous Centered IHEs express contrasting epistemological, ontological, and axiological assumptions. The final column offers initial guiding questions to support readers in joining in this shared work of decolonizing settler IHEs

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the stories that inform its design. We name this lesson learned as one way to gesture toward methodological implications of this work. Future research should be conducted in ways that reflect deeply and meaningfully upon multiple relationships, such as between researchers, participants, broader communities, institutions, ways of knowing and being, and environments. Examples of such methodological approaches might include but are not limited to: • Decolonial Participatory Action Research, or “research that is conducted in and with community, not on communities, and in ways that are anticolonial, not imperialistic” (Tuck & Guishard, 2013, 14). • Projects in humanization, which “are enacted through the development of relationships, the process of listening and storying, and the dialogic engagements that occur during the telling and receiving of stories that have the potential to effect change” (San Pedro & Kinloch, 2017, 374S). • Culturally grounded narrative approaches to research, such as Indigenous Storywork (Archibald, 2008) or counterstories (Solózano & Yosso, 2002), and/or. • Collaborative autoethnographic forms of inquiry (e.g., Blalock & Akehi, 2018; Chang et al., 2013; Hernandez et al., 2017). Higher education scholars might take up such methodological approaches to live into Tinker’s Osage understanding of rigor and relevance and as ethical means of weaving PSPS into ongoing projects in decolonization. (Re)wiring is not only a deconstructive practice. It is fundamentally about amplifying IKS and Indigenous dimensions of PSPS that sustain us. Fujikane (2021) draws on Tonawanda Band of Seneca scholar, Mishuana Goeman, to elaborate practices of honoring and amplifying Indigenous lifeways that center familial relations with the earth and elemental forms. Goeman emphasizes that Indigenizing practices do not merely strive to regain or return to an “original” or “pure point in history,” but rather, to “understand the processes that have defined our current spatialities in order to sustain a vibrant Native future” (Goeman, 2011, 3 as cited by Fujikane, 2021, 18). PSPS names the strands through which settler IHEs are made, remade, and consequently, might be unmade. If institutions survive through daily individual and collective work, they can also be undone, or as we have argued, (re)wired in ways that amplify Native survivance – the presence of Native life that “outwits dominance and mimicry” (Vizenor, 1998, 93, as cited by Tuck, 2009, 422).

Building Native Futures in the Present One implication of PSPS is that there is no perfect time or place to begin living our decolonial commitments other than the here-and-now. Simpson (2017) reminds, “If we want to create a different future, we need to live a different present, so that present can fully marinate, influence, and create different futurities” (p. 373). Prefiguring, or building the future in the present (Anderson et al., 2022), will make available unknown possibilities for furthering local attempts to (re)wire and (re)make settler

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IHEs. Simpson importantly clarifies, “If we want to live in a different present, we have to center Indigeneity and allow it to change us” (2017, 373). We argue that creating Indigenous Centered IHEs is not a singular project. Instead, it will involve a million experiments and interventions that push us to center Indigeneity – in our relations, meeting agendas, syllabi, hiring processes, policies, programs (to name a few). We insist on building Indigenous Centered IHEs beginning with these micro acts of centering Indigeneity within our existing relations. The work of centering Indigeneity, however, is not without its perpetual detractors and defenders of status quo systems. Too often, barriers to Indigenizing institutions can frustrate even our most well-planned and well-organized projects. Case (2021) cautions that vibrant Native dreams must contend with dominant colonial temporalities, such as graduate time-to-degrees, tenure and promotion procedures, and grant-funding cycles. She elaborates that dreaming is not “fantasy building” or “escaping reality” (Case, 2021, 97). Instead, dreaming is “necessary to fuel our movements in the now” (Case, 2021, 97); it provides the symbolic and material energy to animate our efforts to live with/in colonial temporalities. Dreaming reminds us of purpose and possibility: that what “is” is not always “what was,” “what could,” or “what will be.”

Expanding Our Relations and Intersectional Solidarity-Making Building Native futures in the present is difficult work in direct relation to past and ongoing violences of settler colonialism. Less than 1 percent of faculty in US higher education identify as American Indian/Alaska Native (US Department of Education National Center for Education Statistics, 2023). Demands in time and labor on the 1 percent of Native faculty are often acute, punishing, and unsustainable. As Jacob et al. (2021) insist, “We call on the more than 99 percent to help in this struggle” (5). Calls for settler-solidarity, however, are specific to the PSPS conditions unfolding within particular land-based and institutional contexts. Our intentions are not to prescribe a universal principle for solidarity-making, especially given patterns in which settlers may sometimes attempt to dream for Indigenous folks in ways that reify settler coloniality. Yet, as Case (2021) notes, “Indigenous futurities do not depend upon the exclusion of settlers” (108). We agree and approach the monumental task of decolonization as one project that does not, and should not, rest solely on the shoulders of the “oppressed” (Freire, 1970). Fujikane (2021) offers one example of Native-settler solidarity-making. Fujikane, a self-identified Japanese settler in Hawaiʻi, argues that decolonial solidarity is necessarily a land-based project. She elaborates that solidarity includes an effort to: [T]ake responsibility for and develop attachment to lands upon which they reside when actively supporting Kānaka Maoli who have been alienated from ancestral lands to reestablish those connections and also helping to rebuild Indigenous structures that allow for the transformation of settler-colonial relations. (Goodyear-Kaʻōpua, 2013, 154; also cited in Fujikane, 2021, 14)

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Fujikane helps us to grasp moves to accountability in contrast to conventional settler “moves to innocence” that frustrate, delay, and undermine decolonial projects (Tuck & Yang, 2012, 10). Fujikane is not interested in convenient allyship. Her words echo Smith’s (Smith, 2013) insistence to approach decolonization as a “daily chore” – an everyday practice of joining in collective projects to further Indigenous land reclamation and cultural regeneration.

Endings and Next Beginnings We approach this “end” of our chapter as a momentary pause, an opportunity to enter into ongoing, cyclical processes of our collective work. We chose to conclude writing this chapter with the neutral wire, or our collective reflections as one way to inhabit IKS and return to personal stories, experiences, and engagements with Indigenizing settler IHEs that guided our intentions entering this project. We aim to hold ourselves in loving accountability concerning the ways we did and/or could have better lived into the values we wrote about. We hope readers might locate themselves in relation with us and “choose to do the work,” as Coco articulated in the re-storied, reflective dialogue that follows. One intention of this re-storied dialogue is also to avoid over-prescribing or delimiting specific directions of further inquiry. We hope that PSPS, as an evolving relative, will spark specific scholarly, pedagogical, and programmatic ideas in ways that reflect the distinctive concerns and ancestral wisdoms readers bring to their work. Rather than offer prescriptive solutions then, we reflect on our journey of writing into and living PSPS and strive to narrate PSPS in ways that concretize ties between theory and practice. We turn now to our re-storied dialogue. We invite readers to consider how PSPS might spark, or recharge old ideas and/or generate new possibilities for Indigenizing our distinctive, yet shared colonial conditions. Our reflexive attention to positionality and use of dyad structures to support mutual learning and mentorship (power), efforts to flatten hierarchies, name competitive incentive structures, and forge human and more-than-human relations as a part of our collective writing practice (social), and efforts to cultivate a digital space to nurture each other – and each others’ lands and land-based struggles – as kin (place/space) represents one example of how we hope readers might build a relation with and move in ways that are guided by Indigenous understandings of PSPS. Coco: As we reflect back on our collective writing process, let’s begin with the question, “What was it like to participate in this project?” Stevie:

Initially, I felt slightly intimidated and excited. I was honored to be welcomed to collaborate with amazing and intelligent scholars. I also found myself being pushed in similar ways as I was pushed while writing my dissertation. I found myself engaged and articulating these thoughts that pushed theoretical boundaries and questioning even some

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of my assumptions about what an Indigenous-serving institution is within a higher education context. If I could just build on that, I also felt intimidated but also honored to be asked too. Coco is always pushing me outside of my comfort zone, showing me that I do belong in these spaces. I’m grateful for that. But also, the other scholars on the call, thinking about Chris and Ethan being mentors for me as well. I like the way you engaged us as graduate students, not from this hierarchical place where, “We’re professors and you all are graduate students.” I also appreciated getting to work with Stevie, as a recent doctoral graduate and new scholar. I think you all model what it means to engage each other with radical care. We all had things that personally and professionally challenged us this year. This process has been a good model for what collaborative writing can look like and how I hope to engage my colleagues one day too. I can say, too, when I first started to think about the prospect of writing an 80-page chapter on settler colonialism in higher education, I was nervous and overwhelmed, especially since over the last 2 years during the pandemic, I have really struggled to write. But I started to feel more and more excited as we began to think about what it would look like to do this work in collaboration with each other. For me, writing with you all has been an even better experience than I expected it to be. I’ve appreciated the space we carved out together to think through big ideas and to write. I know it’s been hard, and I know we still have work to do, but I can’t think of better people I’d want to work with through it all. For me, having the opportunity to work with Alicia and knowing a bit about her interests in and commitments to Indigenizing IHEs, I’ve always felt a bit self-conscious about my abilities to support her. Most of my work is in K12 contexts. So when Coco invited us, it was a pretty quick, “Yes and–how can we clear our schedules to make this work possible?” The process has been a wonderful opportunity to build and to deepen a relationship with Alicia and every author here. As Joya pointed out, we’ve had so many challenges outside the actual labor of writing wordson-pages. But these community problems offered opportunities for community building (Fu, 2008). So thank you, Coco, for getting shingles. That really allowed us to grow as a community! It was a moment when we shared our phone numbers and texted about how we might put our shared concerns for you and each other to work – to live everything we were writing about, to (re)wire our conventional ways of being. What everyone has shared is making me think about how within the academy there is this culture of “faking it until you make it” – a motto if you will, a kind of constant questioning of “I don’t know if I’m doing this right?” I feel like we really disrupted those dynamics. It may not have been immediately, but as we processed or worked through ideas, we grew more vulnerable, we committed to figuring it out and working it out – trusting that we would complete this chapter. And a lot of these

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deadlines are what create a settler power dynamic between “mentors” and “mentees” – “This is what you need to do by this deadline.” I think we really tried to not embody that concept of power. But I think the other part is: How do I replicate the positive writing dynamics that I’ve experienced in other spaces where I was the new person? I am thinking about Heather Shotton and Robin Minthorn who have cultivated an energy-based power where their practices, as senior scholars, value relationality and community. I find myself in places and spaces where I try to make sure I pass along similar experiences and sensibilities. It is an appreciative process to know that it can be done; it just takes time, and believing and having faith that it’ll work out. At first, I was super excited to hear about this great opportunity from Ethan. To write a chapter with such great scholars and about Indigenous Serving Institutions. Something I hope to focus on in my Ph.D. Echoing with what our group has said, I felt that this project was both an honor and yet very intimidating. As a first-year PhD student I felt so honored to be a part of this project and having the opportunity to develop as a scholar. I would definitely say this project has been a humbling experience. At the beginning of this writing process, there was much I assumed I understood but as the project continued there was a lot I realized I have yet to learn. I experience a lot of imposter syndrome and not feeling smart enough to be on such a project. I felt there was so much I did not know that I struggled to be confident in what I do know. Also, working through so many things outside of this project affected my writing for this project. Struggling to produce this semester with the many transitions and obstacles I have faced. Despite these feelings, I have built a lot of new processes for myself since this writing project. I am so grateful to build myself up as a writer and thankful to have built great relationships with everyone in our group!

Coco: In what ways did you feel cared for or supported? In what ways could you have felt more supported? LaJoya:

Ethan:

Writing in dyads. Writing with Alicia. I felt cared about writing our dyad statements of positionality. Part of the challenge was trusting yourself and trusting what you know. What has been helpful for me is our checkins about writing – that really humanized the process. When we look at you as our professors, we imagine that you all just sit down and the words pour out. It’s awesome to work through a real writing process together, including receiving feedback to cut or adjust sections and to see that it is just a part of the process and that we shouldn’t get discouraged. I really appreciate that. Just writing together with cameras off has been really beneficial for me too. I’ll jump in and say that Chris’s suggestion to start a text thread made our process and our relationships to writing more explicit. We were able to communicate our struggles through silly gifs and other fun ways of

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making the challenges of simply making time to write transparent for everybody. Those were moments I felt cared for. I felt I had permission to struggle and to have a relationship to writing that did not need to be polished. I also want to lift up Joya–I’m reminded now that one of the early challenges for me was figuring out my roles and responsibilities in this particular circle of authors and thinkers. Hearing about Sister Circle and how you organized and transformed that work in ways that are responsive to Hawaiʻi was a wonderful example for me to apply to this collaboration and so many others. I think a turning point for me too was when I got shingles. I think this semester was really hard. The very first week, our chair passed. A few weeks later, I started feeling pain and didn’t understand what was going on. In the moment, it made me feel like dead weight, but I also felt so cared for by you all. You really gave me permission not to overwork myself at a time when my body and mind needed rest. In higher education, sometimes there is this mentality that, if I had to struggle through difficulties, you should too. This is one space where I didn’t feel it needed to be that way, so thank you. From my perspective, I think the Friday meetings were intentionally facilitated. Coco, I appreciated your genuine question, “Hey, how is everyone doing?” then not rushing through it. That doesn’t often happen in meetings. That “white colonial noise,” which often dictates meetings, was not there. I just appreciated that space to be vulnerable, to feel supported. Then there was one meeting where it was just Alicia and Joya and me. We ended up having a very different conversation than we would otherwise have, talking about “Ok how has your experience been in this context?” It just created a different context where we could relate to one another, “Oh, you feel that, too, ok I’m not alone!” In an ideal world, it’d be nice to come together and physically be in one room. That would be amazing. Maybe one day. I am thankful for LaJoya! LaJoya has been such an amazing support and big sister in this entire process. We have organized so much together this semester with Black Grad and Sister Circle Manoa, so it was such a humanizing experience to know that we are not alone and in this together. We both shared that we were intimidated and being out of our comfort zone with this project. We worked through these feelings together and cared for one another throughout the duration of the project. Also, really thankful for Ethan and having our weekly check-ins outside of our working meeting. He made sure I felt supported in the writing process and worked through anything that I needed help with. I am glad he saw value in my perspective and feedback in his writing as well. I am thankful to everyone in our group as well. We all were working through various things this semester that made it tough at times to focus on our project. I appreciate the support from our group to not feel overwhelmed or that we are underproducing.

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What are you feeling now that we’ve reached an “end”? For me, part of coming to an end here is a sense of relief in “finishing” something and getting it to the place where we wanted it to be as a result of all this work that we’ve been doing. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m really going to miss our weekly check-ins. It’s been a really nice space to connect with each other. I know we’re talking about this collaborative writing process as something we might continue to reflect on though, so I’m sure it won’t be a total end. I’m excited. Whenever we started this process, none of us knew what it’d look like. In a way, just trusting that we were going to get there and seeing where things have landed is really exciting. Now that this is coming to an end, I realize how much I write better in community. Coco and I talked about this, how much we struggled to write during the pandemic. But it was also difficult being a new mother and not really having folks around. When I reflect, it was community that saw me through things. I’m going to have to find ways to recreate community in everything I do. I’ll jump in and lift up the writing on positionality and grief you gifted, Stevie and Chris. That was really helpful language for me to make sense of prior collaborations. There is relief in finishing a project, of course. But that sense of accomplishment is often bracketed by grief – a recognition that the rhythm and relations of our work has come to a momentary “end.” So for me it’s become a question of how to channel that grief into re-creating community and doing that in every project I might have the privilege to share in. I was thinking about this quote, “Everything will be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright, it’s not the end” (Lennon J.). I feel like, although I don’t want it to be the “end,” even if only for the mere fact I’m not good with change, I am excited to continue the relationships we built. Like I said, it’s been such an honor to be in this space, and I want to continue to grow my community in this way. When I completed my doctoral degree, I did not know whether I would be a full-time scholar or a fulltime student affairs practitioner – I still don’t know and am in-between both. However, when I am involved in research and writing, I really enjoy it. Even as my work in student affairs takes a lot of time and mental and physical energy, I want to continue to nurture the scholar identity in me and what that means as it relates to who I am and who I am becoming. I am relieved to know we are reaching the finish line of this chapter. Same feelings as everyone in our group with feeling grateful for the connections we have built throughout this writing project. Going to miss working with our writing group and hope we continue to collaborate in the future. I am feeling accomplished as my first collaboration writing project in my Ph.D. journey. The chapter has allowed me to reflect on my strengths as a writer and where I need to continue to develop in my writing.

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Coco: One last question is: How has talking about our writing process at this “end” (re)framed, clarified, and/or (re)newed your commitments to this work? How has it helped you have hope for the future? Stevie:

LaJoya:

Chris:

Ethan:

Coco:

One thing that comes to mind is the hope that there are all of you scholars doing the work out there, that I don’t feel alone. Regardless of if I feel stuck or in a dark place or critically questioning my own writing, I can reach out, I can lean on others. I would want you all to know that you can do the same too. LaJoya also mentioned humanizing the writing process – that it’s not just about the transactional piece or meeting deadlines, but really embodying a humanizing process. Starting with our positionalities and having that at the forefront of the chapter resonates with me. This is pushing the boundaries of what I’ve read and been socialized or indoctrinated to understand as scholarship – all of that gives me hope. I think another thing that gives me hope is that, as scholars of color with varying positionalities, we were able to engage this work collaboratively. We didn’t do things like play “Oppression Olympics.” It was this idea that our liberation is bound up with each other’s. It pushed me to think about settler colonialism and what does that look like in my work? How can I engage with other communities of color? How am I showing up as an accomplice? It also gives me hope that folks care about the things that I do too. So much of what we write about and what we experience as scholars of color is heavy. It is hard to be the first, or the 1 percent in our campuses or departments. It can be isolating. But to know that we’re all doing this work and hopefully opening doors for those who come behind us, that also gives me a lot of hope. I think I mentioned this earlier when I thought about my role in cultivating a positive writing experience, most of my writing experiences have been affirming. I just hope that if I’m ever in another writing group that people walk away with a sense of having learned from one another because I always do. I learned a lot from each of you and I’m very grateful. Arriving at this “end,” I realized how much of this space and time on Friday was the active “doing” of the more conceptual moves we were making in the chapter. We weren’t just writing about PSPS, but feeling and experiencing and elevating Indigenous understandings of Power, the Social, Place/Space. Just being a part of a community committed to this work made me hopeful. I learned so much and it’s now a matter of how I take those learnings to listen, continue learning, and entering responsibly into future relations. I think this process has given me hope in a lot of ways – in the content and the process that we chose to write about things. As I was writing about “third universities” and educational kīpuka, I was reminded that we can do these things. We can work toward decolonization and Indigenization even when we’re surrounded by oppressive settler colonial conditions. I was also reminded that we have to choose to do the

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work. We have to be willing to take action. And we cannot do it alone. Multiple people need to be doing the work in order to make change or to allow life to flourish. Writing about those things in the context of our collaborative space is a good reminder that there are already people doing it. I think that is enough to keep me going. I don’t always know how to approach doing the work when it can feel like the walls are closing in around us, but I think we can figure out ways to do it. I am hopeful for that. This writing process has allowed me to explore my ideas and understandings around being a scholar and what that means to me. As what Stevie and LaJoya mentioned earlier, this writing project was truly a humanizing experience. Something that LaJoya said to me at one point during the writing project is that we are more than what we produce. There were so many moments through the writing project that we were having to work through and we were always supportive of each other. Also, making sure we were not moving the project along just to meet a deadline. This writing process reminds me of how I continue to show up for others and what loving and collaborative work can look like. Similar to Stevie, I am hopeful for my future as I continue on in my Ph.D. and possibly leading a future writing project of my own.

In reflecting on our closing dialogue, we were struck by the ways the process of writing intimated our relations: to our own stories, to each other, to the places that nourish us, to the political values and commitments that sustain our relations and our collective resolve to continue this work (Osorio, 2021; Wilson, 2008). We celebrate one another for the time and energy put into the writing of this chapter. But we also grieve an end to a weekly writing rhythm and routine of being in community. Our hope is to invite readers into this work, to be in community with us and in your own places, to channel the energies that our writings here may have excited in you and put that into the next project in decolonization.

Conclusion Directions for Future Scholarship and Practice: On Individual and Collective Responsibilities for (Re)wiring Settler IHEs We began this chapter by asking where we might begin a conversation on settler colonialism in higher education. Through our relational writing process, we were reminded that any beginning is always a re-beginning: a collective practice of reflection and action aimed at sustaining Indigenous insights and worldviews that settler colonialism could not erase. This (re)beginning is a reminder that we do not always need something new to create new understandings. Our hope is that readers might live into our humble contributions and revisit this chapter in an effort to begin

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– again and again – the urgent and generational work of decolonizing and Indigenizing IHEs. In the next section, we offer some directions for this work.

Dreaming and (Re)wiring Vibrant Native Futures In this final section, we aim to bring PSPS into more intimate dialogue with the dayto-day realities of living and working within current, non-ideal contexts of settler colonial IHEs. We begin by revisiting our interests in (re)wiring vibrant Native futures as one way to unsettle a “business-as-usual” reality of settler IHEs. We then reflect on the always uncomfortable, yet essential work of bringing others into this work and forging broad-based, intersectional coalitions to sustain struggles for Indigenous Centered IHEs. We conclude by discussing how attempts to transform the world and settler IHEs require relinquishing a search for certainty or innocence, and instead, an openness to being transformed in service of the work. We began with the assumption that prevailing ways of “wiring” settler IHEs so often minimize Indigenous currents of relationality and connectedness. For too long, settler colonial assumptions about PSPS have operated as the taken-for-granted, ostensibly objective, and preferred mode for wiring research, teaching, and learning in IHEs. Our chapter sought already-existing, yet, too often suppressed, currents of Indigenous knowledge in existing higher education scholarship as well as wisdoms and insights contained in songs, chants, cultural practices, physical documents, the original names of winds, lands, rains. These rich sources of insight informed our efforts to (re)wire settler IHEs and deepen the (re)surgence of projects in decolonization led by Indigenous leaders and scholars. PSPS aims to make our distinctive struggles against settler coloniality and for Indigenous resurgence legible to one another to amplify our collective place-based analysis and organizing. In Table 1 below, we distill our conceptual contributions through the PSPS framework. We splice each strand (e.g., Power, the Social, and Place and Space) into two rows; whereas the first row offers a brief definition of the specific wire, the second row articulates our understanding of how that distinctive definition may be understood according to perspectives informed by settler colonialism or IKS. In the final column, “Questions to Facilitate Collective Re-Wiring of Settler IHEs,” we offer starting points for readers to begin and/or to deepen their efforts to cultivate Indigenous IHEs. Given that PSPS acquires meaning in the ways that it is taken up and adapted to local land-based contexts, we pose these broad questions as departure points to identify existing webs of relations within readers’ institutional contexts that could be (re)wired toward more vibrant Native futures. Rather than as a cognitive abstraction, we frame PSPS as an evolving relative – a gift that we might consult to (re)wire our day-to-day social and material practices and to shape ourselves and our relations (Nelson & Shotton, 2022). As we have sought to demonstrate, this important (re)wiring begins with and within us. It involves understanding our own moʻokūʻauhau, or genealogy: those “web[s] of relations that shape kuleana, or collective responsibility, to places” (Mei-Singh & Vicuña Gonzalez, 2017, 176). PSPS invites us to locate our distinctive roles and

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responsibilities in relation to the work of interrupting settler colonialism within and beyond IHEs. Our hope is that readers might visit, talk, dream with PSPS as they would a relative, beginning with the questions: What is the role of my IHE in perpetuating settler colonialism? And, what does this mean for me, given my role within it? We believe that these questions, along with those posed in the last column of Table 1, can provide beginning points for further research and for the improvement of practice in higher education. As examples, future research can further investigate how settler colonialism and IKS might together, in balanced and unbalanced ways, inform: • The energies (power and their sources) that are heeded or ignored in higher education along with the stories that are (un)told in higher education. • The people and other actors who are centered in (or ignored by) institutional missions, visions, practices, and ways of knowing present in higher education, as well as. • The places that ground the work of higher education and the spaces that are constructed and felt within higher education. In our closing reflective conversation with one another, Chris reminded us, “We can talk big words and have complicated sentences, but if our grandmothers cannot understand this, then that’s a problem.” We acknowledged that, even as we remained attentive to our use of academic jargon, we still used complex terms. These reflections prompted a radical rethinking of whether we achieved what we set out to do; as Tink Tinker (Osage Nation) pointed out in his reflections on research and knowledge production: “It [research] must make sense to my people or it isn’t any good” (Walsh et al., 2021, 353). Tinker reminded us that our contributions are only impactful to the extent that those we aim to serve see value and meaning in our work (e.g., PSPS) and the stories that inform its design. We name this lesson learned as one way to gesture toward methodological implications of this work. Future research should be conducted in ways that reflect deeply and meaningfully upon multiple relationships, such as between researchers, participants, broader communities, institutions, ways of knowing and being, and environments. Examples of such methodological approaches might include but are not limited to: • Decolonial Participatory Action Research, or “research that is conducted in and with community, not on communities, and in ways that are anticolonial, not imperialistic” (Tuck & Guishard, 2013, 14). • Projects in humanization, which “are enacted through the development of relationships, the process of listening and storying, and the dialogic engagements that occur during the telling and receiving of stories that have the potential to effect change” (original emphasis, San Pedro & Kinloch, 2017, 374S); • Culturally grounded narrative approaches to research, such as Indigenous Storywork (Archibald, 2008) or counterstories (Solózano & Yosso, 2002), and/or. • Collaborative autoethnographic forms of inquiry (e.g., Blalock & Akehi, 2018; Chang et al., 2013; Hernandez et al., 2017).

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Higher education scholars might take up such methodological approaches to live into Tinker’s Osage understanding of rigor and relevance and as ethical means of weaving PSPS into ongoing projects in decolonization. (Re)wiring is not only a deconstructive practice. It is fundamentally about amplifying IKS and Indigenous dimensions of PSPS that sustain us. Fujikane (2021) draws on Tonawanda Band of Seneca scholar, Mishuana Goeman, to elaborate practices of honoring and amplifying Indigenous lifeways that center familial relations with the earth and elemental forms. Goeman emphasizes that Indigenizing practices do not merely strive to regain or return to an “original” or “pure point in history,” but rather, to “understand the processes that have defined our current spatialities in order to sustain a vibrant Native future” (Goeman, 2011, 3 as cited by Fujikane, 2021, 18). PSPS names the strands through which settler IHEs are made, remade, and consequently, might be unmade. If institutions survive through daily individual and collective work, they can also be undone, or as we have argued, (re)wired in ways that amplify Native survivance – the presence of Native life that “outwits dominance and mimicry” (Vizenor, 1998, 93, as cited by Tuck, 2009, 422).

Building Native Futures in the Present One implication of PSPS is that there is no perfect time or place to begin living our decolonial commitments other than the here-and-now. Simpson (2017) reminds, “If we want to create a different future, we need to live a different present, so that present can fully marinate, influence, and create different futurities” (p. 373). Prefiguring, or building the future in the present (Anderson et al., 2022), will make available unknown possibilities for furthering local attempts to (re)wire and (re)make settler IHEs. Simpson importantly clarifies, “If we want to live in a different present, we have to center Indigeneity and allow it to change us” (Simpson, 2017, 373). We argue that creating Indigenous Centered IHEs is not a singular project. Instead, it will involve a million experiments and interventions that push us to center Indigeneity – in our relations, meeting agendas, syllabi, hiring processes, policies, programs (to name a few). We insist on building Indigenous Centered IHEs beginning with these micro acts of centering Indigeneity within our existing relations. The work of centering Indigeneity, however, is not without its perpetual detractors and defenders of status quo systems. Too often, barriers to Indigenizing institutions can frustrate even our most well-planned and well-organized projects. Case (2021) cautions that vibrant Native dreams must contend with dominant colonial temporalities, such as graduate time-to-degrees, tenure and promotion procedures, and grant-funding cycles. She elaborates that dreaming is not “fantasy building” or “escaping reality” (Case, 2021, 97). Instead, dreaming is “necessary to fuel our movements in the now” (Case, 2021, 97); it provides the symbolic and material energy to animate our efforts to live with/in colonial temporalities. Dreaming reminds us of purpose and possibility: that what “is” is not always “what was,” “what could,” or “what will be.”

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Expanding our Relations and Intersectional Solidarity-Making Building Native futures in the present is difficult work in direct relation to past and ongoing violences of settler colonialism. Less than 1% of faculty in US higher education identify as American Indian/Alaska Native (US Department of Education National Center for Education Statistics, 2023). Demands in time and labor on the 1% of Native faculty are often acute, punishing, and unsustainable. As Jacob et al. (2021) insist, “We call on the more than 99 percent to help in this struggle” (5). Calls for settler-solidarity, however, are specific to the PSPS conditions unfolding within particular land-based and institutional contexts. Our intentions are not to prescribe a universal principle for solidarity-making, especially given patterns in which settlers may sometimes attempt to dream for Indigenous folks in ways that reify settler coloniality. Yet, as Case (2021) notes, “Indigenous futurities do not depend upon the exclusion of settlers” (108). We agree and approach the monumental task of decolonization as one project that does not, and should not, rest solely on the shoulders of the “oppressed” (Freire, 1970). Fujikane (2021) offers one example of Native-settler solidarity-making. Fujikane, a self-identified Japanese settler in Hawaiʻi, argues that decolonial solidarity is necessarily a land-based project. She elaborates that solidarity includes an effort to: [T]ake responsibility for and develop attachment to lands upon which they reside when actively supporting Kānaka Maoli who have been alienated from ancestral lands to reestablish those connections and also helping to rebuild Indigenous structures that allow for the transformation of settler-colonial relations. (Goodyear-Kaʻōpua, 2013, 154; also cited in Fujikane, 2021, 14)

Fujikane helps us to grasp moves to accountability in contrast to conventional settler “moves to innocence” that frustrate, delay, and undermine decolonial projects (Tuck & Yang, 2012, 10). Fujikane is not interested in convenient allyship. Her words echo Smith’s (Smith, 2013) insistence to approach decolonization as a “daily chore” – an everyday practice of joining in collective projects to further Indigenous land reclamation and cultural regeneration.

Endings and Next Beginnings We approach this “end” of our chapter as a momentary pause, an opportunity to enter into ongoing, cyclical processes of our collective work. We chose to conclude writing this chapter with the neutral wire, or our collective reflections as one way to inhabit IKS and return to personal stories, experiences, and engagements with Indigenizing settler IHEs that guided our intentions entering this project. We aim to hold ourselves in loving accountability concerning the ways we did and/or could have better lived into the values we wrote about. We hope readers might locate themselves in relation with us and “choose to do the work,” as Coco articulated in the re-storied, reflective dialogue that follows.

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One intention of this re-storied dialogue is also to avoid over-prescribing or delimiting specific directions of further inquiry. We hope that PSPS, as an evolving relative, will spark specific scholarly, pedagogical, and programmatic ideas in ways that reflect the distinctive concerns and ancestral wisdoms readers bring to their work. Rather than offer prescriptive solutions then, we reflect on our journey of writing into and living PSPS and strive to narrate PSPS in ways that concretize ties between theory and practice. We turn now to our re-storied dialogue. We invite readers to consider how PSPS might spark, or recharge old ideas and/or generate new possibilities for Indigenizing our distinctive, yet shared colonial conditions. Our reflexive attention to positionality and use of dyad structures to support mutual learning and mentorship (power), efforts to flatten hierarchies, name competitive incentive structures, and forge human and more-than-human relations as a part of our collective writing practice (social), and efforts to cultivate a digital space to nurture each other – and each others’ lands and land-based struggles – as kin (place/space) represents one example of how we hope readers might build a relation with and move in ways that are guided by Indigenous understandings of PSPS. Coco: As we reflect back on our collective writing process, let’s begin with the question, “What was it like to participate in this project?” Stevie:

LaJoya:

Coco:

Initially, I felt slightly intimidated and excited. I was honored to be welcomed to collaborate with amazing and intelligent scholars. I also found myself being pushed in similar ways as I was pushed while writing my dissertation. I found myself engaged and articulating these thoughts that pushed theoretical boundaries and questioning even some of my assumptions about what an Indigenous-serving institution is within a higher education context. If I could just build on that, I also felt intimidated but also honored to be asked too. Coco is always pushing me outside of my comfort zone, showing me that I do belong in these spaces. I’m grateful for that. But also, the other scholars on the call, thinking about Chris and Ethan being mentors for me as well. I like the way you engaged us as graduate students, not from this hierarchical place where, “We’re professors and you all are graduate students.” I also appreciated getting to work with Stevie, as a recent doctoral graduate and new scholar. I think you all model what it means to engage each other with radical care. We all had things that personally and professionally challenged us this year. This process has been a good model for what collaborative writing can look like and how I hope to engage my colleagues one day too. I can say, too, when I first started to think about the prospect of writing an 80-page chapter on settler colonialism in higher education, I was nervous and overwhelmed, especially since over the last 2 years during the pandemic, I have really struggled to write. But I started to feel more and more excited as we began to think about what it would look like to do this work in collaboration with each other. For me, writing with you

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all has been an even better experience than I expected it to be. I’ve appreciated the space we carved out together to think through big ideas and to write. I know it’s been hard, and I know we still have work to do, but I can’t think of better people I’d want to work with through it all. For me, having the opportunity to work with Alicia and knowing a bit about her interests in and commitments to Indigenizing IHEs, I’ve always felt a bit self-conscious about my abilities to support her. Most of my work is in K12 contexts. So when Coco invited us, it was a pretty quick, “Yes and – how can we clear our schedules to make this work possible?” The process has been a wonderful opportunity to build and to deepen a relationship with Alicia and every author here. As Joya pointed out, we’ve had so many challenges outside the actual labor of writing wordson-pages. But these community problems offered opportunities for community building (Fu, 2008). So thank you, Coco, for getting shingles. That really allowed us to grow as a community! It was a moment when we shared our phone numbers and texted about how we might put our shared concerns for you and each other to work – to live everything we were writing about, to (re)wire our conventional ways of being. What everyone has shared is making me think about how within the academy there is this culture of “faking it until you make it” – a motto if you will, a kind of constant questioning of “I don’t know if I’m doing this right?” I feel like we really disrupted those dynamics. It may not have been immediately, but as we processed or worked through ideas, we grew more vulnerable, we committed to figuring it out and working it out – trusting that we would complete this chapter. And a lot of these deadlines are what create a settler power dynamic between “mentors” and “mentees” – “This is what you need to do by this deadline.” I think we really tried to not embody that concept of power. But I think the other part is: How do I replicate the positive writing dynamics that I’ve experienced in other spaces where I was the new person? I am thinking about Heather Shotton and Robin Minthorn who have cultivated an energy-based power where their practices, as senior scholars, value relationality and community. I find myself in places and spaces where I try to make sure I pass along similar experiences and sensibilities. It is an appreciative process to know that it can be done; it just takes time, and believing and having faith that it’ll work out. At first, I was super excited to hear about this great opportunity from Ethan. To write a chapter with such great scholars and about Indigenous Serving Institutions. Something I hope to focus on in my Ph.D. Echoing with what our group has said, I felt that this project was both an honor and yet very intimidating. As a first-year Ph.D. student I felt so honored to be a part of this project and having the opportunity to develop as a scholar. I would definitely say this project has been a humbling experience. At the beginning of this writing process, there was much I assumed I understood but as the project continued there was a lot I realized I have

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yet to learn. I experience a lot of imposter syndrome and not feeling smart enough to be on such a project. I felt there was so much I did not know that I struggled to be confident in what I do know. Also, working through so many things outside of this project affected my writing for this project. Struggling to produce this semester with the many transitions and obstacles I have faced. Despite these feelings, I have built a lot of new processes for myself since this writing project. I am so grateful to build myself up as a writer and thankful to have built great relationships with everyone in our group! Coco: In what ways did you feel cared for or supported? In what ways could you have felt more supported? LaJoya:

Ethan:

Coco:

Writing in dyads. Writing with Alicia. I felt cared about writing our dyad statements of positionality. Part of the challenge was trusting yourself and trusting what you know. What has been helpful for me is our checkins about writing – that really humanized the process. When we look at you as our professors, we imagine that you all just sit down and the words pour out. It’s awesome to work through a real writing process together, including receiving feedback to cut or adjust sections and to see that it is just a part of the process and that we shouldn’t get discouraged. I really appreciate that. Just writing together with cameras off has been really beneficial for me too. I’ll jump in and say that Chris’s suggestion to start a text thread made our process and our relationships to writing more explicit. We were able to communicate our struggles through silly gifs and other fun ways of making the challenges of simply making time to write transparent for everybody. Those were moments I felt cared for. I felt I had permission to struggle and to have a relationship to writing that did not need to be polished. I also want to lift up Joya – I’m reminded now that one of the early challenges for me was figuring out my roles and responsibilities in this particular circle of authors and thinkers. Hearing about Sister Circle and how you organized and transformed that work in ways that are responsive to Hawaiʻi was a wonderful example for me to apply to this collaboration and so many others. I think a turning point for me too was when I got shingles. I think this semester was really hard. The very first week, our chair passed. A few weeks later, I started feeling pain and didn’t understand what was going on. In the moment, it made me feel like dead weight, but I also felt so cared for by you all. You really gave me permission not to overwork myself at a time when my body and mind needed rest. In higher education, sometimes there is this mentality that, if I had to struggle through difficulties, you should too. This is one space where I didn’t feel it needed to be that way, so thank you.

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From my perspective, I think the Friday meetings were intentionally facilitated. Coco, I appreciated your genuine question, “Hey, how is everyone doing?” then not rushing through it. That doesn’t often happen in meetings. That “white colonial noise,” which often dictates meetings was not there. I just appreciated that space to be vulnerable, to feel supported. Then there was one meeting where it was just Alicia and Joya and me. We ended up having a very different conversation than we would otherwise have, talking about “Ok how has your experience been in this context?” It just created a different context where we could relate to one another, “Oh, you feel that, too, ok I’m not alone!” In an ideal world, it’d be nice to come together and physically be in one room. That would be amazing. Maybe one day. I am thankful for LaJoya! LaJoya has been such an amazing support and big sister in this entire process. We have organized so much together this semester with Black Grad and Sister Circle Manoa, so it was such a humanizing experience to know that we are not alone and in this together. We both shared that we were intimidated and being out of our comfort zone with this project. We worked through these feelings together and cared for one another throughout the duration of the project. Also, really thankful for Ethan and having our weekly check-ins outside of our working meeting. He made sure I felt supported in the writing process and worked through anything that I needed help with. I am glad he saw value in my perspective and feedback in his writing as well. I am thankful to everyone in our group as well. We all were working through various things this semester that made it tough at times to focus on our project. I appreciate the support from our group to not feel overwhelmed or that we are underproducing. What are you feeling now that we’ve reached an “end”? For me, part of coming to an end here is a sense of relief in “finishing” something and getting it to the place where we wanted it to be as a result of all this work that we’ve been doing. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m really going to miss our weekly check-ins. It’s been a really nice space to connect with each other. I know we’re talking about this collaborative writing process as something we might continue to reflect on though, so I’m sure it won’t be a total end. I’m excited. Whenever we started this process, none of us knew what it’d look like. In a way, just trusting that we were going to get there and seeing where things have landed is really exciting. Now that this is coming to an end, I realize how much I write better in community. Coco and I talked about this, how much we struggled to write during the pandemic. But it was also difficult being a new mother and not really having folks around. When I reflect, it was community that saw me through things. I’m going to have to find ways to recreate community in everything I do.

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I’ll jump in and lift up the writing on positionality and grief you gifted, Stevie and Chris. That was really helpful language for me to make sense of prior collaborations. There is relief in finishing a project, of course. But that sense of accomplishment is often bracketed by grief – a recognition that the rhythm and relations of our work has come to a momentary “end.” So for me it’s become a question of how to channel that grief into re-creating community and doing that in every project I might have the privilege to share in. I was thinking about this quote, “Everything will be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright, it’s not the end” (Lennon J.). I feel like, although I don’t want it to be the “end,” even if only for the mere fact I’m not good with change, I am excited to continue the relationships we built. Like I said, it’s been such an honor to be in this space, and I want to continue to grow my community in this way. When I completed my doctoral degree, I did not know whether I would be a full-time scholar or a full-time student affairs practitioner – I still don’t know and am in-between both. However, when I am involved in research and writing, I really enjoy it. Even as my work in student affairs takes a lot of time and mental and physical energy, I want to continue to nurture the scholar identity in me and what that means as it relates to who I am and who I am becoming. I am relieved to know we are reaching the finish line of this chapter. Same feelings as everyone in our group with feeling grateful for the connections we have built throughout this writing project. Going to miss working with our writing group and hope we continue to collaborate in the future. I am feeling accomplished as my first collaboration writing project in my Ph.D. journey. The chapter has allowed me to reflect on my strengths as a writer and where I need to continue to develop in my writing.

Coco: One last question is: How has talking about our writing process at this “end” (re)framed, clarified, and/or (re)newed your commitments to this work? How has it helped you have hope for the future? Stevie:

LaJoya:

One thing that comes to mind is the hope that there are all of you scholars doing the work out there, that I don’t feel alone. Regardless of if I feel stuck or in a dark place or critically questioning my own writing, I can reach out, I can lean on others. I would want you all to know that you can do the same too. LaJoya also mentioned humanizing the writing process – that it’s not just about the transactional piece or meeting deadlines, but really embodying a humanizing process. Starting with our positionalities and having that at the forefront of the chapter resonates with me. This is pushing the boundaries of what I’ve read and been socialized or indoctrinated to understand as scholarship – all of that gives me hope. I think another thing that gives me hope is that, as scholars of color with varying positionalities, we were able to engage this work collaboratively.

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We didn’t do things like play “Oppression Olympics.” It was this idea that our liberation is bound up with each other’s. It pushed me to think about settler colonialism and what does that look like in my work? How can I engage with other communities of color? How am I showing up as an accomplice? It also gives me hope that folks care about the things that I do too. So much of what we write about and what we experience as scholars of color is heavy. It is hard to be the first, or the 1 percent in our campuses or departments. It can be isolating. But to know that we’re all doing this work and hopefully opening doors for those who come behind us, that also gives me a lot of hope. I think I mentioned this earlier when I thought about my role in cultivating a positive writing experience, most of my writing experiences have been affirming. I just hope that if I’m ever in another writing group that people walk away with a sense of having learned from one another because I always do. I learned a lot from each of you and I’m very grateful. Arriving at this “end,” I realized how much of this space and time on Friday was the active “doing” of the more conceptual moves we were making in the chapter. We weren’t just writing about PSPS, but feeling and experiencing and elevating Indigenous understandings of Power, the Social, Place/Space. Just being a part of a community committed to this work made me hopeful. I learned so much and it’s now a matter of how I take those learnings to listen, continue learning, and entering responsibly into future relations. I think this process has given me hope in a lot of ways – in the content and the process that we chose to write about things. As I was writing about “third universities” and educational kīpuka, I was reminded that we can do these things. We can work toward decolonization and Indigenization even when we’re surrounded by oppressive settler colonial conditions. I was also reminded that we have to choose to do the work. We have to be willing to take action. And we cannot do it alone. Multiple people need to be doing the work in order to make change or to allow life to flourish. Writing about those things in the context of our collaborative space is a good reminder that there are already people doing it. I think that is enough to keep me going. I don’t always know how to approach doing the work when it can feel like the walls are closing in around us, but I think we can figure out ways to do it. I am hopeful for that. This writing process has allowed me to explore my ideas and understandings around being a scholar and what that means to me. As what Stevie and LaJoya mentioned earlier, this writing project was truly a humanizing experience. Something that LaJoya said to me at one point during the writing project is that we are more than what we produce. There were so many moments through the writing project that we were having to work through and we were always supportive of each other.

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Also, making sure we were not moving the project along just to meet a deadline. This writing process reminds me of how I continue to show up for others and what loving and collaborative work can look like. Similar to Stevie, I am hopeful for my future as I continue on in my Ph.D. and possibly leading a future writing project of my own. In reflecting on our closing dialogue, we were struck by the ways the process of writing intimated our relations: to our own stories, to each other, to the places that nourish us, to the political values and commitments that sustain our relations, and our collective resolve to continue this work (Osorio, 2021; Wilson, 2008). We celebrate one another for the time and energy put into the writing of this chapter. But we also grieve an end to a weekly writing rhythm and routine of being in community. Our hope is to invite readers into this work, to be in community with us and in your own places, to channel the energies that our writings here may have excited in you and put that into the next project in decolonization.

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Nicole Alia Salis Reyes was born in Honolulu and raised on different parts of Oʻahu and the US continent. She currently lives in Mānoa with her family and is an associate professor of higher education at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. In her research, she broadly considers how Indigenous peoples, especially Kānaka ʻŌiwi, and communities of color, define postsecondary success for themselves and how institutions of higher education can better support these forms of success. She is particularly interested in thinking about what relationships between higher education and kuleana lāhui (nation-building) could and should look like. Christine A. Nelson (she/her) is from the K’awaika (Laguna Pueblo) and Diné (Navajo) tribes and grew up in the bordertown of Farmington, NM. As a first-generation college student, she started her higher education journey at a community college and slowly worked her way to the University of Arizona, where she earned her Ph.D. in higher education. As a faculty member at the University of Denver – Morgridge College of Education’s Higher Education Department, she centers Indigenous relationality in her work to ensure communities are empowered and well represented in their communal efforts.

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Stevie Lee (she/her) is originally from Shiprock, New Mexico, in the Navajo (Diné) Nation. Her research includes enhancing our educational systems to increase access, equity, and completion with Native and Indigenous students. She also focuses on interweaving critical theory and Indigenous perspectives to explore issues in higher education. Alicia Reyes is Kānaka ‘Ōiwi (Native Hawaiian) and Mēxihcatl (Aztec) born and raised on the ancestral homelands of the Nuwu (Southern Paiute). She is a Ph.D. student and graduate research assistant in the Educational Administration Department at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. Her research interests focus on equity and justice for Native and Indigenous students at settler institutions. LaJoya Reed Shelly is a southern Black mother-scholar. She is a doctoral student and graduate research assistant in the Department of Educational Administration at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. Her research focuses on Black graduate women’s socialization into the professoriate. Ethan Chang is an Asian settler, educator, ethnographer, and community-based researcher at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. His research explores community-based designs for cultivating broad-based, intergenerational leadership committed to education and social transformation.

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Student Engagement in Higher Education: Conceptualizations, Measurement, and Research Teniell L. Trolian

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Scholarly Interest in Student Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Defining and Conceptualizing Student Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Definitions and Dimensions of Student Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Distinguishing Student Engagement in the Learning Process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Varying Degrees of Engagement and Disengagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion: Defining and Conceptualizing Student Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Measuring Student Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Measures of Student Engagement in K-12 School Settings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . US-Based Measures of Student Engagement in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . National Survey of Student Engagement (NSSE) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Non-US-Based Measures of Student Engagement in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Course- and Modality-Specific Measures of Student Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Critiques of Student Engagement Measures and Instruments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion: Measuring Student Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Key Findings from the Research Literature on Student Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Precursors to Student Engagement in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Facilitators of Student Engagement in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Differential Engagement for Different Populations of Students . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Outcomes of Student Engagement in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Differential Outcomes for Different Populations of Students . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Differential Engagement and Outcomes in Different Institutional Contexts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusions and Recommendations for Institutional Practice and Future Research . . . . . . . . . . Recommendations for Institutional Policy and Practice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Directions for Future Research on Student Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

Researchers have suggested that student engagement in the college and university learning environment is an important contributor to student learning, achievement, and outcomes. Higher education scholars have developed measures to assess students’ engagement in higher education, and they have examined experiences that contribute to student engagement, as well as whether student engagement leads to important college outcomes such as college persistence, academic achievement, cognitive development, and other affective outcomes. This chapter considers how student engagement has been conceptualized and measured by researchers and discusses research on student engagement in higher education, focusing on four sets of factors – precursors to student engagement, facilitators of student engagement, indicators of student engagement, and outcomes of student engagement. This chapter also offers recommendations for institutional policy and practice related to student engagement, as well as directions for future research focused on student engagement. Keywords

Student engagement · Higher education · College outcomes · College learning · Student effort · College and university environments · Effective teaching practices · Deep approaches to learning · Collaborative learning · Active learning · Applied learning · Student–faculty interactions · Diversity interactions · High-impact practices

Introduction For decades, higher education scholars have been concerned with improving college student learning, outcomes, and success (Kuh et al., 2007a; Mayhew et al., 2016; Pascarella & Terenzini, 1991, 2005; Perna & Thomas, 2008). Researchers have suggested that student engagement in the college and university learning environment is an important contributor to these outcomes (Kuh, 2001; Kuh et al., 2007a), and studies have examined the link between student engagement and outcomes such as academic achievement (e.g., Carini et al., 2006; Fuller et al., 2011; Gonyea, 2006; Kuh et al., 2008), cognitive development (e.g., Carini et al., 2006; Cruce et al., 2006; Kilgo et al., 2015), increased educational aspirations (e.g., Cruce et al., 2006; Eagan et al., 2013; Gordon et al., 2008;Russell et al., 2007), and persistence to graduation (e.g., Hu, 2011; McDaniel & Van Jura, 2022; McClenney et al., 2007; Price & Tovar, 2014). Noting these important insights from the research literature, higher education institutions have focused on increasing students’ engagement in college in order to improve student learning and success through institutional policy and practice. Some scholars have also suggested that students may be demonstrating decreased engagement in learning activities and in the learning environment, after observing patterns of limited time spent on learning tasks during college and declines in learning metrics (Arum & Roksa, 2011; Brint & Cantwell, 2010, 2014; Pascarella et al., 2011).

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Student engagement has been defined in various ways in the educational research literature (Lester, 2013). McCormick et al. (2013) noted that “student engagement represents the blending of related theoretical traditions seeking to explain college students’ learning, development, and success with a set of practical prescriptions for good practice in undergraduate education” (p. 56). Some scholars have noted that student engagement is a “meta-construct” (Fredricks et al., 2004; Zhoc et al., 2019), where the term is often multidimensional and refers to a set of student attitudes and behaviors, as well as tasks and experiences that occur within the learning environment. Researchers who have studied student engagement in higher education have defined many of the various dimensions of engagement and have developed methods of measurement to assess the levels and types of engagement among college and university students. Scholars have also suggested that students’ engagement behaviors are shaped throughout their educational experiences and continue to be shaped by higher education learning environments, interactions, and experiences. Additionally, researchers have examined contributors to or facilitators of student engagement, as well as the link between student engagement and student learning, outcomes, and success This research has determined that levels of student engagement are influenced by both individual factors (e.g., student preparation and participation, academic self-concept and motivation, student expectations, educational aspirations) and the educational environment (e.g., interactions with instructors and peers, effective teaching practices, the institutional learning environment), suggesting that student engagement is malleable and can be shaped by students’ experiences in education (Reschly & Christenson, 2012). This chapter considers how student engagement has been defined and measured in the educational research literature and examines the broad body of research on student engagement in higher education, focusing on four sets of factors – precursors to student engagement (e.g., students’ attitudes, prior educational experiences, and backgrounds), facilitators of student engagement (e.g., classroom and out-of-class experiences that contribute to engagement), indicators of student engagement, and outcomes of student engagement. Based on this analysis, this chapter also offers recommendations for institutional policy and practice and directions for future research.

Scholarly Interest in Student Engagement Education scholars have long been interested in students’ engagement in the learning process. K-12 researchers began investigating student engagement and its contributions to student learning and high school graduation in the 1980s (Reschly & Christenson, 2012), with interest in understanding how students’ engagement in the learning environment might facilitate student achievement and prevent high school dropout, as well as understanding the link between disengagement and negative academic outcomes for students. This research also considered the engagement of students with particular academic and social characteristics, attempting to

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identify students who were more likely to be disengaged, and in turn, more likely to drop out of high school before graduating. Higher education scholars’ interest in student engagement can be traced back to the 1970s and 1980s as well, when researchers examined students’ involvement in and integration into their colleges and universities. For example, Tinto (1975, 1993) considered ways that students’ integration into the social and academic environments of their institutions affected their reenrollment decisions and ways that institutions might improve students’ social and academic integration to prevent student departure from higher education. Tinto’s Theory of Student Departure was based on decades of research that had considered students’ pre-entry attributes (including family background, skills and attitudes, and prior schooling); their goals and commitments (including intentions, goals, institutional commitments, and external commitments); their institutional experiences (including academic and social experiences in higher education); their integration into the academic and social environments of their institutions; and reassessment of goals and commitments in making decisions about whether to reenroll or depart from their institutions. The theory delineated between academic and social integration into the college environment, noting “the varying forms of intellectual and social integration (membership) which may occur in the academic and the social systems of the institution” (Tinto, 1993, p. 107). According to Tinto, academic integration involved those interactions with peers, faculty, and staff and experiences that occur within classroom and academic settings. Social integration involved students’ “daily life and personal needs” (p. 106); interactions with peers, faculty, and staff outside of the academic domain; and other out-of-class experiences. This theoretical model suggested that students’ backgrounds and goals, as well as their integration into their college or university environments, were relevant in assessing students’ likelihood of persisting at their institution, offering a framework for thinking about the ways that student integration might influence their experiences and outcomes in higher education. Similarly, Astin (1984, 1993) examined students’ involvement in their institutions, considering the ways that involvement in the college and university environment might contribute to student learning and outcomes. He described student involvement as “the amount of physical and psychological energy that the student devotes to the academic experience. Thus, a highly involved student is one who . . . devotes considerable energy to studying, spends much time on campus, participates actively in student organizations, and interacts frequently with faculty members and other students” (Astin, 1984, p. 297). This definition of involvement highlights the role of motivation and effort in shaping students’ involvement in the learning process, as well as their interactions and experiences within the college environment. Astin (1993) also offered his I-E-O model, which considered students’ inputs (including background characteristics, prior educational experiences, and student effort) and the educational environment (which has the potential to shape students’ educational experiences), and how these two dimensions might interact to shape students’ outputs or outcomes in higher education. This framework encouraged thinking about the roles of students and the roles of their institutions in mutually shaping student learning and outcomes.

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Scholars have also considered students’ exertion of effort in the learning process, examining the quality of student effort in their higher education experiences. Pace (1984) suggested that “all learning and development require an investment of time and effort by the student” (p. 5) and assessed the levels and dimensions of student effort using the College Student Experiences Questionnaire (CSEQ). Pascarella (1985) also considered the role of student effort, along with other factors, in contributing to student learning and outcomes. His general causal model for assessing the effects of differential college environments on student learning and cognitive development suggested that the quality of student effort, along with student background characteristics, interactions with agents of socialization, and the broader college and university environment were all contributors to student development, learning, and outcomes in higher education. Other researchers examined the role of institutional and instructional practices in fostering student learning and outcomes in higher education. Chickering and Gamson (1987) identified Seven Principles for Good Practice in Undergraduate Education: encouraging contact between students and faculty, developing reciprocity and cooperation among students, encouraging active learning, providing prompt feedback, emphasizing time on academic learning tasks, communicating high expectations for students, and respecting diverse talents and ways of learning in the learning environment. These principles of good institutional and instructional practice suggested the importance of designing environments that might encourage student investment in the learning process and offered research-based practices that have demonstrated contributions to improved student learning and outcomes. Taken together, this work of scholars in the 1970s and 1980s considered the role of students’ integration, involvement, and effort in the learning environment, as well as the role of colleges and universities in implementing educational practices that contribute to student investment in the learning process. Furthermore, this interest in student and institutional investment in learning informed the conceptualizations of student engagement that were developed in the 1980s and 1990s. Building on these ideas and frameworks, education scholars have tried to more broadly understand the various factors that contribute to student engagement in the educational environment, including how engagement may be informed by students’ backgrounds and prior educational experiences; how engagement might be shaped by college and university experiences and environments; how engagement is connected to other learning dimensions such as academic self-efficacy, motivation, and expectations; how indicators of student engagement might be measured; and how engagement shapes or contributes to broader learning and outcomes of higher education. The next section will examine ways that researchers have used these ideas and frameworks to define and conceptualize student engagement in educational settings.

Defining and Conceptualizing Student Engagement Researchers have offered varying definitions and conceptualizations of student engagement, including the factors that contribute to students’ levels of engagement, emphasizing the role and importance of engagement in contributing to student learning

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and outcomes (Groccia, 2018). This research has attempted to tease out the various ways of defining and thinking about student engagement in the learning environment (Baron & Corbin, 2012; Wolf-Wendel et al., 2009), suggesting that students’ involvement, motivation, integration, and effort are all relevant to understanding how students engage in the college learning process. This section will examine these varied perspectives of student engagement in order to understand how engagement has been defined and conceptualized throughout the educational research literature. I first discuss the broad conceptualizations of student engagement (that span both K-12 and higher education sectors), and I then turn to the definitions of student engagement that have been offered in K-12 settings and in higher education settings.

Definitions and Dimensions of Student Engagement Broadly, Kahu (2013) described conceptualizations of student engagement in education as focusing on four distinct perspectives: behavioral, psychological, sociocultural, and holistic. According to Kahu, the behavioral perspective emphasizes student behaviors, such as students’ time on task and social and academic integration, as well as institutional behaviors, including faculty teaching practices and institutional practices focused on evaluating faculty teaching and fostering student engagement. The psychological perspective includes dimensions of behavior, cognition, emotion, and motivation, and it highlights student investment in the learning process. The sociocultural perspective emphasizes the social context and environment in affecting students’ educational experiences, noting the importance of students’ integration into their environments and the effects of experiences such as sense of belonging and alienation. The holistic perspective, then, bridges these perspectives of student engagement, emphasizing the “perceptions, expectations, and experience of being a student” (p. 64). These four conceptualizations of student engagement consider some of the broad and varied perspectives used in the educational research literature to define and describe student engagement. Similarly, Leach and Zepke (2011) presented five broad themes for understanding student engagement in the educational research literature: motivation and agency, transactional engagement, institutional support, active citizenship, and noninstitutional support. The motivation and agency perspective suggests that students’ motivation and effort are important determinants of their engagement in the learning process. The transactional engagement perspective suggests that the relationships between students and teachers, as well as students and their peers are important factors in fostering student engagement. The institutional support perspective suggests that institutional environments and practices shape and foster students’ levels of engagement in higher education. The active citizenship perspective suggests that student engagement occurs when students and institutions work together toward critical thinking and learning goals. Finally, the noninstitutional support perspective suggests that student engagement is more likely to occur when it is supported by family members and friends. These five perspectives on student engagement conceptualize engagement by considering the psychological, interpersonal, and environmental influences that shape students’ levels of engagement in the learning process.

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Researchers with disciplinary backgrounds in psychology and educational psychology have also considered student engagement and its various definitions and conceptualizations. For example, Reschly and Christenson (2012) discussed four dimensions that have been considered by psychologists in studying educational engagement among students. These dimensions included academic dimensions of engagement, including time spent on educational tasks, student preparation and completion of homework, and student achievement; behavioral dimensions, including student attendance in class and participation in class discussions and activities; cognitive dimensions, such as educational aspirations, academic ability, self-regulation, and student motivation; and affective dimensions, including student belonging, interactions, and connectedness. In considering these many dimensions of student engagement, they suggested that educational engagement extends beyond measuring academically engaged time and activities to encompass students’ motivations, behaviors, and affects. Their conceptualization of student engagement also included discussions of student disengagement and disaffection, which they argued can contribute to challenges such as limited learning and student dropout or departure. Similarly, Skinner and Pitzer (2012) also considered how student engagement has been defined and conceptualized, noting four domains of student engagement: academic engagement, which includes attentiveness and completing assignments; social engagement, which includes interactions with teachers and peers; cognitive engagement, which includes asking questions, persisting with difficult tasks, and using self-regulated learning strategies; and affective engagement, which includes belonging and placing value on the learning community. This conceptualization of student engagement is similar to those of Reschly and Christenson (2012). In the K-12 education literature, researchers have defined student engagement in the context of primary, middle, and secondary school settings. For example, Skinner et al. (1990) defined engagement as “children’s initiation of action, effort, and persistence on schoolwork, as well as their ambient emotional states during learning activities” (p. 24). Other scholars have considered the various dimensions that comprise engagement. Fredricks et al. (2004) defined student engagement in schools along three dimensions: behavioral, emotional, and cognitive. Behavioral engagement includes attendance and participation in the learning environment; emotional engagement involves interactions with teachers, peers, and the school environment; and cognitive engagement involves investment of effort in the learning process. Appleton et al. (2006) described student engagement in school settings as a multidimensional construct comprised of four types of engagement behaviors: academic, behavioral, cognitive, and psychological. Academic engagement consists of spending time on academic tasks and completing homework and assignments; behavioral engagement consists of participation in the classroom and in extracurricular activities; cognitive engagement consists of goal setting and self-regulation in the learning environment; and psychological engagement consists of identification with the school and community belonging. Similarly, Martin (2007) discussed student engagement in school settings as multidimensional and including both adaptive and maladaptive dimensions. Adaptive dimensions included both cognitive (selfefficacy, mastery orientation, and valuing of school) and behavioral (persistence, planning, and study management). Maladaptive dimensions also included cognitive

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(anxiety, uncertain control, and failure avoidance) and behavioral (self-handicapping and disengagement). These conceptualizations of student engagement suggest the role that student motivations, attitudes, and behaviors play in contributing to the levels of engagement in school settings. In the higher education literature, Kuh (2001) defined engagement as participation in “educational practices that are strongly associated with high levels of learning and personal development” (p. 12). These educational practices include participation in academically challenging activities, active and collaborative learning, interaction with faculty members, enriching educational experiences (such as internships, community service, and senior capstone courses), and engagement with a supportive campus environment (NSSE, 2000). Similarly, Nelson Laird et al. (2008a) described student engagement as having two main components: The first is the amount of time and effort students put into their studies and other activities and experiences associated with the outcomes that constitute student success. The second is how the institution allocates resources and organizes learning opportunities and services to induce students to participate in and benefit from such activities. The teaching and learning approaches that faculty members use are of particular interest, as those are the classroom practices and student behaviors over which an institution has some direct influence. That is, if faculty members use principles of good practice to design assignments and engaging pedagogies to structure in-class and out-of-class activities, students would ostensibly put forth more effort. They would write more papers, read more books, meet more frequently with faculty and peers, and use information technology appropriately, all of which would result in greater gains in such areas as critical thinking, problem solving, effective communication, and responsible citizenship. (p. 87)

Trowler (2010) proposed a similar definition in considering the literature on student engagement, suggesting that “student engagement is the investment of time, effort and other relevant resources by both students and their institutions intended to [optimize] the student experience and enhance the learning outcomes and development of students and the performance, and reputation of the institution” (p. 6). These definitions of student engagement reflect the importance of college and university environments that facilitate engagement, as well as students’ behaviors to engage in the learning environment. Harper and Quaye (2008) defined student engagement in higher education as “participation in educationally effective practices, both inside and outside the classroom, which leads to a range of measurable outcomes” (p. 3). This definition highlights the important role that effective educational practices and student participation play in the engagement process. Axelson and Flick (2010) described student engagement as “how involved or interested students appear to be in their learning and how connected they are to their classes, their institutions, and each other” (p. 38). This characterization denotes the behavioral, motivational, and interpersonal components of engagement, where students are involved in their learning, interested in their learning, and feel a sense of connection to their learning environment and those within it. Groccia (2018) offers a similar conceptualization of student engagement, suggesting that engagement involves doing, thinking, and feeling in the context of classroom learning, research, within the campus community, and with

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faculty and peers. These conceptions of student engagement consider the student’s individual motivations and behaviors; the educational practices of the college or university; and the role of interactions, community, and belonging in shaping students’ engagement in the learning process.

Distinguishing Student Engagement in the Learning Process Researchers have also considered the ways that student engagement is a unique contributor to the learning process, noting its distinctions from other dimensions associated with the student learning process, such as motivation, self-efficacy, selfdetermination, self-regulation, or expectations. While some scholars regard these dimensions as “highly related and complementary” (Cleary & Zimmerman, 2012, p. 238), it is important to note the ways in which each of these concepts uniquely contributes to student engagement in the learning process, as well as to student achievement and outcomes. For example, Skinner and Pitzer (2012) described student engagement as distinct from other learning concepts, such as motivation, suggesting that motivation may be part of a student’s engagement, but that engagement requires both attitudes/motivations and engaged behaviors. Eccles and Wang (2012) also discussed engagement’s distinctions from motivation, arguing that motivation can contribute to student engagement, but it is distinct from the attitudes and behaviors that comprise engagement. They also point out that there is some debate about the distinction between these two ideas in the research literature, noting that some researchers have suggested that higher levels of motivation may be an indicator of engagement, as engagement can also lead to increased student motivation. That is, motivation contributes to student engagement, and student engagement can also contribute to motivation. Similarly, researchers have also considered similarities and distinctions between student engagement and academic self-efficacy. Schunk and Mullen (2012) discussed Bandura’s (1977) social cognitive theory, which suggests that self-efficacy (Bandura, 1997), or one’s perceptions of their capability for learning, is important in influencing one’s motivation for and engagement in the learning process. They defined student engagement as “how [students’] cognitions, behaviors, and affects are energized, directed, and sustained during learning and other academic activities” (Schunk & Mullen, 2012, p. 220), and they similarly outlined the difference between motivation and engagement, noting that engagement is the set of behaviors or actions that are often prompted by one’s motivations. Schunk and Mullen also discussed the link between academic self-efficacy and student engagement, suggesting that self-efficacy affects students’ levels of engagement, where students with more self-efficacy are more likely to be more engaged in the learning process due to their beliefs in their own capabilities for learning. The authors noted that students’ self-efficacy is shaped by prior educational experiences, the learning environment, and parents, teachers, and peers. They also suggested that self-efficacy can shape some of the motivational outcomes that are linked to student engagement, including outcomes such as task choice, student effort, and student persistence.

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Scholars have also considered the role of self-determination in student engagement. Eccles and Wang (2012) discussed self-determination theory (SDT), which, in the context of education, suggests that three basic psychological needs must be met in order for learning and development to be possible: competence, autonomy, and belonging (Deci & Ryan, 2000). These three needs must be satisfied in order for students to feel they have some control over their contributions to the learning process and learning environment. Eccles and Wang noted that “SDT focuses attention on the precursors of behavioral engagement and assumes that positive engagement is most likely when the context provides opportunities for individuals to fulfill their needs for competence, belonging, and autonomy” (p. 135). In this view, SDT is a distinct precursor to student engagement, where these needs must first be met for student engagement in the learning process to occur successfully. Cleary and Zimmerman (2012) considered self-regulated learning and how it is distinct from student engagement by distinguishing “between the ‘will’ of students to engage in learning and the ‘skill’ with which they regulate or self-manage their level of engagement” (p. 237). Self-regulated learning has been defined as a threephase cyclical process, where students employ forethought about a task, exhibit performance control during the task, and self-reflect on the task once it has been completed (Zimmerman & Campillo, 2003). This skill-based process relies on the self-regulation of the student and assumes high levels of student motivation and behavioral management. Self-regulated learning is distinct from engagement in that it is focused more on students’ choices and motivations to be engaged in the learning process. In other words, student engagement is a precursor to use of self-regulation skills in completing learning tasks. Eccles and Wang (2012) also discussed distinctions between engagement theory and expectancy-value theory (EVT) in educational contexts. EVT presents a model for understanding how a student’s expectations for success in completing a given task and the value they have for succeeding can shape their effort and performance in completing the task (Wigfield & Eccles, 2002). Eccles and Wang (2012) frame students’ expectations as “both a precursor and a consequence of engagement rather than as a part of engagement” (p. 143), where students’ expectations of their success can contribute to their engagement, and where their engagement can shape their future expectations of educational success. EVT, then, has the potential to shape students’ engagement in the learning process. These theoretical perspectives of student learning are informative in defining and conceptualizing student engagement. They suggest that student engagement is influenced by students’ values, motivations, and expectations, which are, in turn, influential in shaping student learning, achievement, and outcomes.

Varying Degrees of Engagement and Disengagement Given these various definitions and conceptualizations of student engagement, researchers have considered the potential for students to be engaged in the learning

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process to varying degrees as well as the potential for disengagement. Groccia (2018) noted that, with many potential dimensions of student engagement, it is possible for students to be engaged to varying degrees in each different dimension. That is, student engagement should not be understood as students being either engaged or disengaged, but rather that students may be engaged to varying degrees along a continuum for each dimension or indicator. Coates (2007) offered a typology of student engagement that reflects these varying levels or degrees of student engagement in the classroom, suggesting that engagement may be passive, collaborative, independent, or intense in nature. In this typology, engagement is considered in terms of students’ academic and social engagement; specifically, academic engagement includes engagement in academic tasks and activities, such as studying, preparing for, and attending class, and social engagement includes interpersonal interactions with instructors and peers, such as student–faculty interactions and collaborative learning with peers. Passive engagement involves rare engagement in the learning process (lower levels of academic and social engagement); collaborative engagement involves interactions with instructors and peers that help facilitate engagement in the learning process (higher levels of social engagement, lower levels of academic engagement); independent engagement involves an individual focus on engaging in the learning process (higher levels of academic engagement, lower levels of social engagement); and intense engagement involves significant engagement in the learning process (higher levels of academic and social engagement). Coates argued that these engagement types may vary from course to course or at different points in time, suggesting that these levels or degrees of engagement are not fixed traits or characteristics of students. Other scholars have also offered typologies of student engagement, which have attempted to categorize varying levels of engagement in higher education learning environments (Hu & Li, 2011; Kuh et al., 2000). For example, Hu and McCormick (2012) presented a seven-category typology based on student engagement data from the Wabash National Study of Liberal Arts Education, which examined the levels of engagement across five educational benchmarks: academic challenge, active and collaborative learning, student–faculty interaction, enriching educational experiences, and supportive campus environment. Their student typology included academics (highly engaged in academic experiences, with lower engagement in social experiences), unconventionals (highly engaged in social and community-based activities, with lower levels of engagement in academic experiences), disengaged (low levels of engagement across all benchmarks), collegiates (high levels of engagement in social experiences, low levels of engagement across all other benchmarks), maximizers (high levels of engagement across all benchmarks), grinds (high levels of engagement in academically challenging experiences, with low levels of engagement across all other benchmarks), and conventionals (higher levels of engagement in some benchmark areas, lower levels of engagement in other benchmark areas). These proposed types of student engagement are reflective of the varying degrees and levels of engagement that students may exhibit across different dimensions of student engagement.

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Conclusion: Defining and Conceptualizing Student Engagement Researchers have developed these definitions of student engagement in order to fully conceptualize engagement and its varying dimensions. While each definition or conceptualization of student engagement is somewhat unique in its approach, several commonalities emerge. First, students’ attitudes and inclinations toward student engagement, as well as their demonstration of engagement behaviors, are both important in understanding student engagement in the learning process. Second, students are influenced by other social actors in the educational environment, including peers, family members, and instructors. The varying definitions of student engagement that have been offered often consider the roles of these individuals in shaping students’ engagement. Finally, scholars have considered both individual student behaviors and attitudes, as well as their educational environments, and how both of these factors shape student engagement in the learning process. These similarities across the various definitions of student engagement have also informed how scholars have attempted to measure student engagement in educational settings.

Measuring Student Engagement Education scholars have focused on methods of measuring student engagement, including assessing the various dimensions of engagement and evaluating degrees or levels of student engagement. Beginning in the late 1990s, researchers developed measures and instruments to assess student engagement in education, including student attitudes and behaviors, faculty and teacher attitudes and behaviors, and college and university instructional practices that foster student engagement. Measures of student engagement have been developed for K-12 students, as well as for students in 4-year and 2-year colleges and universities. This section will discuss some of the quantitative survey instruments that have been developed to measure student engagement, beginning with K-12 and higher education settings in the United States, then focusing on higher education settings outside of the United States, and then discussing instruments designed for use in specific courses or specific course modalities (e.g., online course settings) in higher education settings.

Measures of Student Engagement in K-12 School Settings Researchers have developed several survey instruments measuring students’ engagement in K-12 (i.e., primary, middle, and secondary) school settings, prior to their entry into higher education. This section will review some of these instruments and their measurement of student engagement in schools.

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Middle Grades Survey of Student Engagement (MGSSE) and High School Survey of Student Engagement (HSSSE) The Middle Grades Survey of Student Engagement (MGSSE) and the High School Survey of Student Engagement (HSSSE) were developed by researchers at Indiana University (Martin & Torres, 2016). These student self-reported survey instruments are administered to students in grades 5–9 and grades 9–12, respectively, and they are designed to measure three dimensions of student engagement: cognitive/intellectual/academic engagement, social/behavioral/participatory engagement, and emotional engagement. The cognitive/intellectual/academic engagement measures assess students’ effort and investment in the learning process, as well as engagement during classroom instructional time. The social/behavioral/participatory engagement measures assess students’ interactions with peers and interactions within and outside of the school environment. The emotional engagement measures assess students’ attitudes and feelings about their learning environments, such as their feelings toward teachers and peers and their attitudes toward schoolwork and school structures. (See https://www.nais.org/analyze/student-engagement-surveys/ for additional information about the MGSSE and the HSSSE.) Student Engagement in Schools Questionnaire (SESQ) The Student Engagement in Schools Questionnaire (SESQ) was developed by researchers from 19 countries to measure student engagement in schools (Lam & Jimerson, 2008). This survey instrument assesses four dimensions of students’ experiences in schools: student engagement in the schools, motivational beliefs, socialrelatedness contexts, and student outcomes. The student engagement dimension is comprised of five factors, including affective engagement-liking for learning, affective engagement-liking for school, behavioral engagement-effort and persistence, behavioral engagement-extracurricular activities, and cognitive engagement. These factors measure students’ interests in and enjoyment of learning, satisfaction with their schools, effort and motivation, participation in extracurricular activities, and knowledge integration and application. These five student engagement factors were developed to reflect affective, behavioral, and cognitive constructs of student engagement in the learning process (Hart et al., 2011). Researchers have evaluated the validity of the instrument, as well as its transcultural application to school settings around the world (Lam et al., 2014), finding that measures were consistent and reliable across national settings (including Austria, Canada, China, Cyprus, Estonia, Greece, Malta, Portugal, Romania, South Korea, the United Kingdom, and the United States).

US-Based Measures of Student Engagement in Higher Education Several US-based survey measures of student engagement have been developed by higher education researchers. This section will review some of these instruments and their measurement of student engagement in colleges and universities in the United States and other parts of North America.

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National Survey of Student Engagement (NSSE) The National Survey of Student Engagement (NSSE), also developed by researchers at Indiana University in 1998, is a student self-reported survey instrument measuring engagement for college and university students in the United States and Canada (Kuh, 2003a, b). This instrument is one of the most well-known survey instruments measuring student engagement, and its measures focus on both student engagement behaviors and students’ perceptions of the educational environment. The NSSE also evaluates what it calls “Ten Engagement Indicators,” which use students’ reported survey data to measure several dimensions of student engagement, including higherorder learning, reflective and integrative learning, learning strategies, quantitative reasoning, collaborative learning, discussions with diverse others, student–faculty interaction, effective teaching practices, quality of interactions, and supportive environment (Indiana University Center for Postsecondary Research, 2013). The NSSE also measures students’ engagement in high-impact educational practices (Kuh, 2008), such as participation in service learning, learning communities, research with faculty, internships, study abroad experiences, and culminating senior experiences or capstones, which have been linked to student learning and success. The NSSE is administered annually to college and university students on hundreds of campuses in the United States and Canada (Indiana University Center for Postsecondary Research, 2021c). In addition to the NSSE, the Indiana University Center for Postsecondary Research has also developed the Beginning College Survey of Student Engagement (BCSSE), which measures new students’ (including first-year and transfer students) prior educational experiences and their expectations for engagement (Indiana University Center for Postsecondary Research, 2021a); and the Faculty Survey of Student Engagement (FSSE), which measures faculty perceptions of how often students exhibit engagement attitudes and behaviors, the frequency of student–faculty interactions, and faculty use of teaching and learning practices (Indiana University Center for Postsecondary Research, 2021b). Research using the NSSE, BCSSE, and FSSE data is abundant, and data from these instruments have been used by both researchers interested in student engagement in higher education, as well as colleges and universities who participate in these annual surveys for the purposes of institutional research (Kuh, 2009). (See https://nsse. indiana.edu/nsse/ for additional information about the NSSE.)

Community College Survey of Student Engagement (CCSSE) The Community College Survey of Student Engagement (CCSSE) was developed by researchers at the University of Texas at Austin in 2001, in partnership with NSSE, to measure student engagement in the community college setting (Community College Survey of Student Engagement, 2021a). This student self-reported instrument was designed to measure dimensions of community college student engagement, including active and collaborative learning, student effort, academic challenge, student–faculty interaction, and support for learners (McClenney et al., 2012). Active and collaborative learning is measured by assessing student participation in class, peer interactions, and out-of-class learning experiences. Student

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effort is measured by assessing time spent on learning tasks, student preparation, and utilization of student services. Academic challenge is measured by assessing student perceptions of rigor and cognitive load in their coursework. Student–faculty interaction is measured by assessing the frequency and context of students’ interactions and experiences with faculty members. Finally, support for learners is measured by assessing students’ use of advising and counseling services, as well as students’ perceptions of their community colleges. Researchers have used data from the CCSSE to evaluate community college students’ engagement, and community college leaders have used their own student CCSSE data for institutional research and improvement (McClenney et al., 2012). In addition to the CCSSE, the Community College Survey of Student Engagement researchers also developed the Community College Faculty Survey of Student Engagement (CCFSSE), which measures faculty perceptions of students’ experiences, faculty teaching practices, and ways that faculty use their professional time (Community College Survey of Student Engagement, 2021b). (See https://www. ccsse.org/ for additional information about the CCSSE.)

Student Engagement Instrument-College (SEI-C) The Student Engagement Instrument (SEI), developed by researchers at the University of Minnesota and the University of South Carolina in 2006, is a student selfreported instrument designed to measure cognitive and psychological engagement (Appleton et al., 2006). The SEI includes 30 items designed to measure students’ perceived cognitive engagement, including control and relevance of schoolwork, future aspirations and goals, and extrinsic motivation. It also uses 26 items designed to measure students’ perceived psychological engagement, including teacher–student relationships, peer support for learning, and family support for learning. The instrument was validated for use in both primary school settings and secondary school settings (Lovelace et al., 2014). Though originally designed for use in K-12 school settings, the SEI was modified for use in higher education contexts (Waldrop et al., 2019), resulting in the Student Engagement Instrument-College (SEI-C). For example, they considered whether SEI-C measures of cognitive and psychological engagement were associated with student achievement in higher education and career self-efficacy (Grier-Reed et al., 2012). Additionally, the SEI and SEI-C instruments have been translated and validated by researchers for use in other countries, including Chile (Varela et al., 2023), Malaysia (Karim & Hamid, 2016), and Portugal (Moreira et al., 2009). (See https://checkandconnect.umn.edu/ sei/default.html for additional information about the SEI.)

Non-US-Based Measures of Student Engagement in Higher Education Researchers have also developed several non-US-based measures of student engagement in higher education. According to Coates and McCormick (2014), “[t]he growing global interest in student engagement as an approach to assessing the

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quality of undergraduate education over the last decade or so provides substantial context and focus for new research and practice. Large data collections, particularly those with international scope, seed myriad derivative policies, practices and research agendas” (p. 153). This section will review some of these instruments and their measurement of student engagement in colleges and universities around the world.

Australian First Year Experience Questionnaire (FYEQ) and First Year Engagement Scales (FYES) The First Year Experience Questionnaire (FYEQ) and First Year Engagement Scales (FYES) were developed by researchers in Australia to measure students’ experiences and engagement in the first year of enrollment at Australian universities (Krause & Coates, 2008). The questionnaire, which was adapted in part from the NSSE (NSSE, 2000), included items measuring seven dimensions of student engagement, including transition engagement, academic engagement, peer engagement, student–academic staff engagement, intellectual engagement, online engagement, and beyond-class engagement (Krause & Coates, 2008). The transition engagement scale assessed students’ engagement with university life during their transition into higher education, including participation in orientation programs, satisfaction with academic advising, and whether student expectations have been met. The academic engagement scale assessed first-year students’ study behaviors, engagement in class discussions, and class attendance. The peer engagement assessed in-class and out-ofclass engagement in collaborative learning experiences with student peers. The student–staff engagement scale assessed students’ perceptions of academic staff (i.e., faculty or instructors) in terms of their willingness to take an interest in students and provide helpful feedback, as well as their use of effective teaching practices in the classroom. The intellectual engagement scale assessed students’ motivation and whether they felt intellectually stimulated and challenged in their university coursework. The online engagement scale assessed students’ use of and satisfaction with information and communication technologies as part of their online learning experiences. The beyond-class engagement scale assessed students’ engagement in extracurricular involvement, as well as their perceptions of belonging within their campus communities. The FYES has been used by institutions and researchers in Australia, as well as in other countries (e.g., Malaysia, Chong & Sin Soo, 2021), to examine student engagement along these seven dimensions in students’ first year of higher education. (See https://unistats.anu.edu.au/surveys/fyeq/ for additional information about the FYEQ and FYES.) Australasian Survey of Student Engagement (AUSSE) The Australasian Survey of Student Engagement (AUSSE) was developed by the Australian Council for Educational Research and was administered for the first time in Australia and New Zealand in 2007 (Australian Council for Educational Research, 2023). The instrument was adapted from the NSSE, and it includes measures that comprise six student engagement scales. These scales assess dimensions including academic challenge, active learning, student and academic staff interactions,

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enriching educational experiences, supportive learning environment, and workintegrated learning (Coates, 2010). In addition to AUSSE, the Australian Council for Educational Research also developed the Postgraduate Survey of Student Engagement (POSSE), which measures engagement for postgraduate students, and the Staff Student Engagement Survey (SSES), which surveys academic staff about their perceptions of students’ engagement behaviors (Radloff & Coates, 2014). (See https://www.acer.org/au/ausse for additional information about the AUSSE, POSSE, and SSES.)

China College Student Survey (CCSS) The China College Student Survey (CCSS) was also based on the NSSE and was adapted by Chinese researchers in 2009 (Ross et al., 2014). Similar to other instruments based on NSSE, the dimensions measured by the CCSS include the level of academic challenge, active and collaborative learning, student–academic staff interaction, enriching educational experiences, and supportive campus environment. It also contains additional measures assessing psychological variables, such as motivation and student interest in learning; self-reported learning and satisfaction; students’ social and economic statuses; precollege education and experiences; and engagement in high-impact practices (Shi et al., 2014). Studies using data from the CCSS have assessed Chinese students’ experiences and engagement in higher education, considering students’ satisfaction, social relationships, interest in their college majors, and motivation, as well as their levels of behavior, and cognitive and emotional engagement (Luo et al., 2019). Irish Survey of Student Engagement (ISSE) The Irish Survey of Student Engagement (ISSE) was developed in 2012 by the National Academy for Integration of Research, Teaching and Learning (Drennan et al., 2014). The instrument was based on several other survey instruments that examined dimensions of student engagement, including the Course Experience Questionnaire (Ramsden, 1991), the National Student Survey in the United Kingdom, the NSSE, and the AUSSE. The ISSE measures student engagement along six indices, including academic challenge, active learning, student–academic staff interactions, enrichment of educational experiences, supportive learning environment, and work-integrated learning (Griffin & Howard, 2017). Researchers have used data from the ISSE to evaluate student engagement and learning across the Irish system of higher education, as well as to assess engagement among students at each of the 19 participating institutions. (See https://studentsurvey.ie/ for additional information about the ISSE.) South African Survey of Student Engagement (SASSE) The South African Survey of Student Engagement (SASSE) was developed by researchers at the Centre for Teaching and Learning at the University of the Free State in 2006 and is also based on the NSSE (Strydom & Mentz, 2014). Similar to other NSSE-based instruments, the dimensions measured by the SASSE include the level of academic challenge, active and collaborative learning, student–academic

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staff interaction, enriching educational experiences, and supportive campus environment (Strydom & Mentz, 2010). In addition to SASSE, they also developed the Beginning University Survey of Student Engagement (BUSSE), which measures student engagement for entering students, and the Lecturer Survey of Student Engagement (LSSE), which measures lecturers’ perceptions of student engagement (Strydom & Mentz, 2014). (See https://www.ufs.ac.za/ctl/home-page/teachingresources/south-african-surveys-of-student-engagement-(sasse) for additional information about the SASSE, BUSSE, and LSSE.)

Higher Education Student Engagement Scale (HESES) The Higher Education Student Engagement Scale (HESES) was developed by a team of researchers from universities in Hong Kong, Vietnam, and Canada (Zhoc et al., 2019). The HESES was developed as an alternative to existing engagement instruments and was based on the Australian First Year Experience Questionnaire Engagement Scales (Krause & Coates, 2008). The HESES was designed to measure five facets of student engagement: academic engagement, cognitive engagement, social engagement with peers, social engagement with teachers, and affective engagement (Zhoc et al., 2019). Academic engagement measures assessed academic behaviors such as class attendance and preparation, student effort and attention, and engagement with online course tools and modalities. Cognitive engagement measures evaluated student enjoyment of cognitive learning tasks and student motivation. Social engagement with peers measures assessed collaborative learning experiences, peer relationships, and extracurricular activity involvement. Social engagement with teachers measures gauged students’ perceptions of instructor availability and willingness to provide feedback. Finally, affective engagement measures evaluated students’ perceptions of belonging, satisfaction, and whether expectations of their institution have been met. Although the HESES was more recently developed, scholars have attempted to validate the instrument and its use in higher education settings (Kim et al., 2022), determining that measures were valid and reliable for use in college and university environments, and specifically, for use in program evaluation. Motivation and Engagement Scale (MES) The Motivation and Engagement Scale (MES) was developed by a researcher at the University of New South Wales to measure student motivation and engagement in education (Martin, 2007, 2009). The MES measures four dimensions of motivation and engagement: positive and negative motivation, as well as positive and negative engagement. Positive motivation includes self-efficacy, valuing (students’ belief about the usefulness, importance, and relevance of academic work), and learning focus (developing competence and knowledge), while negative motivation includes anxiety, failure avoidance, and uncertain control. Positive engagement includes planning, task management, and persistence; while negative engagement includes self-sabotage and disengagement (Liem & Martin, 2012). MES instruments were designed to assess motivation and engagement in junior schooling (ages 9–12), high school (ages 12–19), and college/university (ages 17 and older), and the MES

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instruments have been administered in schools and colleges/universities around the world (Lifelong Achievement Group, 2022). Researchers using the MES-UC (University/College) instrument developed a typology of students’ motivation and engagement in higher education (Elphinstone & Tinker, 2017). (See https:// lifelongachievement.com/pages/the-motivation-and-engagement-scale-mes for additional information about the MES.)

University Student Engagement Inventory (USEI) The University Student Engagement Inventory (USEI), developed by researchers from Portugal, Brazil, and the United States in 2016, measures cognitive, behavioral, and emotional engagement in university students (Maroco et al., 2016). Emphasizing psychological dimensions of student engagement, the USEI assesses students’ cognitive engagement, such as reflective learning, problem-solving, and knowledge integration; behavioral engagement, including attention, active participation, and completing assignments; and emotional engagement, including interest and enjoyment of academic work. This instrument has been examined for its transcultural validity in college and university settings around the world (e.g., China (She et al., 2023), Italy (Esposito et al., 2022), Portugal (Sinval et al., 2021)), and these studies have suggested that the instrument is able to successfully measure student engagement in a range of educational and cultural contexts (Assunção et al., 2020).

Course- and Modality-Specific Measures of Student Engagement Researchers have also developed several survey instruments for measuring student engagement in individual courses, including online course modalities. This section will review some of these instruments and their measurement of student engagement in colleges and university course settings.

Class-Level Survey of Student Engagement (CLASSE) The Class-Level Survey of Student Engagement (CLASSE) was developed by researchers from the NSSE to evaluate classroom-level student engagement (Indiana University Center for Postsecondary Research. 2021d). CLASSE includes two survey instruments, a student instrument that assesses the frequency of engagement in educational practices and experiences within a course, and a faculty instrument that assesses how important each educational practice or experience is in facilitating student success (Nelson Laird et al., 2009).The CLASSE was designed to help faculty assess courses and ways that they might improve student engagement through teaching practices and offers faculty the opportunity to use findings to improve teaching and classroom management (Ouimet & Smallwood, 2005). Student Course Engagement Questionnaire (SCEQ) The Student Course Engagement Questionnaire (SCEQ), developed by researchers at the University of Denver, was designed to examine student engagement at the course level for the purpose of instructional improvement (Handelsman et al., 2005). The

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instrument was developed from conceptualizations of student engagement in the psychology and educational psychology literature and assessed students’ skills engagement, emotional engagement, participation/interaction engagement, and performance engagement. Skills engagement refers to student effort, attention, and organization in the course; emotional engagement refers to students’ interest in the course material; participation/interaction engagement refers to collaborative learning, student–faculty interactions, and asking questions in class; and performance engagement refers to doing well on course assessments and assignments. Researchers have also offered a modified version of the SCEQ for use in online course settings (SCEQ-M). This instrument was adapted to contextualize the SCEQ items in online or distance education settings, and four engagement dimensions were measured: applied engagement, goal-oriented engagement, self-disciplined engagement, and interactive engagement (Nasir et al., 2020). Applied engagement considers student interest in and application of course material; goal-oriented engagement considers student effort and performance; self-disciplined engagement considers studying, notetaking, and student–faculty interactions; and interactive engagement considers participation in classroom or online discussions and collaborative learning activities.

Rubric for Assessing Interactive Qualities of Distance Courses (RAIQDC) The Rubric for Assessing Interactive Qualities of Distance Courses (RAIQDC) was developed by researchers at the University of Maryland and the University of West Georgia to examine student interactions in distance education courses and their contributions to student achievement and satisfaction (Roblyer &Wiencke, 2003, 2004). The instrument measures five elements of classroom interaction, including social and rapport-building designs for interaction, interactive instructional design, interactivity of technology resources, evidence of learner engagement, and evidence of instructor engagement. Social and rapport-building designs for interaction assess interactions among students and peers and students and instructors in the course; interactive instructional design assesses cooperative learning in the course; interactivity of technology resources assesses communication and interaction via technology resources in the course; evidence of learner engagement assesses communication and interaction between students and instructors in the course; and evidence of instructor engagement measures instructor responsiveness and interactions with students in the course. Online Student Engagement Scale (OSE) The Online Student Engagement Scale (OSE) was designed to measure students’ engagement in online courses and was derived from existing instruments, including the Class-Level Survey of Student Engagement (CLASSE) and the Student Course Engagement Questionnaire (SCEQ) (Dixson, 2010, 2015). The survey has several espoused purposes, including “(1) to aid research into online course design, (2) to provide feedback to instructors about the level of engagement of their students given the course design choices made, and (3) to provide evidence of teaching effectiveness for merit arguments, teaching awards, and promotion and/or tenure cases” (Dixson, 2015, p. 10).The instrument was designed to measure skills engagement,

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emotional engagement, participation engagement, and performance engagement in online courses in higher education, but it has been used in both K-12 and higher education settings to assess online student engagement.

Critiques of Student Engagement Measures and Instruments The proliferation of quantitative survey instruments assessing students’ educational engagement has also led to a number of attempts to validate these instruments, as well as critiques of the instruments and their measures. Scholars have raised questions about the psychometric properties of these instruments, raising concerns about their validity and reliability, particularly for institutional samples. They have also raised questions about the use of students’ self-reported data, as well as how engagement data has been used by institutions and governing bodies.

Critiques About Student Self-Reported Data Higher education researchers have considered whether survey instruments that rely on students’ recall of their behaviors and self-reports of their learning gains are valid measures of student engagement and student outcomes. For example, Bowman and Hill (2011) considered the validity of college students’ self-reported learning gains, including the potential for social desirability bias and a generalized disposition toward reporting gains to influence student responses. Their analysis suggested that social desirability bias and a disposition toward reporting gains was present for first-year students, but not for more advanced undergraduate students, and they recommended correcting for potential biases using statistical methods, as well as continuing to develop alternative methods for student self-reporting of learning gains, particularly for first-year students (Bowman, 2010a, 2011). Porter (2011) also considered the validity of students’ self-reported data in the context of student engagement survey instruments, concluding that students’ ability to self-assess their learning outcomes and recall information in self-reporting their behaviors was concerning and broadly called the validity of student survey instruments into question. He suggested a need to consider alternative methods of data collection, such as time-use diaries and alternative measures of student outcomes, to better assess the indicators and outcomes of student engagement. However, other scholars have noted the importance of including student self-reported data as a complement to other measures of student engagement, such as class attendance, academic performance, or instructor effectiveness. For example, Appleton et al. (2006) recommended the use of student self-reported data in assessing students’ levels or emotional and cognitive engagement, suggesting that these measures of student perceptions of their own engagement are essential in understanding student behaviors and attitudes. Validity of the National Survey of Student Engagement (NSSE) In the United States, the validity and reliability of the NSSE have been evaluated by researchers. For example, Kuh et al. (2007b) found that the NSSE instrument was

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valid and reliable across diverse student samples and in different institutional contexts, noting psychometric evaluations suggested that students were able to appropriately interpret and answer the survey’s questions. Pascarella et al. (2008) also considered the predictive validity of the NSSE benchmarks using data from the Wabash National Study of Liberal Arts Education, which was a longitudinal, multiinstitutional study (of primarily liberal arts colleges) that included the NSSE survey instrument. This analysis found that four of the five NSSE benchmarks were positively predictive of student outcomes, including critical thinking, moral reasoning, intercultural effectiveness, and psychological well-being. Additionally, Zilvinskis et al. (2017) considered the predictive validity of the NSSE when evaluating two versions of the instrument: the 2011 version and a revised version of the instrument from 2013. Their analysis found evidence of positive associations between student engagement measures and students’ self-reported learning gains on both instruments. They also provided evidence that NSSE’s revised engagement indicators (higher-order learning, reflective and integrative learning, learning strategies, quantitative reasoning, collaborative learning, discussions with diverse others, student–faculty interaction, effective teaching practices, quality of interactions, and support campus environments) were more discriminant measures that were less correlated with one another and demonstrated higher predictive validity than prior NSSE measures and benchmarks. However, other scholars have critiqued the validity of the NSSE, particularly its designated educational benchmarks and its validity in some institutional contexts. For example, Porter (2011) raised questions about the validity of the NSSE instrument (and other survey instruments measuring student engagement and experiences), suggesting that survey measures often lacked theoretical grounding; that students’ recall and self-reporting of their behaviors and attitudes raised questions of validity; that NSSE’s five benchmarks of educational practice did not meet minimum standards for reliability; and that NSSE measures lacked predictive validity in terms of predicting measures of student learning. LaNasa et al. (2009) also evaluated the NSSE’s construct validity using data from a research university. Their confirmatory factor analysis found that factor loadings for several items were lower than expected and that there was a significant overlap between some of the five benchmarks. They proposed a revised set of eight student engagement measures that demonstrated a better model fit and addressed some of the measurement issues they identified in their analysis. Similarly, Campbell and Cabrera (2011) considered the construct validity and predictive validity of NSSE’s five benchmarks of effective educational practice, using confirmatory factor analysis and structural equation modeling with a large institutional sample at a research university. Findings from their analysis suggested that there were a number of “substantial correlations among the latent constructs representing the NSSE five benchmarks” (p. 90) and that many of the NSSE benchmarks demonstrated poor alpha reliabilities and low factor loadings. Their findings also suggested that the five benchmarks were poor predictors of students’ GPA in their institutional sample. Finally, Gordon et al. (2008) evaluated the NSSE’s predictive validity using a large multiyear institutional sample at a research university, finding that the NSSE benchmarks were again limited predictors

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of academic performance, student retention at their institution, educational aspirations, and reported employment at the time of graduation.

Validity of the Community College Survey of Student Engagement (CCSSE) Scholars have also evaluated the validity of the CCSSE instrument. For example, Marti (2004) conducted a confirmatory factor analysis of the CCSSE that supported a nine-factor model with five educational benchmarks, including active and collaborative learning, student effort, academic challenge, student–faculty interaction, and support for learners. Additionally, these factors were validated and were shown to be predictive of community college students’ GPA, credit completion, and persistence to the second year of college (McClenney & Marti, 2006; McClenney et al., 2007). However, other researchers have offered critiques of the CCSSE’s validity. For example, Nora et al. (2011) evaluated the construct validity of the CCSSE benchmarks of effective educational practice. Their factor analysis concluded that there were significant differences in the latent factor structure of the instrument compared to the existing benchmarks, noting that . . . (a) the factor analysis derived collaborative learning and active learning were two separate constructs, contradicting the presumption that they are one; (b) faculty-student interaction items did not group as a single factor; rather, three of the faculty interaction items loaded on other collaborative learning items; and (3) the five-factor structure derived from the data reduction analysis resulted in the following five latent constructs: collaborative learning, active learning, academic challenge, support for learners, and student effort. (p. 115)

Other studies have examined the construct validity of the CCSSE and offered alternative engagement dimensions, such as McCarrell and Selznick (2020), who conducted a factor analysis of CCSSE data and developed a seven-factor model of community college student engagement. These seven factors included student–faculty contact, student cooperation, active learning, prompt feedback, time on task, high expectations, and respect and responsibility; the authors suggested that these alternative dimensions of student engagement may provide a more theoretically sound conceptualization of student engagement in community college settings than existing benchmarks.

Critiques About Student Engagement Data Use by Institutions and Governing Bodies Other researchers have offered critiques of the use of student engagement surveys to assess institutional effectiveness. For example, Macfarlane and Tomlinson (2017) offered six critiques of student engagement data use by institutions and governing bodies, suggesting that engagement data use may have negative consequences in terms of higher learning goals or may contribute to the neoliberalization of the university. These six critiques included performativity (use of student engagement data to assess the performance of learners and of institutional learning), marketing (use of data to promote an institution in a competitive institutional environment),

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infantilization (use of data to enact compulsory attendance or class participation and other learning approaches common to youth education), surveillance (use of data to track, analyze, and store student behaviors and other information), gamification (use of data to encourage the gamification of learning for the sole purposes of student satisfaction and enjoyment), and opposition (use of data to enact norms of learning environments that are resistant to opposition or challenge). Some scholars have also questioned the use of student engagement survey instruments without considering changes in context. For example, Hagel et al. (2012) discussed the importance of considering educational and national contexts in developing instruments that measure student engagement and learning. These authors noted that “by borrowing its student engagement scales from the USA, Australia has adopted a conception of student engagement and a measurement instrument that fails to capture some important aspects of engagement. There are contextual differences between the higher education systems of the two countries that raise questions about how well the scales apply” (p. 484). They also noted that this consideration of context is essential, given an Australian government plan to include assessments of student engagement in funding decisions for Australian public universities.

Conclusion: Measuring Student Engagement Overall, there have been many attempts to measure student engagement in higher education, primarily through large-scale quantitative survey instruments. These instruments have been developed and revised over time and have been adapted for educational contexts around the world. These instruments have been used by colleges and universities for institutional assessment, governing bodies to evaluate institutional effectiveness, and researchers in developing a deeper understanding of contributors to student engagement and resulting outcomes from students’ engagement or disengagement. These instruments and measures have also helped to more clearly define indicators of student engagement and indicators of effective educational practice and environments that support engagement.

Key Findings from the Research Literature on Student Engagement The research literature on student engagement is abundant and has spanned more than two decades. Skinner and Pitzer (2012) suggested that, when examining student engagement, researchers should separately consider facilitators of student engagement, indicators of student engagement, and outcomes of student engagement. This framework will be used in this section to review key findings from the research literature on student engagement, and I add to this framework by also considering precursors to student engagement. Specifically, this section will discuss precursors to student engagement in higher education, focusing on the literature pertaining to engagement in K-12 schools; facilitators of student engagement in higher education,

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discussing research on postsecondary student experiences and environments that contribute to increased engagement in higher education; and outcomes of student engagement in higher education. This section will not discuss specific indicators of student engagement, as these indicators, and the measures used to assess them, have been discussed above. This review of literature focuses on research published in the last 15–20 years, emphasizing studies that employed multi-institutional or largescale data sets designed to examine the dimensions of student engagement in higher education settings.

Precursors to Student Engagement in Higher Education Students’ early educational experiences have the potential to shape their engagement in the higher education learning environment. Researchers have noted that students’ precollege behaviors, attributes, and achievements are associated with their expectations, behaviors, and performance in college (Cole et al., 2009). Studies of precollege student engagement have examined students’ motivation, attendance patterns, completion of homework and assignments, and interactions with teachers and peers in the K-12 school environment. These studies have also considered how students’ engagement in school learning environments shapes their educational aspirations to attend a college or university and their academic achievement and preparation for higher education. For example, Skinner and Pitzer (2012) noted that research on student engagement in K-12 education has linked student–teacher relationships, cooperative learning experiences, small classroom sizes, and learning communities to increased student engagement, while school discipline, unsafe school environments, and unfair treatment have been associated with decreased student engagement. They also noted that research has shown that outcomes of increased student engagement in K-12 schools include academic achievement and higher grades, persistence to high school graduation, reinforced motivation, and future (postsecondary) educational attainment, whereas low levels of engagement or measures of student disengagement have been associated with decreased academic performance, academic cheating, and student dropout. These factors point to important precursors to students’ potential engagement in the higher education learning environment. Studies using the MGSSE have suggested that a majority of students in the middle grades reported feeling motivated to engage in the learning process, regularly completing homework and class assignments, and frequently being engaged in school activities (Stringer, 2022a). Additionally, students reported that teachers and peers played a role in increasing their levels of engagement. Research using the HSSSE has shown similar results as most high school students reported that they felt motivated to learn and prepare for postsecondary education or a career, regularly attended classes and completed assignments, and felt like they were a part of their school communities (Stringer, 2022b). Overall, findings from the MGSSE and HSSSE suggest that students are exhibiting favorable engagement attitudes and behaviors in K-12 education and are generally motivated by their learning environments.

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However, some research has suggested that high school students are spending insufficient amounts of time engaging in academically purposeful activities during school. McCarthy and Kuh (2006) noted that half of the senior students reported that they engaged in studying or preparing for class less than three hours per week. Kuh (2007) also noted that overall findings from the HSSSE suggest that students’ engagement in school settings may be less than optimal and may contribute to decreased motivation and preparation for higher education.

Facilitators of Student Engagement in Higher Education Researchers have also identified a number of classroom and nonclassroom experiences in higher education that are positively associated with student engagement. These experiences include students’ behaviors, participation, and levels of effort, as well as institutional practices and approaches that facilitate student engagement. This section will examine some of these facilitators of student engagement, including effective teaching practices, participation in high-impact educational practices, and student–faculty interactions and experiences, highlighting notable findings from the higher education research literature related to these important college experiences and institutional practices.

Effective Teaching Practices Higher education scholars have considered the role of effective college and university teaching practices and their contributions to students’ engagement and outcomes. Researchers have also specifically considered effective teaching approaches designed to deepen thinking, synthesis, analysis, and application of learning material. For example, researchers have examined students’ exposure to higher-order, reflective, and integrative learning experiences and their associations with student engagement in higher education. Nelson Laird et al. (2005) specified a measure of “deep approaches to learning,” which included several higher-order, reflective, and integrative learning experiences. These deep approaches to learning include analysis and synthesis of information, application of learning, integration of learning and ideas, and reflection on understanding and the learning process. This section will discuss some of these effective teaching practices, where studies have evaluated their potential contributions to student engagement in higher education contexts. Active and Applied Learning Experiences Scholars have also considered forms of active and applied learning and their contributions to students’ engagement. Barkley (2018) discussed active learning as a primary contributor, along with motivation, to student engagement in higher education, noting that “motivation and active learning work together synergistically, and as they interact, they contribute incrementally to increase engagement” (p. 39). Research on students’ perspectives of active learning has suggested that students have a preference for active learning approaches (Machemer & Crawford, 2007), and active learning strategies

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have been associated with remembering course content (Cherney, 2008).Studies on active learning have examined active classroom environments for their contributions to student engagement. For example, Gasiewski et al. (2012) examined college STEM courses and found that engagement was linked to instructor openness to student questions; instructor emphasis on student success; and student comfort in asking questions in class, seeking tutoring, attending supplemental instruction sessions, and collaborating with other students. Ahlfeldt et al. (2005) also found that smaller classes, upper-level classes, and use of problem-based teaching methods were associated with increased student engagement. Researchers have also evaluated the use of applied learning experiences in contributing to students’ engagement in higher education. For example, Trolian and Jach (2020) also found that several applied learning experiences, including applying concepts to practical problems or in new situations, engaging in exams or assignments that require use of course content to address a problem, engaging in research with a faculty member, and out-of-class experiences that help translate knowledge from the classroom into action were all positively associated with increases in students’ academic motivation during college. These findings suggest that active and applied learning approaches in college and university classrooms have the potential to contribute to students’ engagement in the learning process. Collaborative and Peer Learning Experiences The literature on collaborative learning uses varying terminology to refer to students’ involvement in forms of peer learning, including cooperative learning, collaborative learning, small-group learning, peer tutoring, and peer mentoring (Hanson et al., 2016b). According to Loes (2019), “[t]he phrase ‘collaborative learning’ is generally used in higher education settings to describe any instructional approach that involves a joint effort among students – under the guidance of an instructor – to achieve shared learning goals” (p. 13). Collaborative learning has been linked to improvement in students’ attitudes toward learning and academic motivation in college classrooms (Barkley et al., 2014). It has also been associated with gains in cognitive development and interest in cognitive activities (Loes & An, 2021), such that collaborative learning activities were associated with students’ use of higher-order, integrative, and reflective learning in groups, which in turn led to students’ cognitive gains. Gasiewski et al. (2012) also found that collaboration among peers in STEM courses was positively associated with students’ level of engagement in the course, and Herrmann (2013) found that cooperative learning increased students’ in-class participation and engagement in class discussions. Researchers have also considered students’ interactions with their peers, including classroom interactions, social interactions, and interactions with diversity, and their relationship to student engagement. Wilcox et al. (2005) found that first-year students who reported social support from their peers were more likely to be confident in their academic work. Similarly, Krause et al. (2005) found that peer interaction in the context of learning communities was associated with higher levels of student engagement and lower levels of student departure from their universities. Studies have also considered peer mentoring programs in higher education.

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DeMarinis et al. (2017) found that first-year peer mentoring program participation was linked to successful student transitions, awareness of campus support resources, and academic performance. Other research has considered students’ peer interactions with diversity, concluding that positive peer interactions with diverse students were associated with academic self-confidence, social agency, and critical thinking dispositions (Nelson Laird, 2005). Similarly, Umbach and Kuh (2006) found that students who interacted with diverse peers reported higher levels of academic challenge, active and collaborative learning, gains in personal and educational growth, and were more satisfied with their college experiences.

Participation in High-Impact Practices The Boyer Commission (1998) suggested several undergraduate experiences that had the potential to contribute to student learning and outcomes, including first-year experience programs; an interdisciplinary curriculum; an emphasis on written and oral communication; active, collaborative, and inquiry-based teaching; senior capstone experiences; and undergraduate research. Similarly, the Association of American Colleges and Universities [AAC&U] (2007) and Kuh (2008) identified several experiences in higher education that were considered to be high-impact, owing to their evidence-based contributions to student learning and outcomes, such as college persistence and completion (McDaniel & Van Jura, 2022) and development of critical thinking and other cognitive skills (Kilgo et al., 2015). These high-impact practices (HIPs) included participation in first-year seminars and experiences, common intellectual experiences, learning communities, writing intensive courses, collaborative assignments and projects, undergraduate research, diversity/global learning, service learning and community-based learning, internships, and capstone courses and projects. However, some research has concluded that only some HIPs are directly associated with student outcomes (Johnson & Stage, 2018; Kilgo et al., 2015), and other researchers found that the relationships between HIPs and college outcomes may be moderated by student characteristics such as gender and precollege academic ability (Seifert et al., 2014), suggesting a need for additional research on how each HIP may contribute to varying college outcomes. Many HIPs have also been identified as contributors to student engagement. For example, studies have examined several HIPs and whether they predicted students’ cognitive and behavioral engagement, finding that service-learning experiences, collaborative learning experiences, and internship participation were predictors of students’ cognitive engagement, and service-learning experiences, collaborative learning experiences, participation in a learning community, completing diversityrelated courses, study abroad participation, and completing writing-intensive courses were predictors of students’ behavioral engagement (Sweat et al., 2013). This section will discuss some of these identified high-impact experiences, where researchers have examined their contributions to student engagement in higher education contexts. First-Year Seminars and Experiences Higher education researchers have evaluated students’ participation in first-year seminar courses and other first-year

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experiences in order to determine their potential contributions to student engagement in college. For example, Hauck et al. (2020) examined the relationship between academic performance in first-year seminar courses and student engagement. Results suggested that students who performed better in a first-year seminar course had higher levels of engagement in terms of academic engagement and student–faculty interactions, and students enrolled in these courses additionally had higher academic self-efficacy, higher first semester GPAs, and were more likely to persist to their second semester of college. Keup and Barefoot (2005) also evaluated whether enrollment in a first-year seminar course was associated with several engagement behaviors during college. Results suggested that first-year seminar course completion predicted interactions with faculty members, speaking up in class, participating in collaborative learning with other students, regular class attendance, engagement in the campus community, and development of close peer friendships. Finally, in a meta-analysis of college intervention programs, Robbins et al. (2009) considered the role of first-year experience courses as an intervention in contributing to student outcomes. Results of this analysis suggested that first-year experience courses seemed to improve motivational control and emotional control, which, in turn, led to small, but significant, increases in student academic performance and retention. According to Robbins et al., “Motivational control refers to the self-regulatory mechanism by which individuals are able to act on prescribed behaviors to implement training activities. Emotional control refers to the ability to self-manage or regulate attitudes and feelings that directly affect participant receptiveness to, and implementation of, training activities” (p. 1164). Both motivational and emotional control are skills associated with self-regulated learning, which has been considered one dimension of cognitive engagement (Reschly & Christenson, 2012). That is, first-year experience courses were associated with motivational and emotional control, which were subsequently related modestly to student achievement and retention. Scholars have also evaluated the relationship between first-year student success courses and students’ engagement. For example, Kimbark et al. (2016) examined student enrollment in a first-year community college student success course using CCSSE data. Findings suggested that students who completed the student success course exhibited higher levels of academic course engagement and student–faculty interaction. Mills (2010) also considered the link between enrollment in student success courses in community colleges and several measures of student engagement, determining that completion of a student success course was positively associated with several measures of student engagement, including use of campus support services, student–faculty interactions, and use of active and collaborative learning behaviors such as classroom participation and engagement with peers. Other studies have considered broader student success and first-year experience programs and their relationship with student engagement. Hatch (2017) evaluated the design characteristics of student success programs at community colleges using CCSSE data, including their curricular elements, duration, and context, and the contribution of each of these design characteristics to students’ engagement. This study found that

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some success program design features were more salient in fostering student engagement. For example, programs that emphasized college success skills were associated with engagement in higher levels of academic challenge, and programs that emphasized co-curricular and community activities were associated with engagement in active and collaborative learning and higher degrees of student effort. These findings suggest that first-year seminar courses, student success courses, and success programs may help foster student engagement in the college and university learning environment. However, it is important to note that findings about first-year seminars and their contributions to broader student success outcomes have been mixed. Culver and Bowman (2020) used quasi-experimental methods and longitudinal data from the Wabash National Study of Liberal Arts Education to evaluate the relationship between first-year seminar enrollment and several measures of student success, but they found that first-year seminars did not contribute directly to students’ academic achievement, adjustment, and retention. Similarly, Johnson and Stage (2018) examined institutional availability and requirements for several HIPs, including “freshman seminars, core curriculum, learning communities, writing-intensive courses, collaborative assignments, undergraduate research, study abroad, service learning, internships, and senior capstone or thesis” (p. 763) and whether they predicted 4- and 6-year institutional graduation rates. This study found that there was no significant relationship between HIPs and 4- and 6-year graduation rates, and that two HIPs (participating in an internship and completing a freshman seminar) were actually negative predictors of graduation rates. These results suggest that first-year seminars and programs may help encourage students’ engagement along some dimensions, but that they are limited in their broader contribution to student achievement and other outcomes. Learning Communities Higher education learning communities have been designed in many formats and contexts, including smaller residential life programs, medium-sized student affairs/academic affairs combination programs, and larger student affairs/academic affairs collaboration programs (Inkelas et al., 2008). These cohort programs involve a formal program in which students complete two or more courses together and often include a residential living component. Higher education researchers have considered these undergraduate experiences and their contributions to student engagement and college outcomes. For example, Zhao and Kuh (2004) found that learning community participation was positively associated with student engagement measures of academic effort, academic integration, active and collaborative learning, student–faculty interaction, engaging in diversity-related activities, and coursework that emphasized higher-order thinking skills. Similarly, Pike et al. (2011a) found that learning community participation, both for first-year students and senior students, was positively associated with several measures of student engagement, including academic effort, higher-order thinking, experiences with diversity, active and collaborative learning, student–faculty interactions, and experiencing a supportive campus environment. Hurtado et al. (2020) also used NSSE data to examine the link between learning community participation and student engagement. They found that learning community participants were more

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likely to exhibit student engagement behaviors such as attending class, interacting with faculty members and academic advisors, using campus support services, studying with other students, attending social or co-curricular activities, attending diversity-related activities, and attending health and wellness activities. These findings suggest that participation in learning communities may contribute to student engagement in the college and university learning environment. However, it is important to note that findings about learning communities and their relationship to broader student success outcomes have again been mixed. For example, Beachboard et al. (2011) examined the relationship between learning community participation and measures of academic development and job preparation. This study also considered the role of belongingness in mediating these relationships. Results of the study indicated that learning community participation did not predict academic development and only marginally predicted job preparation. Results also showed that belongingness mediated the relationship between learning community participation and each outcome, suggesting that the benefits of learning communities may rest with their cultivation of student relationships and sense of belonging. Additionally, Pike et al. (2011b) evaluated student participation in learning communities in order to assess the role of self-selection in these college and university residential programs. General model findings revealed that learning communities were positively associated with students’ academic performance, but the addition of selfselection variables into this study’s statistical models nullified the statistical effect of learning communities on academic performance, suggesting that the effect of the learning community was explained by the characteristics of those students who chose to voluntarily participate in them. These findings suggest, then, that student self-selection into these experiences may play a role in evaluating their effect on student engagement behaviors, and any effects on other measures of student success or outcomes may be indirect. Undergraduate Research Experiences Undergraduate research has been broadly defined “to include scientific inquiry, creative activity, and scholarship” (Kinkead, 2003, p. 6), and higher education scholars have considered the role of undergraduate research experiences in fostering student engagement. For instance, using data from the Survey of Undergraduate Research Experiences, Lopatto (2004) examined the contributions of undergraduate research experiences in terms of students’ educational aspirations, academic self-confidence, problem-solving and analytical skills, and ability to work independently, determining that undergraduate research experiences were associated with each of these skills, attitudes, and behaviors. Lopatto (2007) also concluded that undergraduate research experiences helped to foster students’ independence, intrinsic motivations to learn, and active participation (in courses taken post-research experience). Eagan et al. (2013) also considered the role of undergraduate research experiences in fostering graduate degree aspirations for STEM majors using data from the Cooperative Institutional Research Program. They found that undergraduate research participation increased the probability of intending to enroll in a STEM graduate program.

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Buckley et al. (2008) also used NSSE data to evaluate the contributions of undergraduate research experiences in terms of students’ intellectual skills, career and collaborative skills, and research skills. The results indicated that students who participated in undergraduate research reported higher skill levels in all three categories, suggesting the role that these experiences may play in fostering students’ engagement and academic skills development. Russell et al. (2007) also evaluated the potential benefits of undergraduate research experiences, concluding that these experiences were positively associated with students’ understanding of how to conduct research, academic confidence, educational aspirations to earn a graduate degree, and interest in STEM fields. Finally, Douglass and Zhao (2013) used data from the Student Experience in the Research University survey to consider whether undergraduate research experiences were linked to students’ engagement. This study’s findings suggested that undergraduate research was positively associated with increased field knowledge, communication skills, research skills, higher levels of satisfaction, better use of time, and higher levels of nonquantitative skills. These findings overall suggest that undergraduate research experiences have the potential to foster student learning and engagement. However, some of the findings linking undergraduate research experiences to broader college outcomes have again been mixed. For example, Hu et al. (2008) used data from the College Student Experience Questionnaire to consider the relationship between inquiry-oriented activities in college (e.g., working with faculty on research, completing an experiment) and students’ self-reported gains in five key areas: general education, personal development, vocational preparation, science and technology, and intellectual development. Findings from the study suggested that inquiry-oriented activities were positively associated with gains in science and technology, vocational preparation, and intellectual development, but they were negatively associated with gains in general education and personal development. Further, the study found that inquiry-oriented activities were correlated with engagement in other educationally purposeful activities, including library use, technology use, campus facility use, and participation in campus activities. These findings suggest that undergraduate research activities may offer some contribution to students’ engagement and outcomes, but those contributions may be limited in scope. Experiences with Diversity and Global Learning Higher education researchers have also considered the relationship between students’ experiences with diversity, exposure to diverse viewpoints, and participation in global learning experiences, such as study abroad, and their engagement in college. For example, Gonyea (2008) examined student participation in study abroad experiences, finding that students who studied abroad had higher levels of student engagement in their senior year of college after their experiences abroad. Specifically, students exhibited higher levels of engagement in terms of two deep learning measures: integrative and reflective learning. Coker et al. (2018) similarly found that semester-length study abroad experiences were associated with student engagement in terms of increased contributions to classroom discussions, including diverse perspectives in discussions and assignments, synthesizing ideas, demonstrating increased empathy, improved

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critical thinking skills, and being able to work effectively with others. Studies have also examined students’ experiences with diverse viewpoints and their connection to measures of student engagement. Bowman et al. (2015) considered whether attending a college or university with a climate that was open to and interested in various religious or worldviews was associated with measures of student engagement. The authors noted, “A positive religious/worldview climate is linked to interactions across several forms of non-religious difference (i.e., racial, socioeconomic, national, and cultural) that occur within and outside of the classroom” (p. 32). This climate was also positively associated with several specific forms of student engagement, including participation in service-learning, study abroad, engaged learning, and interracial interactions. Studies have also considered students’ experiences with diversity in college and their contributions to students’ engagement behaviors. For example, in a metaanalysis examining students’ diversity experiences and their relationship to students’ cognitive attitudes and outcomes, Bowman (2010b) concluded that interactions with racial and nonracial diversity, diversity coursework, and diversity workshops were all positively associated with students’ cognitive growth, in terms of cognitive tendencies, cognitive skills, and other cognitive outcomes. In particular, students’ interactions with racial diversity were the most salient contributor to students’ cognitive tendencies and outcomes, suggesting the particular role that diverse interactional experiences may play in fostering cognitive engagement in higher education. Denson and Chang (2009) also considered the role of diversity experiences in contributing to students’ academic self-efficacy, academic skills, and racial/ cultural engagement in college. Diversity experiences measured in the study included curricular diversity, cross-racial interaction, and structural diversity of the college or university. Results indicated that these measures of diversity were associated with academic self-efficacy, academic skills, and racial/cultural engagement in college to varying degrees. The authors noted, “When students interact more frequently across race or engage with diversity by taking ethnic studies courses, participating in racial-cultural awareness workshops, or joining ethnic-racial student organizations, they also tend to report higher levels of self-efficacy and self-change concerning general academic skills and racial-cultural engagement” (p. 343). Overall, these findings suggest that students’ encounters with diversity and global learning can help foster and encourage their engagement in the higher education learning environment.

Student–Faculty Interactions and Experiences Studies in the higher education literature have also examined students’ interactions and experiences with faculty, and whether these experiences are associated with various dimensions of student engagement. For example, Deil-Amen (2011) concluded that interactions between students and faculty in community colleges were beneficial for students in terms of both their social and academic integration into the college environment. Researchers have also examined students’ interactions with faculty and found that these experiences were positively associated with improved

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course grades (Guerrero & Rod, 2013), and other research has linked student–faculty interactions to improved educational aspirations (Hanson et al., 2016a, b; Kim & Sax, 2009; Trolian & Parker, 2017). Research connecting student–faculty experiences and engagement has also considered the link between student–faculty experiences and students’ academic dispositions. Trolian et al. (2016) found that student–faculty interactions were positively related to students’ academic motivation, and Komarraju et al. (2010) found that these interactions were linked to improved academic motivation, academic self-concept, and academic achievement. Scholars have also considered the relationship between students’ interactions with faculty and their levels of engagement. For instance, Umbach and Wawrzynski (2005) found that student–faculty interactions were associated with higher levels of student engagement in college, and Kim and Lundberg (2016) determined that interactions between students and faculty predicted higher levels of classroom engagement. Kinzie (2005) also determined that student–faculty interactions were associated with student engagement in various settings, including virtual contact, such as email. Studies have also revealed that student–faculty interactions may contribute to underrepresented students’ engagement, such as Black college students’ academic and social engagement (Beasley, 2021). Similarly, Garvey et al. (2018) concluded that interactions between LGBQ students and faculty were associated with increased engagement in high-impact practices, such as learning communities, internships, study abroad, or senior experiences.

Differential Engagement for Different Populations of Students Researchers have also considered whether different populations of students exhibit differential levels or types of student engagement. Kinzie et al. (2007) found that female students were more likely to participate in student engagement experiences than male students. This differential engagement occurred for time and effort engaged in academic challenge tasks, such as working hard to meet expectations and spending time studying, and in active and collaborative learning activities. Hu and Wolniak (2013) also found that male students were more likely to be academically engaged than female students, but males were less socially engaged than females. They also found that Hispanic students had the highest levels of academic engagement, and African American students had the highest levels of social engagement, while Native American students had the lowest levels of academic and social engagement overall. Additionally, Sax et al. (2005) found that female students were more likely to have frequent and positive interactions with faculty than male students. However, Harper et al. (2004) found that, in the context of historically Black colleges and universities (HBCUs), male students were more likely than female students to report engaging in student–faculty interactions, while female students were more likely than male students to report engagement in academically challenging experiences. In terms of differential engagement by race/ethnicity, Kuh (2008) observed that participation in some HIPs differed by racial/ethnic group: White students were more

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likely than other racial groups to participate in internships and senior capstone experiences, African American students were more likely to participate in servicelearning experiences, White and Asian students were more likely to engage in study abroad experiences, and Asian students are more likely to participate in research with a faculty member. Similarly, Sweat et al. (2013) found that, while engagement in HIPs were associated with cognitive and behavioral engagement overall, White students were more likely to be exposed to and engage in HIPs than Students of Color. Other studies have considered differential engagement in terms of students’ ability or disability status. For example, Hendrickson et al. (2015) considered differences in first-year student engagement using the five NSSE educational benchmarks (level of academic challenge, active and collaborative learning, student–faculty interaction, supportive campus environment, and enriching educational experiences) and measures of deep approaches to learning (higher-order learning, reflective learning, and integrative learning). Results from this study suggested that there were no differences between students with intellectual disabilities and students without disabilities in terms of levels of engagement. However, Hedrick et al. (2010) also examined differences in student engagement using the five NSSE educational benchmarks, considering disability status in three categories – students without a disability, students with a single disability, and students with multiple disabilities – and findings suggested that students with either single or multiple disabilities reported different levels of engagement on two of the benchmarks when compared to students without a disability. Students with disabilities reported more satisfaction with their student–faculty interactions than students without disabilities, while students with disabilities reported lower satisfaction with experiencing a supportive campus environment than students without disabilities. Scholars have also evaluated disparities in levels of student engagement for firstgeneration students, transfer students, international students, and other student populations. For example, Porter (2006) found that female students, Blacks and Hispanic students, students on financial aid, full-time students, on-campus residents, and humanities and science majors tended to be more engaged, while firstgeneration, working students, and undeclared major students were less engaged. Lundberg et al. (2007) considered whether first-generation students’ engagement in student activities and experiences (e.g., use of library and other resources, involvement in course-related activities, student–faculty interactions, participation in student organizations) differed for first-generation and continuing-generation students. This study found that first-generation students demonstrated lower engagement on four measures – effort invested in course learning, frequency of attending fine arts events, experiences with student acquaintances, and involvement in scientific experiences – than their continuing-generation peers. However, Dong (2019) considered first-generation students’ engagement, finding that first-generation and continuinggeneration students reported similar engagement experiences with faculty and advisors, as well as participation in experiences such as study abroad, faculty-mentored research, internships, and leadership experiences.

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Finley and McNair (2013) also considered HIP participation for different populations of students and determined that first-generation students engaged in fewer HIPs than continuing-generation students; transfer students engaged in more HIPs than nontransfer students; and White students engaged in more HIPs than Asian American and Hispanic students. Conversely, Zilvinskis and Dumford (2018) examined HIP participation for community college transfer students, concluding that transfer students were less likely to report participating in HIPs than nontransfer students. Zhao et al. (2005) found that international students exhibited higher levels of student engagement than domestic students in terms of levels of academic challenge, active and collaborative learning, student–faculty interaction, and technology use, but they were less engaged in engaged in active and collaborative learning and community service and were less satisfied with their overall college experiences. Finally, Zhao and Kuh (2004) found that learning community participation, which was positively related to increased levels of student engagement, was more common for women, Students of Color, students from families with lower levels of parental education, full-time students, students in preprofessional majors, members of fraternities and sororities, and students with multiple academic majors. These and other studies of different student groups suggest that students’ levels and types of engagement may differ, depending on a host of student characteristics.

Outcomes of Student Engagement in Higher Education Student engagement has also been associated with a host of important college outcomes, including retention, persistence, and degree completion; academic achievement; critical thinking skills and cognitive and intellectual development; labor market and career outcomes; and affective and psychosocial outcomes. This section will discuss key findings from the higher education research literature related to student engagement and its potential contribution to these outcomes.

College Retention, Persistence, and Completion Researchers have considered the relationship between student engagement and students’ retention, persistence, and degree completion in higher education. For example, Kuh et al. (2008) used NSSE data and found that first-year student engagement measures, including time spent studying, time spent in co-curricular activities, and a measure of engagement in effective educational practices, predicted student persistence in the second year of college. Nelson Laird et al. (2008a, b) also considered the role of student engagement in predicting higher persistence rates using multiyear data from the NSSE, finding that higher levels of academic challenge, active and collaborative learning, and supportive campus environments were associated with higher institutional retention rates. Additionally, Hu (2011) examined the relationship between students’ academic and social engagement behaviors and student persistence using data from the Washington State Achievers program. This study suggested mixed findings, where engagement in social activities was positively associated with college persistence, but academic engagement, when not

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paired with high levels of reported social engagement, was negatively related to student persistence. Another study by Flynn (2014), which used data from the 2004/09 Beginning Postsecondary Students Longitudinal Study, considered whether students’ academic and social engagement behaviors were associated with third-year college persistence and degree attainment at four-year institutions. They observed that both academic and social student engagement behaviors were positively related to third-year college persistence and bachelor’s degree attainment. Finally, Price and Tovar (2014) examined data from the CCSSE to evaluate the relationship between student engagement and graduation rates of community college students and concluded that two student engagement benchmarks measured by the CCSSE – active and collaborative learning and support for learners – were positive predictors of student graduation rates. These findings suggest the potentially positive role that student engagement plays in fostering student retention, persistence, and degree completion.

Academic Achievement Studies have concluded that engagement in the first year of college is positively associated with student learning outcomes. Gonyea (2006) used data from the College Student Experiences Questionnaire to consider whether student engagement in the first year of college was associated with first-year GPA, self-reported gains in intellectual skills, and self-reported gains in general education. This study found that several social engagement measures, including student–faculty interactions, diversity interactions, and engaging in substantive conversations about current and social issues, were associated with gains in general skills. Additionally, engaging in substantive conversations was also associated with gains in intellectual skills. Several measures of academic engagement were also associated with first-year GPA, intellectual skills, and general education, including reading and writing, attending tutoring, and participation in integrative learning activities. Kuh et al. (2008) also used NSSE data to evaluate the relationship between student engagement behaviors on first-year college grades. The results indicated that several student engagement measures, including time spent studying, time spent in co-curricular activities, and a 19-item measure of engagement in effective educational practices, were associated with higher grades at the end of the first year of college. Studies have also considered the association between student engagement and academic achievement at the end of college. For example, Carini et al. (2006) found that several measures of student engagement were positively associated with having a higher overall college GPA, including reporting higher levels of academic challenge, active and collaborative learning, student–faculty interactions, supportive campus environments, institutional emphasis on good practices, and integration of diversity into coursework. These findings were consistent with a study conducted by Fuller et al. (2011), who used multiple years of NSSE data to evaluate contributors to student GPA, finding that level of academic challenge predicted first-year GPA, and active and collaborative learning predicted senior-year GPA. Kuh et al. (2007b) also found that hours spent studying and preparing for class were positively associated with students’ fourth-year college GPA. These findings suggest that several

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dimensions of student engagement may contribute to positive academic achievement outcomes for students.

Critical Thinking Skills and Cognitive and Intellectual Development Higher education scholars have also examined the relationship between student engagement and students’ critical thinking gains and cognitive and intellectual development in college. For example, Cruce et al. (2006) used data from the National Study of Student Learning to consider whether several student engagement experiences were associated with students’ first-year cognitive development, orientations to learning, and post-baccalaureate educational aspirations. Results of the study suggested that several engagement experiences were related to these outcomes, including effective teaching and interactions with faculty, peer interactions, and intellectual challenge/high expectations. Similarly, Carini et al. (2006) found that several measures of student engagement (writing multiple short course papers, attending class having completed readings and assignments, quality of relationships with faculty and administrative personnel and offices, and students reporting that they worked hard to meet instructors’ expectations) were associated with higher scores on a first-year critical thinking assessment instrument. Senior students also exhibited positive outcomes from student engagement (working with other students on class projects, integrating ideas from different courses, high-quality academic advising, institutions that emphasized contact among students of different backgrounds, and attendance of campus events and activities) in terms of senior-year critical thinking skills measures. Kilgo et al. (2015) considered whether students’ engagement in several HIPs was connected to their critical thinking skills and interest in cognitively challenging activities. Their study found that some student engagement experiences were positively associated with these cognitive outcomes, including active and collaborative learning, undergraduate research, and senior capstone experiences. Scholars have also concluded that exposure to deep approaches to learning has been linked to critical thinking and interest in cognitive and literacy activities (Nelson Laird et al., 2014), moral reasoning development (Mayhew et al., 2012), and critical thinking dispositions and reflective skills (Nelson Laird et al., 2008a, b). Additionally, studies have suggested that the use of clear and organized classroom instructional approaches was associated with critical thinking and interest in cognitive activities, but this relationship is mediated through exposure to classroom practices that involve higher-order, reflective, and integrative learning (Wang et al., 2015). Bowman et al. (2023) also examined long-term outcomes of student exposure to good teaching practices, academic challenge, and interactions with diversity during college using alumni survey data from the Higher Education Data Sharing Consortium. This study found that all three of these educational experiences were positively associated with students’ perceived intellectual and civic growth outcomes, suggesting that these experiences may contribute to student learning and outcomes long term. Overall, findings from the research literature suggest that various forms of student engagement may be influential in fostering students’ critical thinking skills, as well as their cognitive and intellectual outcomes in higher education.

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Labor Market and Career Outcomes Researchers have also examined the association between student engagement and students’ labor market and career outcomes. For example, Hu and Wolniak (2010) used data from the Gates Millennium Scholars program to examine the relationship between academic and social engagement and students’ early career earnings in the labor market, while considering conditional effects for students who majored in STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) and non-STEM fields. This study found that social engagement behaviors were positively associated with early career earnings for students in STEM fields but were not significant for students in non-STEM fields; and academic engagement was negatively associated with early career earnings for students in STEM fields but was positively associated with early career earnings for non-STEM students. These findings suggest the importance of both social and academic engagement behaviors for students in college in affecting students’ early career earnings after college. Using data from the Wabash National Study of Liberal Arts Education, Trolian et al. (2021) examined the relationship between students’ engagement with faculty in higher education and their career attitudes and concluded that student–faculty interactions were favorably associated with students’ positive career attitudes. Similarly, Jach and Trolian’s (2022) findings suggested that several student engagement experiences were associated with positive career attitudes among students, including curricular experiences that require students to apply course learning, complete an independent study, undergraduate research, and engage in community projects. Affective and Psychosocial Outcomes Studies have also connected student engagement experiences to intercultural effectiveness, well-being, inclination to inquire and lifelong learning, personal and social development, ethical and moral reasoning development, and civic responsibility. Seifert et al. (2008) examined the relationship between several outcomes and exposure to liberal arts educational experiences, many of which have been identified as indicators of student engagement. This study found that a combined measure of these various liberal arts experiences was positively associated with increased intercultural effectiveness, well-being, and inclination to inquire and lifelong learning. Stebleton et al. (2013) also observed that measures of students’ academic engagement and sense of belonging were positively linked to the development of global and intercultural competencies using data from the Student Experience in the Research University survey. Intercultural competencies included ability to understanding the complexities of global issues, applying disciplinary knowledge in a global context, having linguistic and cultural competency in at least one language other than their own, working with people from other cultures, and working comfortably with people from other cultures. Strayhorn (2008) used data from the College Student Experiences Questionnaire and identified positive relationships between three student engagement experiences (student–faculty interactions, peer interactions, and active learning experiences) and a measure of students’ self-reported personal and social development in college. Student engagement in higher education has also been linked to the development of

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self-knowledge, ethical development, civic responsibility, and overall character development. Kuh and Umbach (2004) concluded that engagement in terms of academic challenge, active and collaborative learning, student–faculty interactions, volunteering, participation in learning communities, experiencing a supportive campus climate, and engagement in diversity-related experiences were all associated with students’ self-knowledge, ethical development, civic responsibility, and overall character development in higher education. These findings suggest that students’ engagement in higher education, both inside and outside of the classroom, has the potential to contribute to these important affective outcomes. Similarly, Chen and Chan (2020) found that student engagement also fostered students’ moral reasoning skill development. Student engagement experiences such as participation in learning communities, honors programs, and undergraduate research, as well as the quality of nonclassroom student–faculty interactions and having positive interactional diversity experiences, were all associated with students’ moral reasoning skills development in college. This study also determined, however, that having negative interactional diversity experiences in college was negatively associated with students’ moral reasoning development, suggesting that the nature of these experiences may lead to differential outcomes.

Differential Outcomes for Different Populations of Students Scholars have also considered whether student engagement for different populations of students leads to differences in learning and other outcomes. For example, Kuh et al. (2007b) concluded that student engagement in the first year of college had differential effects on first-year GPA by race/ethnicity, such that the relationship between engagement and GPA was stronger for Hispanic students compared to White students. Similarly, they found that African American students were more likely to benefit than White students from increasing their engagement in terms of persistence to the second year of college, noting that, “Although African American students at the lowest levels of engagement are less likely to persist than their White counterparts, as their engagement approaches about one standard deviation below the mean, African Americans have about the same probability of returning as Whites” (p. 21). Greene et al. (2008) also considered whether there were differences by race/ethnicity for community college students in terms of their engagement and academic performance. Findings from this study suggested that African American and Hispanic students demonstrated higher levels of engagement on several measures compared to their White peers, but they had lower academic outcomes despite higher engagement. These findings suggest the possibility of an “Effort–OutcomeGap – the result of having to put forth more effort in attempting to compensate for a pervasive combination of academic and institutional barriers to educational success” (p. 529) for minoritized students. Studies have also examined gender differences in outcomes related to student engagement. For instance, Sax et al. (2005) evaluated students’ interactions with faculty to determine whether those interactions led to different outcomes for women

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and men, finding that men students were more likely to benefit from their interactions with faculty in terms of gains in cultural awareness, commitment to promoting racial understanding, liberal political views, and political engagement, while women students benefitted from positive student–faculty interactions in terms of their wellbeing. However, Trolian et al. (2016) found that the relationship between students’ interactions with faculty and gains in academic motivation in college was not moderated by gender, suggesting that there were no gender differences in terms of benefits derived from their student–faculty interactions. Hu and Wolniak (2013) also examined student engagement and its link to post-college career outcomes for male and female students. Their analysis found that male students were more likely to earn higher wages than female students. They also found that students with high-SAT/ ACT scores had lower levels of social engagement, and students with low-SAT/ACT scores had the lowest early career wages. Finley and McNair (2013) considered the relationship between HIP participation and perceived learning gains for several populations of students, determining that first-generation students, transfer students, and students from racially minoritized backgrounds who participated more HIPs reported higher levels of engagement in deep approaches to learning and higher perceived learning gains (gains in practical competence, gains in general education, and gains in personal and social development) than students who did not participate in HIPs during college. Zhao et al. (2005) found that international student engagement was more positively associated with gains in terms of students’ self-reported personal and social development and general education than domestic students’ engagement. These and other studies of different student populations suggest that the learning and outcomes associated with student engagement may be moderated by a number of different student characteristics.

Differential Engagement and Outcomes in Different Institutional Contexts Higher education scholars have also considered the role of institutional contexts and environments in shaping students’ engagement behaviors. Porter (2006) found that institutional selectivity, institutional size, and student-to-faculty ratio were associated with student engagement, such that more selective, smaller institutions that had a lower student-to-faculty ratio had higher levels of student engagement. Kezar (2006) also considered institutional size and student engagement and determined that “large campuses and institutions with more complex missions tended to use structured activities and programs to achieve engagement. Smaller institutions and more mission-focused campuses tended to use values and philosophy to achieve engagement” (p. 98). For instance, larger campuses tended to have structured programs and activities designed to facilitate student engagement, such as undergraduate research programs and learning communities, and they used technology and peer mentoring to foster active and collaborative learning and academically challenging learning experiences. Smaller campuses, on the other hand,

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relied more often on informal interactions between students and faculty, small classes that allow for discussion and collaboration, and opportunities for intensive writing and feedback from faculty. These findings suggest that institutions may approach student engagement in different ways, depending on the size of their student body. Scholars have also evaluated how participation in some engaging practices may differ by institutional type or characteristics. For instance, Pike et al. (2011a) explored how learning community participation and engagement differed by institutional type. Results of their study determined that learning community participation and several measures of engagement, including academic effort, higher-order thinking, active and collaborative learning, and student–faculty interaction, were more strongly associated at institutions with greater percentages of part-time students and students living on campus. These results suggest that the composition of the institutional environment and the residential patterns of students may be influential in shaping students’ engagement in the educational environment. Similarly, Pike and Kuh (2005) examined interactions with diversity and student perceptions about the institutional climate and identified seven different types of engaging institutions: diverse but interpersonally fragmented, where students have experiences with diversity, but students lack a supportive campus climate; homogeneous and interpersonally cohesive, where students lack experiences with diversity but view the campus as supportive; interpersonally supportive, where students have experiences with diversity and experience a supportive campus climate; collaborative, where there are high levels of peer support for learning, and the campus climate is viewed as supportive; intellectually stimulating, where students are most focused on academic engagement and interactions with faculty; academically challenging and supportive, where students experience high expectations and higher-order thinking activities; and high-tech/low-touch, where technology use facilitates virtual interactions, but the campus lacks a stimulating interpersonal environment. This typology offers a way of thinking about institutional environments and how they may shape students’ engagement attitudes and behaviors. Kezar and Kinzie (2006) also considered the role of institutional type and mission in shaping students’ engagement in the educational environment, concluding that both type and mission were related to how campuses facilitated student engagement. Institutions examined in this study were more likely to offer programs, activities, and learning experiences that were consistent with their institutional missions, and they were more likely to offer these experiences in contexts aligned with their institutional type. For example, research universities were more likely to offer engagement experiences that centered on research, while nonresidential commuter colleges were more likely to use technology to facilitate collaboration and interaction between students and faculty and students and peers. Similarly, liberal arts colleges used intensive writing and reading approaches to engage students in academically challenging learning, while population-serving institutions, such as HBCUs, focused their curricular and co-curricular experiences on leadership, service, and social activism. Additionally, Harris and BrckaLorenz (2017) found that Black students’ engagement at HBCUs tended to be higher than at predominantly White institutions,

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and Biracial and White students tended to have more interactions with diversity and discussions about diversity at HBCUs, suggesting that minority-serving institutional environments may be more likely to facilitate some forms of student engagement. The findings from these studies suggest that institutional type and mission may play an important role in how colleges and universities enact educational practices that contribute to and foster student engagement.

Conclusions and Recommendations for Institutional Practice and Future Research Higher education researchers have attempted to understand how students engage in the learning process and in their college and university learning environments, as well as what contributes to their engagement and whether engagement is associated with student learning and outcomes. Student engagement is a multidimensional process that involves students, their interactions, and their educational environments. As such, student engagement has been a challenging concept to define, fully conceptualize, and measure. There are many actors involved in the engagement process. Students’ values, expectations, motivations, and behaviors appear to affect how they engage in the learning process and in their learning environments. Faculty and instructors create classroom spaces and design curricula and instructional environments that can shape how students engage inside the classroom. Student affairs and academic affairs staff create nonclassroom supports, resources, and programs that shape how students engage outside of the classroom. Peers and family members shape how students engage in the academic and social environments of the institution. And institutional environments create spaces and set expectations for student engagement that can support or hinder student engagement. These various influences shape how students engage in the learning process and learning environment and affect students’ learning and outcomes in higher education.

Recommendations for Institutional Policy and Practice The literature discussed in this chapter suggests a number of recommendations for colleges and universities interested in encouraging and facilitating student engagement. This section will discuss these recommendations for institutional policy and practice.

Fostering Positive Student Dispositions, Effort, and Time Investment As discussed in this chapter, researchers have suggested that students’ learning dispositions, level of effort, and time investments are all related to their engagement in the higher education learning environment. Students’ values, attitudes, selfefficacy, expectations, and motivations, as well as their levels of effort and investment of time in the learning process are all factors that can be shaped by institutional intervention and practice. Institutional leaders, faculty, and staff should consider

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ways that they might foster positive learning dispositions and behaviors among students in order to encourage and support student engagement. For example, fostering positive student dispositions that contribute to students’ engagement might include setting high expectations for students and encouraging student selfefficacy and confidence in their learning abilities. Institutions should also consider ways to foster and support time investment in academically purposeful activities such as reading, studying, preparing for class, and completing assignments, as well as active, collaborative, and applied learning experiences. Institutions might also think about ways to encourage additional time investment in high-impact educational practices, student–faculty interactions, and positive peer interactions, including diversity-related interactions. For this time investment to be possible, institutions should contemplate ways to ensure adequate financial support for students so that they can focus on academic and other educational experiences that contribute to student engagement and outcomes.

Encouraging Faculty and Staff Use of Effective Educational Practices Scholars have also discussed the role of college and university faculty and staff in contributing to students’ engagement. Use of research-supported effective classroom and nonclassroom educational practices has been linked to improved college student engagement. Institutions should consider ways to encourage faculty and staff use of effective educational practices, as identified in the research literature, in order to foster student engagement in the college and university learning environment. For example, institutional leaders should ensure that college faculty and instructors have knowledge of research-supported effective teaching practices, and they should provide training and instructional resources for faculty to implement these practices in college classrooms. Relatedly, institutions should encourage the use of active, collaborative, and applied learning experiences, as well as experiences that encourage higher-order, reflective, and integrated learning in college classrooms, and they should provide support, technology, and resources for faculty and instructors implementing these approaches. How can institutional resources be used to increase use of these effective classroom practices? How can faculty be supported in implementing these practices in their teaching? Institutional leaders should also consider ways to ensure that faculty and instructors have adequate time available for interacting with, advising, and mentoring students. How can institutions ensure that faculty have dedicated time allocated for student advising and mentoring activities? This issue is particularly important in the current era of declining college and university funding, where department resources (including some faculty positions) have been reduced or eliminated. Institutional leaders should also encourage staff use of effective nonclassroom educational practices. Institutions should ensure that staff have adequate knowledge of nonclassroom educational practices that have been linked to student engagement and student outcomes (e.g., effective advising, programming, and student support) and should provide training and resources related to developing an understanding of these practices among academic and student affairs staff. They should also prioritize the quality and effectiveness of nonclassroom educational practices and should

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regularly assess their effectiveness in contributing to student engagement. How can institutional resources be used to increase use of these effective nonclassroom practices? How can staff be supported in implementing these practices in their professional work? Finally, institutional leaders should also ensure that academic and student affairs staff have adequate time available for interacting with, advising, and supporting students, as well as the financial resources and staffing available to effectively implement high-quality programs and services.

Cultivating an Institutional Environment Focused on Student Engagement Researchers have also discussed the role of the college and university institutional environments in fostering students’ engagement. Institutions’ missions and purposes; cultures; characteristics such as size, selectivity, and patterns of student residence; physical and virtual environments; intrapersonal environments; and organizational structures can all affect how students engage in and interact with their college or university environment. Given the role of the institutional environment in potentially shaping the types and levels of students’ engagement, institutional leaders should consider ways to cultivate an environment that is focused on encouraging student engagement across students’ college and university experiences. Institutions should consider ways that the many dimensions of their campus environment contribute to or hinder student engagement. For example, how do physical environments, like classrooms, residence halls, or libraries, encourage or discourage student engagement? How does the institution’s culture prioritize or support student engagement? How might virtual environments and technology help foster students’ engagement? By evaluating the institutional environment, institutional leaders can assess ways that policies and practices might be modified in order to better encourage and support students’ engagement. Institutional leaders should also consider how they enact effective educational practices that support student engagement, and whether these approaches are aligned with their college or university mission and priorities. For example, does the institutional environment adequately support student engagement, given the various populations of students served by the institution? How might students’ engagement experiences be designed to better align with the institution’s mission and values? What characteristics of the institution (e.g., size, curricular foci, average classroom sizes, advising structures) might determine ways to best implement educational practices and programs aimed at improving student engagement? In examining these questions, institutional leaders can begin to consider ways that their institutions can cultivate an institutional environment that is focused on student engagement.

Directions for Future Research on Student Engagement The research reviewed in this chapter also provides a number of potential directions for future research as scholars continue to investigate student engagement and its many dimensions. The complexity and multidimensional nature of student

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engagement require continued and expanded research, improved measurement, and more rigorous methodological approaches. The goals of these future research directions should include developing a deeper understanding of student engagement and its various dimensions; understanding how these various dimensions are associated or interact with one another; understanding the direct and indirect relationships between precursors, facilitators, indicators, and outcomes of student engagement; understanding levels of engagement and dimensions of engagement for different populations of students and in differing institutional and cultural contexts; understanding how learning environments shape how and what students learn; and developing increasingly robust research designs and methodological approaches. As higher education scholars continue to evaluate student engagement in higher education, their efforts should include further research on each of the four sets of factors related to student engagement – precursors to student engagement, facilitators of student engagement, indicators of student engagement, and outcomes of student engagement – and the relationships among them. Their efforts should also be directed toward expanding research on engagement and its various dimensions and investigating areas in which mixed findings have yielded inconclusive results. For example, what are additional dimensions or indicators of student engagement that researchers have not yet evaluated? What other individual, behavioral, interactional, instructional, or environmental factors shape student engagement? What are the direct and indirect effects of students’ prior educational experiences on the types and levels of engagement students have in higher education? How do students’ experiences and interactions in higher education affect learning dispositions, such as motivation, self-efficacy, or self-determination, and how do these modified dispositions shape students’ engagement? What other college outcomes are influenced by students’ engagement behaviors? These and other research questions should be pursued in order to more fully conceptualize student engagement and its role in the learning process in higher education. Researchers should also continue to examine student engagement for particular populations of students and in varying institutional contexts. More recent research on student engagement has considered the engagement experiences of students based on their background and identity characteristics (e.g., gender, race/ethnicity, first-generation student status, disability status, international student status, and others) in order to understand differences in engagement behaviors and attitudes, as well as differential effects of these experiences on student learning and outcomes. Future research should continue to assess the experiences and outcomes of these populations of students, particularly where identified educational outcome gaps may exist. For example, scholars have concluded that, despite similar levels or engagement, racial/ethnic gaps remain in terms of some outcomes, such as academic achievement. Future research should continue to examine student engagement experiences and outcomes for these groups of students in order to more fully understand the mechanisms that might lead to improved outcomes or narrowing of outcome gaps between groups. Studies should also continue to examine student engagement in varying educational contexts. Prior research has suggested that institutional contexts and environments may uniquely shape student engagement experiences in higher education (e.g., Campbell & Cabrera, 2011: Kezar, 2006;

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Kezar & Kinzie, 2006). Given these findings, additional research examining student engagement in these institutional contexts is needed and would provide a more complete understanding of the ways in which institutional characteristics and environments shape students’ engagement. This line of inquiry may also support the development of more specific recommendations for improving institutional policy and practice that supports and fosters improved student engagement. Researchers should continue to evaluate and revise existing measures of student engagement in order to refine existing constructs and to ensure that measures validly and reliably assess student engagement across educational contexts. This is particularly important in terms of international applications of student engagement measures and instruments, where differences in educational environments and contexts may require additional development of measures rather than simple adaptation. As scholars evaluate the use of existing instruments (e.g., NSSE, CCSSE, SEI-C, AUSSE), their measures, constructs, and benchmarks should continue to be revised to address limitations and provide the best possible measures of student engagement in higher education. Additionally, as researchers publish work that helps to develop a deeper understanding of the many dimensions of student engagement, existing instruments should be revised and expanded to reflect these new understandings and provide data that support a clearer conceptualization of student engagement. There are also opportunities to develop more robust study designs and analytic approaches. One of the limitations of many of the existing instruments measuring student engagement is their cross-sectional design, such that students’ experiences and outcomes are measured at a single point in time. Another limitation of existing instruments is their use of student self-reporting and recall in assessing behaviors and activities over periods of time (e.g., Bowman, 2010a; Porter, 2011). As these instruments are revised, future research should consider ways to address these limitations by using other methods of data collection (e.g., time-use diaries or institutional data records, longitudinal data collection) that would improve their measurement. Researchers should also consider the use of experimental or quasiexperimental research designs, as most existing research on student engagement has relied on correlational designs. Finally, scholars should consider the use of qualitative or mixed methods approaches that may help provide additional exploratory or explanatory data that addresses the gaps in our understanding of student engagement. If higher education institutions and systems of education are focused on improving student learning and outcomes, then more fully understanding student engagement may provide an avenue for improving educational practices and experiences that contribute to these goals. Research has demonstrated that students’ engagement in the learning process and in the college and university learning environment can help improve student learning, student outcomes, and student success. By considering these four sets of factors related to student engagement – precursors to student engagement, facilitators of student engagement, indicators of student engagement, and outcomes of student engagement – researchers can continue to deepen the understanding of student engagement and its impact on effective educational practice in higher education.

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Kuh, G. D. (2001). Assessing what really matters to student learning: Inside the National Survey of Student Engagement. Change: The Magazine of Higher Learning, 33(3), 10–17. https://doi.org/ 10.1080/00091380109601795 Kuh, G. D. (2003a). What we’re learning about student engagement from NSSE: Benchmarks for effective educational practices. Change: The Magazine of Higher Learning, 35(2), 24–32. https://doi.org/10.1080/00091380309604090 Kuh, G. D. (2003b). The National Survey of Student Engagement: Conceptual framework and overview of psychometric properties. Indiana University Center for Postsecondary Research. https://scholarworks.iu.edu/dspace/handle/2022/24268 Kuh, G. D. (2007, Winter). What student engagement data tell us about college readiness. Peer Review. Association of American Colleges and Universities 4–8. https://creativecommons.org/ licenses/by/4.0/ Kuh, G. D. (2008). High-impact educational practices: What they are, who has access to them, and why they matter. Association of American Colleges and Universities. https://www.aacu.org/ publication/high-impact-educational-practices-what-they-are-who-has-access-to-them-andwhy-they-matter Kuh, G. D. (2009). The National Survey of Student Engagement: Conceptual and empirical foundations. New Directions for Institutional Research, 141, 5–20. https://doi.org/10.1002/ ir.283 Kuh, G. D., & Umbach, P. D. (2004). College and character: Insights from the National Survey of Student Engagement. New Directions for Institutional Research, 122, 37–54. https://doi.org/10. 1002/ir.108 Kuh, G. D., Hu, S., & Vesper, N. (2000). “They shall be known by what they do”: An activitiesbased typology of college students. Journal of College Student Development, 41(2), 228–244. Kuh, G. D., Kinzie, J., Buckley, J. A., Bridges, B. K., & Hayek, J. C. (2007a). Piecing together the student success puzzle. ASHE Higher Education Report, 34(1), 1–87. https://doi.org/10.1002/ aehe.3205 Kuh, G. D., Kinzie, J., Cruce, T., Shoup, R., & Gonyea, R. M. (2007b). Connecting the dots: Multifaceted analyses of the relationships between student engagement results from the NSSE, and the institutional practices and conditions that foster student success. Indiana University Center for Postsecondary Research. https://scholarworks.iu.edu/dspace/handle/2022/23684 Kuh, G. D., Cruce, T. M., Shoup, R., Kinzie, J., & Gonyea, R. M. (2008). Unmasking the effects of student engagement on first-year college grades and persistence. The Journal of Higher Education, 79(5), 540–563. https://doi.org/10.1080/00221546.2008.11772116 Lam, S. F., & Jimerson, S. R. (2008). Exploring student engagement in schools internationally: Consultation paper. International School Psychologist Association. Lam, S.-f., Jimerson, S., Wong, B. P. H., Kikas, E., Shin, H., Veiga, F. H., Hatzichristou, C., Polychroni, F., Cefai, C., Negovan, V., Stanculescu, E., Yang, H., Liu, Y., Basnett, J., Duck, R., Farrell, P., Nelson, B., & Zollneritsch, J. (2014). Understanding and measuring student engagement in school: The results of an international study from 12 countries. School Psychology Quarterly, 29(2), 213–232. https://doi.org/10.1037/spq0000057 LaNasa, S., Cabrera, A. F., & Tangsrud, H. (2009). The construct validity of student engagement: A confirmatory factor analysis. Research in Higher Education, 50, 313–352. https://doi.org/10. 1007/s11162-009-9123-1 Leach, L., & Zepke, N. (2011). Engaging students in learning: A review of a conceptual organiser. Higher Education Research and Development, 30(2), 193–204. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 07294360.2010.509761 Lester, D. (2013). A review of the student engagement literature. Focus on Colleges, Universities, and Schools, 7(1), 1–8. Liem, G. A. D., & Martin, A. J. (2012). The motivation and engagement scale: Theoretical framework, psychometric properties, and applied yields. Australian Psychologist, 47, 3–13. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1742-9544.2011.00049.x

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Sweat, J., Jones, G., Han, S., & Wolfgram, S. M. (2013). How does high impact practice predict student engagement? A comparison of white and minority students. International Journal for the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning, 7(2), 17. https://doi.org/10.20429/ijsotl.2013. 070217 Tinto, V. (1975). Dropout from higher education: A theoretical synthesis of recent research. Review of Educational Research, 45(1), 89–125. https://doi.org/10.3102/00346543045001089 Tinto, V. (1993). Leaving college: Rethinking the causes and cures of student attrition. University of Chicago Press. Trolian, T. L., & Jach, E. A. (2020). Engagement in college and university applied learning experiences and students’ academic motivation. The Journal of Experimental Education, 43(4), 317–335. https://doi.org/10.1177/1053825920925100 Trolian, T., & Parker, E. (2017). Moderating influences of student-faculty interactions on students’ graduate and professional school aspirations. Journal of College Student Development, 58(8), 1261–1267. https://doi.org/10.1353/csd.2017.0098 Trolian, T. L., Jach, E. A., Hanson, J. M., & Pascarella, E. T. (2016). Influencing academic motivation: The effects of student-faculty interaction. Journal of College Student Development, 57(7), 810–826. https://doi.org/10.1353/csd.2016.0080 Trolian, T. L., Jach, E. A., & Archibald, G. C. (2021). Shaping students’ attitudes toward professional success: Examining the role of student-faculty interactions. Innovative Higher Education, 46(2), 111–131. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10755-020-09529-3 Trowler, V. (2010). Student engagement literature review. The Higher Education Academy. https:// pure.hud.ac.uk/en/publications/student-engagement-literature-review Umbach, P. D., & Kuh, G. D. (2006). Student experiences with diversity at liberal arts colleges: Another claim for distinctiveness. The Journal of Higher Education, 77(1), 169–192. https:// doi.org/10.1080/00221546.2006.11778923 Umbach, P., & Wawrzynski, M. (2005). Faculty do matter: The role of college faculty in student learning and engagement. Research in Higher Education, 46, 153–184. https://doi.org/10.1007/ s11162-004-1598-1 Varela, J. J., Melipillán, R., Reschly, A. L., Squicciarini Navarro, A. M., Quintanilla, F. P., & Campos, P. S. (2023). Cross-cultural validation of the student engagement instrument for Chilean students. Journal of Psychoeducational Assessment, 41(2), 226–233. https://doi.org/ 10.1177/07342829221141512 Waldrop, D., Reschly, A. L., Fraysier, K., & Appleton, J. J. (2019). Measuring the engagement of college students: Administration format, structure, and validity of the student engagement instrument–college. Measurement and Evaluation in Counseling and Development, 52(2), 90–107. https://doi.org/10.1080/07481756.2018.1497429 Wang, J., Pascarella, E. T., Nelson Laird, T. F., & Ribera, A. K. (2015). How clear and organized classroom instruction and deep approaches to learning affect growth in critical thinking and need for cognition. Studies in Higher Education, 40(10), 1786–1807. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 03075079.2014.914911 Wigfield, A., & Eccles, J. S. (2002). The development of competence beliefs, expectancies for success, and achievement values from childhood through adolescence. In A. Wigfield & J. S. Eccles (Eds.), Development of achievement motivation (pp. 91–120). Academic Press. https:// doi.org/10.1016/B978-012750053-9/50006-1 Wilcox, P., Winn, S., & Fyvie-Gauld, M. (2005). ‘It was nothing to do with the university, it was just the people’: The role of social support in the first-year experience of higher education. Studies in Higher Education, 30(6), 707–722. https://doi.org/10.1080/03075070500340036 Wolf-Wendel, L., Ward, K., & Kinzie, J. (2009). A tangled web of terms: The overlap and unique contribution of involvement, engagement, and integration to understanding college student success. Journal of College Student Development, 50(4), 407–428. https://doi.org/10.1353/ csd.0.0077 Zhao, C. M., & Kuh, G. D. (2004). Adding value: Learning communities and student engagement. Research in Higher Education, 45, 115–138. https://doi.org/10.1023/B:RIHE.0000015692. 88534.de

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Zhao, C. M., Kuh, G. D., & Carini, R. M. (2005). A comparison of international student and American student engagement in effective educational practices. The Journal of Higher Education, 76(2), 209–231. https://doi.org/10.1080/00221546.2005.11778911 Zhoc, K. C. H., Webster, B. J., King, R. B., Li, J. C. H., & Chung, T. S. H. (2019). Higher Education Student Engagement Scale (HESES): Development and psychometric evidence. Research in Higher Education, 60, 219–244. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11162-018-9510-6 Zilvinskis, J., & Dumford, A. D. (2018). The relationship between transfer student status, student engagement, and high-impact practice participation. Community College Review, 46(4), 368–387. https://doi.org/10.1177/0091552118781495 Zilvinskis, J., Masseria, A. A., & Pike, G. R. (2017). Student engagement and student learning: Examining the convergent and discriminant validity of the revised National Survey of Student Engagement. Research in Higher Education, 58, 880–903. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11162-0179450-6 Zimmerman, B. J., & Campillo, M. (2003). Motivating self-regulated problem solvers. In J. E. Davidson & R. J. Sternberg (Eds.), The nature of problem solving (pp. 233–262). Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CBO9780511615771.009

Teniell L. Trolian, Ph.D., is Associate Professor of Educational Policy and Leadership at the University at Albany, State University of New York. Her research examines classroom and nonclassroom experiences that contribute to student learning, achievement, and outcomes in higher education, focusing on students’ experiences with faculty, experiences with diversity, exposure to effective teaching practices, exposure to active and applied learning experiences, and experiences outside of the college classroom.

The “Missing English Learner” in Higher Education: How Identification, Assessment, and Placement Shape the Educational Outcomes of English Learners in Community Colleges

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Holly Kosiewicz, Camila Morales, and Kalena E. Cortes

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Defining the “English Learner” Student Population in the United States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Description of the EL Student Population in the United States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conceptual Framework . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Human Capital Theory as an Anchoring Framework . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Returns to Community College . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Costs and Barriers to Access Higher Education for EL Students . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Role of Pre-College Skill Formation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . English Learners in K-12: Identification, Assessment, and Reclassification . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Evolution of K-12 English Learners Policy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Identification and Classification of English Learners . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Annual Assessment and Instruction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reclassification . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . English Learners in Community Colleges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ELs in Community Colleges: Identification, Assessment, and Placement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Educational Outcomes of EL Students Impacted by Classification, Assessment, and Placement Policies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . EL Student College Preparation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Enrollment in Postsecondary Institutions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Assignment to Prerequisite and College-Level Coursework and Its Outcomes on Student Success . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Shouping Hu was the Associate Editor for this chapter. H. Kosiewicz (*) · C. Morales University of Texas at Dallas, Richardson, TX, USA e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] K. E. Cortes Texas A&M University, College Station, TX, USA e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 39, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-38077-8_7

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EL Students in Community Colleges: An Exploratory Case Study Using Texas Data . . . . . . . A Description of EL Students in Texas Community Colleges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . English Course Enrollment Patterns of EL Students in Texas Community Colleges . . . . . . Recommendations for Policy and Future Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Policy Recommendation #1: Integrate Data from Public Schools to Increase EL Students’ Access to Courses, Specifically College-Level Courses, with Native English Peers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Policy Recommendation #2: Use Course Performance as a Way to Reclassify EL College Students Out of ESL Courses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Research Recommendation #1: Evaluate the Impact of Policies That Increase the Likelihood of EL High School Graduates Being Placed into College-Level Coursework . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Research Recommendation #2: Collect Systematic Data Allowing for the Evaluation of Placement Systems for EL Students . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

Postsecondary education serves as a pathway to upward social mobility. Yet too often, students hailing from economically disadvantaged families, racial/ethnic minority groups, those who are first-generation learners, and immigrants frequently encounter barriers that deter their application, enrollment, and success in higher education. In this chapter, we focus on the role of identification, assessment, and course placement policies as a set of factors that impact the educational attainment of English Learners. In particular, we focus on the policies and practices commonly used in community colleges to sort students into prerequisite coursework and present a contrast between the 2-year postsecondary sector and the policies and guidelines that rule the identification, assessment, and placement of English Learners in public schools. We summarize the extant literature documenting the effectiveness of the assessment tools used to classify and sort English Learners into various prerequisite courses and link them to the observed disparities in outcomes between English Learners and native English-speaking peers. We conclude with a set of policy and research recommendations aimed at bolstering the postsecondary educational outcomes of English Learners and building the data infrastructure necessary to expand research in this area. Keywords

English Learners · Assessment and placement · English as a Second Language · Community colleges · Prerequisite coursework · English Learners classification · English Language Proficiency · Remedial education · Developmental English courses · Human capital accumulation · Language Minority Students · Immigrant students · Developmental education · Disparities in higher education · Postsecondary outcomes

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Introduction Postsecondary education serves as a pathway to upward social mobility within the United States. Yet too often, students hailing from economically disadvantaged families, racial/ethnic minority groups, those who are first-generation learners, and immigrants frequently encounter barriers that deter their application and enrollment in postsecondary educational institutions (Black et al., 2020). For these students in particular, when the cost of attending a 4-year college or university is prohibited, an affordable alternative is attendance at a 2-year community college, which may lead to either a terminal degree or a steppingstone toward enrollment in a 4-year postsecondary institution. Over time, community colleges have become a popular alternative. Indeed, 2-year institutions educate nearly 30% (4.7 million) of students enrolled in higher education for an estimated $40 billion of state and local appropriations allocated to the public 2-year sector (National Center for Education Statistics, 2023b; State Higher Education Executive Officers Association, 2023). Community colleges cater to a diverse array of students, spanning various age groups, from young to mature learners. This inclusive demographic encompasses individuals from low-income backgrounds, those who are the first in their families to pursue higher education, as well as immigrants, notably including English Learners. In contrast to their counterparts in K-12 education, scholars in higher education possess limited knowledge pertaining to the identification, assessment, and appropriate placement of English Learners within the realm of postsecondary institutions, with a specific emphasis on community colleges. Hence, the objective of this chapter is to conduct a comprehensive examination of how the United States addresses the educational needs of English Learners within the higher education landscape. We start by defining and describing the English Learner student population in section “Defining the “English Learner” Student Population in the United States.” Section “Conceptual Framework” presents the human capital conceptual framework we use to interpret the role of identification practices, assessment tools, and course placements in shaping English Learners’ postsecondary educational outcomes. Next, in section “English Learners in K-12: Identification, Assessment, and Reclassification,” before going into detail regarding the policies impacting English Learners in community colleges, we begin with a broad discussion regarding the K-12 policies as well as processes shaping the educational experiences and outcomes of English Learners. In section “English Learners in Community Colleges,” we describe how English Learners are identified, assessed, and placed in community colleges. Section “Educational Outcomes of EL Students Impacted by Classification, Assessment, and Placement Policies” goes into further detail regarding how the educational outcomes of English Learners are impacted by their classification, assessment, and placement policies. In section “EL Students in Community Colleges: An Exploratory Case Study Using Texas Data,” using student-level administrative data from the state of Texas, we present descriptive analyses of the course-taking patterns of English Learners in community colleges. Lastly, the

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chapter concludes in section “Recommendations for Policy and Future Research” with a discussion on policy recommendations and future research.

Defining the “English Learner” Student Population in the United States The Office of Civil Rights within the U.S. Department of Education defines English Learners as students “whose primary language is not English and who have limited ability to write, read, speak, or understand English” (U.S. Department of Education, 2017c). The first conceptualization of this student population dates back to the Bilingual Education Act of 1965, wherein the federal government set the foundation for defining English Learners as a distinct group of students with unique learning needs who have the right to equitable access to an adequate education (Wiese & García, 1998). The particular definition referenced above draws on Executive Order 13166, “Improving Access to Services for Persons with Limited English Proficiency,” requiring recipients of federal financial assistance to provide meaningful access to their programs and activities to English Learners. This Order was signed into law by the Clinton Administration in an effort to improve compliance with Title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which states that no individual shall be excluded from participating in, denied benefits of, and discriminated against under federally assisted programs on the grounds of race, color, or national origin (U.S. Department of Education & Office for Civil Rights, n.d.). Importantly, this Order also reiterated a series of practical guidelines regarding the provision of specialized language instruction, supplemental services and activities, and translating materials into languages other than English to ensure equitable access to adequate education for non-English-speaking students in the United States. Therefore, English Learners represent more than a group of students with a common need for English language support. From a structural perspective, they are students with particular legal rights and protections to which educational institutions of all types that receive federal financial assistance are required to comply.1 And yet, despite a federal definition and a host of regulations, there is no national assessment determining a student’s level of English proficiency, resulting in meaningful inconsistencies in who is defined as an English Learner in US schools and colleges. Throughout this chapter, we use the term English Learner (EL) to refer to students who fall under the definition referenced above and who are therefore entitled to equitable and meaningful access to educational programs and activities across all entities granted federal financial assistance, including institutions of higher education. We avoid terminology that other scholars have used when studying this population, such as students with “limited English proficiency” (LEP) or “English as a Recipients of federal financial assistance from the U.S. Department of Education include statecontrolled education institutions in both the PK-12 and higher education sectors, private education entities, charter schools, nonprofit organizations, for-profit institutions, state and local education agencies, and subcontractors (U.S. Department of Education & Office for Civil Rights, n.d.).

1

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Second Language” (ESL) students. As noted by various scholars in the field (Kleyn & Stern, 2018; Ortega et al., 2022), the LEP and ESL terms are oriented toward a deficit-based framework that fails to recognize that EL students are assets to our educational institutions who must be protected from the potential harms from being labeled as “limited” in their level of English (Umansky & Dumont, 2021). Moreover, we limit the use of alternative terms such as “language/linguistic minority students” and “emergent bilingual students” as these labels can be construed as imprecise forms to describe a population that in some contexts is not in the minority and whose modal learning environment does not strive for bilingualism (Instructional Models for ELs, n.d.; Sugarman & Geary, 2018c).2

A Description of the EL Student Population in the United States Students identified as English Learners in public schools have grown as a proportion of the student body across the United States from 2010 to 2020, and constitute over 10% of the K-12 public school enrollment as of 2020 (National Center for Education Statistics, 2023c). Despite this national growth, these students are concentrated in a few states across the country. Texas, California, and New Mexico, for example, are the top 3 states where this proportion of the K-12 student population greatly exceeds the national average ranging from 16% to 20% of enrollment in the fall of 2020 (National Center for Education Statistics, 2022). Several other states with a smaller EL population have experienced rapid growth over time. In North Carolina and Georgia, for example, the share of English Learners in K-12 public schools more than doubled since 2000, reaching nearly 8% of total enrollment by 2019 (National Center for Education Statistics, 2022; Owens, 2020; Sugarman & Geary, 2018a, b). While the EL label is a broad categorization of students who share a need for English language development, these students are not a monolith. Hispanic students make up the largest proportion of English Learners in K-12 (National Center for Education Statistics, 2023c; Nuñez & Sparks, 2012) and tend to be the focus of much of the research regarding this student population. This is despite the observed heterogeneity in EL students differing across native language, immigration background, academic preparation, years in US schools, economic conditions, and geographic placement (National Center for Education Statistics, 2023c; Nuñez & Sparks, 2012; Raufman et al., 2019; Rodriguez & Cruz, 2009). Without an official categorization for English Learners in colleges and universities (Llosa & Bunch, 2011), it is difficult to know the precise proportion of postsecondary students that could be broadly categorized as such. However, it is reasonable to conclude that there is likely a large and plausibly growing proportion of college students who were at one point categorized as English Learners prior to

2

Language minority students typically refers to students whose primary language is not the dominant language spoken in a society. In the case of the United States, students whose primary language is not English are, in some contexts, referred to as language or linguistic minorities (Kanno & Harklau, 2012).

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their postsecondary education, especially in states where the proportion of EL-classified students is substantially greater than the national average. Regarding their postsecondary outcomes, EL students are more likely to enroll in community colleges than 4-year institutions (Kanno & Cromley, 2013; Nuñez & Sparks, 2012). Unlike 4-year universities, most community colleges use an open admissions process for new students (Bryant, 2001) and are usually far more affordable (Melguizo et al., 2008). Consequently, community colleges pose fewer institutional barriers for English Learners who often possess limited access to supportive resources and information relating to college admittance (Kanno, 2018). English Learners who are recent immigrants and tend to come from lower-income backgrounds often have parents who did not pursue postsecondary education (Nuñez & Sparks, 2012; Rodriguez & Cruz, 2009). For these students in particular, community colleges provide less costintensive pathways to a wide array of postsecondary education credentials. Yet, there is a limited understanding of the diversity among English Learners and the various intersectionalities across socio-demographic dimensions. In California, when compared to the entire EL population in community colleges, English Learners intent on pursuing a 4-year degree are more likely to be Asian than they are Hispanic, they are more likely to possess legal residency status, and have graduated from a foreign high school than a US high school (Rodriguez et al., 2022). In contrast, English Learners in community colleges are more representative of EL students in the K-12 sector. However, Hispanic EL students remain disproportionately underrepresented. Hispanic students also have the lowest rates of postsecondary educational attainment (Nuñez & Sparks, 2012) and are more likely to be undocumented (Migration Policy Institute, 2018). These are some of the disparities within the EL student population that remain largely unexplored on a large scale. In sum, while there is a robust and growing understanding of the sociodemographic characteristics and learning trajectories of EL students in K-12, there is remarkably scant systematic information about the characteristics of EL students in higher education in general, and community colleges specifically. The invisibility of EL students in higher education due to the lack of systematic data collection is a critical theme that emerged from our review of the literature and one that will evolve as a focal point throughout this chapter.

Conceptual Framework This section lays the theoretical foundations and frameworks through which we interpret the role of identification practices, assessment tools, and course placements in shaping the postsecondary educational outcomes of English Learners in the United States.

Human Capital Theory as an Anchoring Framework Drawing upon human capital theory, we conceptualize the postsecondary outcomes of EL students as an optimal decision that maximizes individual well-being in light

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of various constraints – where both financial and psychic costs, as well as the benefits of higher education, are a function of the education policy environment that the individual faces along with other idiosyncratic factors shaping the opportunities available to them. To illustrate, consider the schooling decision of an English Learner upon their graduation from high school. The student decides between pursuing higher education and entering the labor force. If they enter the labor force, they work full-time and earn a wage commensurate with their level of education and years of experience. On the other hand, if they choose to attain at least some college they forgo current earnings but can expect to earn a higher wage for each year of formal education completed (Lovenheim & Smith, 2023). Considering these alternative outcomes, the human capital framework concludes that the individual chooses the level of education that maximizes their expected discounted earnings over their lifetime. Put succinctly, the human capital framework amounts to an assessment of both the benefits and costs of attaining an education – direct costs such as tuition and fees, as well as opportunity costs often characterized in the form of forgone wages during the schooling period and alternative investment opportunities. Therefore, the optimal decision is influenced by the payoffs associated with attaining a higher education as well as the barriers that constrain unbounded human capital accumulation. In the subsections that follow, we summarize the factors that affect the costs and benefits associated with EL students’ attainment of postsecondary education. In particular, we pay close attention to (1) the role of assessment and placement in shaping the educational opportunities of English Learners, (2) the returns and quality of higher education they may receive, and (3) how these policies impact the overall costs of pursuing postsecondary education. Lastly, we conclude with a brief discussion of the role of pre-college educational experiences as factors that influence the cumulative learning process in the K-12 sector and therefore govern the initial conditions upon which EL students make higher education investment choices. Before we expand upon the returns of postsecondary schooling for EL students as well as the costs and barriers they face when investing in higher education, it is worth noting that our use of the human capital theory as an anchoring framework simply serves as a structure within which we explain the observed outcomes as evidenced by the empirical analyses cited in this review. This theory is agnostic to the fairness of the individual outcomes, systemic inequities, and marginalization EL students may face in higher education. While we fully recognize the importance of these issues, we set them aside for future inquiry.

Returns to Community College There is a robust body of literature documenting a causal earnings premium for students who enroll and complete a postsecondary education both in the case of those who matriculate in 4-year institutions as well as students who enroll in 2-year community colleges (Autor, 2014; Belfield & Bailey, 2011; Bleemer, 2018; Card, 1999; Lovenheim & Smith, 2023; Smith et al., 2020). Among the latter, studies

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document a boost in earnings associated with enrollment alone, as well as attainment of various degree types such as certificates, diplomas, and associate degrees (Grosz, 2020; Jepsen et al., 2014; Liu et al., 2015). The gains in labor market returns among community college students, however, are not uniformly realized. The interpretation of the findings hinges critically upon the counterfactual option faced by students – enrolling in a 4-year institution versus opting to skip higher education altogether. For example, in a comprehensive analysis of the heterogeneous returns to college quality, Andrews et al. (2014) document an overall negative return on earnings among community college students compared to those who enroll in more selective institutions. Conversely, Mountjoy (2022) demonstrates that access to 2-year institutions improves higher educational attainment, earnings, and upward economic mobility, particularly among students who would not have otherwise matriculated in college, many of whom come from disadvantaged backgrounds. As noted earlier, college-bound EL students are overrepresented in 2-year institutions (Kanno & Cromley, 2013; Nuñez & Sparks, 2012) and are simultaneously more likely to come from low-income backgrounds (Nuñez & Sparks, 2012; Rodriguez & Cruz, 2009). Moreover, evidence points to EL students being more likely than others to be employed, in part to support dependents, even as they are enrolled in college (Nuñez & Sparks, 2012). Therefore, considering the economic and demographic characteristics of the typical EL student in the United States, studies of the impacts of higher education on labor outcomes point to meaningful positive returns to community college enrollment and completion among this population.

How Identification, Assessment, and Placement Impact EL Students’ Returns to College Beyond college enrollment and attainment, the returns to a community college education also depend on students’ readiness for college-level courses and the practices that community colleges employ to support students academically (Jaggars et al., 2015; Miller et al., 2022). Human capital theory suggests that assessment and placement policies create avenues for human capital formation for students with different levels of academic preparation (Scott-Clayton & Rodriguez, 2015). From this viewpoint, and assuming effective program implementation, policies sorting EL students into prerequisite coursework inculcate students with the knowledge and skills needed to maximize the economic benefits of higher education (Sweetland, 1996). Setting aside the discussion of course and program quality, we argue that the returns of prerequisite coursework depend on the quality of the match between students’ learning needs and the academic supports offered to them. To the extent that there is an optimal match between students’ human capital stock and their learning environment (e.g., course types, teacher experience and qualifications, college counseling, etc.), placement into an ESL course may facilitate course content mastery, ease the transition into higher-level courses, and trigger the types of supports outside the classroom (e.g., adequate college counseling) that can improve longer-term outcomes. Conversely, a poor match, such as the case of underplacement (Scott-Clayton et al., 2014), can hinder student learning and has

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been linked to disengagement and a lack of interest in the particular course, and even college more broadly (Grubb, 2013; Venezia et al., 2010). From an applied lens, the quality of the match between students’ learning needs and course placements is a function of the tools employed to identify, assess, and sort students into the various course pathways. In the case of EL students in particular, a growing body of empirical work points to poorly designed processes and inadequate assessment tools that fail to measure English Learners’ college preparation accurately, thereby increasing the chances of a suboptimal course placement outcome. For example, studies document a misalignment in the kinds of skills assessed by commonly used ESL placement tests and the academic abilities needed to succeed in college-level courses (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008; Crandall & Sheppard, 2004; Hern, 2012). These assessment challenges are typically exacerbated by the limited information set from which college counselors draw when making placement decisions and course suggestions, thereby compounding the chances of course misplacement. A second channel through which placement into ESL courses may impact EL students’ postsecondary outcomes is by affecting their chance of college completion more generally. Students follow a wide variety of pathways in pursuit of a college credential, and for many, access to a community college provides a pathway into 4-year institutions where they expect to obtain a bachelor’s degree (Andrews et al., 2014). That said, the timing of transferring is strongly related to students’ probability of college completion. Evidence shows that those who transfer to a more selective institution in their third year are less likely to graduate compared to those who transfer during their second year (Andrews et al., 2014). In light of this evidence, sorting students into lengthier pathways, such as the case of ESL courses, may reduce the likelihood of attaining a bachelor’s degree even among those who begin their college career in a community college and persist long enough to transfer into 4-year institutions. Taken together, from a human capital perspective, English Learners stand to benefit from investing in higher education at community colleges, specifically. However, these returns are hampered by the prevailing assessment and placement tools used to sort EL students into systematically lengthier college completion trajectories that often fail to meet their learning needs.

Costs and Barriers to Access Higher Education for EL Students In addition to the benefits of higher education, modeling whether an individual chooses to invest in postsecondary schooling also requires accounting for the costs related to this investment – both direct and indirect costs. Scholars have documented significant effects of tuition prices (e.g., Carruthers & Fox, 2016; Denning, 2017), access to financial aid (e.g., Dynarski & Scott-Clayton, 2013), distance to higher education institutions (e.g., Black et al., 2020; Hillman, 2016; Sansone et al., 2020), informational and procedural barriers (e.g., Bettinger et al., 2012; Page & ScottClayton, 2016), and economic conditions shaping students’ opportunity costs (e.g.,

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Barr & Turner, 2015), among many others. To varying degrees, these factors impact the cost of postsecondary education for all students; however, the socioeconomic conditions and multidimensional identities of EL students compound their effects. For instance, research by Kanno and Cromley (2015) identified financial considerations as the most important factor influencing EL students’ enrollment in postsecondary institutions, while playing a role of lesser importance among Englishproficiency peers. Still, the limited access to financial resources and aid is exacerbated further among the subset of first-generation immigrant EL students who live in the United States with unauthorized residency status and face systemic barriers in higher education with an uncertain policy landscape that sets discriminatory tuition costs and access to state financial aid (Stuckey & Lambert Snodgrass, 2021; Teranishi et al., 2011).

Identification, Assessment, and Placement and EL Students’ Costs of Investing in Higher Education As discussed in section “How Identification, Assessment, and Placement Impact EL Students’ Returns to College,” we conceptualize the role of EL students’ identification, assessment, and course placement as a stepwise process that determines the quality of the match between students’ learning needs and the academic supports provided to them. Through this framework, placement in an ESL course impacts the costs faced by EL students by lengthening their course trajectory on route to degree attainment. Typically, students must complete prerequisite coursework, such as ESL classes, before enrolling in gateway courses (Hodara, 2015). This setup inherently increases the number of college exit points (Bailey et al., 2010), limits exposure to environments supporting language development and successful college navigation (Carhill-Poza, 2015; Kosiewicz et al., 2016), and requires more resources to complete college (Bailey, 2009), reducing the chances of credential attainment. Moreover, prospective EL students also encounter informational and support barriers, often lacking the counseling necessary to navigate the college admissions process (Erisman & Looney, 2007; Kanno, 2018). Once enrolled, institutions fail to provide adequate information regarding courses and coursework, thereby undermining EL students’ ability to make optimal decisions about their college trajectories. For example, research demonstrates that English Learners in community colleges are unaware of the length of ESL course sequences and how these classes count toward their degree or transfer requirements (Viramontes et al., 2015). EL students also face limited access to information even via traditional means of communication, such as college websites and course catalogs, which often contain outdated information (David & Kanno, 2021).

The Role of Pre-College Skill Formation Our motivating illustration of the cost-and-benefit calculation implicitly made by students who are considering whether to invest in higher education assumes that individuals arrive at that particular decision point with a stock of human capital

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accumulated during the primary and secondary years of schooling (Todd & Wolpin, 2003). This set of pre-college skills is, in itself, a key predictor of college access and success (Adelman, 2006; Cho, 2007; Cortes et al., 2015; Long et al., 2012; Núñez et al., 2016; Sawyer, 2013). For example, access to higher-level math classes (Cortes et al., 2015), SAT scores (Goodman et al., 2020), and high school GPA and test scores (Sawyer, 2013) has been linked with positive long-term educational outcomes. Therefore, these factors are meaningful determinants of the initial conditions under which students decide whether to pursue postsecondary schooling, and perhaps more importantly, the initial human capital stock can determine the investment opportunity set available to them. Viewed through this lens, EL students’ learning contexts, experiences, and academic supports provided by schools in the K-12 sector likely play a significant role in explaining the postsecondary outcomes documented throughout this chapter. English Learners, particularly those who retain EL status in high school, have limited access to core content courses and high-track classes (Callahan et al., 2010; Lillie et al., 2012; Umansky, 2016a, b), are more likely to have inexperienced teachers (Gándara et al., 2003), face low academic expectations from teachers and counselors (Kanno & Kangas, 2014; Umansky, 2016a), and have a lower chance of graduating high school (Carlson & Knowles, 2016). Consequently, an account of the prospective benefits and costs faced by EL students in pursuit of higher education must be properly rooted in the quality of education provided to English Learners in the K-12 sector, the processes and metrics used to identify their English language development needs, and the academic supports offered to them.

English Learners in K-12: Identification, Assessment, and Reclassification Before delving into the policies impacting English Learners in community colleges, we begin with a broad discussion regarding the policies and processes shaping the educational experiences and outcomes of EL students in K-12 to lay the foundation for a comparative analysis between these two sectors – the variation in the centralization of policies, the tools used in the identification process, and the symbolic and material consequences of identification and classification. The “English Learner” label in K-12 involves a multistage process commonly organized into three broad phases: (1) identification and classification, (2) annual assessment and instruction, and (3) reclassification. This is the typical framework by which states operationalize compliance with federal regulations mandating the right to meaningful access to equal educational opportunities for English Learners (Abedi & Sanchez, 2021; Linquanti & Cook, 2013; Núñez et al., 2016; StewnerManzares, 1988; Wright, 2005). This general structure is the product of a lengthy policy development process surrounding the educational rights of EL students and typically involves a suite of assessments and decision rules. That state education agencies broadly apply this structure is, by no means, synonymous with uniformity

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of implementation nationwide. Indeed, scholars have raised concerns about the degree of latitude in the manner of policy compliance and the extent to which this perpetuates learning inequities for vulnerable student populations (Bailey & Carroll, 2015; Reyes & Domina, 2019; Robinson-Cimpian et al., 2016; Umansky et al., 2020). In this section, we begin with a summary of the evolution of the English Learner policy landscape in K-12 and spend most of the remaining subsections describing each of the phases in the identification, instruction, and reclassification of EL students. In the policy summaries from both historical and contemporary perspectives, we pay particular attention to the assessment tools and metrics used to determine the sequential progress from the first to the final phase.

The Evolution of K-12 English Learners Policy The legal foundations supporting the educational rights of English Learners are rooted in the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which mandated equality in federal law and prohibited discrimination based on race, color, or national origin (Hakuta & Beatty, 2000; Stewner-Manzares, 1988; Wiese & García, 1998). Title VI of this Act specifically prohibits any discriminatory behavior on the part of institutions that operate programs or activities financed through federal assistance, including educational institutions at the elementary, secondary, and postsecondary levels (Office for Civil Rights, 2020; Stewner-Manzares, 1988). Following the enactment of the Civil Rights Act, efforts to safeguard equity in education were bolstered with the enactment of the Elementary and Secondary Education Act (ESEA) in 1965 (StewnerManzares, 1988). It is with the 1967 reauthorization of ESEA that the Bilingual Education Act (BEA) – also known as Title VII – became the first federal legislation to recognize the educational needs of English Learners (Núñez et al., 2016; StewnerManzares, 1988; Wiese & García, 1998; Wright, 2005). The primary functional role of the Bilingual Education Act was to support the learning needs of EL students by extending access to grants aimed at funding school programs and learning materials, teacher training, and parent involvement (Wiese & García, 1998). Participation was voluntary, and only school districts that were awarded grants were held accountable for nondiscriminatory practices (StewnerManzares, 1988). In effect, there were no objective guidelines on how to identify students eligible for such support programs beyond the broad category of children with “limited English-speaking ability” (Stewner-Manzares, 1988; Wright, 2005), therefore allowing state education leaders to exercise autonomy in the interpretation and implementation of the law. Following the enactment of the Bilingual Education Act in 1967, legislation related to English Learners was reauthorized on five occasions – 1974, 1978, 1984, 1988, and 1994. With each instance came increased structure and clarity on who was eligible for language support along with guidance on the criteria used to determine the length of program participation (Abedi & Sanchez, 2021; Wright, 2005).

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The first steps toward clearer and more objective guidelines for EL student identification and instruction came in the aftermath of the Lau v. Nichols3 case and were later incorporated in the 1978 reauthorization of the Bilingual Education Act (Abedi & Sanchez, 2021). In particular, the “Lau Remedies” (published as a memorandum by the Department of Health, Education and Welfare in 1975) became the first federal guidelines regarding EL students’ identification, classification, academic assessment, determination of appropriate supports, and minimum command of English before transitioning into English-only instruction (Cardenas, 1976; Lyons, 1990). In response to the new guidelines following the Lau decision, the 1978 reauthorization of the Bilingual Education Act adjusted its definition of EL students from those with limited speaking ability to children with limited English proficiency in speaking, reading, writing, and listening (Wiese & García, 1998; Wright, 2005). By broadening the language domains beyond speaking ability alone, the 1978 reauthorization of the Bilingual Education Act marked a notable shift toward more prescriptive English Learner classification standards, which several years later would be operationalized using a battery of English language proficiency (ELP) assessments.4 Amidst a changing political climate, the 1984 and 1988 reauthorizations of the Bilingual Education Act largely expanded local autonomy over the types of language support provided to EL students, authorized the use of English-only instruction, drastically cut funding for bilingual education programs, and debated the degree of fiscal responsibility over the cost of serving English Learners in local public schools (Lyons, 1990; Wiese & García, 1998; Wright, 2005). The Casteñeda v. Pickard case in 1981 served as further guidance in articulating the minimum requirements for language supports provided to EL students in schools stipulating that programs must be regarded as sound and effective by some experts in the field (Hakuta & Beatty, 2000). Finally, the amendments included in the 1994 Bilingual Education Act reauthorization were the first to require that school districts monitor EL students’ progress using ELP assessments and leverage this information to determine English Learner status (Abedi & Sanchez, 2021). Together, changes in the 1978 and 1994 Bilingual Education Act reauthorizations proved to be pivotal in shaping the structure of the English Learner classification and reclassification processes now employed in K-12 schools nationwide. With the passing of the No Child Left Behind (NCLB) Act of 2001, the Bilingual Education Act was replaced with Title III: English Language Acquisition, Language

3

The Lau v. Nichols case was a class action suit brought against the San Francisco public school district in 1974, in which the plaintiffs alleged that the majority of Chinese students enrolled in the district were being denied access to a meaningful education, and therefore the district was in violation of Title VI of the Civil Rights Act (Abedi & Sanchez, 2021; Lyons, 1990). In a unanimous decision, the U.S. Supreme Court found the school district at fault, emphasizing that access to “the same facilities, textbooks, teachers, and curriculum” does not translate into access to a meaningful education (Lyons, 1990). 4 ELP assessments measure EL students’ skills in reading, writing, speaking, and listening, and they are typically designed to align with State Education Agencies’ language proficiency standards.

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Enhancement, and Academic Achievement Act (Wright, 2005). In general, the NCLB Act strengthened the enforcement of prior federal laws and increased accountability by linking federal funding to students’ progress toward annual measurable achievement objectives established by the states (Ahn & Vigdor, 2014; Marsh et al., 2005; U.S. Government Accountability Office, 2006). Under Title III in particular, states were required to set English language proficiency standards aligned with core academic content, along with goals for improving and tracking EL students’ progress in ELP assessments and proficiency (Ragan & Lesaux, 2006; U.S. Government Accountability Office, 2006; Wright, 2005). Moreover, states were mandated to monitor EL students’ progress for two years following reclassification – typically labeled former EL students. To comply with the law, therefore, school districts faced increased pressure to collect, document, and report data on current and former English Learners’ academic and language proficiency development (Abedi & Sanchez, 2021). Thus, the “EL” label process used to date is largely shaped by the accountability structure set during the NCLB era, which was further strengthened under The Every Student Succeeds Act (ESSA) of 2015 (Abedi & Sanchez, 2021). Over time, the structural shift in accountability and increased demand for data collection emphasized in the NCLB and ESSA Acts gave rise to a more uniform process of English Learner identification, classification, and reclassification across and within states largely built around a small collection of screeners and ELP assessment tools that continue to be used to date (Abedi & Sanchez, 2021; Darling-Hammond et al., 2016). Under ESSA, for instance, English Learner classification and reclassification must be standard within states and state education agencies are encouraged to monitor former EL students’ performance for up to 4 years (August & Haynes, 2016). It is important to note, however, that uniformity in the process does not translate into a standard method or implementation as there remains significant variation across states in the definition of English Learners, specific score cutoffs used to determine classification and reclassification, and instructional programs (Ragan & Lesaux, 2006; Umansky & Porter, 2020). In the sections below, we summarize the current procedures, screening and assessment tools used in EL students’ identification, progress monitoring, and reclassification.

Identification and Classification of English Learners According to the federal definition of “English Learner,” the two central characteristics that identify this student population comprise having a home or primary language other than English and a level of English proficiency that prevents the student from succeeding in an English-only learning environment (Education Commission of the States, 2020). Therefore, to comply with the federal law under ESSA, states are required to gather information about students’ home or native language, assess their English proficiency, and determine a language proficiency threshold to classify students as English Learners (Abedi, 2008), and they must do so within 30 days of school enrollment [ESEA Section 3113(b)(2)]. However, there is no uniformly prescribed method to comply with the law, which has resulted in

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significant variation across and within states in the identification and classification of EL students (Education Commission of the States, 2020). In practice, most states first identify prospective EL students out of the total population by asking parents or guardians to complete a home language survey (Abedi, 2008; Bailey & Kelly, 2013; National Research Council et al., 2011; U.S. Department of Education, 2017a). While there is significant variation across states in the implementation of the survey and phrasing of the questions (Bailey & Kelly, 2013), home language surveys are typically designed to elicit information about students’ exposure to English at home, whether English was the first language the student learned to speak, and occasionally additional information such as whether the student has ever attended school in the United States and the preferred language to communicate with parents or guardians (Bailey & Kelly, 2013). Selfreported information from these surveys is then used by school administrators to identify the population that will require further assessment to be officially classified as English Learners. Implicit in this first step is that the home language surveys accurately screen for the set of students most likely to be eventually classified as English Learners, and herein lies the first opportunity for misclassification of EL status (Abedi, 2008), such as the possibility of false negatives or students incorrectly identified by virtue of being omitted from initial assessment (Goldenberg & Rutherford-Quach, 2012; Linquanti & Cook, 2013). After processing the home language surveys, students who are deemed prospective English Learners are administered an ELP test to measure their language proficiency in four domains – reading, writing, listening, and speaking [ESEA Section 1111(b)(7)]. These individual scores, or a composite measure thereof, are then compared against a predetermined cutoff denoting the minimum level of English proficiency needed to succeed in English-only instruction and therefore define the English Learner–non-English Learner dichotomy (Abedi, 2008; Mahoney & MacSwan, 2005; Umansky & Porter, 2020). Here, again, there is significant variation in the assessment types and proficiency cutoffs used across state education agencies (Linquanti & Cook, 2013). Some administer the same ELP assessment used for federal accountability reporting while others explicitly use shorter placement/ screening tests designed specifically for first-time EL identification (Linquanti & Cook, 2013; National Research Council et al., 2011). To illustrate the variation in test types, a recent study conducted by the National Research Council reported 25 different ELP assessments used for initial English Learner classification, ranging from single state-developed assessments to screeners created by professional groups such as the WIDA consortium – as of 2011, 18 states used a WIDA-developed ELP screener for first-time EL classification (National Research Council et al., 2011).5 Even among state education agencies that use the same ELP assessment, such as members of the WIDA consortium, states typically set proficiency cutoffs at their discretion (Linquanti & Cook, 2013; Umansky & Porter, 2020), thus curtailing the

5

The WIDA Consortium is a US-based collaborative group of 41 member states, territories, and federal agencies.

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degree of uniformity in EL classification policies and illuminating the arbitrary nature of cutoff scores (Mahoney & MacSwan, 2005). Indeed, researchers have long warned against the single use of test scores for high-stakes decision-making as it reduces a crucial decision to a metric that is captured with some degree of error and can be construed as a poor measure of an already nebulous concept (Leung, 2022; Mahoney & MacSwan, 2005; Melguizo et al., 2015; Solórzano, 2008). As a result of the wide variety of initial tools and criteria used to classify English Learners, there is no unified understanding of what English proficiency means in practice, making it challenging to accurately compare EL students across states (Hakuta & Beatty, 2000; Linquanti & Cook, 2013; National Research Council et al., 2011; Umansky & Porter, 2020), and possibly perpetuating inequities in access to learning opportunities and postsecondary institutions for many EL students (Cramer et al., 2018).

Annual Assessment and Instruction Following initial classification, English Learners are entitled to English language development supports provided by local education agencies, as mandated by federal law (Abedi & Sanchez, 2021; Núñez et al., 2016; Stewner-Manzares, 1988; Wright, 2005). Effective design and implementation of language support programs are intended to aid EL students’ development of English knowledge necessary to meet core content expectations and standards (Bailey & Carroll, 2015; Wolf et al., 2022). In addition to this mandate, federal nonregulatory guidance articulates minimum standards for language assistance programs consistent with the Castañeda test, and directs state education agencies to implement programs in a manner that avoids unnecessary segregation of students (U.S. Department of Education, 2016). Beyond these baseline parameters, however, no concrete federal guidelines prescribe the method by which state education agencies ought to accomplish these goals nor are there common benchmarks to assess program success. Instead, local education agencies have flexibility to design and implement language support services that best meet the needs of their local EL student population (U.S. Department of Education, 2017a). Consequently, there is wide variation in English language development supports along several dimensions, such as the degree of native/heritage language use, integration of non-EL peers, instructional time, minimum teacher qualifications, and program effectiveness (Lopez & Santibanez, 2018; Sugarman, 2018; Umansky & Reardon, 2014). For accountability purposes under ESSA, local education agencies are obligated to monitor EL students’ progress in English proficiency using annual ELP assessments for as long as EL students are entitled to access language supports [34 C.F.R. §§200.5(a)(2), 200.6(h)(1)]. These high-stakes tests are administered to EL students of all grade levels and are designed to measure the level of proficiency in English according to four language domains: listening, speaking, reading, and writing (Linquanti & Cook, 2013; Wolf et al., 2008). Composite and/or individual domain scores are typically used for EL reclassification decisions, along with determinations for special education services and academic track placements, such as honors

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courses (Robinson-Cimpian et al., 2016). Given these high-stakes consequences, scholars emphasize the indispensable prerequisite for these assessments to yield an accurate measure of EL students’ English proficiency skills (Umansky & Porter, 2020), and yet, obtaining valid and reliable measures of language proficiency among EL students is particularly challenging (Robinson-Cimpian et al., 2016; Solórzano, 2008). Earlier research on the adequacy of ELP assessments raised issues with the construct definition and reliability of these tests, which resulted in varied conclusions of language proficiency depending on the ELP assessment used for language skill evaluation (Del Vecchio & Guerrero, 1995; Wolf et al., 2008). Building on prior literature, more recent studies also highlight the shortcomings associated with the capacity of ELP tests to measure academic English skills that align more closely with state education agencies’ core content standards (Frantz et al., 2014; Hakuta & Beatty, 2000; Wolf et al., 2008). In response, several states and national consortia (e.g., WIDA and ELPA21)6 have worked to update their English proficiency assessments to reflect a closer alignment with academic English as well as college and career readiness standards (Boals et al., 2015; Umansky & Porter, 2020). Ongoing improvements in ELP assessments aim to accomplish these goals by combining the use of technology-based tools with rigorous academic research (Boals et al., 2015).

Reclassification Under federal law, states must set standardized procedures dictating the criteria under which currently identified EL students will stop receiving language services and therefore exit EL designation [ESEA Section 3113(b)(2)]. This step, known as reclassification, is typically the final phase in the process of identifying and serving EL students, and it is a high-stakes decision with meaningful implications for instruction and academic outcomes.7 Yet, to date, no federal guidelines prescribe how state education agencies ought to determine reclassification, resulting in wide variability in policies and implementation across and within states (Estrada & Wang, 2018; Linquanti et al., 2016; Mavrogordato & White, 2017; Reyes & Domina, 2019). Notwithstanding the lack of centralized standards, ELP assessment scores have emerged as a universal criterion in EL reclassification procedures (Linquanti et al., 2016; Ragan & Lesaux, 2006; Umansky & Porter, 2020). According to a national review of current reclassification policies, 29 states and the District of Columbia determine EL reclassification exclusively based on ELP assessment scores – a combination of composite and/or individual domain scores (Linquanti et al., 6

ELPA21 is a comprehensive assessment and instructional system supporting the growth of educators and English Learners in partnership with several state education agencies. 7 Recent studies emphasize the crucial nature of the timing of EL reclassification where a premature exit can increase students’ chances of academic struggles while a prolonged continuation of the EL status can act as a gatekeeper preventing students from accessing advanced learning opportunities (Johnson, 2020; Linquanti & Cook, 2013; Robinson, 2011).

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2016). The remaining state education agencies augment their reclassification protocols with items such as academic content tests (17 states) and teacher evaluations (15 states) (Linquanti et al., 2016). Therefore, while the reclassification decision is not solely driven by ELP assessments in all cases, test scores more broadly (including those of core content) overwhelmingly determine students’ continuation of the EL designation. The use of test scores in reclassification decisions is implicitly predicated upon the assumption that ELP and core content evaluations are effective tools for measuring EL students’ preparation to learn in English-only classroom environments without language supports. Yet, scholars have long raised issues of assessment validity and reliability, particularly as it pertains to content-based assessments whereby scores may reflect construct-irrelevance variance instead of latent language knowledge, and suffer from content and cultural bias (Abedi, 2008; Abedi & Sanchez, 2021; Hakuta & Beatty, 2000; National Research Council, 1999). Adding to the consequences of these serious psychometric issues, using content-based assessments for reclassification stretches the material meaning of the “EL” designation beyond language proficiency alone to include academic performance more broadly, which unfairly prolongs the length to EL reclassification under strict standards that many English-only students may almost certainly not meet (Estrada & Wang, 2018; Linquanti & Cook, 2013). And yet, the use of assessment tools for reclassification purposes may prove to be the preferred approach considering that alternatives such as teacher recommendations and grades are more vulnerable to biases that could widen inequitable outcomes across EL students of different racial/ ethnic backgrounds and genders (Reyes & Domina, 2019; Umansky et al., 2020; Umansky & Porter, 2020). To summarize, EL education policies in K-12 have gone through multiple iterations over time. While there has been a consistent effort to set a common core of minimum guidelines, there remains meaningful variation in the implementation of the various laws regulating English Learners’ access to adequate learning opportunities. Despite the level of decentralization in practice, however, regulation in elementary and secondary sectors has resulted in a wealth of documentation, data, and monitoring of EL students that has served as the foundation for much of the academic analyses and evaluations completed in recent years. This growing visibility of EL students in K-12 runs counter to the lack of systematic data collection and scant body of work assessing the educational outcomes of EL students in postsecondary institutions. To emphasize this point, we now turn our attention to English Learners in community colleges, summarizing their characteristics and common practices across institutions.

English Learners in Community Colleges Research focusing on English Learners in higher education has grown in response to upward trends in the US immigration rate coupled with changes in state policies affecting this student population (e.g., Bill Text – California

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AB-705, 2023).8 However, it is important to note again the nonexisting nationwide estimate on the actual number of EL students who matriculate each year in US postsecondary institutions, in 4-year and 2-year institutions alike. This is likely due to the fact that federal accountability policies at the postsecondary level are not designed to address enrollment and outcome disparities between student subgroups (Miller, 2017), a marked contrast with the Every Student Succeeds Act (ESSA), which mandates that state education and local education agencies include EL students in statewide accountability systems to monitor their progress toward attaining English language proficiency, as well as meeting stateestablished content standards in reading and mathematics (U.S. Department of Education, 2017b). For this reason, we suspect that data on postsecondary EL students is largely unavailable, making it extremely difficult to not only count but also track students identified as English Learners in K-12 into higher education and study their postsecondary academic outcomes and trajectories more in depth. Researchers have attempted to fill in this important data gap by leveraging federal datasets (e.g., various surveys administered by the U.S. Department of Education and the U.S. Census Bureau) capturing information on proxies for EL students, including Language Minority students, immigrant-origin students, and Hispanic students more broadly. While many of these populations classify as EL students, many do not. For example, Nuñez and Sparks (2012) draw on the Beginning Postsecondary Students Longitudinal Study (BPS:04)9 to provide a demographic profile of Language Minority students enrolled in postsecondary education. Similarly, Klein et al. (2004) leverage various federal data sources from the U.S. Census Bureau, the Current Population Survey, and U.S. Commerce Department to document the characteristics of Language Minority students, as well as their postsecondary enrollment and labor market outcomes. Researchers sometimes call these individuals “circumstantial bilinguals” (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008) because many have received all of their formal education in US schools, but belong to non-native English-speaking households (Kim et al., 2017). However, as several researchers have pointed out that although language minority students are not monolingual native English speakers, many are fully proficient in English and do not demonstrate a need for language-assistive services in college (August & Hakuta, 1997; Llosa & Bunch, 2011). Setting this limitation aside, 8

For instance, Californian’s AB 705 is a legislation that was intended to support assessment and placement strategies for EL students, and has proven to increase student completion rates and close the achievement gap by requiring colleges to consider a student’s high school coursework and GPA as primary determining factors for placement. 9 For more information on BPS:04, go to https://nces.ed.gov/pubsearch/pubsinfo.asp? pubid¼2012246. BPS:04 follows students, who started their postsecondary education during the 2003–04 academic school year, and these students were first interviewed as part of the 2004 National Postsecondary Student Aid Study (NPSAS:04). BPS is the second and final follow-up interview of this cohort. Importantly, BPS data includes a wide collection of student interviews, transcripts, and administrative records matching. BPS is unique in that it also includes both traditional and nontraditional students and follows these students’ paths through their postsecondary education over the course of 6 years, and BPS is not limited to enrollment at a single institution.

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this research shows that Language Minority students in higher education institutions were disproportionately lower income, from families with lower levels of educational attainment, and Hispanic. However, there was no clear and consistent distinction between Language Minority students and their peers relative to their high school academic performance nor their intent to enroll in postsecondary education. In fact, Nuñez and Sparks (2012) found that a higher proportion of Language Minority students enrolled in community colleges had earned AP credit relative to their English-speaking peers. This evidence suggests that being able to speak two languages proficiently may be academically advantageous but nevertheless may not translate into more optimal enrollment decisions. Other scholars have also examined the postsecondary enrollment and attainment of immigrant-origin students enrolling in higher education (Batalova & Feldblum, 2020; Cortes, 2013; Llosa & Bunch, 2011). Immigrant-origin students are those who immigrated to the United States, commonly referred to as first-generation students, but may also include those who were born in the United States to non-US citizen parents, also known as second-generation students (Batalova & Feldblum, 2020; Cortes, 2006). Still, others have examined postsecondary enrollment and attainment for Hispanics since a large proportion of EL students identified in K-12 come from Central and South America (Nora & Crisp, 2009). Akin to Language Minority students, studies show that immigrant and Hispanic students exhibit analogous postsecondary enrollment and outcome patterns, which suggests that they encounter similar challenges shaping their transitions to college and outcomes after they enroll (Bailey et al., 2005; Baum & Flores, 2011). In our review of the literature, Kanno and Cromley (2013) is the only study to categorize EL students and track them into college. Using data from the National Educational Longitudinal Study of 1988, they label EL students as those who were enrolled in bilingual education, a sheltered English content class, or at least one ESL course while in high school. In their analysis, they found that a large plurality of EL students did not enroll in postsecondary education, and those who did were overrepresented in community colleges. Level of parental education, parental educational expectations, and family composition were factors that explained why EL students were more likely to enroll in community colleges than in more selective 4-year postsecondary institutions, which is similar to findings from Nuñez and Sparks (2012). Moreover, EL students were more likely to be economically disadvantaged and to have lower levels of academic preparation for college-level coursework. This evidence suggests that EL students may disproportionately start their higher education journey at their local 2-year community college because the transactional and opportunity costs (e.g., distance to a community college)10 of earning a college 10 There is a growing number of scholars who have documented the postsecondary enrollment disparities among students due to higher education deserts (Black et al., 2020; Cortes & Lincove, 2019; Hillman, 2016; López Turley, 2009). In particular, low-income students (Cortes & Lincove, 2019) and racial and ethnic students (Black et al., 2020) are more sensitive to distance to postsecondary higher education locations than compared to their higher-income and white student counterparts, respectively.

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credential in these institutions are comparatively lower. As historically open institutions, community colleges do not use admission requirements, such as standardized tests, high school grade point average, or personal essays, to restrict admission like 4-year postsecondary institutions (Bryant, 2001). Moreover, because community colleges typically charge students lower tuition fees, they are perceived as a more affordable alternative relative to 4-year institutions (Melguizo et al., 2008). Finally, community colleges offer a wide variety of academic and technical programs that prepare students to earn academic degrees or enter a variety of industries. For students with less exposure to the US higher education system, including some EL students, community colleges may offer a wider variety of courses to meet different student needs and interests (Bailey et al., 2015).

ELs in Community Colleges: Identification, Assessment, and Placement In contrast with the K-12 sector, it is exclusively up to states to guide or prescribe how their public 4- and 2-year institutions should identify potential English Learners and assign classified them to coursework. Higher education institutions are not bound by federal law to identify EL students, nor must they comply with prescriptive federal rules regarding how they should assess level of English proficiency and academically support college-enrolled EL students (Santibañez & Umansky, 2018). Despite the autonomy afforded to states, no survey, to the best of our knowledge, has collected data that would allow researchers and policymakers to compare state guidelines for identifying, assessing, and placing EL students in courses in college. What we do know is that decisions resulting from these practices have consequential stakes for EL students since these high-stakes decisions ultimately determine the course sequences students take in college. A long line of research shows that sequences that require enrollment in prerequisite courses can limit opportunities for students to learn in environments that are supportive of their postsecondary education success (Jaggars & Bickerstaff, 2018; Melguizo et al., 2014; Ngo & Kosiewicz, 2017; Rutschow et al., 2019). The vast majority of research exploring how community colleges identify potential EL students and sort them into different courses has centered on California (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008; Llosa & Bunch, 2011; Rodriguez et al., 2022). This focus is likely due to the fact that EL students constitute a significant share of the state’s student population, and the state’s recent efforts to better serve this particular student population. California enrolls more than 1.3 million English Learners in its public schools (Santibañez & Umansky, 2018), and many enter one of the state’s community colleges to pursue higher education. Within the past decade, the state has enacted legislation that significantly alters how higher education institutions serve EL students (Rodriguez et al., 2022). In 2017, state officials passed AB 705, which set in motion efforts to maximize the probability that a student would enroll and pass transfer-level English and mathematics courses (California Community Colleges Chancellor’s Office, n.d.). In 2021, the state approved AB 1705, which requires

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community colleges to offer concurrent language support to EL students, and to place EL students graduating from a US high school directly into credit-bearing English coursework (Rodriguez et al., 2022). While research from California provides useful insights into the nature of EL identification, assessment, placement policies, and the changes that have been made to them, we recognize that this policy context may be unique relative to others in different states. Yet, independent of the political context in which these policies are designed, researchers acknowledge that the purpose of testing English proficiency in higher education is to determine student placement in ESL courses (Bergey et al., 2018; Crusan, 2002). No evidence suggests that it is also used to monitor the mastery of specific English language skills or determine whether students should exit language support services as it is routinely done in public schools. Students who believe that they have been misassigned to language support services may have the opportunity to reclassify out of their assigned ESL coursework if they re-test before they enroll in classes. However, many students do not re-test because they are not aware of the opportunity (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008; Rodriguez et al., 2022). The differences in the purpose for testing between the K-12 and higher education sectors are directly tied to the accountability standards requiring public schools to routinely assess whether EL students need language support as they progress through their K-12 education. Historically, states have given significant discretion to community colleges over how they evaluate English Learners’ academic abilities and skills (Bergey et al., 2018). Up until the passage of AB 705, for example, the assessment and placement process in California was highly decentralized (Moore & Shulock, 2007). Community colleges could choose their own assessment, set their own cut scores, and select different multiple measures to determine course placement (Moore & Shulock, 2007). Texas currently operates in a similar fashion. While the state mandates the use of the Texas Success Initiative Assessment (TSIA) to assess college readiness and the implementation and scaling of the co-requisite instructional model to increase college success, state officials do not regulate the policies and practices that community colleges use to sort incoming EL students into ESL or English coursework. Research shows that this level of discretion has resulted in the inequitable treatment of students and presents significant obstacles to students seeking a college credential (Moore & Shulock, 2007). Despite the fact that assessment and placement policies have varied across community colleges, they nevertheless utilize similar strategies and tools to evaluate EL students, with most relying on adaptive computerized tests to infer a student’s ability to succeed in mainstream courses (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008; Crusan, 2002). These strategies, in general, do not consider the student’s education experiences in public schools (e.g., the length of time the student received language supports; their performance in core content areas) in their placement decisions (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008). It is important to acknowledge that disregarding information about a student’s K-12 designation (e.g., English Learner, initially fully English proficient, reclassified full English proficient) and academic performance in specific K-12 core content areas may increase the risk of misplacement into

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or out of language support programming at the college level. Below, we distill current research on the ways in which community colleges identify English Learners and assign them to prerequisite (e.g., ESL, developmental) versus college-level coursework.

Identification Practices Very little research examines how community colleges identify students who may need language support services. The exception is Bunch and Panayotova (2008), who examined how a select group of 16 community colleges in California guided students to take either the ESL or English assessment prior to the passage of AB 705. Selection of the ESL assessment initially identifies the student as an English Learner; conversely, selection of an English assessment identifies the student as a native English speaker or academically fit for mainstreaming. Through their study, Bunch and Panayotova (2008) discovered that advice given to students and staff was not explicit and consistent across these colleges, and tended to be conservative in ushering non-native English-speaking students to take the ESL assessment. This is in spite of the fact that in California community colleges faculty, staff, and administrators were required to use “established and defined criteria” to advise students to take either the English or ESL test (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008). In this study, these researchers found that sampled community colleges implemented several different strategies and relied on several different sources of information to identify potential EL students. The first strategy was to ask incoming students to respond to a series of questions that gathered information about the student’s native or home language, use of English with their peers, and history of taking academic course content exclusively in English. Notably, none of these questions considered the student’s English proficiency in academic settings. This strategy is similar to that used by public schools to tag potential EL students within the first 30 days of the school year, a practice operationalized by home language surveys (Goldenberg & Rutherford-Quach, 2012; U.S. Department of Education, 2017a). The second strategy was to provide students guidance online, typically through a college’s website, to help them determine for themselves whether they should take the ESL assessment. Bunch and Panayotova (2008) found that while guidance asked students to consider their native language, past and current language practices, and their level of English proficiency, only some community colleges asked students to also consider if they wanted to take an ESL course. This guidance frequently used terms that were likely difficult for some students to understand, particularly for bilingual or 1.5-generation students who are proficient in both English and their first language.11 Because being identified as an English Learner may be viewed as stigmatizing, it is possible that students who may need language services may opt into taking the English test (Bergey et al., 2018).

1.5-generation students typically refers to those who are first-generation immigrants and who moved to the United States as children.

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The third strategy involved using college staff to identify potential EL students. Students are typically directed to the assessment office during orientation after they matriculate. It is there where they interact with intake staff. Though intake staff typically have very little training to identify EL students, they nevertheless dispensed advice directing students to either take an ESL or English assessment, drawing on surface-level information such as the student’s accent or country of origin to make those determinations (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008).

Assessment and Course Placement Practices Though research documents there is no single process to evaluate English Learners’ abilities and skills, most community colleges have relied on a single assessment to place students into English or ESL course pathways (Bergey et al., 2018; Bunch & Endris, 2012; Crusan, 2002), a pattern that is mirrored in the 4-year sector (Crusan, 2002). These assessments have included the Combined English Language Skills Assessment (CELSA), the Compass ESL, and the ACCUPLACER ESL tests (Bergey et al., 2018). These instruments are multiple-choice, computerized, and adaptive, meaning that they are designed to automatically branch test-takers to different question sets depending on their answers, and are administered in one setting (Bunch et al., 2011; Crusan, 2002). Evidence suggests that the widespread adoption of computerized tests has resulted from a lack of resources facing community colleges to evaluate written essays (Bunch et al., 2011). The recent passage of AB 705 in California will likely decrease the use of these tests in favor of other methods such as guided self-placement or direct placement of EL students into college-level coursework to determine who needs extra academic help in college. Though these computerized, adaptive assessments are efficient in sorting students into different course pathways (Jaggars & Hodara, 2011), they have been criticized for their failure in predicting academic success (Bachman & Palmer, 1996), their exclusive focus on discrete components of language (Bunch & Endris, 2012), their role in exacerbating higher education inequities between ELs and non-ELs (Hayward et al., 2022), and for privileging different aspects of English proficiency (Llosa & Bunch, 2011). As designed, these instruments are considered indirect measures of English proficiency since they assess knowledge of specific components of language such as “grammar, reading comprehension, vocabulary, and ‘writing’” (Crusan, 2002, p. 19), and are based on the assumption that evaluations of discrete components of language can reveal the need for language support (Crusan, 2002). Yet some contest the validity of that assumption. In 2001, the Committee on Second Language Writing recommended that education institutions use “scores from direct assessment of students’ writing proficiency (i.e. written essays)” (pp. 670–671) and when possible multiple writing samples for the purposes of placement. This plea suggests that direct assessments (i.e., written essays) more authentically assess the student’s ability to read and write at the college level because they focus on skills that are valued in writing composition classes, such as the formulation of a thesis (Crusan & Cornett, 2002). However, studies report that a minority of higher education institutions, including community colleges, evaluate writing essays as a means to place students into English versus ESL courses (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008; Crusan, 2002). This practice stands

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in direct contrast to the implementation of ELP assessments in K-12 that directly evaluate English proficiency in four language domains, including writing. Despite the common use of computer-adaptive tests, research shows variation in the standards used to marshal EL students into different classes (Rodriguez et al., 2022). Drawing on data from California, Rodriguez & colleagues (2022) found that following the passage of AB 705, EL students who received scores between the ranges of 100 and 114 on the ACCUPLACER reading skills test, and 63 and 70 on the CELSA were placed into an ESL one level below college-level composition. They also found that a similar degree of variation exists at lower levels of the ESL course sequence, which introduces EL students to rudimentary English language skills (e.g., grammar). What strikes us from this analysis is that the results closely resemble the findings from other research showing appreciable variability in cut scores used for sorting students in developmental education (Fields & Parsad, 2012; Fulton, 2012). One obvious consequence of this variation in standards is that EL students with the same test score are treated differently. Depending on the college where they attend, some students will be required to take more courses to complete college while others fewer even though they demonstrate the same level of English proficiency. This scenario undoubtedly creates unequal opportunities to obtain a college credential since it requires some students to invest more resources in college, which research demonstrates decreases the probability of completing college (Fong et al., 2015). In sum, the policies used to estimate a student’s level of English proficiency are remarkably reminiscent of those used to determine a student’s readiness for college-level coursework prior to recent reform increasing the number of students placed directly into gateway college courses. However, it is important to acknowledge that the need to first identify students who could benefit from language support services makes the EL assessment and placement process even that much more prone to placement error.

Educational Outcomes of EL Students Impacted by Classification, Assessment, and Placement Policies In this section, we summarize the educational outcomes of English Learners whose experiences and opportunities are shaped by the policies, guidelines, and practices reviewed in sections “English Learners in K-12: Identification, Assessment, and Reclassification” and “English Learners in Community Colleges.” We begin with a brief discussion of the educational outcomes of EL students in K-12 including the direct and indirect effects of classification and reclassification on students’ preparation for college, such as test scores, access to core content courses, and high school graduation. We proceed with a summary describing higher education enrollment patterns of EL students. We conclude the section with a comprehensive review of the literature detailing the impacts of EL identification, assessment, and placement in community colleges on EL students’ course trajectories and related higher education outcomes.

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EL Student College Preparation In principle, accurate identification of students in need of English language development, coupled with adequate learning supports, is designed to improve outcomes for English Learners relative to English-proficient peers. In practice, however, descriptive analyses offer, at best, inconclusive evidence to support this claim. For example, according to the 2019 National Assessment of Educational Progress, EL students lagged behind in both math and reading by as much as 2.4–3 years of learning, respectively (The Nation’s Report Card, n.d.). Studies using data from a wider range of standardized assessments also support this fact and confirm its persistence over a longer time (Abedi & Sanchez, 2021). Analyses using data from the Civil Rights Data Collection covering the 2017–2018 school year show a disproportionately lower enrollment rate into advanced placement and other college-level courses among high school EL students (Office of English Language Acquisition, 2021). Moreover, the 4-year high school graduation rate of EL students is 16% points lower than the US average, making it the lowest graduation rate of any student subgroup as of the 2019–2020 school year (National Center for Education Statistics, 2023a). That said, various studies have called attention to the role that a dynamic EL status plays in assessing the academic outcomes of this population (e.g., Saunders & Marcelletti, 2013). As such, research demonstrates that including the educational experiences of reclassified EL students along with those with an active EL designation results in a more optimistic valuation of the learning trajectories and academic growth of the broader EL population, and in some cases, altogether closing the EL–non-EL achievement gap (de la Torre et al., 2019; Kieffer & Thompson, 2018; Saunders & Marcelletti, 2013). Adding to the body of descriptive studies, prior research on the causal effects of EL designation in K-12 on short- and medium-term academic outcomes also presents mixed evidence. Some studies identify small to positive impacts on test scores particularly in early grades (Shin, 2018), while others find that it lowers academic achievement (Umansky, 2016b). Similarly, while some evidence indicates there is no statistically meaningful impact of initial EL classification in early grades on high school graduation if reclassification occurs before middle school (Johnson, 2019), remaining an EL student in later grades has been shown to be particularly harmful resulting in lower test scores and a decline in the likelihood of graduating from high school (Carlson & Knowles, 2016). Furthermore, while EL classification is designed to provide access to specialized language program supports, it has also been shown to trigger “unintended treatments” (Umansky, 2018) many of which exacerbate inequities in the quality of education experienced by English Learners and lower their likelihood of exposure to college preparation. The EL label alone has been linked to lower academic expectations among counselors, teachers, and even EL students themselves (Kanno & Kangas, 2014; Umansky, 2016b). Prior studies also demonstrate that EL services crowd out access to core content courses and high-track classes (Callahan et al., 2010; Lillie et al., 2012; Umansky, 2016a, b). Being an EL student increases the likelihood of having inexperienced teachers (Gándara et al., 2003) and experiencing segregation from English-speaking peers (Gándara et al.,

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2003). In sum, the experiential learning contexts and treatments induced by EL classification in K-12 appear to result in mixed academic outcomes for English Learners, varying widely by the timing of reclassification and unintended effects beyond those prescribed by federal and state guidelines.

Enrollment in Postsecondary Institutions As previously discussed in section “English Learners in Community Colleges,” there is a stark contrast to the vast amount of data collected in the K-12 sector, which allows for a rich description of the educational experiences of EL students in primary and secondary education. However, in the higher education sector, there are no nationwide records on the number of EL students enrolled in postsecondary institutions, and therefore, no information can be used to calculate their college enrollment rate (Núñez et al., 2016). In an attempt to fill this gap in the data, researchers have relied on nationally representative surveys to approximate college enrollment rates among English Learners and describe their trajectories in postsecondary education. Using data from the National Educational Longitudinal Study of 1988, Kanno and Cromley (2013) estimate that the EL student population is roughly half as likely to enroll in college within 2 years of high school graduation (54%) compared to monolingual English speakers (76%). Among those enrolled in higher education institutions, EL students are twice as likely to matriculate in community colleges (36%) compared to 4-year universities (18%), and have a lower rate of bachelor’s degree completion within 8 years of high school graduation relative to native English speakers – 12% versus 32%, respectively (Kanno & Cromley, 2013). Beyond differences in K-12 educational experiences, several other factors are thought to contribute to these disparities between EL and non-EL students including differences in family income and education (Kanno & Cromley, 2013; Kanno & Varghese, 2010), challenges faced during the college planning and application processes (Kanno & Cromley, 2015), access to financial aid particularly for foreign-born EL students (Nuñez & Sparks, 2012), among many other factors. In contrast to the descriptive evidence that points to an EL disadvantage in higher education enrollment and attainment, causal evidence unveils a more nuanced view of the relationship between EL status and higher education outcomes. As in the K-12 context, differences in postsecondary outcomes by EL designation vary substantially by grade of EL reclassification, with students who exited in earlier grades typically fairing appreciably better than those who retained EL classification well into high school. Using data from a large school district in California, Johnson (2019) finds no impact of EL classification in kindergarten on the likelihood of college attendance. Conditional on postsecondary enrollment, however, EL students who maintained their status beyond middle school were more likely to enroll in a 4-year institution (Johnson, 2019). This finding stands in direct contrast to evidence from Wisconsin where Carlson and Knowles (2016) find that having an EL designation beyond tenth grade has a negative impact on ACT scores and college enrollment immediately following high school graduation. Among college-bound students, Nuñez and

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Sparks (2012) find that the type of higher education institution that EL students attend varies by their reclassification status such that students who exited the EL designation are more likely to attend 4-year institutions whereas those who retained their EL status until high school graduation typically enroll in community colleges. Moreover, other research shows that EL students complete college at lower rates than native English speakers (Núñez et al., 2016). Some stipulate the disproportionate placement of EL students in prerequisite college coursework contributes to this observed disparity (i.e., ESL and developmental education) (Flores & Drake, 2014; Hodara, 2015). It is important to remind readers that assignment to courses in the ESL, developmental, or college English course sequences is by and large the sole function of the placement test an EL student takes (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008). While some states (e.g., California) require community colleges to consider other measures beyond test scores to place students into coursework (e.g., high school course-taking or grades, noncognitive abilities), prior research shows that community colleges have assigned these measures little weight for determining placement (Melguizo et al., 2014; Rodriguez et al., 2022). Written essays can also be used to inform community college placement decisions, but they are not commonly used largely because of resource constraints (Crusan, 2002; Llosa & Bunch, 2011). Evidence of the scaled adoption of self-placement policies in California as well as in Florida is a departure from the common practice of using tests for placement purposes.

Assignment to Prerequisite and College-Level Coursework and Its Outcomes on Student Success Given that placement tests are designed to measure knowledge and skills taught in particular content domains (Armstrong, 2000; Llosa & Bunch, 2011), it is not surprising that students assessed by ESL tests are typically sorted into one of several course levels constituting the ESL course sequence, and those assessed by an English test are sorted into a course constituting the developmental English sequence or directly into college English (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008). Although evidence shows some community colleges use an English placement test to assign students to ESL or English courses (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008; Hodara, 2015), this practice has been discouraged by state officials and psychometricians because these tests assess different skill sets and knowledge (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008; Llosa & Bunch, 2011). Commonly used ESL placement tests (e.g., ACCUPLACER ESL test) attempt to measure a student’s skills in reading, writing, listening, and grammar usage, whereas commonly used English placement tests (e.g., ACCUPLACER English test) assess a student’s ability to “derive meaning from a range of texts,” “revise and edit” texts, competencies students exercise in college composition courses (Bunch & Panayotova, 2008; Crandall & Sheppard, 2004). Based on current research, it is unclear how the average community college structures ESL, developmental, or college course sequences in English. However, research from California and New York shows ESL courses typically precede developmental reading and writing courses and entry-level college composition (Patthey-Chavez et al., 2005; Hodara, 2015; Rodriguez et al., 2022). In

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this scenario, EL students placed into the ESL course sequence would be required to complete their assigned ESL courses before they could be deemed ready for mainstream developmental and college-level courses. Prior to recent reforms seeking to reduce the length of time that students spend in prerequisite coursework (e.g., California Assembly Bill 705, Texas House Bill 2223), evidence showed that community college students evaluated by ESL tests could be referred to up to nine levels of prerequisite coursework, which includes ESL and developmental education (Rodriguez et al., 2022). Yet, despite the push to quicken student access to college-level courses, Rodriguez and her colleagues (Rodriguez et al., 2022) show that some prerequisite course sequences remain unchanged and the percentage of EL students enrolling in college English has not concomitantly increased (Rodriguez et al., 2022). In their study of the ramifications of AB 705, Rodriguez et al. (2022) descriptively found the proportion of EL students enrolling in college English (18%) did not change following the bill’s passage, but rather merely shifted the distribution of EL students enrolling across the different levels of prerequisite course sequence. After AB 705, 20% of EL students enrolled in one level below College English relative to 8% in the 2016–17 academic year. However, more than a third of EL students under AB 705 enrolled in a course five levels or more below college English, slightly higher than the percent who enrolled at those same levels during the 2016–17 academic year. This evidence suggests that efforts to reduce college completion disparities between EL and non-EL students by way of altering assessment and placement policies may be falling short of their intended goal. Evidence from New York and Texas community colleges also corroborates that being identified as an EL significantly increases a student’s chances of being assigned to prerequisite coursework, including developmental education. Using data from a community college district in New York, Hodara (2015) found that being flagged as a potential EL student was a significant predictor for enrolling in ESL coursework. Similarly, Flores and Drake (2014) found that students labeled as “ever EL” were more likely to enroll in developmental math and developmental reading and writing relative to students who never received that label. Others show that the likelihood of enrolling in courses designed to shore up academic and language skills varied by the length of time spent in language assistive services in K-12 schools, student race and ethnicity, and student gender (Flores & Drake, 2014; Rodriguez et al., 2022). What this research suggests is that factors besides the observed level of English proficiency at the time of testing may determine referral to either ESL or developmental education coursework. Enrollment in ESL and developmental courses, particularly to the lower course levels, has significant implications on a student’s ability to reach academic milestones critical for their college success. This is because the probability of completing prerequisite coursework and matriculating in entry-level college courses decreases with each additional prerequisite course the student is assigned (Bailey et al., 2010; Fong et al., 2015). In a descriptive study of roughly 238,000 students enrolled in nine California community colleges, Patthey-Chavez, Dillon, and Thomas-Spiegel (2005) found that less than 6% of EL students who enrolled in the lowest level of the ESL sequence successfully finished the college English course required for an associate

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degree within 11 years. That percentage increased almost sixfold for students who bypassed prerequisite coursework and enrolled directly in the required course (34%). More methodologically rigorous quasi-experimental research also suggests a penalty for enrolling in ESL coursework. Hodara (2015) revealed that ESL enrollment on average significantly decreased the number of credits a student accumulated in college by around 3.5 and lowered the likelihood of receiving an associate’s degree by around 6% points. These negative effects were particularly pronounced among first-generation and second-generation immigrant students. Specifically, Hodara (2015) found that first- and second-generation immigrant students whose first course was ESL earned roughly 7 fewer credits within 3 years of matriculation relative to peers who did not enroll in ESL coursework but also failed the writing placement test. Whether decreased credit accumulation resulted in lower rates of college completion was difficult to determine because of the wide variation observed in long-term student outcomes (Hodara, 2015). The movement to increase access to college-level courses with supplemental supports has offered a tremendous opportunity to examine the extent to which removing the structural barriers associated with the traditional prerequisite course model has academically helped EL students. While research in this area is only just emerging, it suggests that these efforts yield positive academic benefits that are even greater than those for other populations. In their study examining Florida’s developmental education reforms, Mokher, Park-Ganghan, and Hu (2023) found that students who were classified as English Learners in high school or who were foreign-born experienced the largest gains relative to other affected students. These students were significantly more likely to pass college-level English by years 1 and 3 as a result of Florida’s legislation. Miller and Daugherty (2018) find similar results from their experimental evaluation of Texas HB 2223, which requires state community colleges to scale co-requisite models for students who have been deemed underprepared for college-level coursework. Finally, Rodriguez et al. (2022) found that approximately 60% of EL students who enrolled in college-level English specifically designed for non-native English speakers successfully passed following California’s legislative mandate to increase direct placement in college-level coursework. While this finding, in particular, suggests that adapting English instruction to meet the unique learning characteristics of EL students might be an effective strategy to academically support ELs, these studies overall show that these structural barriers associated with prerequisite coursework disproportionately impact EL students and that removing them can lead to more equitable postsecondary outcomes between EL and non-EL student populations. In conclusion, while there has been a modest increase in scholarship examining the higher education outcomes of EL students, there remains a significant dearth of evidence documenting the learning experiences, course trajectories, and postsecondary outcomes of English Learners particularly among those who attend community colleges. The few studies to date either reference data that are several decades old (e.g., Kanno & Cromley, 2013) and therefore preceded important policy changes in K-12 education for EL students (e.g., the NCLB and ESSA Acts), or are concentrated in a handful of states such as California (e.g., Patthey-Chavez et al.,

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2005), New York (e.g., Hodara, 2015), and Texas (e.g., Flores & Drake, 2014), limiting the generalizability of the findings. Scholars have repeatedly called attention to several factors that contribute to the limited volume of research in this area (Núñez et al., 2016). First, there is a misalignment in data collection and management between the K-12 sector and higher education institutions that prevents the longitudinal integration of data across sectors (Hayward et al., 2022; Umansky & Porter, 2020). Consequently, most states do not have the data infrastructure to enable scholarly inquiry into EL student outcomes in higher education. Second, prior research demonstrates the critical role of reclassification outcomes in K-12 as a factor shaping the educational prospects of EL students in higher education from enrollment to attainment and graduation (Carlson & Knowles, 2016; Johnson, 2019; Nuñez & Sparks, 2012). As such, it is central to account for the dynamic nature of the EL label and therefore conduct analyses that disaggregate the EL student population according to their reclassification status, making data integration across sectors a necessary condition for rich scholarly endeavors. Next, we present a brief descriptive exploration of the initial coursework distribution among community college students in Texas, stratified by students’ EL status.

EL Students in Community Colleges: An Exploratory Case Study Using Texas Data In this section, we draw from data collected by the Texas Education Agency and the Texas Higher Education Coordinating Board to identify students who graduated from public high schools in Texas between 2012 and 2017 and document their postsecondary outcomes as they matriculate in community colleges across the state. In particular, we summarize the initial English course enrollment patterns among EL students and non-EL students and identify disparities in initial coursework along various demographic dimensions.

A Description of EL Students in Texas Community Colleges The baseline sample consists of students who graduated from a Texas public high school between the 2011–12 and 2016–17 school years. In total, nearly 1.8 million students attained a high school degree over the sample period, with graduation cohorts ranging from 286 thousand students in 2012 to over 320 thousand by 2017. Taking this initial sample, we then merged individual-level characteristics capturing demographic information (e.g., gender, race and ethnicity, country of birth, etc.), socioeconomic status, participation in academic support programs (e.g., gifted, and special education programs), EL status, modality of ESL instruction (e.g., bilingual, dual language, etc.), and grade of EL reclassification using administrative enrollment records dating as far back as the 1996–97 academic year. Access to a long panel of individual enrollment files allowed us to capture the dynamic nature of EL classification and reclassification which we leveraged to sort students into three

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mutually exclusive groups according to their EL status at the time of high school graduation – active EL, former EL, and never EL students – enabling us to examine differences in initial English course enrollment patterns at the intersection of initial EL classification and reclassification status upon high school graduation. Next, we linked these high school graduation cohorts with their respective college enrollment and transcript records at the year-semester level using data from the Texas Higher Education Coordinating Board ranging from 2012–13 to 2017–18. That is, for each public high school graduate in Texas, we observed their primary institution of higher education (either a 2-year or 4-year institution) along with all the courses in which they matriculated in every year-semester pair starting with the fall of the 2012–13 school year and ending with summer of the 2017–18 academic year.12 Lastly, we identified 25 English courses of interest and classified them into three mutually exclusive categories: college credit, developmental education, and ESL courses.13 Examples in the first category include English composition, British literature, and creative writing, among others. Developmental English courses comprise both reading and writing classes. Finally, ESL courses include writing, oral communication, grammar, as well as reading and vocabulary. During the sample period, nearly a quarter of Texas high school graduates enrolled in a community college within the first academic year after graduation. While the overall community college enrollment rate remained relatively stable over time, the composition of students according to their EL status designation changed in appreciable ways. The share of high school graduates who immediately matriculated in 2-year institutions and were active EL students upon graduation increased substantially from 1.7% in 2013 to 4.2% by 2018. Likewise, the community college enrollment rate among former EL students increased from 23.6% in 2013 to 25.8% by 2019. Conversely, the proportion of students who enrolled in 2-year institutions and were never designated the EL label in K-12 decreased by 4.7% points, reaching 70% by 2019. As reported in Table 1, among students who enrolled in Texas community colleges immediately following their high school graduation, those who were classified as EL students were nearly exclusively from low-income households and significantly more likely to be first-generation immigrants, particularly among those who graduated high school with an active EL designation. Much like the EL student

12

These data only track students who remained in Texas following their high school graduation. According to a recent report, approximately 5% of Texas high school graduates attend college out of state (Brunner, 2017); a small percentage of students in contrast with comparably large states such as California where the proportion of high school graduates who matriculate in out-of-state institutions is at least twice as high (Kurlaender et al., 2018). 13 We tracked the courses of interest using an approval identification number that the Texas Higher Education Coordinating Board publishes in their yearly Academic Course Guide Manual. These approval identification numbers allow us to identify Developmental and ESL courses that do not have a consistent course naming convention at colleges across the state but share the same learning outcomes.

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Table 1 Demographic and academic characteristics of community college students by EL status Variable name Male White Black Hispanic Asian Economically disadvantaged Immigrant Gifted Special education N (number of students)

Active EL students Mean SD 51.1 0.500 3.2 0.175 2.8 0.165 82.5 0.380 10.9 0.311 94.6 0.226 25.5 0.436 1.5 0.122 18.4 0.388 11,737

Former EL students Mean SD 47.7 0.499 1.7 0.128 1.0 0.099 90.7 0.290 6.3 0.243 96.1 0.193 6.3 0.243 10.7 0.309 11.7 0.322 104,726

Never EL students Mean SD 48.7 0.500 47.2 0.499 17.3 0.378 32.4 0.468 1.9 0.135 61.5 0.486 0.4 0.067 10.7 0.309 17.3 0.378 304,927

Note: This table shows average summary statistics for the 2012–2017 high school graduation cohorts who matriculated in a Texas community college within the academic year following their graduation. The variables were obtained from the K-12 enrollment records and therefore correspond to the demographic and socioeconomic characteristics recorded prior to college enrollment. EL designation is defined as students’ EL status in their graduation year

population nationwide, this group was majority Hispanic, with Asian and white students being the second and third largest subgroups. In contrast, never EL students represented a more blanched group in terms of economic disadvantage and racial/ ethnic composition. However, there was virtually no representation of foreign-born students among this group, and it corresponded to the lowest proportion of Asian students.

English Course Enrollment Patterns of EL Students in Texas Community Colleges Leveraging the data described in section “A Description of EL Students in Texas Community Colleges,” we summarized the English course enrollment patterns of students who matriculated in a community college within the first academic year following their graduation from a Texas public high school. Informed by prior research that highlights the critical role of EL reclassification on the academic outcomes of English Learners, we classified students into three categories according to their EL designation upon high school graduation – active EL, former EL, and never EL students – and report the percent distribution of English courses (ESL, development English, or college-level English) separately for each student group and at the intersection of EL designation and key demographic characteristics such as race and ethnicity as well as immigrant background. As shown in Fig. 1, students who graduated high school with an active EL designation were substantially more likely to enroll in an ESL course during their first year of community college (11%) compared to former EL students (0.4%) and those who were never identified as English Learners (0.1%). In contrast, active EL

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Fig. 1 Percent distribution of ESL, developmental English, and college-level English courses by EL status. (Note: Fig. 1 depicts the proportion of students that enroll in ESOL, Developmental English, or College English courses across EL classifications. ESOL courses are courses that provide additional supports for ELs. Developmental courses provide remedial coursework to help prepare students for credit-bearing courses. Active EL distinguishes students who graduated from a public high school in Texas with a current EL classification. Former EL distinguishes students who were identified as an EL at some point during their public K-12 education in Texas but were no longer classified as an EL upon graduation. Never EL captures students who were never classified as an EL at any point during their public K-12 education in Texas. EL classification variables were constructed using K-12 enrollment data and THECB data was used to determine course enrollment)

students were considerably underrepresented in college-level English courses (20%) relative to English Learners who were reclassified prior to high school graduation (54%). That said, neither ESL nor college-level courses represented the majority of English coursework in which active EL students matriculated. Rather, over two-thirds of these students enrolled in developmental English during their first year of college, roughly 1.5–2 times the proportion of former EL students and never EL students who took a developmental English course. Notably, there were only small differences in the initial English course distribution between former EL and never EL students, a finding that corresponds to recent studies on the academic similarities between these groups (de la Torre et al., 2019; Kieffer & Thompson, 2018; Saunders & Marcelletti, 2013). On average, being reclassified prior to high school graduation was a weak predictor of the likelihood of taking an ESL course in college. However, as shown in Fig. 2, a further look at the relationship between the grade of EL reclassification

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Fig. 2 Percent distribution of ESL, developmental English, and college-level English courses by grade of EL reclassification. (Note: Fig. 2 focuses on Former ELs, the students who were at one point classified as an EL but were reclassified at some other point during their K-12 education. Figure 2 depicts the distribution amongst each English course category by the grade during which the student was reclassified from active EL to former EL. ESOL courses are courses that provide additional supports for ELs. Developmental courses provide remedial coursework to help prepare students for credit-bearing courses. Grade of reclassification was constructed using the K-12 data and THECB data was used to determine course enrollment)

and the percent distribution of English courses reveals a more nuanced interpretation. As a general trend, the later an EL student was reclassified, the more likely they were to enroll in ESL or developmental English rather than a college-level English course. Students who were reclassified close to high school graduation (i.e., in grades 11 and 12) faced a nontrivial probability of enrolling in an ESL course (2–4%) while the opposite held for former EL students who were reclassified in middle and elementary school grades. In fact, the latter group followed a course distribution that closely resembled that of never EL students – virtually no enrollment in ESL courses, roughly one-third took a developmental English course, and the majority matriculated in a college-level English class. In addition, we also explored differences in the percent distribution of first English course enrollments at the intersection of EL designation and individual demographic and immigrant background characteristics as they are indicative of disparities in college pathways at entry across student groups. As shown in Fig. 3, among active EL students who enrolled in community college within 1 year of

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Fig. 3 Percent distribution of ESL, developmental English, and college-level English courses by EL status and race/ethnicity. (Note: Fig. 3 uses race/ethnicity data alongside active and former EL classification to depict the distribution of each ethnic/racial group across English courses by EL status. ESOL courses are courses that provide additional supports for ELs. Developmental courses provide remedial coursework to help prepare students for credit-bearing courses. Active EL captures students who graduated from a public high school in Texas while classified as an EL. Former EL captures students who were classified as an EL during their public K-12 education and were reclassified prior to graduation. EL classification variables were constructed using K-12 enrollment data and THECB data was used to determine course enrollment)

high school graduation, Asian and African American students faced a remarkably similar percent distribution across ESL and college-level English courses – roughly 20% enrolled in ESL courses followed by college-level English at 22%, making them the groups with the highest enrollment rates in ESL courses. Hispanic students, on the other hand, had the lowest probability of matriculating in an ESL course (9%) and the highest enrollment rate in developmental English (72%). Therefore, even with a low enrollment rate in ESL courses, the participation rate in developmental English was high enough such that active EL students of Hispanic ethnicity were the least likely to enroll in a college-level English course. This fact also held true among Hispanic students who were former English Learners – this was the group with the lowest probability of taking an ESL course and a college-level English class. Lastly, as shown in Fig. 4, first-generation immigrants were more likely to enroll in ESL courses compared to US-born English Learners, notwithstanding their EL designation upon high school graduation. Notably, however, they simultaneously

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Fig. 4 Percent distribution of ESL, developmental English, and college-level English courses by EL status and immigrant background. (Note: Fig. 4 uses immigrant background demographic data to depict the distribution of immigrant and US-born students across English courses by active and former EL status. ESOL courses are courses that provide additional supports for ELs. Developmental courses provide remedial coursework to help prepare students for credit-bearing courses. Active EL captures students who graduated from a public high school in Texas while classified as an EL. Former EL captures students who were classified as an EL during their public K-12 education and were reclassified prior to graduation. EL classification variables were constructed using K-12 enrollment data and THECB data was used to determine course enrollment)

have a higher chance of matriculating in a college-level English course relative to the native-born. This reveals that among US-born EL students (whether active or former English Learners) developmental English courses are a more common route for remedial support rather than ESL classes. That said, over 7% of active EL students who are born in the United States, and therefore spent their entire K-12 educational experience receiving language supports, were observed taking ESL courses when they first entered community college. Overall, findings from these brief analyses align closely with the extant literature and further highlight the importance of incorporating students’ K-12 learning experiences when exploring the educational outcomes of English Learners in postsecondary institutions. Furthermore, it elevates the importance of developing the data infrastructure that facilitates coordination and information sharing across education sectors. We develop this and other related policy recommendations in our concluding section.

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Recommendations for Policy and Future Research This review reveals that the academic scholarship exploring the role of identification, assessment, and placement policies in shaping the postsecondary education trajectories and outcomes of K-12 classified English Learners is severely limited. While the empirical research base is thin, it nevertheless shows that the policies that guide how community colleges evaluate English proficiency may unnecessarily place some English Learners into ESL coursework that they do not need. Existing studies show that community colleges have used subjective sources to identify potential EL students, and rely heavily on standardized testing to sort EL students into course sequences that may be as long as nine semesters. A robust research base examining developmental education demonstrates that being assigned to a multi-semester prerequisite course sequence may reduce college completion rates by increasing the direct and opportunity costs of college, but also the psychic costs associated with being labeled as not collegeready (Martorell & McFarlin Jr, 2011; Scott-Clayton & Rodriguez, 2015). From this body of evidence, we make two sets of recommendations. The first set of recommendations focuses on implementing strategies that increase the rate at which EL students can receive full English-only instruction, specifically at the college level. The second set of recommendations maps out how to build a more robust research and database that would allow community colleges to improve how they evaluate the needs of college-bound EL students.

Policy Recommendation #1: Integrate Data from Public Schools to Increase EL Students’ Access to Courses, Specifically College-Level Courses, with Native English Peers Previous research has shown that incorporating many kinds of information, including standardized test scores, previous academic performance, and other measures of cognitive ability, can provide a richer, more accurate picture of the extent to which a student needs prerequisite courses to succeed in college-level coursework (Bickerstaff et al., 2022). While more than half of states across the United States now allow or require community colleges to use other measures of college readiness besides test scores to determine course placement into developmental education (Education Commission of the States, 2021), it is unclear based on the current research whether they also require other measures of English proficiency to determine course placement in ESL. Below, we identify how community colleges can leverage routine data collected by K-12 public schools on ELs to improve course placement.

Use Reclassification Status to Automatically Steer EL Students Away from ESL Testing Even though evidence from our analysis revealed that a very small proportion of reclassified EL students sorted into ESL courses after they matriculated in a Texas community college, data from California showing that community colleges have

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relied on poorly trained intake staff and poorly informed students to determine the selection of an ESL or developmental education test suggests the more widespread possibility that some reclassified EL students end up in ESL courses when they should not be. Automatically directing students who reclassified out of language support services by the time they graduate from high school either to developmental education testing or directly into college-level courses could decrease the potential misidentification rate of former EL students and increase their access to credit-bearing coursework. Research shows that the vast majority of students classified as EL in elementary school are mainstreamed with their native peers by the time they reach high school (de la Torre et al., 2021; Grissom, 2004; Hill et al., 2014; Thompson, 2017). These students demonstrate they have met the requisite English proficiency and academic achievement standards to learn alongside their native English-speaking peers in our public school system (Wolf et al., 2008). For these students, the courses they take, the teachers who deliver their instruction, and the standards used to evaluate their performance look no different than those of their non-EL peers. Given that the educational experiences of many EL students and their non-EL peers are essentially the same, it should concern policymakers and community college leaders that EL students and native English-speaking peers could be treated differently once they reach the assessment and placement office at their local community college. Encouraging community colleges to treat reclassified EL students and native English speakers as equals in the assessment and placement process could help safeguard against bias in placement decisions. Several studies have found that when incoming community college students are allowed to make autonomous placement decisions with little guidance or support, the choices they make strongly correlate with factors that should not influence their placement decisions (e.g., race, gender) (Kosiewicz & Ngo, 2020; Park et al., 2018). Additionally, research showing that community college counselors misperceive academic ability based on demographic characteristics suggests that intake staff may be vulnerable to the same biases (Maldonado, 2019). Findings from these studies thus warn that when English language abilities are underestimated, it may increase a student’s risk of being misplaced in an ESL course. As such, identification strategies that do not intentionally combat implicit bias and stereotypes may contribute rather than diminish existing inequities in college completion between EL students and their native English-speaking peers.

Use Multiple Measure Assessment Systems to More Accurately Assess English Proficiency and Readiness for College-Level Coursework There is overwhelming consensus among researchers that developmental education placement regimes that exclusively rely on standardized test scores increase the rate of underplacement into prerequisite coursework (Conley, 2010; Hodara et al., 2012). Research shows that standardized tests are limited in their ability to reveal skills that help students to academically succeed (e.g., resiliency, self-efficacy) (Fagioli et al., 2020; Heckman & Rubinstein, 2001; Ngo & Kwon, 2015). This acknowledgment has shepherded a movement to develop assessment systems that are based on a wide

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variety of measures to better identify who is college ready. Most developmental education reforms that have been passed within the last decade now require or allow community colleges to incorporate alternative measures of academic preparedness for college-level coursework, such as high school grades, GPA, and courses taking as a way to improve the validity of developmental education placement regimes. Results from studies exploring the effects of enhanced placement systems have found that students who are bumped up into a college-level course as a result of additional measures do on average just as well as those who are placed directly into college-level courses (Cullinan et al., 2018; Cullinan & Kopko, 2022; Ngo & Kwon, 2015; Ngo & Melguizo, 2022). These results thus suggest that placement systems that incorporate additional measures can make more valid inferences about a student’s readiness for college. Similar efforts should be made to explicitly improve the placement of EL students, particularly those who cannot directly place into college-level coursework because of state policy. Two-year institutions should contemplate evaluating the number of years a student has lived in the United States, their grades in ESL coursework, and standardized English and math test scores among other alternative measures of English proficiency and college readiness in predicting student success in available course options and later in college. To minimize the financial burden of developing a multiple-measure system, community colleges could start by evaluating the predictive ability of measures that are routinely collected by state agencies and local school districts. Measures that are predictive of academic success could be incorporated into rules used to determine placement into ESL but also mainstream coursework. Such efforts could also help community colleges and researchers alike reach a consensus on what it means to be proficient in English. In addition, community colleges could consider requiring incoming community college students to participate in a timed writing exercise to measure their proficiency in academic English. As mentioned previously, commonly used adaptive computerized tests (e.g., ACCUPLACER ESL) to capture a student’s level of English proficiency are designed to measure discrete components of language, such as grammar, vocabulary, and reading comprehension (Crusan, 2002). Consequently, they offer a very limited understanding of whether a student possesses the skills that would allow them to bypass enrolling in ESL courses and into courses with their native English peers (Crusan, 2002, 2010). Some have argued that by switching from indirect, discrete measures to direct measures of writing skill (e.g., timed essays), education institutions could reduce the disproportionate assignment of traditionally marginalized students to prerequisite coursework (Rose, 1989). While some scholars have questioned the validity of timed essays as an authentic representation of student’s writing abilities, we would argue that no assessment is perfect and that community colleges should strive to consider many kinds of information to shed light on a student’s cognitive and noncognitive abilities that shape their success. Using timed essays in conjunction with standardized test scores and multiple measures broadens the scope of information used to evaluate whether a student could stand to benefit from receiving language support services, or would be

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better off in a course sequence that would allow them to fully participate in Englishonly instruction.

Policy Recommendation #2: Use Course Performance as a Way to Reclassify EL College Students Out of ESL Courses Even when assessment and placement policies are implemented under optimal conditions, it is expected that some students will be assigned to the wrong course because of measurement error. While taking a comprehensive view of student cognitive and noncognitive ability and putting in safeguards (e.g., counselor training) could aid in minimizing placement errors (Clark & Watson, 1995; Kosiewicz & Ngo, 2020), community colleges could also consider developing rules that would allow ESL faculty to place students out of language support services, or more narrowly, out of specific ESL courses, if students were to meet predetermined standards of academic performance. These decisions could be made by a select group of faculty with knowledge about English language assessment who could review a portfolio of student work, including examples of student work (e.g., course assignments and tests), student in-class language use, and student engagement (e.g., attendance, participation) on a case-by-case basis. This system, in particular, would benefit high-achieving, lower-income EL students who have limited contextual knowledge of the college experience itself and difficulty accessing high-quality college counseling in high schools (Avery et al., 2014; Tierney & Sablan, 2014). EL students caught in these situations may not know that they need to prepare for testing to increase their chances of accessing college-level courses and instead treat testing casually. Establishing a reclassification system in community colleges that acknowledges the limitations of current EL placement systems (e.g., content and psychometric shortcomings of testing, the influence of external factors shaping student test performance) and draws on faculty input on a student’s English language development and level of English proficiency could be a vital additional step to correct for potential misplacement.

Research Recommendation #1: Evaluate the Impact of Policies That Increase the Likelihood of EL High School Graduates Being Placed into College-Level Coursework In the past decade, California, Texas, and Florida have passed sweeping legislative reforms that dramatically change how higher education institutions determine college readiness and support the academic needs of college-bound students. Broadly, these reforms seek to boost college completion rates by requiring higher education institutions to implement a mix of strategies that increase direct placement into gateway college-level courses (e.g., directed self-placement, multiple measures) and provide additional course-based supplemental academic support to students who would have been deemed not college ready by traditional placement methods

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(Bickerstaff et al., 2022).14 Studies evaluating the effectiveness of these strategies indicate that they show promise in positively impacting student success. For example, research examining Florida’s SB 1720 found that it increased the probability that a student passed Composition English, Intermediate Algebra, and combined gateway math by 3.38%, 3.48%, and 2.94% points, respectively (Hu et al., 2019; Mokher et al., 2023). These benefits were observed to be even stronger among African American students, Hispanic students, and ELs, who have been disproportionately placed into remedial coursework. These gains can at least be partially attributed to increased enrollment into gateway college courses by incoming students, but also to changes in the way students are taught and supported in college. In another study attempting to shed light on the potential ramifications of Texas’s HB 2223, Miller et al. (2022) found that when students within the certain range of scores right below the college-ready cut scores were randomized into a college-level English course with co-requisite support, the rate of passing college composition courses and the accumulation of college-level credits were statistically higher relative to that of those placed into the traditional developmental education. Although current causal findings examining the impacts of AB 705 are specific to changes implemented by one large urban community college district and to students first affected by this policy change, they show that students who missed the GPA threshold cutoff and were encouraged to enroll in co-requisite support do just as well in transfer-level English and math compared with students who cleared the GPA threshold and were not encouraged to obtain this support (Ngo & Melguizo, 2022). Researchers should build on the latest efforts to examine the effects of these reforms to determine the extent to which they improve college outcomes for the EL student population (Miller & Daugherty, 2018; Mokher et al., 2023; Rodriguez et al., 2022). These states enroll the majority of EL students in US public schools, and it is likely that many entering one of the state’s community colleges have already been or will be affected by these reforms. Investigating the extent to which EL students benefit from these changes is key to understanding how assessment and placements 14

Florida SB 1720 made placement tests optional for students who graduated from a public high school in Florida in 2007 or later (Hu et al., 2019) and required colleges to provide students with more advising services, academic supports, and restructure developmental courses to allow students to choose different content delivery formats. California AB 705 authorized the board of governors to introduce regulations for measures, instruments, and placement models to maximize the likelihood that students enter and complete transfer-level coursework in English and math within 1 year and 3 years for ESL students (Bill Text – California AB-705, 2023). It also requires community colleges to consider high school coursework, high school grades, and/or high school GPA when determining course placement and cannot place students on a course trajectory that extends their time to complete transfer-level work unless placement research that makes these considerations shows that students aren’t likely to succeed in transfer-level coursework. Texas HB 2223 requires an increasing proportion of students enrolled in developmental education be enrolled in a corequisite model that allows the student to enroll in a freshman-level college course alongside a developmental education course designed to support the student in completing the freshman-level course (HB 2223 Implementation, 2018). This requirement was paired with a reduction in the quantity of semester credit hours of developmental education that the state would provide funding for; however, this reduction did not apply to ESOL courses.

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could improve with respect to this particular student population. To what extent do these reforms bolster rates of matriculation, persistence, upward transfer, and college completion among K-12 classified EL students? Which measures should community colleges use to bump up K-12 classified EL students into college-level courses? Which K-12 EL classified students encountered the greatest challenges completing college-level courses after the passage of these policies? These are some of the questions that would significantly advance this field of research and provide fruitful information for reform.

Research Recommendation #2: Collect Systematic Data Allowing for the Evaluation of Placement Systems for EL Students Despite the tremendous growth of the number of English Learners annually graduating from US public high schools and entering community colleges, too little is understood about how institutional policies used to identify, assess, and place EL students at matriculation affect their postsecondary enrollment and outcomes. The evidence that exists is thin, highly contextual, and, for the most part, outdated. Given that remedial assessment and placement regimes have been shown to play a huge role in shaping the educational trajectories of college-bound students, we conjecture that policies used to identify, assess, and place EL would impact students in similar ways. It would therefore be valuable to update information on how ESL identification, assessment, and placement policies work in practice given the recent wave of developmental education reforms that have altered how college readiness is measured. What are the instruments and standards used to identify EL students and evaluate their level of English proficiency and college readiness? What roles do faculty, staff, and students play in implementing these policies? Additionally, it would be productive to estimate the causal effects of these policies on EL student enrollment and outcomes. This effort would require community colleges to invest in linking student demographic data, assessment data, course placement, and enrollment and performance histories for EL students who enter their assessment offices, and would allow community colleges to track enrollment and performance patterns across time for the diversity of EL students affected by these placement regimes. Tracking how many assessed EL students enroll in college, how many passed their gateway college courses, and how many complete college or transferred to a 4-year institution are important metrics for determining the effectiveness of these policies. Given the diversity of the EL student population, disaggregating these data by the student’s demographic and academic characteristics could tell a more nuanced story of the supports EL students need as they pursue a college credential. Acknowledgments My co-authors and I would like to acknowledge the assistance we received from our research assistants in supporting us to write this chapter. Please include the following acknowledgement in the notes section of the chapter. We would like to thank Christian Aguinaga for constructing the dataset used to conduct our postsecondary enrollment analysis of K-12 identified EL students in Texas. We would also like to thank Brady Duke for identifying and summarizing articles referenced in this handbook chapter.

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Umansky, I. M. (2016a). Leveled and exclusionary tracking: English learners’ access to academic content in middle school. American Educational Research Journal, 53(6), Article 6. https://doi. org/10.3102/0002831216675404 Umansky, I. M. (2016b). To be or not to be el: An examination of the impact of classifying students as English learners. Educational Evaluation and Policy Analysis, 38(4), Article 4. https://doi. org/10.3102/0162373716664802 Umansky, I. M., & Dumont, H. (2021). English learner labeling: How English learner classification in kindergarten shapes teacher perceptions of student skills and the moderating role of bilingual instructional settings. American Educational Research Journal, 58(5), Article 5. https://doi.org/ 10.3102/0002831221997571 Umansky, I. M., & Porter, L. (2020). State English learner education policy: A conceptual framework to guide comprehensive policy action. Education Policy Analysis Archives, 28, 17–17. https://doi.org/10.14507/epaa.28.4594 Umansky, I. M., & Reardon, S. F. (2014). Reclassification patterns among Latino English learner students in bilingual, dual immersion, and English immersion classrooms. American Educational Research Journal. https://doi.org/10.3102/0002831214545110 Umansky, I. M., Callahan, R. M., & Lee, J. C. (2020). Making the invisible visible: Identifying and interrogating ethnic differences in English learner reclassification. American Journal of Education, 126(3), Article 3. https://doi.org/10.1086/708250 Venezia, A., Bracco, K. R., & Nodine, T. (2010). One-shot deal? Students’ perceptions of assessment and course placement in California’s Community Colleges. In WestEd. WestEd. https:// eric.ed.gov/?id¼ED566386 Viramontes, J. D. R., Segovia, J., Gutierrez, M., & Lopez, J. (2015). An overview of transfer conditions: Exploring Latino community college students in Texas. Texas Education Review. https://doi.org/10.15781/T20V89N8T Wiese, A.-M., & García, E. E. (1998). The bilingual education act: Language minority students and equal educational opportunity. Bilingual Research Journal, 22(1), Article 1. https://doi.org/10. 1080/15235882.1998.10668670 Wolf, M. K., Kao, J., Griffin, N., Herman, J. L., Bachman, P. L., Chang, S. M., & Farnsworth, T. (2008). Issues in assessing English language learners: English language proficiency measures and accommodation uses (Practice review (part 2 of 3). CRESST report 732). National Center for Research on Evaluation, Standards, and Student Testing (CRESST). Wolf, M. K., Bailey, A. L., & Ballard, L. (2022). Aligning English language proficiency assessments to standards: Conceptual and technical issues. TESOL Quarterly. https://doi.org/10.1002/ tesq.3199 Wright, W. (2005). Evolution of Federal Policy and implications of no child left behind for language minority students (Policy Brief). University of Texas at San Antonio.

Dr. Holly Kosiewicz is the director of the University of Texas at Dallas Education Research Center and an assistant professor of Instruction at the University of Texas at Dallas. Her research investigates the effectiveness and implementation of efforts designed to improve college access and success, particularly among traditionally underserved students. Dr. Kosiewicz has published articles in peer-reviewed journals such as the American Education Research Journal, Research in Higher Education, Journal of Higher Education, and Community College Review. Dr. Camila Morales is an assistant professor of Economics at the University of Texas at Dallas and the director of Research at the UT Dallas Education Research Center. Her scholarship focuses on improving the educational attainment and labor market outcomes of immigrants, refugees, and English Learners. Dr. Morales has published in The Economics of Education Review, and her work has been recognized by the American Society for Hispanic Economists and the Association for Education Finance and Policy for her robust and promising research pipeline on topics addressing issues of relevance to the Hispanic community and education policy.

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Dr. Kalena E. Cortes holds the Verlin and Howard Kruse ‘52 Founders Professorship at Texas A&M University’s Bush School of Government and Public Service. Her scholarship is in the area of the economics of education. She has worked on improving academic performance of urban students, increasing access to postsecondary education, and raising educational attainment of immigrant students. She is a research associate at the National Bureau of Economic Research (NBER), a research fellow at the Institute for the Study of Labor (IZA), and a mindset scholar at the Student Experience Research Network (SERN).

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An Analysis of Academic Hiring Research and Practice and a Lens for the Future: How Labor Justice Can Make a Better Academy Leslie D. Gonzales, Dawn Culpepper, and Julia Anderson

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Labor Justice as a Conceptual Lens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Grounding Ethos for Labor Justice: Academics as a Collective of Workers . . . . . . . . . . . . A Radically Inclusive Definition of Academics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . An Inclusive Recognition and Reward Systems for Academic Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Economic Stability and Security . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Unfettered Access to Information . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Physical, Emotional, and Psychological Safety . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Literature Review Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Screening Protocol . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Analytic Approach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Limitations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Findings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Academic Hiring Across Appointment Types . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tenure-Track (TTK) Professors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Contingent Faculty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Postdoctoral Scholars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Frame Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Professional Jurisdiction Frame . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Ann E. Austin was the Associate Editor for this chapter. L. D. Gonzales (*) · J. Anderson College of Education, Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI, USA e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected] D. Culpepper University of Maryland ADVANCE Program, College Park, MD, USA e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 39, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-38077-8_8

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Discussion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . What We Learned about Hiring Research and Practice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reflecting on Our Frame Findings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix A: Scopus and Targeted Journal Search Results . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix B: Notable Discipline-specific Findings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix C: Special Vocabulary (i.e., Jargon) Used in Academic Hiring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

Colleges and universities are formidable knowledge-producing spaces in society. At the heart of these knowledge producing spaces are academics who carry out teaching, research, and service amid other education activities. Accordingly, academic hiring, which includes hiring into any instructional and/or research position in a college or university, is a significant opportunity to shape the kinds of knowledge(s) that are generated, taught, and shared with society. Hiring-related research has recently boomed, making it an opportune time to assess what has been learned and how it has been learned. Thus, the purpose of this chapter is threefold. First, we review hiring literature published between 2000 and 2023 to describe how academic hiring unfolds across diverse appointment types. Second, we use frame theory to analyze how academic hiring has been conceptualized, studied, and practiced. Third, we introduce a novel conceptual lens, which we describe as labor justice, to illuminate how hiring research and practice might be conducted in ways that remediate historical legacies of exclusion while highlighting how the collective fates and interests of all academic workers, from postdoctoral scholars to tenure-track professors are intertwined. This chapter will be of interest to scholars who study academic hiring, academic labor, labor organizers working within higher education, and academic administrators. Keywords

Faculty hiring · Academic hiring · Academic labor · Academia · Postdoctoral scholars · Tenure-track faculty · Contingent faculty · Diversity · Faculty evaluation · Frame analysis · Critical frame analysis · Bias · Implicit bias · Prestige bias · Racism in academia · Genderism in academia · Ableism in academia · Labor justice

Introduction Colleges and universities in the United States are some of the most formidable knowledge-producing spaces in the world.1 At the heart of these knowledge-producing spaces are academics who carry out the teaching, research, and service

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There are many knowledge-producing spaces in society. However, it is also true that colleges and universities, and thus academics, remain key generators and disseminators of knowledge.

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missions of colleges and universities.2 Accordingly, academic hiring,3 which includes hiring into any instructional and/or research position in a college or university, is a significant opportunity to shape the kinds of knowledge(s) that are generated, taught, and shared with society. Although academic hiring has historically been treated as a matter of “professional jurisdiction” (Abbott, 1988, 2005) meaning faculty, particularly tenure-system faculty, controlled most aspects of the process with minimal oversight from others, this dynamic is no longer guaranteed. There are several reasons for the shifting dynamics around academic hiring. For one, policy leaders as well as public and private funders understand academic hiring as a strategic opportunity to create a competitive labor force for the knowledge economy. As such, they are eager to invest in and, when possible, shape academic hiring priorities through partnerships, targeted funding opportunities, and other interventions (Culpepper et al., 2021; Laursen & Austin, 2020). Secondly, diversity advocates, many of whom are minoritized and marginalized students, staff, and/or faculty, have sought to intercede in academic hiring due to the academy’s exclusionary nature (Byrd et al., 2021; Lerma et al., 2020). These advocates assert that the profession has largely failed in its responsibility to build the most diverse and representative academy as possible – that academic hiring practices are compromised by what some call bias and what others name as ableism, racism, genderism, sexism, homophobia, and other isms (Bilimoria & Stewart, 2009; Byrd et al., 2021; Harper & Kezar, 2021; Liera, 2023; Perry, 2018). Because strategic efforts and resources to support diversity often stem from high-level administrative offices, some faculty view them skeptically and/or as infringements on their professional autonomy (Breen et al., 2023; Gasman, 2022; Liera & Hernandez, 2021; Tagg, 2012). Thirdly, and perhaps the most obvious sign that faculty’s jurisdiction is waning is that for the past 20 years, as institutions have hired more contingent faculty, most academic hiring has, in fact, not been faculty led. Instead, the research shows that contingent faculty hiring is administratively driven and rarely involves the kind of faculty oversight that is characteristic of tenure-track hiring (Gappa et al., 2007; Kezar et al., 2019; Lounder, 2015; Rhoades, 2017). Because academic hiring has shifted in many ways and for many reasons, research on the topic has increased in recent years, making it an opportune time to assess what researchers have established about academic hiring and how those insights were formed. The purpose of this chapter is threefold. First, we describe academic hiring across diverse academic appointment types. Specifically, we surveyed an array of literature (e.g., practical scholarship, briefs, and empirical studies) to describe how academic hiring is organized within and across tenure-track appointments, contingent appointments, and postdoctoral scholar appointments. This highlevel synthesis of hiring processes for tenure-track, contingent, and postdoctoral scholars is a contribution in and of itself. Second, we take our selected body of

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Staff, students, and administrators also contribute to the teaching and learning mission. Throughout this chapter, we use the language “academic hiring” or “faculty hiring” as shorthand to refer to an elaborate sequence of events that begins with the writing of a faculty job ad, the recruitment process, interviewing and screening, and the eventual evaluation of faculty job applicants.

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literature and apply frame theory to analyze how academic hiring has been shaped in practice and conceptualized in studies. Our frame analysis offers a unique contribution, in that we discuss how scholars and practitioners have – often implicitly – framed academic hiring research and practice in ways that lead to certain understandings and teachings about hiring while eschewing others. Third, and lastly, we introduce labor justice, a novel conceptual lens, which we use to illuminate how hiring research and practice might be conducted in ways that remediate historical legacies of exclusion while highlighting how the interests and fates of all academic workers, from postdoctoral scholars to all types of contingent faculty to tenure-track professors are intertwined. This third purpose is intended to support researchers, practitioners, and anyone involved in leading and shaping the academic workplace, and particularly academic hiring, to be a more inclusive, transparent, and just endeavor. In short, our labor justice analysis offers rich possibilities for research, practice, and policy. In the next section, we describe labor justice, as our conceptual lens, which we used to interrogate and reimagine academic hiring scholarship and practice. We then outline our methods for gathering and analyzing literature for this chapter. We conclude with findings and a discussion that summarizes our key takeaways and suggestions for reimagining academic hiring practice and research through our labor justice lens.

Labor Justice as a Conceptual Lens4 In addition to providing a review and analysis of the last few decades of academic hiring literature, we are interested in imagining what academic hiring research and practice could be. To do so, we introduce our conceptual lens, labor justice. Labor justice represents both an ethos and a set of outcomes (see Fig. 1). Although labor advocates and organizers (including and beyond labor unions) have always had justice as a guiding orientation, it is not a concept frequently used to interrogate the aims and innerworkings of the academic profession. Thus, to begin, we share what we mean by labor justice. In labor movements, activists are often dually concerned with working conditions and worker recognition (Gonzales et al., 2018; Young, 2004)—with both bread and roses.5 Along similar lines, we suggest that labor justice is an ethos (i.e., an orientation to work and to other workers) and a set of outcomes (e.g., economic, mobility, safety). We are incredibly thankful for our labor justice thought partners – academics of various appointment types, employed inside and outside academia, who attended a convening organized by first author, Leslie D. Gonzales, and Michigan State colleague, Sanfeng Miao. In our final days of writing this chapter, our writing team joined together with 15 thought partners for a generative dialog concerning labor justice in the academy. We are indebted to the group – they inspired us to complete this work with renewed energy! 5 Thompson (2019) notes that a Jewish Polish woman by the name of Rose Schneiderman introduced the phrase “bread and roses” in the context of a worker’s strike in New York, U.S.A. in 1911. Later, James Oppenheim is said to have elaborated on the original phrase, saying, “Hearts starve as well as bodies: Give us bread, but give us Roses!” 4

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A radically inclusive definition of academics

Physical, emotional, & psychological safety

Unfettered access to information

Inclusive recognition and reward systems for academic work

Grounding Ethos: Academics as a collective of workers, committed to remediating legacies of exclusion while building an academy for the future.

Economic stability & security

Fig. 1 A labor justice lens, an ethos and a set of practical and material outcomes

As an ethos, it is unapologetically committed to remediating historical legacies of exclusion related to ableism, genderism, racism, classism, sexism, and heterosexism, among other isms. It is an ethos that understands the interconnected nature of all workers, including academics. We discuss this ethos below, highlighting how it requires academia to culturally and ideologically shift in many ways. We then articulate five practical implications stemming from our vision of labor justice.

A Grounding Ethos for Labor Justice: Academics as a Collective of Workers In addition to the fundamental commitment to remediate historical exclusion connected to racism, genderism, ableism, classism, and so on, labor justice is an ethos that asks academics understand themselves as a collective of workers, whose interests and fates are tied together. We acknowledge that positioning academics as workers may be surprising, and even alarming to some, particularly because some tenure-track academics actively refuse this label (Bartram, 2023; Burgis, 2023; Cain, 2020). While a full discussion of the work force and its constitution is beyond the scope of this chapter, it is important to note that the workforce is understood as consisting of different types of labor/laborers. Most people are classified as workers. A smaller

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portion of the workforce is recognized as professionals. In a capitalist society, both groups of people sell their labor for wages, but they tend to experience work and the workplace in radically different ways. For instance, most people abide by a schedule they do not set and are accountable to a supervisor(s) for accomplishing tasks and goals they do not get to define. On the other hand, people that are recognized as professionals harness significant (not complete) control over their work activities, schedules, and evaluative processes (see Abbott, 1988). As a class of laborers, professionals often hold evaluative power over one another in the form of collegial review (e.g., making partner at a law firm view; winning fellowships in academia requires peer review). Historically, academics have been positioned as professionals. In fact, Schuster (2011) noted that academe might be understood as “the most central profession. . .uniquely situated in society as the profession that trains people for all other professions and. . .lines of work requiring certified education” (p. viii). Indeed, based on their extensive training and commitment to train others, academics were entrusted (by society and by colleges and universities) with extensive freedoms and discretion or what Abbott (1988) termed professional jurisdiction. On the other side of this equation were/are academics themselves. Research suggests that faculty, particularly those in tenure-track appointments, have often sought to draw a clear line between themselves and other workers, refusing to understand themselves as workers (Bartram, 2023; Burgis, 2023; Cain, 2020). Said otherwise, faculty have often understood themselves – and strove to distinguish themselves – as individuals with highly technical expertise that uniquely position them to control their workplace while pursuing and refining their expertise (Sun, 2023). We suggest that when tenure-system faculty refuse to understand themselves as workers, they fail to acknowledge how they and their work are imbued in a capitalistic society and capitalist logics (Davies & Bansel, 2010; Gonzales & Ayers, 2018; Gonzales et al., 2014; Rhoades, 1998; Saunders, 2010; Taylor et al., 2013). What faculty members are paid and how they are promoted or supported are decisions informed by capitalist logics (Gonzales et al., 2014; O’Meara et al., 2017a; Rodgers & Liera, 2023). For example, consider that faculty in the humanities are often paid much less than faculty in business schools or that contingent faculty are often hired and paid less to take on teaching and administrative work that tenuretrack faculty cannot (or do not want to) tend to due to research interests and expectations (Kezar et al., 2019). In both cases, these salary differentials reflect the value that capitalist logics ascribe to faculty doing different kinds of work. The capitalist underpinnings of academia are undeniable, and thus, we urge academics to understand themselves as workers – or at least as part of a profession whose status and jurisdiction is vulnerable to capitalism. Perhaps in seeing themselves as workers, tenure-track faculty will be more able and willing to consider how the condition of their own labor is connected to that of others, such as contingent faculty and postdoctoral scholars, leading to a more collective orientation than what has traditionally animated academia. Indeed, numerous studies have shown that tenure-track colleagues often do not have a clear understanding or appreciation of the nature of contingent faculty work (Bartram, 2023; Kezar, 2013; Spinrad & Relles 2022). Moreover, in the context of evaluation, including evaluation at

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the point of hiring, scholars are rewarded for solo- or first-authored projects, while collaborative efforts are critiqued or called into question (Castiello-Gutiérrez & Whatley, 2023; Douglas et al., 2022; Gonzales & Shotton, 2022). An ethos of labor justice, however, foregrounds collectivism (Rhoades, 2014, 2017, 2020) and urges academics, of all appointment types and ranks, to consider how their interests and futures are tied together (Boss, 2023, personal communication). If applied to hiring, this ethos could fundamentally reshape the profession, overall, and academic hiring, more specifically. And inevitably, such an ethos would aim for and generate various practical implications, five of which we outline below.

A Radically Inclusive Definition of Academics When it comes to research, practice, and policy concerning academics, tenure-track faculty members are commonly treated as the default. Meanwhile, contingent (i.e., non-tenure-track) faculty who constitute the majority of academics are often not treated as full members of the academy (Kezar et al., 2019; Sponsler, 2021). Moreover, although their presence, and thus contributions, to the teaching and research mission of colleges and universities has grown exponentially in recent years, postdoctoral scholars have also not typically been considered in the academic career literature (Cantwell & Taylor, 2015; Culpepper et al., 2021; Rhoades, 2023). We argue that labor justice in the academy cannot exist without a broader and more realistic assessment of who contributes to the missions of today’s colleges and universities, leading us to explicitly name postdoctoral scholars, contingent faculty members of all appointment types, and tenure-track faculty as part of the profession. Any differences in how academic hiring and recruitment processes are conceptualized, staffed, and executed should be in support of the intricacies of new colleagues’ appointment types and work expectations—whether new hires will be postdoctoral scholars, contingent faculty, or tenure-track colleagues.

An Inclusive Recognition and Reward Systems for Academic Work In addition to understanding “who” counts as an academic, labor justice sees the need for a broadened definition of “what” counts as academic labor and more specifically what counts as valuable academic labor. Decades of research shows that teaching and service (Antonio, 2002; Carrigan et al., 2011; Griffin et al., 2011; Hanasono et al., 2019; Jimenez et al., 2019; Joseph & Hirshfield, 2011; Misra et al., 2012; Wood et al., 2015), including mentoring and advising, campus and departmental committee work, community engagement, and other forms of institutional stewardship, all of which are more likely to be a greater share of women’s and Faculty of Color work portfolio, are systematically devalued in academic reward systems (Griffin et al., 2013; O’Meara et al., 2017b, 2021). In the context of hiring, academics with such work profiles may be penalized for excelling in these areas (Gonzales et al., 2022; O’Meara et al., 2023), even when position descriptions ask for evidence of high-quality teaching and mentoring.

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Critically important, but not often mentioned in discussions concerning broader conceptions of valued academic work, are epistemic matters, which includes how scholars generate, present, and share knowledge (Gonzales et al., 2018, 2022). This is an especially important issue because research shows that minoritized academics, as well as academics whose research is deemed nonconventional (e.g., collaborative, interdisciplinary), are more likely to experience “epistemic exclusion” (Settles et al., 2021, 2022; also see Bernal & Villalpando, 2002; Cardozo, 2017; Cech et al., 2021; De la Luz Reyes & Halcon, 1988; Dotson, 2014; Go, 2020; Gonzales, 2013, Gonzales et al., 2018; Harris & Nicolazzo, 2020; Hernandez, 2022), which is the literal exclusion knowledge. It is critical to name epistemic matters in conversations related to the recognition of academic labor because academia’s core mission concerns the production and dissemination of knowledge. As a result, academics advance on the basis of their perceived intellectual potential and contributions. Altogether, an academic’s success (e.g., being hired, being promoted) is dependent on being recognized as a scholar who offers legitimate and valuable contributions. In a hiring scenario guided by labor justice and mindful of the need to broaden views of valuable academic labor, search committees would ask themselves: How can we help ourselves and others to understand the value of this candidate’s research contributions? How can we restructure rubrics and reward systems to recognize candidates who bring superior teaching, mentoring, and administrative expertise?

Economic Stability and Security Very much tied to a more inclusive conception of what constitutes valuable academic work is an academic’s right to economic stability and security. Hiring represents a potentially powerful opportunity to create more equitable and stable economic outcomes among academics. Because market and cross-institutional dynamics play a role in the economic outcomes of all faculty, we suggest a focus on intra-institutional opportunities, as salary and other economic benefits can vary substantially even within institution (O’Meara & Stromquist, 2015). Consider, for example, that within the same institution, contingent faculty can make between 40% and 70% less than their tenure-system colleagues, even when they hold commensurate degrees and experience (see Kezar et al., 2019). Additionally, emergent research indicates that salaries for postdoc scholars range from about $23,000 to $100,000 (Woolston, 2019) with a gender gap in favor of men, sometimes within the same institution. Moreover, and relatedly, Klainot-Hess (2023) reported that contingent faculty are not as likely to experience pay increases commensurate with experience or performance. To advance economic stability and security for all academic workers not only requires a broader conception of valuable academic work but a willingness to compensate faculty according to a “labor-based conception of quality education” (Rhoades, 2020, p. 328). This means that hiring committees, chairs, and deans ask “what basic working conditions [e.g., salary, benefits, professional development resources] are commensurate and key to [this colleague’s ability to provide] quality education” (see Rhoades, 2020, pp. 329–331). Such a perspective challenges market

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and managerial conceptions of labor because rather than maximize efficiencies, a labor justice ethos centers workers’ needs relative to the workload they have been assigned.

Unfettered Access to Information Like other educational spaces and processes, a hidden curriculum implicitly organizes academia and academic hiring. Faculty search and hiring committees often operate according to conventions that they experienced or witnessed in prior searches (including their own), meaning they recycle practices and processes that deserve to be demystified but that may also need to be updated or discarded. Until a few years ago, it was common for search committees to invite interested job applicants to have exploratory conversations in hotel rooms during academic conferences, despite the obvious safety risks. Moreover, search candidates often report that committees are slow to share updates about the search process or status (Chappell, 2021). Additionally, candidates rarely know what resources are negotiable at the time an offer is extended, meaning new hires must rely on peers and mentors, which can be problematic if the candidate has a limited social network (see Zhou, 2019) or if that network has limited knowledge about varying institutional contexts. When one is applying for work as a contingent faculty member, research suggests that lack of information extends even further (Kezar et al., 2019). Specifically, contingent faculty are often hired into positions that lack a clear ladder of advancement (Hamid & Schisgall, 2023). Meanwhile, postdoctoral scholars frequently lack information about the scope of their work, the benefits to which they may have access, and how to obtain supports ranging from professional development to more complex matters like visa sponsorships (Castiello-Gutierrez, 2023, personal communication). An academy, and hiring processes, guided by labor justice requires that all academics have access to clear and reliable information relevant to their careers and their advancement.6 Such information sharing can and should begin with the recruitment and hiring process. It requires that search committee members, department chairs, deans, or perhaps designated advocates share information about what is negotiable (and what is not), clarify work expectations, align work expectations with rewards, as well as provide clear information about opportunities for support and advancement.

Physical, Emotional, and Psychological Safety Finally, any vision of labor justice must include considerations of safety. Typically, workplace safety is concerned with the physical and environmental conditions

Some scholars refer to this as “organizational justice,” particularly procedural and informational justice (Colquitt et al., 2005).

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within which work occurs and the extent to which workplace injuries and workrelated illnesses can be prevented and/or mitigated. These types of safety are critical for academics and were particularly relevant in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic, wherein some academics were forced to return to in-person instruction despite underlying health conditions or more general health concerns (Melnyk et al., 2021). However, our view of labor justice expands safety considerations to ensure that academics are (a) free from identity-based harassment and violence and academic bullying and (b) granted psychological safety, or the ability to “voice ideas, willingly seek feedback, provide honest feedback, collaborate, take risks and experiment” (Newman et al., 2017, p. 521). While these forms of safety may seem obvious, empirical literature shows that harassment and bullying are not only rampant in the academy but that they go largely unchecked by administrative processes, including during recruitment and hiring (Moss & Mahmoudi, 2021; National Academies of Science, Engineering, and Medicine, 2018; Rivera, 2017). As is often the case with harmful social phenomena, minoritized and marginalized academics are more likely to report compromised safety. And recent research has documented the sense of precarity and bullying experienced by postdoctoral scholars, particularly international postdocs (Dorenkamp & Weiß, 2018). When hiring is executed with safety in mind, researchers and search committees pause to reassess taken-for-granted aspects of search processes that present potential risk, such as mandatory shared meals, 1:1 interviews, or even the rules of engagement related to job talks (Blair-Joy et al., 2017; Dupas et al., 2021). Moreover, formal policies and processes would provide guidance on such matters as well, acknowledging, for example, that candidate access and safety is the most important priority. All in all, labor justice is an ethos and as a set of outcomes. It surfaces specific questions and concerns (see Fig. 2) that can remediate historical exclusion while also creating a more inclusive and transparent academic workplace for the future. It can help academics learn more about their colleagues’ working conditions and recognize how they are connected to others. We used this lens to guide our reflections on and analysis of two decades of hiring-related literature. Next, we describe our research methods and analytic process.

Literature Review Methods We conducted what might be considered a basic (as opposed to a systematic) literature review (Hart, 2018). We followed a simple protocol for searching for and screening out literature, but were not completely bound to this protocol, as we would have been in a systematic literature review. For instance, in addition to our structured literature searches, we included scholarship from our personal libraries or articles that surfaced on Listservs or via social media. As a result, our review includes a diverse array of scholarship, including peer-reviewed scholarship, book chapters and books, and gray papers and briefs. Relatedly, because hiring is an activity of great practical interest across US higher education, much of the literature we reviewed included reflections, practical briefs, and action research studies focused on “hiring

Academics as a collective of workers, committed to remediating legacies of exclusion while building an academy for the future.

Fig. 2 Questions for practitioners, as illuminated by our Labor Justice Lens

4. Unfettered access to information

5. Physical, emotional, & psychological safety

How might your research demystify the hidden curriculum for job candidates? How do your hiring practices demystify the hiring process, timeline, and provide candidates with information that is key to their progression? Are candidates helped to understand what is negotiable; how they will be evaluated; how they can be promoted; how they can access career ladders?

How might your research help search committees better understand issues of safety and accessibility during hiring? How might your practices and policies be revised to foreground candidate safety, accessibility and comfort? How might your practices (e.g., search training) help committees restructure searches to be accessible, safe, and inclusive for all?

1. A radically inclusive definition of academics

3. Economic stability & security

How might your research explore reward systems and practices in ways that help to expand what is considered valuable academic work, particularly at the point of hiring? How willing are you to explore the problematic foundations of reward systems, including professional jurisdiction? How might your practices (e.g., bias education) support faculty to expand their recognition and reward systems?

How might your research help institutions consider equitable salaries and supports for all academics? In your practice, do you use a labor-based conception of quality education, and thereby provide supports that enables any academic to be successful in their charge? How might your practices and policies be shifted to ensure long(er) term contracts and supports?

2. Inclusive recognition and reward systems for academic work

How might your research (in its design and/or in its implications) account for all academics, including postdocs, different types of contingent faculty, and tenure-track faculty? Does it account for legacies of racial, gender, and disability-related exclusion and their lasting impact? Do policies and practices account for all academics, including postdocs, different types of contingent faculty, and tenure-track faculty? Do your practices and policies account for legacies of exclusion gender, racial, and disability-related and their lasting impact?

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Table 1 Search words Academic hiring • adjunct hiring • adjunct faculty hiring • contingent hiring • contingent faculty hiring • faculty hiring • faculty recruitment • faculty selection • non-tenure-track hiring • postdoctoral fellow hiring • postdoctoral scholar hiring • postdoc recruitment • postdoc selection • tenure-track faculty hiring

interventions” or “experiments.” Subsequently, as we alluded to earlier, we not only discuss how scholars have studied hiring but also how people have sought to improve hiring processes and protocols on their campuses. For this reason, we often refer to and discuss both hiring research and hiring practice. To identify literature, we relied on Scopus, a frequently updated academic research search engine that houses research from all academic disciplines and fields. Although Scopus indexes a variety of scholarly publications, we also conducted searches in relevant journals not indexed in Scopus and used resources from our personal libraries. We limited our searches to the years 2000–2023 because academic hiring research only emerged in the last few decades. Griffin’s (2020) and O’Meara et al.’s (2020a) recent reviews concerning diversity and bias, respectively, in the academic profession affirmed our choice of time frame, as most hiring-related citations appearing in those reviews occurred after the year 2000. For good measure, we ran “test searches” in two leading higher education academic journals (The Review of Higher Education and The Journal of Higher Education) and found only a handful of papers focused on academic hiring published prior to 2000. For those interested in numerical search results, see Appendix A. Table 1 displays search words.

Screening Protocol To be included in the review, a piece of scholarship had to focus on at least one phase of academic hiring (e.g., creation of the job ad, recruitment, interviewing, campus visit, selection). Additionally, because we are native English speakers and have limited proficiency in other languages, we only retained English language publications. Because the three of us have minimal experience studying and/or working in non-US contexts and because this chapter will appear in a handbook focused largely on US higher education, we opted to focus on academic hiring within the United States. However, it is critical to acknowledge the transnational and international nature of the academic labor market (Cantwell & Taylor, 2015; Kim, 2016; Kim et al., 2022). After applying the screening protocol and accounting for duplicates, we retained 182 unique studies from our targeted Scopus and journal searches. After adding literature from our personal libraries, we reviewed more than 200 pieces of scholarship.

Analytic Approach Our analytic process was iterative and consisted of a few phases. In phase I, we read the literature to better understand how academic hiring unfolds across different

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appointment types. We report these appointment type-related findings in our first finding section, starting on page 20. In phase II, we used frame theory (Carragee & Roefs 2004; Goffman, 1974; Santos & Horta, 2018)7 to assess how researchers have conceptualized and/or theorized faculty hiring. Frame theory suggests that every communication (e.g., a news story, a research study) is bound by a particular frame and that frames matter because they help people “locate, perceive, identify, and label” an issue (Goffman, 1974, p. 21). In other words, a frame focuses the consumer’s attention and enables certain understandings while obscuring or eschewing other (Carragee & Roefs, 2004; Santos & Horta, 20188). Framing does not simply happen; it involves communicators (i.e., researchers in our case) drawing on certain assumptions, values, and evidence for explaining an issue (Cornelissen & Werner, 2014; Entman, 1993). However, and importantly, communicators may not always acknowledge their framing, making the implicit presence and function of frames all the more powerful. Using these basic ideas from frame theory, we developed two questions to guide our analytic reading of the literature: How is academic hiring conceptualized (or problematized) in this study? And what assumptions, values, and theories undergird the study? These questions helped us identify common ways that researchers approached the study of academic hiring. After several rounds of reading and discussing our observations, we agreed that we had surfaced seven broad, overlapping clusters of studies that framed hiring in similar ways. In phase III, we carefully read each of our emergent clusters to determine how best to name it. After extensive rereading and discussion, we ascribed names to seven clusters, each of which represents a general (i.e., high-level) but distinct frame. We used well-established concepts in the higher education and broader social science literature to develop names for each frame. For reader’s convenience, we provide instructional tables throughout our finding section. These instructional tables include a summary of each frame (e.g., core assumptions, values, and key words). In our final analytic phase, we considered how our labor justice lens aligns with, challenges, and/or complicates the frames we surfaced. Throughout our frame findings, we allude to how labor justice might reshape each, but the bulk of our labor justice analysis comes in the closing section as we sketch out possibilities for research and practice.

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Frame theory and framing theory constitute two distinct but related concepts within a common theoretical tradition. Frames and frame theory typically refer to frames as specific objects (e.g., the family frame, the relational frame), whereas framing and framing theory refer to the process of constructing a frame. Our concern lies with both “frames” and “framing”; thus, we reference both in our writing. 8 Santos and Horta (2018) situate their work as “research agenda setting” rather than frame theory or frame analyses. However, the broader literature on frame theory and frame analyses often connects frames and framing to agenda setting.

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Limitations Our work has limitations. Specifically, our choice of key words and search engines impose limitations on the data set. Opting to use Scopus, an academic research search engine, means that we may have missed several valuable and high-quality pieces. As scholars who are familiar with the faculty career and faculty evaluation literature, we attempted to counter this limitation by adding scholarship from our personal libraries. Additionally, some researchers argue that frame analysis is overly concerned with interpretation and that it can take language outside of its temporal, institutional, and overall contextual placement (Palmer & Dunford, 1996).

Findings To set up our findings, we describe some general features of the literature we reviewed. First, the bulk of scholarship focused on tenure-track or tenure-eligible positions. Merely eight papers from our Scopus results focused exclusively on nontenure-system hiring (e.g., Sponsler, 2021), and fewer focused on postdoctoral scholars (e.g., Culpepper et al., 2021). A handful of manuscripts examined hiring at a more general level and included information for tenure-track and non-tenuretrack hires. Several studies did not explicitly describe the kind of academic hiring with which they were concerned, but based on our analysis, we inferred they were referring to tenure-track (TTK, hereafter) hiring. The disproportionate focus on tenure-track faculty represents an area ripe for future research because most new faculty hires (one out of three) are for contingent positions (Kezar et al., 2019). Second, most studies took place in research university settings. Relatively few studies looked at hiring in liberal arts colleges or comprehensive universities, and only ten studies from our Scopus searches focused on the community college setting (e.g., Flanigan et al., 2004; Jeffcoat & Piland, 2012; Lara, 2019; Parker & Richards, 2020). Many studies did not explicitly note institutional type. Given that institutional types deeply shape faculty career experiences (e.g., faculty governance, faculty work expectations, and evaluations), this is a critical gap in the literature. Without a literature that systematically explores hiring across different types of institutions, we are missing crucial insights. For instance, Villarreal (2022) examined faculty hiring within a “veteran Hispanic serving institution” located on the Mexico-US border. Within this veteran HSI, search chairs nudged their committees to center the HSI’s mission. Resultantly, the committees elevated what would be considered unique, place-based criteria, such as a faculty candidate’s ability to provide culturally relevant mentoring to Latinx students. If hiring research fails to attend to institutional diversity, researchers and practitioners do not benefit from such powerful insights and practices. Third, in terms of disciplinary coverage, a wide array of academic fields and disciplines were covered in the scholarship we reviewed. We noted that hiring research within the science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM) fields outpaced other disciplinary coverage, especially in recent years. We attribute

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this growth to the fact that STEM fields have long been of interest to policymakers, funders, and higher education leaders because of their resource-generating potential and their connection to federal defense and science priorities (Levine, 2021; Slaughter & Leslie, 1996; Slaughter & Rhoades, 2004). In recent years, these fields have benefitted from targeted investments, including resources for hiring (Barringer & Slaughter, 2016; Mathies & Slaughter, 2013; Leahey et al., 2019) and especially for diversifying (Breen et al., 2023; Laursen & Austin, 2020). Readers are invited to review Appendix B for discipline-specific citations and descriptive findings. Most papers organized studies under umbrellas, like humanities, social sciences, or science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM, hereafter), meaning scholars group together faculty from similar (not the same) disciplines (e.g., the social sciences) and have not looked at hiring in discipline-specific ways (e.g., Gonzales et al., 2022). The lack of discipline-specific analyses limits our understanding of how hiring works in specific disciplines. Still, it is worth noting that we found more similarities than differences across disciplines/fields. For example, researchers across a diverse array of disciplines/ fields are interested in the presence of bias and how social and professional networks undermine diversification efforts. Such studies (e.g., bias, social network) were popular across nearly all major fields (e.g., sciences, social sciences, humanities) with most studies revealing the presence of bias and the power of networks. However, we encourage future research to take a deeper look into specific disciplines to expose intra-field distinctions that likely exist under the surface and to further articulate cross-field similarities. Having described some general features of the literature we reviewed, we now share our first set of findings. In line with our labor justice lens, we address hiring for a diverse array of position types, including (1) tenure-track faculty, including conventional and targeted or special opportunity hiring for tenure-track professors; (2) contingent faculty, including hiring for full-time and part-time faculty; and (3) postdoctoral scholars. Throughout this section, our goal is to share patterns about hiring in the academy, generally, and hiring patterns distinct to certain appointment types. Our analysis revealed that labor injustices emerge at the very point of hiring, indeed as soon as a new search is launched. As supplemental information, we offer a glossary of common, but not necessarily intuitive, vocabulary used in the context of academic searches (see Appendix C).

Academic Hiring Across Appointment Types According to the National Center for Education Statistics (NCES, 2022), in 2020, the academic workforce was constituted by approximately 1.5 million faculty employed across 3567 degree-granting postsecondary institutions. Among the 1.5 million professors, about 56% were appointed to full-time posts, while the remaining 44% held part-time positions. While these data are helpful, the reality is that academia is constituted by a far more complex array of appointment types. Among full-time instructors, there are two distinct groups: full-time contingent and full-time

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tenure-track faculty. In this first section, we describe hiring within and among the tenure-track, beginning with an overarching discussion of its demographic composition.

Tenure-Track (TTK) Professors Tenure-track faculty hold what may be considered idealized academic appointment types (Bieber & Worley, 2006; Terosky & Gonzales, 2016), in that they are typically better paid; have access to healthcare, retirement, and other benefits; and have the promise of secure long-term employment (i.e., tenure). However, TTK constitute only 30% of the academic workforce,9 and data show that the number of TTK professors is shrinking relative to the growth of the academic workforce (Finkelstein et al., 2016). The presence of TTK academics varies across institutional type. Tenure-system faculty make up closer to 50% of faculty at research institutions and closer to 40% for master’s and baccalaureate institutions, whereas only about 22% of community college faculty are in a tenure system (American Association of University Professors, 2022). As of 2020, NCES reported that 70% of tenure-system faculty were White (39% White men, 31% white women). In line with long-running patterns, Asian/Pacific Islanders were the second largest group at 12% (7% Asian/Pacific Islander men, 5% Asian/Pacific Islander women) followed by 5% of tenure-system faculty who identify as Black (2% Black men, 3% Black women) and just under 5% identified as Hispanic/Latinx (2.5% men, 2% women). Finally, Native American and multiracial faculty made up less than 1%, respectively. As graduate programs have become more diverse, so too has the faculty, but given their recent entry to the professoriate and the systemic marginalization they often face in the tenure and promotion process, Faculty of Color are disproportionately represented among assistant professors. Conversely, White faculty constitute the majority of full professors (e.g., the highest and most prestigious rank of professors). In terms of gender,10 women comprise 45% of all tenure-system faculty (including assistant professor, associate professor, and full professor ranks) compared to 55% who identify as men (National Center for Education Statistics, 2022). At face value, the gender gap among tenure-system faculty appears to be closing, but disparities across rank, institution type, and race complicate these statistics. For example, although women make up nearly half of all tenure-system faculty, they still

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We assume here that most tenure-eligible faculty are employed on a full-time basis, though we recognize this may not always be the case. 10 We recognize the limitations associated with typical data collection practices, especially governmental led data collection, that reinforce gender (and sex) binaries and the subsequent erasure of trans and nonbinary people in the academy. We use the terms woman/women and man/men when referring to data about gender in the academy which includes trans and cis people within both of those categories. When we have information concerning trans* or nonbinary faculty, we make special effort to highlight it.

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only make up 35% of full professors (National Center for Education Statistics, 2022). Moreover, institutions that have experienced the greatest growth in women faculty are baccalaureate and 2-year institutions (Finkelstein et al., 2016). Thus, research suggests that women are less likely to be hired at doctoral and research institutions than men. Accounting for both gender and race, data shows that efforts to increase gender parity in tenure-system positions have primarily benefitted white women (Gasman, 2022). Out of all tenure-system faculty that identify as women, nearly 70% of them are white compared to 24% who are US born Women of Color (7% Black, 5% Latinx, 11% Asian, 1.8% Pacific Islander/Native American, and 1.2% two or more Races) (NCES, 2022). Taken together, the NCES data demonstrates that Women and People of Color, and especially Women of Color, are not only underrepresented among tenure-system faculty but that their locus of representation is stratified both by appointment and institution type. Unfortunately, there is limited information when it comes to other important identities, like disability, sexuality, and socioeconomic background of professors (Crew, 2020; Nadal, 2019; Weiss, 2016), although 1 unique study based on a sample of 7200+ US tenure-system faculty found that they were up to 25% more likely to have a parent with a Ph.D. (Morgan et al., 2022a). The rate nearly doubled to 50% for professors appointed at prestigious doctoral-granting institutions (Morgan et al., 2022a). If parental and/or caretaker education levels are accepted as proxies for one’s socioeconomic background, this research suggests that tenure-system professors are more likely to come from relatively stable middle or upper-middle class family backgrounds.

The Hiring Process for Tenure-System Professors Besides some nuanced institutional and disciplinary practices, there is a common arc in tenure-system faculty hiring. This arc involves (1) framing a position description, (2) forming a search committee, (3) recruitment and advertisement, (4) screening and interviewing, (5) evaluating the candidates, (6) drafting final recommendation report (s) and (7) extending an offer (see O’Meara et al., 2020a). These phases are not necessarily successive; some unfold concurrently with others (Van der Vorm, 2001). Usually, after a department earns approval to search for and hire a new colleague, a search committee consisting of primarily faculty members is formed or appointed. One member of the committee is then appointed or selected as the chair, meaning they lead and organize the search committee’s work. It is increasingly common in research universities for a search committee to be staffed with an equity or diversity officer, whose charge is to help steer an inclusive and equitable search process (Liera, 2020a; Liera & Ching, 2019). And although there is not extensive research on the matter, it is not uncommon for a few students and/or staff members to sit on search committees. Soon after the committee is formed, they are expected to draft a position description, which is circulated via websites, list serves, and personal networks (Gasman et al., 2011). Notably, White-Lewis (2021) and Gasman (2022) found that search committees allocate little time to position descriptions and admit to simply recycling or minimally updating old descriptions. Although research on position descriptions

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is rather limited, advertisements are intended to advise prospective candidates of required application materials. In a research university setting, these materials are likely to include a (1) cover letter to articulate their interest, subject matter expertise, and alignment with the position, (2) a curriculum vita, (3) a writing sample, (4) some evidence of teaching experience or a teaching statement, and increasingly (5) a statement that denotes how they have or will advance diversity and inclusion through their work (Carroll et al., 2022; Paul & Maranto, 2022; Sylvester et al., 2019). In non-research universities, and especially at community colleges, candidates will often be asked to emphasize or supply documents that attest to their teaching qualifications (Parker & Richards, 2020; Reed, 2016; Twombly, 2005), for instance, teaching evaluations or teaching portfolios (Parker & Richards, 2020). In general, position descriptions do not specify details about required materials, revealing an area of future research that could be especially helpful to prospective candidates. For example, it is not clear how long one’s cover letter should be or what constitutes a writing sample or evidence of teaching quality. Without mentors or access to reliable resources, an inexperienced, prospective job applicant might struggle to complete an application at all. Following a period of advertisement and recruitment, the search committee screens the pool of applicants and forms a long-short list or a list of first-round interviews. Although understudied, the first screening process is crucial because it is the committee’s first evaluative act and because the long-short list is essentially the pool from which a colleague will eventually be selected (Bilimoria & Buch, 2010; White-Lewis, 2020). Applicants placed on the long-short list are invited for firstround interviews, which often occur via phone or virtually. Generally, research suggests that first-round interviews are intended as opportunities for the search committee to further evaluate the degree to which applicants hold the subject matter expertise, experiences, and skills asked for in the posting. In research university settings, search committees may look for highly specific disciplinary knowledge (Gonzales et al., 2022), but in community college settings, search committee members tend to look for candidates who have more generalist knowledge of fields/ disciplines (Parker & Richards, 2020; Reed, 2016). Based on the first-round interviews, the search committee determines what is called a short list or a finalist list. In most cases, the committee is expected to collectively author a memo, addressed to the department chair, college dean, and depending on institutional and state context, a diversity officer/office of diversity and sometimes all three. This memo typically details the search committee’s assessment process and requests permission to invite finalists for a campus visit. In some institutions, the department chair, the college dean, or even an office of diversity may request additional information about the search committee’s recommendations (Liera & Hernandez, 2021; O’Meara, 2021), especially if the list of finalists does not reflect the available racial and gender diversity in the applicant pool. Although such exchanges are highly important and potentially powerful levers for enhancing diversity, there is relatively limited scholarship concerning such interactions (Liera, 2020a, 2023; Liera & Hernandez, 2021 for notable exceptions).

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Following approval of the finalist list, the search committee invites finalists for on-campus interviews, sometimes called campus visits. In most 4-year universities, an on-campus interview typically includes a 1- or 2-day visit to the respective campus. While visiting, finalist candidates interact with several constituencies in one-on-one, small group, or large group settings. These interactions are a mix of highly formal, structured conversations and seemingly casual, informal conversations conducted in a variety of settings (e.g., panel interviews, breakfast with the department chair, lunch with students, meetings with potential collaborators or groups of interest). Most campus visits also require interviewees to provide a research talk (and/or a chalk talk, as they are called in some science fields; Stivison, 2020) in which they detail their current and future research agenda (Boysen et al., 2018). The precise expectations of these research talks vary by discipline and institutional culture. Some disciplines and departments, for example, may expect a candidate to detail a specific project, while other disciplines and departments may prefer a broader talk about one’s agenda and future research directions. Some search committees also require a teaching talk or demonstration in which a candidate shows how they would give a lesson on a predetermined issue. This is yet another area that is ripe for future research, as we found few studies focused exclusively on this highvalue search activity (Blair-Joy et al., 2017; Dupas et al., 2021; Stivison, 2020 as notable exceptions). However, a study of job talks in engineering (Blair-Joy et al., 2017) and one in economics (Dupas et al., 2021) demonstrated that women experience more interruptions in both fields. In community colleges, on-campus interviews are often less elaborate and timeintensive. For instance, candidates for long-term (e.g., tenure-eligible or multiyear contract positions) meet with the search committee and upper-level administrators and are asked to demonstrate a teaching lesson for these peers (Parker & Richards, 2020; Reed, 2016). However, because community colleges are more likely to recruit regionally (Twombly, 2005), candidates might only be required to be on-campus for a few hours, and search committees may “stack” in-person interviews back-to-back to make the interview process more efficient for committee members (Parker & Richards, 2020). As campus visits conclude, search committees typically gather feedback about candidate fit and performance from the multiple involved stakeholders. Members of the search committee then make sense of their own assessments and the feedback they collect from others to draft a report. The committee’s report is typically shared with the department chair and/or dean, and local policy and procedures inform the kinds of information included in the report. Frequently, the committee is asked not to rank candidates but instead to use the position description to describe strengths and weaknesses of all candidates. A department chair may also provide a separate report or memo for the dean’s consideration. Although faculty members control nearly every other aspect of the recruitment and search process, they do not typically have the authority to make a final decision or extend an offer to a candidate. And yet, because search committees and department faculty members likely hold expertise closest to that of the candidates, chairs and deans tend to defer to their guidance. Still, it is important that candidates realize they will likely –

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though not always – engage with department chairs and/or deans at the job offer stage. This means that candidates should expect to negotiate the conditions of an offer (e.g., salary, resources, and supports) with chairs and/or deans, rather than search committee chair(s) or member(s). If a candidate declines an offer, a chair or dean can return to the search committee’s memo, ask the search committee (or department) for further advice, and/or extend an offer without seeking further faculty counsel. More empirical research into the roles of chairs and deans, especially concerning the job offer and negotiation process, is sorely needed. In sum, while there are some small variations across disciplines and institutional types, the hiring process for tenure-system faculty members represents a time- and labor-intensive investment of resources. A great deal of freedom and trust is assigned to search committee members who design and execute nearly the entire hiring process (e.g., craft position descriptions, interview protocols, and campus itineraries). While human resource offices are involved and often provide compliance guidance, the research paints tenure-track academic hiring as a faculty-led, time-intensive approach that suggests that tenure-system hires are highly important employees. The esteem assigned to tenure-system faculty is perhaps no clearer than when one compares the hiring process used for most contingent faculty colleagues, which we discuss later in this section. Before doing so, we briefly describe unique hiring processes (e.g., non-search or targeted) reserved for TTK faculty.

Non-search Hiring Procedures Some portion, although it is not clear how much, of tenure-system hiring occurs outside of the process described above. In these non-open search processes, an academic unit foregoes an open search to strategically recruit a candidate. Usually, one of four rationales motivates such hires: (1) interest in recruiting an established scholar who would bring eminence to a department (i.e., a target-of-opportunity hire), (2) interest in diversifying a department, (3) interest in recruiting multiple candidates at the same time (i.e., cluster hiring), or (4) interest in hiring a candidate whose spouse or partner also needs a faculty appointment (i.e., dual-career hiring). Non-search hiring is a common practice, but there is relatively little research on how these processes typically unfold. To the best of our ability, we discuss each scenario below. Target Opportunities for Advanced Scholars Occasionally, a department is interested in recruiting an established scholar (typically a full or advanced associate professor) who is not actively searching for a position (i.e., not pursuing new opportunities) but who may be interested in moving institutions. The reasons for target-of-opportunity hires vary but typically include (1) interest in recruiting new or missing expertise to the department and/or (2) interest in building a contingency of senior or advanced career scholars, who can assume greater leadership responsibilities within the program or department. In both cases, departments typically identify someone who may be considered a respected and established scholar within the discipline and gauge their interest in joining the department. Once such a faculty member is identified, institutions allow departments

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to forego the formal search process, often by submitting a request for a search waiver (Smith et al., 2004), wherein the department “makes a case” as to how this candidate would contribute to departmental needs and/or institutional goals. At this point in time, there is little scholarship on target-of-opportunity hiring processes. Future research may explore the demographics of targeted searches, the institutional lineage of target hires, and the short- and long-term impact of such undertakings. Diversification Efforts Given the teaching and learning benefits related to a more diverse professoriate, some target-of-opportunity hiring programs focus on increasing faculty diversity. In this scenario, an institution may create special subsidies or processes to incentivize departments to recruit women, racially minoritized scholars, or scholars whose research focuses on equity, diversity, and inclusion. Such hiring programs have existed for several years (Hughes et al., 2012; Smith et al., 2004), but many institutions recently recommitted funds considering ongoing racial justice advocacy, particularly the racial reckoning related to the summer of 2020 (Byrd et al., 2021; Harper & Kezar, 2021). Generally, the hiring process in these programs is as follows. The President, Provost, or Chief Diversity Officer allocates funding to support a certain number of new faculty positions over a defined period (e.g., 10 years).11 Departments then identify and recruit candidates who would be interested in joining the university. Once a candidate is identified, departments submit an application to the President’s or Provost’s Office that specifies how and why the candidate would contribute to diversity in the department. The administration (e.g., the provost or a committee) then selects departments to be awarded funding. Again, although such initiatives have become quite common, there is relatively little research on how potential candidates are identified, how applications are reviewed, and other aspects of the underlying evaluative process. We attribute this gap in research to two issues. First, “target-of-opportunity” hiring has often happened under the backlashes toward diversification (Poon et al., 2019). Second, candidates who are hired through such diversity-related programs may worry that they will be perceived as the “diversity hire” (Allen et al., 2019; Hughes et al., 2012) and downplay their affiliation with any diversity-related hiring initiative. Finally, and perhaps more cynically, institutions may also wish to divert researchers from examining these processes, particularly if initiatives have failed, been implemented poorly, and/or not led to meaningfully increases in the recruitment of minoritized scholars. Cluster Hiring Cluster hiring, the practice wherein faculty members are hired in groups, is another way that typical search processes are modified. In this type of hiring, faculty members are recruited as clusters or groups of people who share common research 11

https://inclusion.msu.edu/hiring/index.html https://faculty.umd.edu/famile-initiative https://oaa.osu.edu/sites/default/files/links_files/SpecialOpportunityHire.pdf

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interests (McMurtrie, 2016; Sá, 2008; Urban Universities for Health, 2015). Similar to diversity hiring programs, cluster hiring initiatives are typically funded by central administration, and there is a competitive process by which departments submit applications for funds to subsidize the faculty position (Bloom et al., 2020; Urban Universities for Health, 2015). The level of subsidy varies (Urban Universities for Health, 2015), with some institutions covering the full cost of hiring faculty into clusters and others distributing the cost of the position among central administration and the hiring department(s). Because many cluster hires are intended to facilitate interdisciplinary initiatives, faculty members may have joint appointments across one or more departments and/or research centers (Sá, 2008; Urban Universities for Health, 2015). In addition to spurring interdisciplinary work, cluster hiring initiatives are considered a mechanism for retaining faculty. It is assumed that by hiring a large group of professors with similar interests, the usual isolation caused by silos will be decreased (Laursen & Austin, 2020). However, there is a lack of research to support, or refute, this assumption (Muñoz et al., 2017 is a notable exception). Dual-Career Hiring A final example of tenure-system searches that occur outside the typical process is dual-career hiring. With dual-career hiring, departments seek a search waiver to create an academic position for a member of a dual-career academic couple: faculty members who are partnered with other faculty members (Blake, 2020; Culpepper, 2021; Schiebinger et al., 2008; Wolf-Wendel et al., 2004). Such policies are thought to increase the number of women recruited and retained, especially in STEM (Laursen & Austin, 2020). Most frequently in these cases, institutions recruit one faculty member, the first hire, who then expresses that they have a partner who is also a faculty member and who needs work (Blake, 2020). The partner, in effect, becomes the second hire. At this point, all involved hiring departments work with central administration to create and fund a faculty position for the second hire, either in a TTK position or contingent position (Culpepper, 2021; Wolf-Wendel et al., 2004), thereby waiving a conventional search for the partner. Occasionally, central administration provides some kind of subsidy or cost-share when positions for the second hire are created (Wolf-Wendel et al., 2004), but this is not always the case (Blake, 2020; Culpepper, 2021; Schiebinger et al., 2008). Of all the nonconventional hiring processes, research concerning dual-career, or spousal, hiring processes is more plentiful, but still developing (Blake, 2022; Culpepper, 2022). Future research might explore the latitude that a department has in declining or, otherwise, shaping spousal hires, the agency that a spousal hire (i.e., the second hire) experiences in the negotiation and placement process and differences in salary or supports offered to spousal hires as compared to conventional hires. In sum, although much of the research on (TTK) faculty hiring has focused on individuals hired through the traditional search, there are multiple alternative mechanisms by which faculty members might be recruited and hired. In general, these processes have not been well studied in the literature. What little research we do have suggests that these hiring routes are often structured to incentivize departments to hire candidates that bring new or interdisciplinary research, prestige, and

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demographic diversity and that central administration takes a much larger role in the hiring decisions being made.

Contingent Faculty12 In this section, we describe processes for hiring contingent or non-tenure-track faculty. Most of what we learned about contingent faculty hiring processes is drawn from a small pool of studies (e.g., Cross & Goldenberg, 2009; Lounder, 2015; Sponsler, 2021; Ueda et al., 2022). This body of work does not fully account for varying institution types, disciplines, and the diverse array of appointment types and labels that exist within contingent appointments. Thus, our findings warrant cautious interpretation. As shared earlier, contingent faculty comprise a majority, approximately 60%, of all faculty positions (AAUP, 2022; McNaughtan et al., 2018). One out of three new faculty hires are for contingent positions (Kezar et al., 2021). The representation of contingent faculty varies by institutional type, with contingent faculty making up about 50% of appointments at research institutions, 60% of appointments at master’s institutions, 55% of appointments at baccalaureate institutions, and 80% of appointments at community colleges (American Association of University Professors, 2022). A significant portion of all contingent faculty are hired as part-time employees; indeed, when all faculty hires are accounted for, it is estimated that about 44% of professors are hired on a part-time basis. Both full-time and part-time contingent professors are hired under a wide range of titles (e.g., adjunct professor, assistant professor, associate professor, instructor, lecturer, professor, visiting professor). In fact, Christopher et al. (2022) identified at least 50 different titles assigned to part-time professors. Different appointment types and variation in titles present serious challenges to research concerning the academic profession and efforts to ensure equity and justice in the academic workplace. Such variation in titles makes it difficult to identify faculty whose work experiences, expectations, and conditions are similar enough that they could organize, be supported, and/or studied as a collective group (Christopher et al., 2022). Additionally, the wide variation in titles contributes to “worker misclassification” where some contingent faculty, especially part-time faculty, are repeatedly hired and treated as independent contractors so that their rightful earning potential (i.e., salary and benefits) is undermined (see Kezar et al., 2019, p. 21). Said otherwise, universities could – and do – hire the same contingent faculty person for several semesters in a row but in using different titles, they may evade classifying said individual as a benefits-eligible university employee. Misclassification, intentional or not, is a clear example of a labor injustice, and one that as we discuss below, is likely to impact

“Contingent faculty” and “non-tenure-track faculty” refer to non-tenure-eligible academics. Although the terms are often used interchangeably, we opt for “contingent faculty” because it does not situate or place contingent colleagues in the deficit relative to tenure-track colleagues. 12

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People of Color, especially women. This area of research is sparse and deserving of systematic investigation. When it comes to the demographic composition of contingent faculty, across partand full-time appointments, white faculty represent 75% of the total population (McNaughtan et al., 2017). Black faculty make up 7% of the population, followed by Asian and Hispanic/Latinx faculty, who each makes up about 5% of contingent faculty (McNaughtan et al., 2017). Native American and Pacific Islander faculty represent 1% of all contingent faculty (McNaughtan et al., 2017). Looking at the proportion of faculty by race and institution type reveals an important story. White (51%) and Asian (59%) contingent faculty are most strongly represented at 4-year master’s and doctoral institutions (Finkelstein et al., 2016; McNaughtan et al., 2017), where resources are more plentiful, especially within research universities. Meanwhile, Black (42%), Hispanic/Latinx (43%), and American Indian and Pacific Islander (40%) contingent faculty are overrepresented at associate’s level colleges (e.g., community colleges), which tend to have fewer resources (McNaughtan et al., 2017). In terms of gender distribution, for years, women have tended to be overrepresented among contingent faculty. As of 2020, it was estimated that women made up about 53.9% of full-time non-tenure-track positions (Colby & Fowler, 2020). Across every institutional type (e.g., doctoral, master’s, etc.), women are more likely to be contingent than tenure-system faculty (Colby & Fowler, 2020). This remains true across race as well – women are more strongly represented in contingent roles than men in every racial category (Boss et al., 2021; Finkelstein et al., 2016). Finkelstein et al. (2016) determined that Black, Indigenous, and Latinx women are most likely to begin their careers in contingent roles and very likely to work in community colleges or teaching-focused institutions. From an equity and labor justice perspective, this is an important detail because community colleges and teaching institutions tend to pay their contingent faculty less and they are also less likely to offer contingent faculty long-term renewable contracts (American Association of University Professors, 2022) as further discussed below.

The Hiring Process for Full-Time Contingent Faculty Members Unlike the multiphase, well-resourced TTK search routine described above, searches for contingent faculty greatly vary. In fact, research suggests that departments/ colleges do not always conduct searches for contingent faculty (Cross & Goldenberg, 2009; Kezar, 2012; Lounder, 2015). When there is not a conventional search process, department chairs typically have wide discretion in the hiring of fulltime contingent faculty members. In cases where there is a more conventional search for full-time contingent faculty members, there is variation in the process, with inconsistencies across and even within institutions (Kezar, 2012; Lounder, 2015; Sponsler, 2021; Ueda et al., 2022). Before describing the variation, there have been some notable improvements when it comes to hiring full-time contingent colleagues, such as however, these search committees tend to be smaller relative to the TTK search committees. Additionally, some institutions are asking contingent search committees to cast a wider net for

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recruitment (Maxey & Kezar, 2015; Ueda et al., 2022) rather than rely on local and/or personal networks. In terms of the actual application process, candidates are asked to provide a cover letter explaining how their subject matter expertise and experience aligns with the job call. If one is applying for a teaching-only position, candidates will likely be asked to share course syllabi, a teaching statement, and teaching evaluations. If one is applying for a more research-focused position, then they may be asked to provide writing samples. Although some campuses are making efforts to create a contingent hiring process that more closely mirrors the TTK process, most contingent faculty interviews do not include a campus visit (Cross & Goldenberg, 2009; Lounder, 2015). Instead, applications are screened, and then a small pool of finalists are interviewed, usually online or via telephone, before an offer is extended (Cross & Goldenberg, 2009; Lounder, 2015). Both full-time and part-time contingent faculty are hired on temporary contracts (American Association of University Professors, 2022; Kezar et al., 2019). Most full-time contingent faculty members are on 1-year contracts (Kezar, 2012; Kezar et al., 2019), while part-time faculty tend to be hired on a semesterly basis. Because of their short-term contracts, contingent faculty frequently report difficulty identifying pathways for career advancement (Kezar, 2012; Kezar et al., 2019) especially when promotion ladders are not articulated at the point of hiring. However, in recent years, institutions, often as a result of faculty organizing (Klainot-Hess, 2023; Rhoades, 2017, 2020), have revised hiring practices to ensure longer contractual commitments and clearer evaluation and reappointment processes (Culver et al., 2022; Gibau et al., 2022; Kezar, 2012; Kezar et al., 2016; Maxey & Kezar, 2015; Sponsler, 2021; Ueda et al., 2022). Unfortunately, these improvements are not widespread, and employment contracts are impacted by state law, institutional culture, and union presence (Klainot-Hess, 2023; Rhoades, 2017). More research, preferably with attention to these various contextual features, could greatly improve what is known about full-time contingent hiring and advancement.

The Hiring Process for Part-Time Contingent Faculty Members (“Adjuncts”) Even more than full-time contingent faculty, part-time contingent faculty – who we refer to as adjunct faculty – are hired on an ad hoc basis with relatively little “process” surrounding their entry into their institutions (Cross & Goldenberg, 2009; Lounder, 2015). According to the limited research, adjunct faculty are typically hired for three reasons, each of which illustrates the undeniable link between the workload of contingent and TTK faculty. First, some adjunct faculty possess highly specific expertise that is needed but not reflected in the department’s faculty (Lounder, 2015). For example, a political science department may need to hire someone with political office and campaign experience to teach a specific course. Second, adjunct faculty may be hired when full-time faculty members take personal leave, are appointed to an administrative role, or receive a sabbatical or grant-related course buyouts, the latter of which is particularly common in research universities (Kezar, 2012; Lounder, 2015). Third, because adjunct faculty are paid far less than

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full-time colleagues, and entitled to limited, if any, institutional benefits, a department might hire adjuncts to cover instructional needs at a lower cost (Kezar, 2012; Lounder, 2015). Federal policies only recently mandated that part-time employees such as adjuncts could be eligible for unemployment benefits, although that access is still contingent on a full-time employment threshold (Kezar et al., 2021). Research indicates that it is typical for adjunct faculty to be hired without a search (Cross & Goldenberg, 2009; Kezar, 2012; Lounder, 2015). Instead, institutions rely on local networks and a “go-to pool” of individuals who taught courses in the past (Lounder, 2015). Even more than in the case of full-time contingent hires, administrators (e.g., program or department chairs) have authority to hire adjunct professors (Cross & Goldenberg, 2009). Lounder (2015) found that when hiring adjuncts: in most cases, a department chair must simply justify the need for an additional course or section in terms of enrollment needs, confirm the availability of a part-time instructor who has taught the course before, and give notice of the hire of a candidate to dean’s office personnel to ensure the instructor receives payment. (p. 202)

Subsequently, adjunct faculty are frequently hired at the last minute “with more than a third of contingent instructors reporting they were hired within just three weeks of the start date of classes and more than a sixth within two weeks” (Kezar et al., 2019, p. 43; also see Rhoades, 2018). In the worst but still common scenarios, adjunct faculty have little time to prepare materials or become familiar with campus and online course management systems and often lack information about the conditions of their employment (e.g., workload, performance/evaluation criteria), an obvious threat to labor justice. Although it is only fair to acknowledge that some institutions have improved the hiring process for adjunct faculty by adopting secured dates, which are dates by which part-time contracts must be fully articulated (e.g., course assignments) and executed (i.e., finalized; Harper, 2022; Harper & Ueda, 2022). The extent to which these practices have been adopted remains highly uneven and severely understudied. Although the research on contingent faculty hiring is limited, a few notable themes emerged from the available studies. For one, although contingent faculty were once hired to cover highly specific course needs in a department, they are now commonly hired to cover a wide array of faculty work responsibilities, including administrative responsibilities and service. Second, contingent faculty (full-time and part-time) are hired with minimal processes and sporadic faculty involvement – although this likely varies and may be improving in some isolated contexts. Where such improvements have been observed, researchers often acknowledge unions or collective organizing efforts (Harper, 2022; Scott et al., 2019). In closing, it is important to stress that despite the precarity many contingent faculty experience, many are committed to their institutions and often wish to be invited into the fuller realm of faculty life and governance (Kezar, 2012; Sponsler, 2021). Improving the working conditions for contingent faculty is a labor justice

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issue and one where improvements can begin at the point of hiring through the collective efforts of tenure-secure colleagues.

Postdoctoral Scholars As noted earlier, each year, colleges and universities hire thousands of postdoctoral scholars. These are individuals for which the annual NCES report does not account. Perhaps, this is because some institutions classify, and therefore report, postdoctoral scholars as faculty, while other institutions classify/report postdocs as staff. Still, given their extraordinary contributions to research (and sometimes to teaching), postdoctoral scholars should be recognized in any effort to examine and improve contemporary academic workplaces. Originally uncommon, postdoc positions were conceived as an extended probationary period wherein scholars could further hone their research skills on a shortterm basis under the supervision of a mentor before transitioning into a faculty role (Ferguson et al., 2014; Nowell et al., 2018). Today, postdocs are increasingly common across all fields and most, established in STEM fields (Gibbs et al., 2015; Rybarczyk et al., 2011). As of 2020, roughly 65,000 postdocs were employed in higher education (Ott et al., 2021). During the fellowship period (usually 2–3 years), a postdoc’s duties are usually research-focused, with most working on single research project under the supervision of a faculty mentor (Hudson et al., 2018; Yadav et al., 2020). Because of this laser-like focus on research, some argue that postdocs who enter faculty positions are not prepared to teach (Gibbs et al., 2015; Lambert et al., 2020). Although a handful of postdoc training programs, such as Emory University’s National Institutes of Health-funded FIRST Program (Eisen, 2020) and the University System of Maryland AGEP Promise Academy (Cresiski et al., 2022), focus on developing research and teaching skills, these programs are exceptions, not the norm. In terms of salary and benefits, there is wide variation ($23,000–$100,000+), as postdocs are paid and supported through various means (e.g., prestigious fellowships, institutional sponsorship, grants; Woolston, 2019). These potential salary differentials are not limited to the market as a whole; research has indicated that even within an institution, postdoc pay widely varies. Not only does salary vary but so do the kinds of benefits and resources to which a postdoc has access (e.g., conference and professional development support, travel support, mentoring). Finally, and relatedly, because many postdocs are tied to a single faculty mentor’s already-defined research project, they often report a lack of connectivity to the larger department and/or greater campus community (Lambert et al., 2020; Hudson et al., 2018; Yadav et al., 2020). Such isolation contributes to a sense of loneliness, tendencies to overwork, and a lack of work-life balance – all of which have been found to dampen postdoc interest in faculty careers, especially among postdocs from marginalized groups, including international postdocs (Gibbs et al., 2015; Lambert et al., 2020; Yadav et al., 2020).

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Though available demographic data is limited to science, engineering, and health fields, data from the National Center for Science and Engineering Statistics (NCSES) shows that men make up 57.7% of all postdoctoral appointees, compared to 42.3% that are women (2023). Unlike faculty positions, over half of all postdoctoral fellows are of international origin (National Science Foundation, 2022). Still, among US born individuals, those that identify as White make up the largest group of postdoctoral fellows at 26% (13.4% men, 12.4% women). The second largest group identifies as Asian and makes up 9.4% of postdoctoral fellows (5.3% men, 4.2% women). The third largest group identifies as Latinx at 3.3% (1.6% men, 1.7% women) followed by 1.8% who are Black (0.7% men, 1.1% women). Those who identified with more than one race made up 1.1% of the postdoctoral population (0.5% men, 0.6% women). Finally, Native American and Pacific Islander collectively represented 0.2% of postdoctoral fellows. Because holding a postdoc seems to be a growing prerequisite for a faculty position in many fields (Ferguson et al., 2014; Gibbs et al. 2015; Wei et al., 2012), understanding the process by which postdocs are hired warrants attention.

The Hiring Process for Postdoctoral Scholars Much like faculty members in contingent roles, research suggests the process of identifying and selecting postdocs at most institutions is largely ad hoc. As noted above, funding for postdoctoral roles is typically tied to grants secured by a single faculty member (the principal investigator or PI, hereafter), who then has wide discretion in who they hire with few institutional requirements in terms of process (Knaub et al., 2018; Ferguson et al., 2014; Wei et al., 2012). Because of all these factors, PIs hold expansive authority in postdoc hiring. PIs may post job ads to discipline-specific websites and ask candidates to submit a CV and a letter of interest (Aikens et al., 2016; Knaub et al., 2018). Once a candidate has applied, the extent to which a candidate is interviewed varies considerably, and often postdocs may not visit campus before being selected (Aikens, et al., 2016; Knaub et al., 2018). Instead of relying upon a search and selection process for identifying and evaluating candidates, research suggests that postdoc placement is largely incumbent on a candidate’s social network, with postdocs relying heavily on their graduate advisors to make connections (Wei et al., 2012) and write letters of recommendation. Similarly, PIs rely upon their networks to identify candidates to recruit and select (Aikens et al., 2016; Knaub et al., 2018). This contributes to not only racial and gender homophily (Ferguson et al., 2014) but overrepresentation of postdocs from well-known and/or prestigious graduate programs (Su, 2011). Recently, there have been efforts to ensure that postdocs move into faculty positions. For instance, Culpepper et al. (2021) examined the emergence of “postdoctoral conversion” programs, which are programs whose mission is to move postdocs into tenure-system positions within their university, or if applicable their university system (e.g., the University of California system, the University of Texas system). When recruited through conversion programs, a postdoc tends to experience a hiring process that closely mirrors the process for tenure-system faculty

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members. The full department votes on hiring the postdoc and agrees to allocate departmental resources to the postdoc’s independent research (Cresiski et al., 2022; Culpepper et al., 2021). However, these efforts and research on them remain quite limited.; Culpepper et al.’s (2021) study focused on a small number of emerging programs, suggesting that although changes have occurred in some pockets of higher education, the process for hiring postdocs, like contingent faculty, remains understudied. In this first set of findings, we described the hiring process across three different appointment types. We highlighted glaring differences and disparities that exist among these varying faculty appointment types, all of which begin at the point of hiring. These differences include wide variations in time, labor, and energy invested in different kinds of searches, while disparities include substantial gaps in information, salary, and benefits. We highlighted several areas for potential research that could help the academy move toward labor justice. We now turn to the findings of our frame analysis.

Frame Analysis After studying the literature, we suggest that academic hiring (both research and practice) is predominated by seven frames. As a reminder, a frame can be explicit, though it is often implicit, and consists of assumptions, ideas, and evidence. Frame theorists suggest that every communication – a brief, a news story, a study – is bound up in a frame. Over the next several pages, we define seven distinct frames, although it is important to note that these frames are not mutually exclusive and that studies often drew on a few frames simultaneously. After defining each frame, we highlight how each frame shaped research and practice and allude to how our labor justice lens might challenge, complicate, or extend frames and respective findings.

The Professional Jurisdiction Frame In literature that uses the professional jurisdiction frame, researchers acknowledge faculty members’ authority to oversee decisions pertaining to the professoriate, such as hiring. Much of the work in this cluster of literature shows that faculty are entrusted to manage the inner workings of the profession rooted in the belief that they are optimally positioned to manage the hiring process due to their professional training and expertise (Abbott, 1988). Said otherwise, a significant assumption that underpins the professional jurisdiction frame (in practice and in research) is that faculty members, as professionals, will exercise the kind of careful thinking that allowed them to become rigorous scholars (Blair-Loy & Cech, 2022; Caplow & McGee, 2017) in the context of academic hiring. Faculty’s deep professional expertise is entrusted as the basis for merit-based judgments (see Table 2). In practice and research that is underpinned by a professional jurisdicition frame, there is an intense, almost laser focus on search committee (and faculty interest), as if student or greater

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Table 2 Summary of the professional jurisdiction frame Basic description The professional jurisdiction frame focuses on the discretion and authority granted to faculty exercise on the basis of their professional status and expertise

Assumptions Academics are best able to organize and administer a search and ultimately maintain their workplace

Values This frame values tradition and convention and has a particular reverence for expertise

Key words Professional discretion, academic freedom, academic disciplines, disciplinary expertise, and authority

departmental interests are non-factors (Antúnez, 2018; Barsky et al., 2014; Bush et al., 2017; Ceci & Williams, 2015; Donnelly et al., 2019, Morgan et al., 2022b). Despite their overly narrow focus, many of these pieces of scholarship sought to demystify the search and hiring process for candidates. For example, studies in academic medicine (Irwin et al., 2021) and economics (Allgood et al., 2018) noted that hiring committees emphasize research skills and focus less on teaching and/or service/administration. Studies in other disciplines, like biology (Fleet et al., 2006), engineering (Pilcher et al., 2021), and health education Rojas-Guyler et al., 2004), suggested that committees are highly interested in a candidate’s teaching skills as well as research. Another study in psychology showed that although research and teaching were important, committee members heavily considered interpersonal qualities like collegiality and enthusiasm when hiring a colleague (Boysen et al., 2018). One unique study in neuroscience looked at the qualifications of newly hired, tenure-system assistant professors in the field and observed that although there is a prevailing myth that new hires all have National Institutes of Health K99/R00 awards, in fact less than 11% of new hires had this kind of funding (Hsu et al., 2021). Across these studies, we see the tendency to view faculty members, and in particular tenure-system faculty members, as the sole stakeholder in deciding what is valued in hiring. One of the clearest examples of how professional jurisdiction implicitly guided a study was Billah and Gauch’s (2015) study How to Hire Rising Stars. In short, Billah and Gauch argued that computer science departments (like all departments) are interested in hiring rising stars who can improve the department’s research productivity and grant-getting potential. However, Billah and Gauch noted it can be difficult to identify new talent because accepted productivity measures, like one’s h-index, “grows linearly with the academic age of a researcher. . . which means the h-indices of researchers in the early stages of their careers are almost uniformly low” (unpaginated). Thus, to overcome this difficulty, the authors used information, such as personal attributes, coauthorship, and information about coauthor, to predict the scholarly potential of early career hires. Using social network analysis, Billah and Gauch concluded that “the success of young researchers can be predicted more accurately based on their professional network than their track record” (unpaginated). Billah and Gauch upheld and reinforced professional jurisdiction in

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a few ways. First, they suggested that most, if not all, computer science departments are looking for qualities defined by the profession. Second, in favor of professional uniformity, they perhaps inadvertently downplayed any members who are uninterested in h-indices and are instead interested in teaching experience or translational skills. Third and finally, Billah and Gauch placed value on collegial networks and coauthorship, which not only uses but further sediments faculty power. As alluded to with the examples above, many of the papers that drew from a professional jurisdiction frame were descriptive and even prescriptive, which may suggest that they were atheoretical. However, these studies are very much grounded in the idea that faculty have and should exercise wide discretion over hiring. Such studies miss several points. First, studies that focus only on the interests of search committees might only tangentially consider the interests and perspectives of other relevant constituencies (e.g., students, administrators). In this sense, studies that use a narrow professional jurisdiction model may obscure conflicts or differences that exist within a hiring context, thereby generating an incomplete picture of hiring. Second, the professional jurisdiction frame may inadvertently suggest that all committee members, or all hiring committees, share universal values and interests, suggesting that all members of a search committee are looking for the same qualities or evidence. However, while some faculty members may place a high value on conventional research productivity, other faculty members may find value in nonconventional research or in teaching and mentoring. Relatedly, not all faculty members hold equal jurisdictional power and faculty members, such as those that hold a minority viewpoint or those without tenure, may not feel agentic, empowered, or safe enough to express dissent (see Gonzales et al., 2022; Liera & Hernandez, 2021). Thus, it is critical that research and practice make space for discrepancies and tensions within a search committee. Finally, most studies that use a professional jurisdiction frame miss the fact that most new academic hires are for contingent roles and therefore do not experience search committees in this way. While prescriptive papers, like the ones above, leave professional jurisdiction intact without problematizing its implications, we found several manuscripts wherein the authors recognized the value, or perhaps the inevitability, of professional jurisdiction but also problematized it and pointed to its limitations (Bhalla, 2019; Blair-Loy et al., 2017; Bombaci & Pejchar, 2022; Cahn et al., 2022; Cavanaugh & Green, 2020, Constant & Bird, 2009; Harris et al., 2018). Many of these papers implicitly recognize that faculty professional jurisdiction was initially forged at a particular moment of time in the academic profession. This moment was one where the vast majority in or aspiring to be academics were White people, usually men and usually with some sort of social or class status, meaning the lived experiences, priorities, and epistemic orientations of White men became foundational and normative to the academy. How faculty members came to think about themselves as academics, their work, and how they built the academy to operate is rooted in this particular history (Adsit et al., 2015; Cardozo, 2017; Gonzales et al., 2023a; Bernal & Villalpando, 2002). This helps explain why many People of Color, women, queer people, and poor people often find the academy not only unfamiliar but incongruent to their experiences and orientations to life and work (Douglas et al., 2022;

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Gonzales, 2018; Griffin & Reddick, 2011; Hernandez, 2022; Porter et al., 2020). Thus, if one aims for labor justice in the academy, professional jurisdiction must be understood as a convention steeped in legacies of racial, gender, and other forms of privilege exclusion – an assertion we return to throughout the chapter and in our discussion. Indeed, Bhalla (2019) directly addressed search committees (and thus professional jurisdiction) and outlined several strategies for improving hiring processes. While Bhalla recognized the power that search committees hold, she refused to take for granted that faculty execute bias-free meritorious processes. Similarly, Liera’s (2023) study on faculty search committees acknowledged the authority ascribed to search committees but also problematized it. In it, he argued that search committees are constituted by individuals who have likely internalized White supremacy by virtue of living in the United States and who have been socialized to use tools that hold White supremacy in place and therefore perpetuate racial exclusion through their professional jurisdiction (also see Gonzales et al., 2022; Liera 2020b; Sensoy & DiAngelo, 2017). Liera advised that faculty members who serve on search committees would benefit from racial equity professional development to understand how racism grips every person and every facet of the life in the United States, including matters of the academic workplace. In this way, Liera suggested the following: If faculty are to be trusted with building the academy, then part of their calculus must include racial equity. In a similar way, we suggest that it is time to renew and rewrite professional jurisdiction so that faculty understand labor justice as part of their charge in building and creating an academy.

The Diversity Frame The diversity frame is primarily concerned with increasing the numerical representation of faculty from different gender and/or racial groups through hiring (e.g., Bradley et al., 2022; O’Connell & Holmes, 2015; Lord et al., 2015; Rios et al., 2020). The roots of the diversity frame can be traced back to the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and Affirmative Action – both of which sought to correct historical legacies of formal and informal segregation in employment and education settings (Chang, 2005; Leong, 2021). Whereas the Civil Rights Act mandated that federally funded entities (e.g., universities, federal contractors) treat people equally without regard to race, color, religion, sex, or national origin, Affirmative Action policies were created to address discrimination in the context of important selection processes, including employment (Dobbin et al., 1993; Dobbin & Kalev, 2013). Subsequently, employers that contract with the federal government must actively recruit members of protected classes (e.g., women, racially minoritized people, ethnically minoritized) and establish representational benchmarks for applicant pools (Dobbin & Kalev, 2013; Holzer & Neumark, 2000). This underlying logic, which guides hiring initiatives and policies in many work places (Dobbin & Kalev, 2013), is that increasing the numeric representation of applicants from minoritized groups will increase their representation in sectors historically dominated by White people, particularly men. Since its inception, Affirmative Action has been contested. Primarily white (and more recently Asian) complainants have argued that Affirmative Action unfairly

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penalizes better qualified people (Orfield et al., 2007; Poon et al., 2019). Many of the lawsuits against Affirmative Action have been brought in the context of university admissions. Time again, the courts maintained the legality of Affirmative Action by pointing to the broad educational benefits of diversity (Berry & Bonilla-Silva, 2008; Gurin et al., 2002; Horn et al., 2020; Milem, 2003). Drawing on rich body of empirical research, the courts highlighted evidence that better teaching, learning, and knowledge generation is possible when communities (e.g., classrooms) are more diverse (Gurin et al., 2002). For years, the court’s rationale impacted how institutions approach diversity in admissions, employment, and other selection procesess (Table 3). However, in the summer of 2023, the Supreme Court upended Affirmative Action in US higher education. As we write this chapter, it is unclear precisely how the court’s decision will shape how colleges and universities will respond in the future. The contents of this section, however, demonstrates how Affirmative Action and diversity framing have historically influenced various selection processes in higher education. The diversity frame is largely concerned with representational diversity, leading much hiring research and practice to focus on identifying, testing, and replicating strategies shown to increase numerical diversity in academia (Cahn et al., 2022; Constant, 2011; Fradella, 2018; Greenhill, 2009; Harris et al., 2022; Moshiri & Cardon, 2019; Yong & Pendakur, 2017). Such studies are often concerned with the academic pipeline or the supply of eligible women candidates and Candidates of Color (Cahn et al., 2022). Practitioners and researchers working within the diversity frame encourage search committees to build diverse applicant pools and to assess the diversity of their applicant pool in relation to eligible candidates (Bitar et al., 2022). Leveraging networks for targeted recruitment (Moshiri & Cardon, 2019; Yong & Pendakur, 2017), drafting job descriptions in ways that appeal to women and minoritized applicants (Bombaci & Pejchar, 2022; Kazmi et al., 2022), and requiring diversity statements as a part of the application (Ashford, 2016; Bhalla, 2019; Boyle et al., 2020; O’Connell & Holmes, 2015) are all suggested practices for ensuring that a diverse pool of applicants are considered in the hiring process.

Table 3 Summary of the diversity frame Basic description The diversity frame emphasizes and seeks to maximize representational diversity because it recognizes that diversity is critical to the learning of all students and to knowledge production

Assumptions Focused largely on representational diversity, this frame can inadvertently suggest that people from nondominant backgrounds are “the same” or interchangeable. In turn, representational diversity is framed as the end-goal

Values This frame values representational diversity in and of itself. The culture and context of higher education benefits from diverse peoples but does not necessarily need to be changed

Key words Diversity, representation, student interest, student success, affirmative action, interest convergence

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Hiring practices (and scholarship) guided by the diversity frame have produced crucial insights related to the recruitment and supply side of hiring. However, given the typical focus on the academic pipeline, these studies might inadvertently suggest that lagging representation is a phenomenon external to institutions, rather than a consequence of exclusionary dynamics that live inside of and are reproduced within institutions by academics themselves. If hiring committees perceive the absence of women, disabled faculty, queer faculty, or Faculty of Color in their department to be a matter of inadequate supply or subpar recruitment tactics, then they may abdicate themselves of the duty to address the norms, attitudes, practices, and policies that drive such minoritized and marginalized people out of their departments. Another limitation of practice and scholarship based on the diversity frame is related to its heavy (perhaps inadvertently narrow) reliance on the rationale that faculty diversity enhances student experience and outcomes, especially minoritized students’ experiences and outcomes. Some diversity advocates assert the need to increase diversity for the sake of students. For instance, a recent report from The Education Trust noted, “Faculty diversity plays a key role in college student completion and can have a major impact on students’ sense of belonging, retention rates, and persistence, so why are university faculties so white?” (Bitar et al., 2022, p. 1). This argument represents a logical and moral appeal: Change hiring practices to increase diversity and better serve students, especially minoritized students. While this logic is understandable and while it is true that minoritized students report that access to faculty who look like them or who share similar histories generates improved self-efficacy and sense of belonging (Cross & Carman, 2021; Curtis, 2021), this framing might also be understood as an example of interest convergence (Bell, 1980), and one that potentially undermines some academics more than others. For example, consider that search committees, who are likely to be majority White and potentially majority men, are advised that in hiring historically marginalized colleagues (e.g., women, People of Color, disabled colleagues, trans* colleagues), students will be better served and supported. Such framing may inadvertently lead majoritarian search committees and departments to believe that they no longer have a responsibility or role in serving minoritized students. Indeed, this is precisely what the research on faculty workloads suggests (Hanasono et al., 2019; Misra et al., 2012; O’Meara et al., 2017b; 2019, 2020b)! Taking this implication further, framing historically minoritized faculty as colleagues whose main contribution is not intellectual but instead diversity and service to students positions them on the margins of the academy. For example, in a systematic review of literature, Gonzales and Saldivar (2020) found that Latina academics are rarely framed as intellectuals in the literature concerning academic careers. Instead, they are recognized for their teaching, service, and commitment to community. Even though many Latina faculty do indeed find great pleasure and satisfaction in community building and student-serving aspects of work, they are also intellectuals with worthy research agendas that get missed when the diversity frame alone drives how they are understood and recruited. In the context of hiring research and practice, particularly in contexts that are highly research-oriented, when minoritized and marginalized scholars are understood as serving diversity and thus

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as representational capital (Gonzales et al., 2023b; Leong, 2021; Rodgers & Liera, 2023) rather than as intellectuals with important knowledge contributions (Gonzales et al., 2023b), the diversity frame may inadvertently undermine their progress. Still, it is important to point out that the diversity frame can and does play a critical role in advancing labor justice. As a frame that is concerned with representation, labor justice heIps researchers remain focused on gaps between minoritized labor supply and hiring outcomes. Thus, search committees are encouraged to consider how they are succeeding or failing in terms of building the most representative academy possible. When paired with additional perspectives and insights, the diversity frame can be a generative starting point, as we discuss in the closing section of the chapter.

The Administrative-Managerial Frame In contrast to the professional jurisdiction frame, which amplifies faculty voice, and the diversity frame, which approaches hiring through numerically focused strategies and moral appeal, the administrative-managerial frame emphasizes standardized hiring protocols, legal compliance, and the broader institutional infrastructure necessary to manage hiring and prevent discrimination. Administrative and managerially focused practice and research tends to be interested in efficiencies and diversity, which are not easy nor complementary companions. Intervening in and changing systems and practices that privilege status quo requires time-intensive and intentional work that is not administratively or fiscally efficient. Fundamental to the administrative frame is the idea that management solutions are the most appropriate way to improve hiring processes. It is perhaps the only frame that explicitly emphasizes nonfaculty interests. Although most papers do not state it, the administrative-managerial frame borrows from what Weber called rational bureaucracy. In short, Weber argued that modern Western organizations are governed by rationales and rules (e.g., policies, procedures, guidelines) rather than emotion or relationships. These rationales and rules are enforced by organizational actors who are entrusted to run and help the organization survive (Aron, 1970; Coser, 1977). For these reasons, the administrative and managerial frame is quite consistent with scientific management (Taylor, 1919) and technocratic rationality (Andersen, 2021), both of which assume that organizations can use scientific methods, and especially technology, to optimize the means through which organizations achieve their goals or objectives. In the context of hiring, this frame suggests that there is one best process by which candidates are fairly recruited and evaluated fair which will lead the committee to hire “best candidate” (Andersen, 2021; Gonzales et al., 2018; Townley, 2008) (Table 4). Studies that deployed an administrative frame took many forms. A few examined colleges’ and universities’ affirmative action plans, describing how an institution planned to recruit candidates from historically disadvantaged groups (Allen et al., 2019; Henningsen et al., 2022). Some papers also examined how committees followed equity guidelines, informed by equal employment opportunity (EEO). EEO outlines legal processes for search committees to prevent members from knowing or inquiring about a particular candidate’s race, gender, or other aspects

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Table 4 Summary of administrative-managerial frame Basic description The administrativemanagerial frame focuses on the technical, legal, and infrastructural apparatus necessary to facilitate a standard hiring process

Assumptions This frame assumes that by using scientific management strategies, hiring can be made more objective and rational. Errors and irrational outcomes are reduced through policy and standardized practices

Values This frame values standardization, control, and equality

Key words Standardized, process, administrative oversight, equality, quality control

of identity. EEO guidelines also prevent search committee members from asking questions about a candidate’s partner or caregiver status (e.g., Los Rios Community College District, 2015; University of Connecticut, 2022). Human resource officers and other administrators, sometimes referred to as equity officers, are in place to ensure that such rules are followed, primarily to mitigate the extent to which legal action can be brought against institutions (Fine & Handelseman, 2012). Said otherwise, this cluster of research and practice emphasizes compliance and process – as a means for reducing discrimination but mostly to manage the selection and recruitment of faculty members in large, highly bureaucratic organizations. A number of studies that used the administrative and managerial frame described hiring policies used in different contexts (e.g., field/discipline, institutional type). For example, Glastonbury et al. (2021) described an effort in a department of radiology to review and put in place hiring policies that “increased structure and consistency” (p. 1). The resulting guidelines were used to structure the department’s recruitment process. Similar studies focused on, for instance, the mechanics that underlie dualcareer hiring policies (Blake, 2020; Layne et al., 2005; Wolf-Wendel et al., 2004), or understanding how cluster hire policies work at institution-wide versus college specific levels (Urban Universities for Health, 2015). Practice that takes an administrative and managerial approach to faculty hiring begets administrative and managerial solutions to making the hiring process better. Moreover, this work tends to assume that there is a scientific way or at least a science-like way to make an objective or best decision (Gonzales et al., 2018). For instance, Fortino et al. (2020) described a CV text mining tool that automatically analyzed adjunct faculty candidate’s resumes compared to the description of the course to be taught. Using the tool, the researchers were able to match a candidate’s qualifications/expertise to the course subject matter, thereby creating “a simple tool that can be used a further filter in separating high potential candidates from those that, with a more time-consuming investigation” (Introduction para). Similarly, Frank (2019) suggested that search committees should only review research products to make hiring decisions; this is similar to Holden et al.’s (2005) recommendation about the use of bibliometrics to inform hiring decisions. A number of studies also suggest that changing aspects of the process can help search committees avoid hiring the wrong person (Hill, 2005; Gaspar & Brown, 2015). For instance, Gaspar

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and Brown (2015) examined how introducing new hiring protocols (e.g., using a mock teaching demonstration) allowed search committee members and prospective candidates to accurately “make an informed decision about whether they would fit with the group and whether they would want to fit with the group” (p. 385). The underlying assumption in such studies is that alterations to the administrative and managerial rules, or guidance, embedded in the hiring process can reduce human error and render a more objective hiring decision. A few studies within this frame focused on people within specific leadership roles. For instance, a handful of studies looked at department chairs/heads (Oermann et al., 2016; Stockard et al., 2008; White-Lewis, 2021, 2022), deans (White-Lewis, 2021, 2022), and still others looked at diversity officers (White-Lewis, 2022) as critical for interpreting, implementing, and at times subverting the institution’s administrative and managerial processes. For instance, White-Lewis (2022) conducted interviews with 12 academic leaders involved in hiring at 1 research institution. White-Lewis keenly observed that “deans, department chairs, and diversity officers issue their own ‘all deliberate speed’ decrees that departments and faculty search committees differentially interpret every academic year” (p. 358). White-Lewis’ work is important because it revealed that while institutions may establish processes and rules, these processes and rules are ultimately interpreted and implemented differently by different academic leaders. In other words, WhiteLewis exposes the fallibility of purely administratively and managerially driven interventions. Future research should further explore and complicate the role of administrators in hiring in general, and in the context, of managerial interventions specifically. Clearly, the administrative and managerial frame has some shortcomings. First, the administrative and managerial frame assumes that prescribed rules, policy, and protocols are somehow immune to human subjectivity. However, White-Lewis showed that administrators have biases, interests, and proclivities that shape their engagement in hiring. Moreover, faculty members subvert administrative mandates and protocols (Liera, 2020a, Liera & Hernandez, 2021; Rivera, 2017; Sensoy & DiAngelo, 2017). Thus, while administrators can issue guidance, nudges, and even mandates, in the end, people are responsible for implementing such information, and practitioners and researchers must account for the decoupling that happens between policy and practice. Future researchers might explore how faculty members, or other policy implementers, make sense of the guidance they receive, what makes them inclined to follow guidance, etc. Second is that standardization and consistency, often goals of the administrative and managerial frame, may make a hiring process more efficient but can also obscure the ability to evaluate candidates more holistically. For instance, the studies referenced above suggest search committees should evaluate candidates based on their CV or their bibliometric data, which are indeed practices that can be systematically and consistently applied very quickly to a large pool of candidates. However, such practices ignore the reality that traditional markers of productivity are biased and routinely do not capture the impact of faculty members who are doing difficult-

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to-measure kinds of work (e.g., teaching, mentoring, service, program administration; Mitchneck, 2021). Even with such limitations, the administrative and managerial frame does offer a basis from which many labor justice concerns could be addressed. Some issues, like candidate physical and psychological safety, are nonnegotiable and require firm policy, not guidance. Formal authority embedded in administrative and managerial offices could be used to require search committees to create an inclusive and accessible candidate visit experience (e.g., ensuring any building a candidate visits is physically accessible, has gender-inclusive restroom options). And finally, given our finding that there is often little or no process for contingent and postdoc hires, the administrative and managerial frame provides a foundation for establishing process, protocol, and policy. In conclusion, the administrative and managerial frame, alone, relies too heavily on administrative powers and oversight, including powers to implement systems that may be quick but that fail to account for faculty and student interests. However, the administrative and managerial frame can be used for good, particularly in support of improved accessibility and safety practices, as we discuss later in our closing section.

The Bias Frame The bias frame focuses on how social stereotypes, cultural beliefs, and/or cognitive processing can shape faculty hiring in ways that are irrational, harmful, and/or prejudicial. This frame emerges from research in social psychology and behavioral economics, which suggests that humans have predictable, patterned ways of thinking and making decisions that produce unmerited or unjustified preferences and/or judgments. A person’s biases are influenced by society and culture (“social bias”; Banaji & Greenwald, 2013) as well as cognitive heuristics or mental shortcuts (“cognitive bias”; Kahneman, 2011), although it is also helpful to note that mental shortcuts are also formed through the consumption of socially produced information. Still, all in all, researchers understand bias as an individual phenomenon that can produce suboptimal or irrational outcomes (Kahneman, 2011). Whereas the preceding frame was focused on rules, process, and decision-making authority and process, the bias frame is concerned with the individual, that is, how an individual thinks and acts according to previously held beliefs, assumptions, and social schemas. Applied to faculty hiring, the bias frame asks how individual’s bias manifests in the hiring process (Table 5). The bias frame is quite ubiquitous. In academia, researchers often suggest bias as an overall general culprit for the lack of diversity (e.g., Casad et al., 2021; Constant, 2011; DiPiro, 2011; Kayes, 2006; Roper, 2019; Russell et al., 2019). For example, Casad et al. (2021) suggested that to increase the representation of women in STEM fields, institutions need to address the ways that biases manifest in recruitment, mentoring, and academic climate. Casad et al. went on to identify a number of practices intended to reduce bias in those areas. Russell et al. (2019) similarly provided an overview of the concept of implicit bias and considered how its role in hiring, promotion, tenure, and other evaluation processes might subvert effective academic leadership.

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Table 5 Summary of bias frame Basic description The bias frame focuses on the implicit, unconscious ways that cultural social stereotypes, cognitive errors, and/or ideological biases undermine efforts to make hiring more inclusive, equitable, and effective

Assumptions This frame assumes that educational interventions can reduce and neutralize the impact of cognitive, cultural, and ideological biases

Values This frame values personal responsibility and acknowledges that even well-intentioned and formally educated individuals can make errors based in prejudice

Key words Implicit bias, unconscious bias, cognitive bias

While the above papers were compelling reflections that asked faculty members to be aware of how bias operates in general and specific ways, other papers empirically pinpointed where individual bias emerges in the hiring process. For instance, numerous studies found differences in the ways that letter writers describe men and women candidates (Dutt et al., 2016; Grimm et al. 2020; Khan et al., 2023; Madera et al., 2019; Schmader et al., 2007; Steinpreis et al., 1999; Trix & Psenka, 2003; Zhang et al., 2021) and White and racially minoritized candidates (Bradford et al., 2021; Grimm et al., 2020) in ways that show a preference for men and White candidates. Zhang et al. (2021) did a content analysis of letters of recommendation in academic medicine (letters written for individuals applying for medical fellowships) and found that letter writers were more likely to comment upon the communal characteristics (e.g., warmth, energy, kindness) of Black and Latinx men and women compared to Asian and White men. The study also noted that letter writers tended to portray White and Asian men as established researchers and/or clinicians while describing Black and Latinx men and women as still developing their expertise. These studies emphasize the implicit nature of bias, as candidates ostensibly only ask supportive faculty to write letters of recommendation and letter writers ostensibly do not intend to undermine their colleagues and/or mentees. In an interesting and important handful of studies, researchers surfaced bias in the actual position descriptions. For example, analyses of the language used in academic libraries (Tokarz & Mesfin, 2021) and academic medicine (Sella et al., 2022) showed gendered language to be pervasive. Another study wherein researchers examined the language used in job advertisements for religious studies positions showed that ads for Islamic studies tended to replicate stereotypes of Islam and Muslims (Morgenstein Fuerst, 2020). Another strand of bias research includes experimental studies. These studies have shown that when faculty members are asked to evaluate candidates with equal qualifications based on their CVs, there is positive bias toward White, Asian, and men candidates and negative bias towards Black and Latinx men and women (Eaton et al., 2020) and White women (Moss-Racusin et al., 2012; Sheltzer & Smith, 2014). Steinpreis et al. (1999) observed that faculty members (of all genders) preferred men

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candidates compared to women candidates. These results were mirrored in another study wherein faculty members were asked to indicate their preferences in hiring for student laboratory managers in science (Moss-Racusin et al., 2012). It is notable that a few experimental studies across STEM fields refute the idea that search committees are biased against women, and instead argues that when compared to men, women are actually preferred across a range of conditions (e.g., differently qualified, different career trajectories, evaluation of different kinds of materials; Ceci & Williams, 2015; Williams & Ceci, 2015). In a few cases, researchers have gained direct access to actual search committee meetings and interactions. Quite consistently, these observational studies showed how biases related to gender, race, and citizenship status emerged as search committees assessed candidates (Constant & Bird, 2009; Culpepper et al., 2023; Hakkola & Dyer, 2022; O’Meara et al., 2023). One study recorded faculty job talks and observed that faculty audience members interrupted women candidates more frequently compared to men candidates (Blair-Loy et al., 2017). Another study based on observations of search committees’ deliberations showed that faculty members often implicitly view candidates from minoritized backgrounds such as Women and Faculty of Color to be “riskier” compared to White and men candidates (O’Meara et al., 2023), thereby illuminating another form of bias that can emerge in the search process. Because bias has become a dominant frame by which many interrogate and seek to improve faculty hiring, there has been significant energy around bias reduction or bias awareness education. A growing amount of research seeks to understand the efficacy of typical short-term bias trainings (Cavanaugh & Green, 2020; Carnes et al., 2015; Devine et al., 2017; Fine et al., 2014; Pitts et al., 2020; Sheridan et al., 2007; Smith et al., 2015; Sekaquaptewa et al., 2019) as well as more creative interventions, like interactive theater (Shea et al., 2019). Devine et al. (2017), for example, studied the impact of a workshop called “Breaking the Bias Habit” among 100 STEM and academic medicine departments at the University of WisconsinMadison. They found that after participating in the intervention, departments hired 18% more women compared to before the training. In another study, Sekaquaptewa et al. (2019) found that faculty members who participated in a bias workshop were more likely to endorse equitable hiring strategies, and the more faculty members that attended the workshop, the more likely a department was to endorse equitable hiring practices. Beyond training and workshop outcomes, a few studies have examined the efficacy of rubrics as a bias mitigation strategy (Braileanu et al., 2020; O’Meara et al., 2020a). Blair-Loy et al. (2022) studied the introduction of a rubric into the search process for one engineering department in a research-intensive university. The researchers compared hiring outcomes before and after the introduction of the rubric, analyzed rubric scores and qualitative comments, and surveyed faculty on the impact of the rubric on hiring results. Overall, they found that the department hired more women after the introduction of the rubric. However, they also found that evaluators continued to be biased in the evaluations of candidate research productivity and research impact. Specifically, evaluators rated men with productivity and

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impact indicators more favorably compared to similarly qualified women, although the introduction of criterion pertaining to contributions to diversity offset the research penalty for women. Meanwhile, Culpepper et al. (2023) conducted observations of search committees who used rubrics for their evaluations. Culpepper and colleagues found that by using rubrics as a discussion tool, search committees became more aware of their biases but concluded that bias could still be embedded into a rubric in ways that perpetuated irrational and unjustified exclusion. To underscore, both studies observed that rubric interventions did not remove bias but rather provided a way to either (a) bring biases to light or (b) counterbalance bias in a specific area (like evaluation of research) by weighting another qualification (contributions to diversity). In other words, the rubric, which might be understood as an administrative and managerial intervention, did not change how evaluators assessed candidates. Altogether, there is some evidence that, in specific institutional settings using specific benchmarks of impact, bias mitigation interventions can be effective. On the other hand, there is evidence (mostly from outside of academia) that bias trainings are largely ineffective and do not enhance diversity (Dobbin & Kalev, 2017; National Institutes of Health, 2021), particularly when “trainings are a one-time event and not part of a broader institutional strategy, do not convey messages that participants are receptive to, or teach only the concept of bias rather than also target behaviors to change” (Dobbin & Kalev, 2017, p. 3). To this point, bias education is an important endeavor, but an insufficient lever for deep change. In looking across bias-focused interventions and research, besides the fact that such work does not address systemic and deeply rooted problems, there are a few notable limitations to this work. One is that most bias interventions, like holistic review or rubrics, are introduced in a single department or a single institution and in contexts where there is a preexisting emphasis or concern for increasing the diversity of the faculty. This suggests that observed changes may be less about the intervention and more about the commitment of the individuals within the department to changing its demographic composition. Second, perhaps because funding agencies like the National Science Foundation emphasize increasing diversity in STEM and medical fields, much of the research on bias reduction has been focused on these fields, meaning there is room for bias research in other disciplines in the future. Third, there is bias research on most elements of the campus visit, but we found only one study (in counseling education) that looked at bias in the context of a candidate receiving and then negotiating a job offer. Pence and Kirk-Jenkins (2021) surveyed academics in counseling education about their negotiation experiences and found that salary negotiations were typically successful (Pence & Kirk-Jenkins, 2021). However, there is vast literature on race and gender bias in job and salary negotiation outside the academy, suggesting that this area should be studied more carefully in the future (Bowles et al., 2005; Hernandez et al., 2019) and that leaders should be aware of how their potential bias may surface in these contexts. Fourth, and finally, Nelson and Zippel (2021) studied several ADVANCE grants and interventions and argued that the concept of implicit gender bias has become a

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“catchall” for explaining persistent inequalities, including in hiring. Bias, they argued, has become popular because it attributes the root cause of “deep-seeded structural inequalities to individual cognition” (p. 352). In other words, and as already alluded to above, bias-focused research and practices emphasize the role of individual bias instead of considering how organizational structures and cultures perpetuate exclusion (Brownstein, 2016; Siegal, 2020) and is therefore insufficient for advancing inclusion, equity, or labor justice as we have envisioned it. Still even with these limitations, bias research and bias reduction interventions do have a role in creating a more just academic work place. Helping people identify and notice their bias is a necessary step toward justice. Additionally, if leveraged appropriately, bias workshops could help department/program communities talk as a collective about their biases before conducting a search. This collective approach to identifying, discussing, and identifying strategies for flagging bias would require significant trust within a community. It would, perhaps, also require a trusted and highly skilled facilitator who could help the community process uncomfortable truths. Research on such undertakings would make a unique and highly valuable contribution to the hiring and bias-related literature. Finally, one area of potential bias research and practice that is somewhat emergent but should be further developed is epistemic bias or bias in connection with knowledge production and knowledge legitimation (see Settles et al., 2021, 2022). Given the high value that is placed on knowledge production, particularly through research, it is critical for scholars to be willing to identify and understand the biases they hold regarding knowledge. However, perhaps because epistemic/knowledge production judgments are so closely intertwined with faculty disciplinary expertise and therefore with professional jurisdiction, most bias interventions (and bias research) do not address epistemic questions. Again, working as a collective, departments could work to surface and disciplinary-embedded biases and consider how those might racialize, gender, or otherwise unfairly impact the search and hiring process. Beyond Settles et al. (2021, 2022) work on epistemic exclusion, we found little research that grappled with epistemic bias, although many studies certainly allude to it. Expanding what scholars deem as valuable academic work, including research, is an integral part of labor justice; thus, researchers and practitioners should consider how their efforts can touch this matter.

The Market Frame The market frame captures how business leaders and legislators pushed colleges and universities to behave as competitors in a higher education market, sometimes referred to as the global knowledge economy (Slaughter & Leslie, 1997; Slaughter & Rhoades, 2004). One of the unique features of the market frame relative to the other frames already discussed is its attention to history and political economy. The suggestion that higher education is vulnerable to market, and especially capitalist logics, is not new. Although higher education is often framed as a benevolent institution that has served the public good, critical historians have noted the intimate ties between higher education and private, particularly white, interests. From the moment the first college opened its doors in 1636 in colonial America, it

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was embedded with the ugliest sides of capitalism, including the enslavement and colonization of Black and Indigenous people, respectively (Dunbar-Ortiz, 2014; Wilder, 2013). Over time, higher education’s likeness to a capitalist market entity became more and more evident, leading Veblen (1918) to write one of the first and most explicit critiques of the businesslike behaviors of early higher education leaders. However, even the most critical scholars have noted that because higher education is largely involved in cultural production (e.g., the production of knowledge), it cannot be understood nor analyzed as a pure capitalist market (Gonzales, 2013). In her work, Gonzales illustrated that most colleges and universities are highly interested in enhancing their prestige and deploy strategies that may not be fiscally sound in order to do so (also see O’Meara, 2011). Such strategies include, for example, pursuing more research dollars to build a greater research portfolio, pursuing certain amenities, and preferring to hire leaders and scholars with “elite” academic lineage (Table 6). Taylor et al. (2013) further complicated the idea that higher education operates like a typical capitalistic market. Specifically, Taylor and colleagues suggested that it is more accurate to understand higher education as a quasi-market. Quasi-markets are reliant upon and, in fact, created through policy interventions, such as the 1972 Higher Education Reauthorization, the Bayh-Dole Act, etc.). Thus, unlike a pure market, the government is involved in creating and incentivizing higher education toward market like behaviors. Accepting that higher education functions similar to but not exactly like a purse market, research using the market frame highlights how capitalist logics (e.g., values, ways of being, tendencies) impact not only the structures of higher education but its innerworkings. Much of the empirical research that draws on the market frame focuses on organizational level data, including financial portfolios (McClure & Titus, 2018), organizational structures including relationships between higher education organizations and industry leaders (Pusser et al., 2011), and the organizational infrastructure (e.g., technology transfer offices) that have been developed to handle market activities (Slaughter & Rhoades, 2004). Although there is a robust body of higher education literature that would fall under the market frame, only a handful of hiring studies made use of this perspective. Table 6 Summary of market frame Basic description The market frame highlights how austere politics have transformed higher education into a corporate-like entity

Assumptions This frame assumes that academic hiring is a strategic opportunity to maximize a college or university’s position in the global and capitalistic knowledge economy

Values This frame shows how capitalist logics and values, like competition, efficiency, and prestige maximization, shape higher education and faculty behavior

Key words Resource maximization, efficiencies, corporatization, competition, knowledge as commodity

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These studies generally recognized that in a capitalist society, academic hiring can be understood as a resource-saving opportunity or a means for securing an institution’s position in the knowledge economy. Regarding the former, Hearn and Burns (2021) set out to investigate if, in fact, hiring non-tenure-track faculty is a cost-saving strategy. Upon analyzing nearly 10 years of financial data from public master’s and doctoral institutions, Hearn and Burns found no cost-savings for colleges that had taken to hiring contingent faculty. In a similarly designed study, Jaquette and Curs (2022) explained that state universities struggling with declining public investment (e.g., tax dollars) have increased out-of-state (e.g., nonresident) student enrollment, as nonresident students pay a larger share of tuition. The authors found that institutions pursuing nonresident students consistently hired more tenure-track faculty and fewer non-tenure-track faculty. However, the team was quick to point out that most institutions, especially smaller research and regional universities, are unable to attract out-of-state full-pay/higher pay nonresident students, meaning the nonresident-enrollment strategy is only a feasible strategy for better-known (e.g., flagship) institutions and this strategy will likely entrench institutional disparities. Regarding the handful of studies that understood hiring as a means for enhancing an institution’s position in the knowledge economy, these researchers illustrated how hiring decisions can become compromised by the private sector. For example, Harichandran (2007) studied the hiring decisions of 14 engineering departments in midsized research-focused civil engineering programs and found that these programs preferred, as evidenced by ultimate hiring decisions, to hire scholars whose work aligned more with specific (and likely market-attractive) solutions that may only tangentially be related to core engineering subject matter. Harichandran warned that such preferences privileged technical, narrower approaches to engineering over subject matter that civil engineers have traditionally viewed as critical or core to the field. Similarly, Gonzales et al. (2022) found that search committees in applied science fields were interested in hiring faculty members whose work was thought to be industry-aligned. When faculty align hiring decisions to the market, they may inadvertently tighten the grips that capitalism has around the work and the future of their scholarship; such conditions, perhaps most importantly, can quickly compromise the public mission of a program/department/university, as demonstrated with other commercial (or public-private partnerships) endeavors (Slaughter & Rhoades, 2004; Stephan, 2001). In another study, Gallet et al. (2005) illustrated how the cultural and particularly the prestige-building concerns of the higher education market play out in hiring. Specifically, Gallet et al. found that when the job market is restricted, colleges and universities, and more specifically search committees, “raise their standards” and make the strategic decision to recruit from schools and programs considered relatively more prestigious than the schools and program from which they have historically hired. The study suggested that, when possible, institutions and, more specifically, search committees are interested in maximizing prestige. We were surprised to find so few studies connecting hiring to the market and we encourage other researchers to consider how market informed critiques might engender new understandings about hiring. Research concerning recruitment, job

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offers, and negotiations are all important areas of inquiry as are additional studies looking at search committees’ alignment with market priorities and the subsequent implications for hires.

The Network Frame Researchers have long observed the influence of networks within higher education, noting that cultural resources and opportunities are defined and gatekept among a tiny network of schools, programs, and scholars (Jencks & Riesman, 1968; Kirst et al., 2010; Morphew & Baker, 2004). Hiring research based on a network frame focuses on the ways that a candidate’s position within departmental, laboratory, institutional, and/or disciplinary fields shapes their access and entrée into academic positions. Said otherwise, research that utilizes a network frame is concerned with how cumulative advantages (e.g., resources and access) associated with one’s academic network influence one’s trajectory. The network frame frequently attributes disparities in faculty hiring, particularly with regard to diversity, to the mutually reinforcing nature of interests within higher education (see Table 7 below). One of the clearest findings from network related research is that networks exist at many levels, including connections between individuals (Biancani & McFarland, 2013; Kezar, 2014), such as connections that a scholar has with their academic advisor, research collaborators, and colleagues in their department or campus (Baker & Lattuca, 2010; Griffin et al., 2018). Networks can also refer to one’s connection to an institution (e.g., being an alumni of a university) or between an individual and the program or lab where they received doctoral training (Burris, 2004; Posselt, 2018). In each of these network examples, an individual is granted powerful forms of social capital (Burris, 2004; Kezar, 2014). For example, in academia, one’s network is often accepted as a proxy measure for credibility, excellence, and potential (Billah & Gauch, 2015; Posselt, 2018). This was clearly demonstrated in studies, like Billah and Gauch (2015), which recommended that search committees examine a job candidate’s peer network to predict thier potential for starhood. Research within this frame was the only body of work that consistently provided discipline-specific analyses. Across every field or discipline, researchers found that most newly hired faculty members held doctoral degrees from a relatively small pool Table 7 Summary of network frame Basic description The network frame focuses on the ways that a faculty member’s position within institutional, departmental, and/or scholarly networks acts as a form of social capital that provides unmerited advantage in the hiring process

Assumptions This frame assumes that social capital, signaled by affiliation with prestigious networks or pedigree of doctoral institution, is accrued and accumulated and central to labor market outcomes

Values This frame emphasizes the role of social capital and institutional prestige. It shows how these aspects of higher education can reproduce the system

Key words Prestige, pedigree, social networks, rankings

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of elite and highly selective doctoral universities. This was true in STEM fields like computer science (Clauset et al., 2015; Huang et al., 2015; Way et al., 2016) and engineering (Ermagun & Erinne, 2022; Huang et al., 2015; Saigal & Saigal, 2012); humanities fields, such as history (Burris, 2004; Clauset et al., 2015) and communication (Barnett & Feeley, 2011; Mai et al., 2015); social science disciplines like anthropology (Kawa et al., 2019), archeology (Shott, 2022), and sociology (Burris, 2004); and professional fields such as education (DiRamio et al., 2009; Tomlinson & Freeman, 2018), business (Baldo et al., 2020; Bundy et al., 2022; Clauset et al., 2015; Hadlock & Pierce, 2021), and social work (Bair & Bair, 2002). A few detailed examples from the studies above are as follows: In business, Bair and Bair (2001) observed that one-half of the faculty in top 10 marketing programs had graduated from one of the top 10 institutions. In sociology, Burris (2004) found that graduates from the top 5 departments made up a third of all faculty hired in the top 94 departments, and the top 20 departments accounted for 70% of total new hires. In the disciplines of computer science, history, and business, 70–86% of all tenure-track hires graduated from a handful of institutions (Clauset et al., 2015). Clauset et al. also estimated that only 9–14% of scholars within these three fields would be hired at an institution considered more prestigious than the one from which they graduated. Finally, a study of hiring within the field of higher education found that 70% of faculty members employed at the top 21 ranked programs received their degrees from 1 of the 21 programs (DiRamio et al., 2009). On the whole, studies that use a network frame reveal that the academic labor market functions as a closed system in two ways: (1) among and within “elite” institutions and (2) more widely across academia, wherein individuals from “elite” or “top” institutions are granted unearned advantage over candidates graduating from lesser-known universities. Of the former: elite institutions tend to hire only from other elite institutions. Of the latter manifestation, individuals who earn their degrees from prestigious institutions tend to be unfairly privileged in academic hiring outcomes (Wapman et al., 2022) across institution types, except perhaps for community colleges, which are not often included in network studies. It is important to point out, however, that institutions and academic programs within them are imbued with varying levels of stature. For instance, although Ivy League institutions are widely regarded as prestigious institutions overall, there is variability in the extent to which academic programs within them (e.g., the sociology, physics, or higher education program) are viewed as prestigious (Burris, 2004). Research does not clarify, however, the relative weight of institutional versus program versus advisor prestige. Future research, perhaps qualitative in nature, could untangle these factors to more finely understand the inequity of opportunity that different networks produce during hiring. Importantly, network research has demonstrated the gendered nature of the academic labor market. For example, Clauset et al. (2015) analyzed the hiring networks and outcomes of 19,000 tenure and tenure-track faculty across 461 academic units in the fields of computer science, history, and business and found that women who graduated from top-ranked programs in computer science and business

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(but not in history) tended to be employed in less prestigious institutions compared to men who graduated from similar-ranked top programs. They determined that this disparity was not attributable to productivity outcomes. We noticed that although the network research is poised to show how networks reproduce white dominance, or racial exclusion, in the academy this avenue has not been explored (see Gonzales & Robinson, 2023 for a conceptual argument). For example, Wapman et al.’s (2022) recent network research showed that just a few institutions are represented in new academic hiring, and none of those institutions are Minority Serving Institutions, including Historically Black Colleges and Universities or Hispanic Serving Institutions, which produce large numbers of Black and Hispanic or Latinx doctorates. Future researchers may consider the role of networks among MSIs and how networks reproduce racial (dis)advantage. Although most network studies are interested in institutional dominance and hierarchy, and to a certain extent gender inequities, we found one study (although there may be others) that pointed to the knowledge production (epistemic) implications of such tight academic networks. Specifically, Morgan et al. (2018) used an epidemic model to map the hiring placements of 5032 faculty members who received their doctoral degrees in computer science to their topic/quality of their scholarship. Using this innovative approach, Morgan et al. found that “ideas originating from more prestigious universities produce larger epidemic sizes and longer epidemic lengths” whereas “ideas incubated at less prestigious universities needed to be much higher quality to have similar success” (p. 13). In other words, the privilege assigned to certain institutions was ascribed to scholars and their work, and this transfer of privilege impacted whose epistemic contributions were disbursed across the academy. Researchers should consider building on Morgan et al. findings to further explore how research agendas and methods are shaped through networks. Such scholarship could be a powerful motivator, encouraging search committees to revise their recruitment strategy and tap into innovative, untapped research ideas present in lesser-known institutions. Research within the network frame is powerful in that it points out how institutional and search committee desire for prestige undermines justice and equity, but it does have its limitations. One of the more obvious limitations in the literature that we reviewed is that network studies unanimously focused on fulltime, tenure-system faculty and nearly all the studies put elite doctoral institutions at the center of their analysis. However, there is some evidence that prestige, and the pursuit of prestige, also shapes dynamics at comprehensive institutions (Gallet et al., 2005; O’Meara & Bloomgarden, 2011). Indeed, it is notable that adjunct hiring, which is common at community colleges, is often locally oriented and that those responsible for hiring tend to rely on personal and local connections. Network research could be especially informative in these contexts. All in all, research suggests that reliance on networks results in the systematic exclusion of a large and diverse pool of scholars while also stymieing the kinds of expertise that makes its way into the academy, and yet reliance on network is not only tolerated but well-accepted across the academy.

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The Exclusionary Frame The exclusionary frame focuses on the overt and covert ways in which hiring practices maintain the dominance of white cis-hetero-patriarchal ableism in the academy. The exclusionary frame focuses on historical legacies of power and privilege within the academy, the structure and culture of all institutions (e.g., higher education, the academic profession), and taken-for-granted rules, norms, and conventions that are drawn from white cis-hetero-patriarchal ableism to reproduce the status quo. Thus, although the exclusionary frame is concerned with diversity, its attention far exceeds numerical representation and recruitment strategies that are at the core of research within the earlier mentioned diversity frame (Table 8). Studies within the exclusionary frame are amenable to an array of critical perspectives, such as critical race theory, critical race feminism, intersectionality, disability justice, feminist, decolonial and/or anti-colonial analyses, etc., Moreover, while the exclusionary frame focuses on organizational and structural arrangements, it understands these arrangements are enabled and enacted by people (see Ray, 2019). For example, bringing a gendered cultural analysis, Rivera (2017) observed campus visits and search committees within one institution. Rivera detailed how committee members commented on women’s marital and parental status and wondered aloud as to how their familial and household structure might limit their future ability to be productive. The same search committees never raised such concerns for men candidates. In the end, women were penalized and excluded on the basis of search committees’ problematic and gendered speculations. Several studies offered examples of racialized exclusion, wherein Asian, Black, Indigenous, and Latinx (i.e., Faculty of Color) were subjected to heightened critiques that often ultimately led to their exclusion (e.g., Cartwright et al., 2018; Liera, 2023; Sensoy & DiAngelo, 2017; Liera, 2023). Indeed, racialized exclusion is another finding that transcended discipline/field. These studies, although focused on different disciplines and different parts of the hiring process, show how every phase of the hiring process is entrenched in white supremacy and prone to upholding White comfort (see Gonzales et al., 2020; Liera, 2023; 2020b). For instance, Grier and Poole’s (2020) analysis of a tenure-track search in one business school documented Table 8 Summary of exclusionary frame Basic description The exclusionary frame focuses on the racist, gendered, classist, ableist, and otherwise exclusionary nature of higher education. It is concerned with how norms and routines, processes, and structures in US higher education and academia preserve the status quo

Assumptions This frame assumes that racism, genderism, ableism, and classism is so embedded that it is normalized in every ideological, structural, cultural, and practical facet of higher education

Values This frame values inclusion and justice. It seeks to remediate historical legacies of exclusion

Key words Power, racism, genderism, ableism, norms, routines, history, exclusion

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how search committee members were highly uncomfortable with, and at times resistant to, talking about race or acknowledging how racism afflicted their field and their department. As a result, the faculty continually found ways to sidestep conversations about diversity and inclusion and willfully refused to develop racial literacy. In another study of an applied field, Gasman et al. (2011) used document analysis and interviews to systematically examine search processes in a college of education. Gasman et al. findings were interesting in that the faculty they interviewed generally agreed that diversity and inclusion was a top priority for the institution, but they were unclear how to diversify their college. The team found that many faculty in the study were ill informed or not particularly interested in learning how to diversify their faculties, and as a result they typically fell back on established conventions to recruit and run searches. In a series of groundbreaking observational studies covering several disciplines, Liera (2020a) and Liera and Hernandez (2021) described how search committee members, regardless of racial identity, actively contributed to the exclusion of Candidates of Color under the guise of fit. In one of their most compelling case examples, Liera and Hernandez (2021) described how a search committee Member of Color resisted diversity and equity checks because he felt that the Provost’s office was encroaching on the faculty’s professional domain. In other words, a Faculty of Color rebuffed an opportunity to build a more racially diverse faculty to preserve faculty jurisdiction. In another example, Liera and Hernandez shared how two White senior professors seemingly colluded to exclude a Candidate of Color because they did not see a place for her ideas in the curriculum. Others on the committee, however, found the Candidate of Color highly qualified and described her as someone whose expertise not only aligned with the department’s needs but also expanded its capacity (see p. 196). What is more, as told by one of Liera and Hernandez’s interviewees, the two White senior professors scrutinized the Candidate of Color but inflated the potential of a White candidate whose work and ideas were more familiar and more “comfortable” to them (see p. 198). Liera and Hernandez’s observation aligns with Settles et al.’s (2022) suggestion that in evaluative spaces, more powerful faculty prefer ideas and approaches with which they are familiar. In pursuing familiarity, faculty often perpetuate epistemic exclusion (see p. 500), which is also often racialized exclusion. The exclusionary frame shows how search committee members acted on and from a base of power located in structure and process, which is different than an individual acting on a personal prejudice. Within the exclusionary frame, most studies focused on the gendered or racist actions (or inactions) of search committees. However, a handful of older studies examined the experience of lesbian women navigating dual-career hiring (Fowler & DePauw, 2005; Nadeau, 2005). Drawing on interviews with gay women couples, Nadeau (2005) argued that while dual-career hiring policies may advance the representation of lesbian couples, they also reflect and perpetuate deeply ingrained heteronormative cultural practices. Specifically, Nadeau described how the privilege of spousal hiring was automatically granted to heterosexual couples, but not so for queer couples. Instead, hiring committees tended to be silent on matters of spousal

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hiring for gay people, forcing these candidates to raise the issue and potentially bring attention to their sexuality before they may have felt comfortable doing so (Nadeau, 2005). Other than a few studies, we found little work concerning LGBTQIA+ candidates or studies focused on heteronormativity, homophobia, or transphobia. Researchers could greatly assist candidates and committees by studying such issues. The exclusionary frame has produced important research. Much of this work helps committees hold a mirror to gather a collective reflection. Still, there is room for improvement. These studies rarely attended to the hiring process for non-tenuretrack faculty and postdocs, although it is well known that Women of Color and often vulnerable international scholars frequently occupy those roles. We expected but were disappointed to find no studies concerning ableism or transphobia and very few studies concerning hetero-privilege. Moreover, like the literature in other frames, as far as we could discern, more exclusionary work could focus on community colleges and Minority Serving Institutions. Finally, one other limitation of studies based on the frame is that overly structural views can constrain or eschew individual and collective agency, although there is some evidence of faculty disrupting gendered and racialized practices in hiring (Culpepper, 2021; Liera, 2020a). For instance, Liera found that when trained well, equity advocates can serve as a powerful check on problematic committee member behavior. Still, in our view, the exclusionary frame is well poised to deliver work (both research and practice) in support of labor justice. The exclusionary frame shows how the academy is not immune from gendered or racist ideology, and importantly this work acknowledges and problematizes the authority ascribed to faculty via professional jurisdiction.

Discussion To recap, three goals guided our work in this chapter. First, we set out to describe to the best of our ability, how academic hiring unfolds across diverse appointment type. Second, we used tenets of frame theory to study how researchers and practitioners have conceptualized academic hiring. Third, as we read the literature, we considered how our novel conceptual lens, labor justice, might enhance, extend, or challenge current understandings of hiring. To say more about our third purpose, we summarize and then reflect on our findings through the labor justice lens. We close with future directions for research and practice in support of labor justice.

What We Learned about Hiring Research and Practice As we anticipated, most studies focus on tenure-track faculty, particularly tenuretrack faculty members selecting other tenure-track faculty members. This was not surprising, given the historical dominance of tenure-system faculty. With our inclusive definition of academics, we call for much more research on how contingent faculty and postdocs are recruited and hired. Specific studies might focus on the

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experience of contingent faculty and postdocs throughout the hiring process or on the ways that state law, the presence of unions, and other organizational contexts shape hiring for these positions. Future research could also investigate if the hiring process for different contingent faculty appointment types (e.g., teaching or research-focused) varies. Moreover, studies of academic hiring generally took place or referred to research universities. This mirrors the faculty literature at large, which has mostly focused on faculty experiences at research-intensive institutions. Accordingly, we have minimal insight into how faculty hiring occurs (or how hiring reforms have worked) among non-research universities and/or minority serving institutions (for exceptions, see Liera, 2020a; Parker & Richards, 2020; Reed, 2016; Villarreal, 2022). We heartily encourage researchers to design studies that take place in community colleges, minority serving research universities, liberal arts colleges, and/or regional comprehensive universities, as these institutions employ sizeable numbers of faculty, especially contingent faculty, across the United States, and there is much to be learned from these organizational contexts, as Villareal’s study of faculty hiring in an HSI suggests. We found that most of the literature in our review examined faculty hiring within the traditional search process or open searches where any candidate could apply. While we should be concerned with the ways that traditional hiring processes unfold, we were surprised that, except for dual-career hiring, much less research has focused on target-of-opportunity hires or cluster hires. Researchers might examine how much hiring occurs through non-open searches; if there are trends by race, gender, and/or other identities; and the subsequent experiences of faculty members hired in non-open searches. Studies that examine the impact of hiring programs on representation and perceptions of climate would also be valuable. Another important finding was that most of the literature prioritizes and centers the voices, experiences, and actions of faculty members serving on search committees but rarely looks at candidate experience. As such, the general literature does not illuminate much about how candidates experience the search and selection process. As a result, we have little insight into how committees engage with candidates. We urge researchers to design research that foregrounds candidate experiences; such insights would allow search committees to improve the process overall. Moreover, we found no research concerning the experiences of nonfaculty members (e.g., students, staff). Finally, with some limited exceptions (White-Lewis, 2022), we have little understanding of the role of administrators in terms of interacting with commitees or candidates. Because we see access to reliable and relevant information as crucial to labor justice, we advocate that researchers design studies with applicants/candidates in mind. For instance, there is a significant lack of information about application requirements, how application requirements vary across like fields and institution types, and what is expected in application materials (e.g., cover letters, writing samples, teaching portfolios). Such insights would generate a wealth of information for prospective job candidates and would be particularly valuable to candidates with inadequate mentoring. Relatedly, human resource offices, equity officers, and/or

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diversity offices could work with committees to create relevant information packets for candidates. Such information could include general search timeline, communication norms and expectations, information about salary ranges, and additional topics candidates may have questions about (e.g., research program start-up or support funds, access to legal counsel for im/migration and/or visa issues). Finally, we note some observations about disciplinary/field coverage. Across the disciplines in general, we noted more similarities than differences. For instance, studies across fields surfaced examples of gendered exclusion, the power of networks, a rise in contingent hiring, and an emphasis on tenure-system faculty. However, studies that unpack the specific innerworkings of disciplinary conventions and norms are needed (see Gonzales et al., 2022). It is not surprising that phenomena like gendered and racialized exclusion transcend disciplines and fields, as white cis-patriarchy underpins US society (Boss et al., 2021; Bowles et al., 2005; Ray, 2019; Liera, 2023); however, extant literature suggests that when it comes to the innerworkings of faculty evaluation (i.e., the legitimization and appraisal of subject matter expertise), faculty are likely to engage in distinctive disciplinary patterns (Gonzales et al., 2022; Posselt, 2015). Researchers and practitioners alike must find ways to examine and broach epistemic matters with search committees and departments overall—especially in connection with crucial evaluative responsibilities, like hiring.

Reflecting on Our Frame Findings Turning to our frame analysis, we surfaced seven frames within the academic hiring literature. These frames are not mutually exclusive. We found several papers that drew simultaneously on multiple frames although we did not attend to this overlap much in this chapter and hope others might take up the implications of overlapping frames in the future. We argue there is value in recognizing patterns in framing; it helps various communities (e.g., practice, research, organizing) to be cognizant of what implicit views and values may be informing their knowledge on a given issue and how that knowledge may need to be complicated, extended, or further unpacked. In the remaining space, we discuss how research and practice within each frame has emphasized certain understandings of hiring while eschewing others, and how labor justice extends or challenges the frame. As a reminder, labor justice is a multidimensional lens. It represents an ethos – to the world, to the world of work, and to workers – academic workers, in our case. This ethos is unapologetically committed to remediating historical legacies of exclusion related to ableism, genderism, racism, classism, sexism, and heterosexism, among other isms. Additionally, it is an ethos that understands the interconnected nature of all workers, including academics. Practically speaking, a labor justice lens insists on the following: 1. An inclusive definition of academics to include postdoctoral scholars, contingent faculty, and tenure-track colleagues.

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A broader definition of what is considered valuable academic work. Economic stability and security. Unfettered access to relevant information. Physical, emotional, and psychological safety.

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When researchers and practitioners adopt and apply a labor justice lens, it could greatly change how they think about the academic profession and the academic workplace, generally, and specifically in the context of academic hiring. Figure 2 illuminates just a few ways that labor justice would push researchers and practitioners to engage in in different ways. We apply these (and other) ideas to each frame for the rest of our discussion, painting a path for future academic hiring research and practice.

The Professional Jurisdiction Frame As a refresher, the faculty professional jurisdiction frame refers to the power and discretion that the public and employing institutions allot to faculty members. Due to their deep expertise, particularly their disciplinary expertise, their ability to create new knowledge, and their willingness to share that knowledge with students and society, faculty employers (e.g., colleges, universities) and the public have granted faculty discretion to carry out their work, including conducting many evaluative activities, like hiring and promotion. History shows that faculty members were eager to solidify this jurisdiction, establishing professional and disciplinary associations to help them do so. Although we did not calculate the numerical presence of frames, the professional jurisdiction frame was, without a doubt, the most common and most implicit frame for researchers and practitioners. Its assumptions are interwoven throughout the faculty hiring literature, in that researchers and practitioners center faculty members/search committees either as the unit of analysis or the primary audience for their work. Consider, for example, how some papers describe “what search committees are looking for.” These papers, intended to be helpful guides, inadvertently suggest that search committees are all the same, that there is no dissonance within the committee, and that there are no priorities or concerns outside of the committee. Such a picture of academic hiring is incomplete at best and reckless at worst. Although meant to be helpful, such work must be framed with careful qualifiers and acknowledge the contextual limits. Moreover, the deference placed on professional jurisdiction was evident in some interesting ways. Many studies implicitly suggested that if search committee protocols and processes can be tweaked in just the right ways, then faculty can and will execute an objective and merit-driven hiring process. The hope ascribed to such technocratic tweaks is perhaps most obvious within the administrative and bias frames. In a different way, research in the diversity frame deferred to search committees, nudging them to focus on pathway programs and recruitment efforts, implicitly issuing an appeal: Recruit a more diverse pool and students will be well served. We understand and have also completed research that foregrounds the role and value of professional jurisdiction. On the one hand, jurisdiction is linked to the

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deeply important academic freedom and latitude that allows academics to conduct interesting, innovative, and thoughtful teaching and research. However, as the literature shows, not all academics experience equitable access to such freedom and jurisdiction. Moreover, across the research in all frames, we uncovered evidence of the ways that professional jurisdiction does not serve the academy nor the public well. Indeed, while it could be a tool for community and collective building, it is most often wielded as a tool to exclude, and more specifically, a tool to solidify position, privilege, and power. Subsequently, we urge all involved in the academic workplace, but mainly academics, and especially those with stable tenure-track positions, to recognize and reflect on the power and responsibility embedded in professional jurisdiction. We suggest that our labor justice lens can help faculty members complicate their professional jurisdiction in healthy ways, especially when entering high-stakes activities, like hiring. Cognizant of the exclusionary history of academia, a labor justice lens recognizes that professional jurisdiction is a racialized, gendered, and otherwise marked tool of power, and it asks faculty to repurpose this power in favor of inclusion and justice as follows: • A labor justice lens asks faculty to recalibrate professional jurisdiction to be more inclusive of all academics – no matter their identities, their appointment types, or their academic lineage. In this way, a labor justice lens asks academics how they can help to remediate legacies of exclusion in all that they do, including hiring. This means paying close attention to demographic hiring patterns across appointment types. This means sharing information about salaries, supports, and available resources with each new colleague and redistributing support in ways that make sense to the collective good and the department mission. • A labor justice lens helps faculty to consider how their work and working conditions are connected, so that hiring committees might be more attuned to what colleagues need to succeed or what Rhoades (2017) refers to as a laborbased conception of quality education. At the point of hiring, search committee and department members, as well as department chairs, can intentionally review faculty workloads within the department in support of new hires. More senior, stable faculty might temporarily take on service or administrative labor that will eventually be assigned to new colleague(s) in order to allow the new hire time to acclimate. Caring for the department and for one another can and should be a part of faculty professional jurisdiction, but it involves more than friendly faces. It requires that faculty share work and resources in support of new hires, no matter their appointment type. • Labor justice asks faculty and especially those with evaluative power in the context of hiring to carefully reflect on their biases, in general, but especially in terms of how they define valuable academic labor. Academics should be willing to understand how different forms of labor allow a department/program to function and/or how knowledge production may manifest in ways that diverge from disciplinary lessons and conventions.

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The Diversity Frame The diversity frame has helped all kinds of organizations and groups account for their demographic composition. Motivated by the moral imperative to ensure that historically minoritized and marginalized people gain access to important opportunities and cognizant of the benefits to be drawn from more diverse settings, the diversity frame encourages organizational leaders and, in our case, faculty communities to consider how they might adjust practices to diversify their applicant pools, build a more diverse faculty, and reap the benefits attached to diversity. We found extensive evidence of academic hiring research and practice bound by the diversity frame, and while we are staunch supporters and defenders of diversity efforts, we also pointed out (and emphasize again here) that the diversity rationale, if not handled with care and nuance, can put minoritized and marginalized scholars in a risky position. In short, the diversity frame often asserts that diversity is a worthwhile goal because it will allow students to be better served. However, when minoritized and marginalized scholars are understood for their ability to serve diversity or to fulfill student needs, this may inadvertently undermine their talents as scholars. Thus, while academic hiring practices and research can very well be informed by diversity interests, it is critical that search committees and departments think deeply about the all the benefits that stem from more diverse communities, and it is imperative that departments seek education around diversity, so as to ensure a welcoming climate for new colleagues. It is not, or should not, simply be about making the hire. With this, a labor justice lens leverages the diversity frame but also complicates and pushes it, in new ways, as follows: • Although a labor justice lens is congruent with the diversity frame’s interest in remediating entrenched patterns of exclusion, it encourages hiring committees, leaders, and others to account for the demographic composition of the profession in more nuanced ways: within applicant pools, within and across appointment types, and within and across ranks. As a result, labor justice research would conduct fine grained analyses within and across all types of academic hiring. • Additionally and relatedly, a labor justice lens would encourage a critical analysis of representation, to understand how overlapping identities are distributed across applicant pools, across appointment types, and across ranks. • Finally, a labor justice lens discourages search committees and involved others from framing minoritized applicants and candidates, particularly Women of Color, in connection with their capacity to advance diversity or to serve minoritized students. Although serving as mentors and responsive teachers is a critical aspect of any academic’s work, it is usually not the aspect of work on which most academics can advance, given academia’s research-intensive focus.

Administrative-Managerial Frame The administrative and managerial frame is perhaps the most direct counterbalance to faculty power, in that administrative and managerial frames and solutions often seek to “check” the power of faculty. The administrative and managerial frame

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strives for neutrality (and believes it is possible) and stresses organizational efficiencies. It is grounded in organizational and institutional interests (rather than the interests of people). As a result, much of the work that stems from administrative and managerial frames is oriented to compliance and organizational survival. A labor justice lens would encourage the administrative and managerial frame not for compliance but to boost transparency and ensure accessibility and safety inside the academic workplace and especially during academic hiring scenarios where candidates are in especially vulnerable positions: • In terms of transparency, a labor justice lens encourages universities, colleges, and departments to develop resources that outline the (1) the search timeline, (2) communication norms and expectations, (3) salary ranges, and (4) resources and supports that are commonly negotiated and (5) with whom they should expect to have such conversations. While the presence of unions helps with such transparency, unionization is not possible across all institutions nor states. Administrative nudges, like the ones we are suggesting, could bring great relief to candidates and offer the opportunity for search committees to discuss these potentially murky issues. • In terms of creating equitable and relevant supports, a labor justice lens would encourage administrative and managerial powers to foreground what Rhoades (2017) named as a labor-based conception of quality education and begin with the question, what do academic workers (in their nuanced appointment types and positions) need to feel safe, secure, and well positioned to do their job? Such reflections, probably led by chairs, could help guide search committee conversations and early onboarding processes. • Specific to postdoctoral candidates and contingent faculty applicants, search processes should be launched with a clear articulation about how contingent faculty or postdocs are being hired to take on critical labor that will allow the department, and specifically tenure-track faculty, to fulfill their work commitments. For example, if several tenure-track faculty have earned grants which require them to shift more labor into their research program, it should be made clear that contingent faculty hires allow TTK faculty to be successful in these endeavors. Department chairs are perhaps the best poised to highlight the collective labor required to make the department and all related programs work, and doing so is an act toward labor justice. • A labor justice lens foregrounds candidate accessibility, safety, and well-being. As such, leaders and advocates who are charged to support search committees or provide search committee education might consider reviewing and updating campus visit protocols for all types of searches. For instance, as mentioned in the introduction, it was once common for search committees to conduct informal/ informational interviews during conferences – in hotel rooms, no less. Such practices, in the year of 2023, are no longer typical, but 1:1 interviews are likely still typical, and committee members as well as candidates should have clear guidance as to if or how these meetings should be conducted. Moreover, institutions should review candidate transportation options. It is not uncommon for one

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committee member to drive candidates to and from airports, restaurants, and hotels, but such situations may not feel safe to candidates, and other arrangements should be made. Finally, because alcohol can impair judgment and because some faiths and religions prohibit alcohol consumption, institutions should also review guidance around alcohol consumption during campus visits (e.g., over dinner). Even if candidates do not experience a campus visit, there are ways to ensure that such colleagues experience a meaningful and inclusive search process and practitioners working within the administrative frame could help search committees create helpful protocols for designing the interview/visit process.

The Bias Frame The bias frame has allowed researchers to surface how stereotypes and prejudices seep into the most mundane of activities and decision-making. Indeed, bias researchers have identified the presence of bias across nearly all aspects of the search and hiring process. In surfacing bias in discrete activities, like letter writing, to position descriptions, to communication patterns during job talks, bias researchers have helped individuals be aware of how implicit biases may translate into irrational and problematic decision-making. A labor justice lens is amenable to the bias frame, particularly as an educational strategy. However, labor justice pushes bias prevention go beyond individuals and demands attention to structure (e.g., policies, organizational arrangements) and cultural conventions (e.g., campus visits, norms, routines). A labor justice lens pushes the bias frame in the following ways: • Labor justice would encourage committees to consider how search processes, such as campus visits, privilege able-bodied people, heterosexual candidates, and cis-gender candidates. How does language, physical structures, or the itineraries privilege already dominant groups? The target of change from a labor justice lens is not just an individual’s awareness, but the structures, processes, and conventions that are largely taken for granted. • A labor justice lens would encourage committees (and departments, overall) to better understand how their disciplinary and departmental conventions are embedded with biases related to the important task of research/knowledge production. Such conversations require departments to learn about the histories of their discipline, to make room for other ways of knowing, and to adjust rubrics based on what they learn through such bias education efforts.

Market Frame The market frame surfaces the connection between higher education and the capitalist society in which it is embedded. It is intended to highlight how capitalist logics have continually repositioned higher education as a private good, allowing public government officials to reduce funding and create policies that nudge colleges and universities to behave like market entities (e.g., increase efficiencies to save resources, pursue new resource avenues). Some of this work shows how colleges and universities have always engaged in capitalist logics and practices. We were

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surprised that more hiring researchers have not used the market frame; perhaps this is because higher education is not a conventional market but a quasi-market or a market that is interested not only in fiscal resources but in cultural resources, like legitimacy and prestige. However, a labor justice lens might help market critiques to be more aware of the racialized, gendered, ableist, and otherwise disparate consequences of capitalism. In adding a labor justice lens to market frames, researchers and practitioners might do the following: • Examine hiring patterns, start-up packages, and salaries across appointment types, accounting for race, gender, ability, and institutional degree. • Build on the Hearn and Burns (2021) study, which found no evidence of costsavings among institutions that increased contingent faculty hiring. • Explore how market-oriented considerations guide search committee decisionmaking.

The Network Frame The network frame examines how one’s social and professional ties generate unearned access, opportunities, and perceptions of prestige. We found extensive evidence of network-based research in our review. This literature consistently showed that search committees grant unearned merit to graduates of elite programs and institutions. Network researchers have commonly accounted for gender disparities, but a labor justice lens would encourage: • Network researchers to go beyond the binary to include nonbinary or gender queer people and to examine racialized effects as well. • To use a more inclusive definition of academics, labor justice encourages a look at postdoctoral placement and contingent faculty placement as well.

The Exclusionary Frame Simply put, the exclusionary literature reveals how exclusion is built into the higher education. From taken-for-granted practices, structural arrangements, and highly prized rituals, like hiring, these activities and processes were built for some, from the perspective of some, and as a result, they are exclusionary. Across the literature, we observed all sorts of evidence of exclusion. Some studies surfaced how gendered assumptions about family structure pushed out married women and/or mothers; other studies showed that even progressive measures, like dual couple hiring marginalize queer scholars. And still other studies showed that whiteness is so baked into academic culture that scholars of all backgrounds avoid conversations around race and racism to the detriment of diversifying their faculty, often using an notions like “fit” to disqualify Candidates of Color. Still, even exclusionary research can be improved in that most of these studies privileged tenure-track faculty. Most exclusionary studies are also focused on genderism/gender and racism/race with only a few papers focused on cis-heterosexual privilege and/or ableism, and even with race work, there are few

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studies that look at the experience of Indigenous faculty or multiracial faculty. A labor justice lens would nudge researchers within the exclusionary frame to • Grapple with overlapping identities and isms (e.g., being queer, Black, and disabled or being Latinx, nonbinary, and a graduate from a lesser-known institution) to understand how isms manifest all at once in the recruitment, hiring, and negotiation process.

Conclusion As noted in the introduction, because faculty are viewed as professionals with deep knowledge and the unique capacity to steer their profession, they have been entrusted with great latitude over their workplace practices and culture. More specifically, academics (although this varies across institutions and across appointment types) are charged to build and foster a robust and creative academy, particularly through hiring and promotion. A robust and creative academy, of course, demands diversity and inclusion. It also demands a safe workplace. Further, it requires that all academic workers have access to the resources (e.g., material, informational, and otherwise) needed to accomplish their respective and unique charges. Our review of the literature – across all frames – suggests that faculty have taken their professional jurisdiction and operationalized it in ways that do not include or advance but in ways that gatekeep, particularly at the point of hiring. We encourage faculty to consider how they might repurpose their professional jurisdiction to foreground labor justice. Hiring represents a crucial opportunity for faculty, particularly those with evaluative power (e.g., search committees, tenured), to advocate for colleagues and remake the academy into a more just place. Acknowledgments This work was funded in part by The National Science Foundation Eddie Bernice Johnson Includes Grant (Award # 2217329).

Appendix A: Scopus and Targeted Journal Search Results Search phrases Academic hiring Adjunct hiring Adjunct faculty hiring Contingent hiring Contingent faculty hiring Faculty hiring

Scopus 1368 36 32 89 7

ADVANCE Journala 0 0 0 0 0

Equity and excellencea 1 0 0 0 0

The Journal of the Professoriatea 4 0 0 0 0

Post-screening results 61 3 0 1 0

1013

0

1

4

89 (continued)

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Search phrases Faculty recruitment Non-tenure-track faculty hiring Postdoctoral hiring Postdoctoral scholar recruitment Tenure-track faculty hiring Total, after eliminating duplicates

ADVANCE Scopus Journala 2659 0 25 0

Equity and excellencea 0 0

The Journal of the Professoriatea 2 0

Post-screening results 17 3

0 3

0 0

0 0

0 0

0 0

84

0

0

0

8 182

a

Note: We conducted searches in the journals listed here because they are not indexed in Scopus. Search conducted January 2023

Appendix B: Notable Discipline-specific Findings Field/discipline Academic dentistry Academic libraries

Academic medicine

Anthropology

Archeology Biology

Business

Notable findings Relies on adjunct faculty; dentists increasingly do not want to serve in these roles (Howe et al., 2017) Bias exists in hiring (Tokarz & Mesfin, 2021) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Zhu & Yan, 2017; Zhu et al., 2016) Qualifications sought by hiring committees. Traditional career pathways are favored (Antúnez, 2018; Gaspar & Brown 2015; Hodge & Spoor 2012; Thielen & Neeser, 2020; Wang & Guarria, 2009) Predictive variables known at the time of hire connected to whom an institution retains (being a woman, being from the United States) (Elias et al., 2022) Bias and exclusionary practices exist in academic medicine (Khan et al., 2023; Meer et al., 2021; Valsangkar et al., 2016; Sella et al., 2022) Interventions can mitigate bias in hiring (Braileanu et al., 2020; Harris et al., 2018, 2022; Lin et al., 2016; Morgan et al., 2022b; Peek et al., 2013; Pitts et al., 2020; Shubeck et al., 2020; Villablanca et al., 2017) Qualifications sought by hiring departments (Irwin et al., 2021; Ragavan et al., 2021; Shubeck et al., 2020; Smith et al., 2015) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Kawa et al., 2019) Gap between number of degrees produced and number of tenure-track jobs (Speakman et al., 2018) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Shott, 2022) Gender and racial bias exists in hiring (Eaton et al., 2020) Qualifications sought by hiring committees (Fleet et al., 2006; Marshall et al., 2009) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Baldo et al., 2020; Bair and Bair 2001, 2002; Bundy et al., 2022; Hadani et al., 2012; Hadlock & Pierce, 2021; Stammerjohan et al., 2009; Wang & Kardes, 2015) Recruitment processes exclude Faculty of Color (Grier & Poole, 2020; (continued)

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Field/discipline

Chemistry

Communication

Computer science Criminology

Economics

Education

Engineering

Geography

International relations

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Notable findings Miller et al., 2021) Interventions can promote more diversity in hiring (Moshiri & Cardon, 2016, 2019). Innovative hiring practices more likely at non-elite schools (Finch et al., 2016) Competition among faculty candidates is fierce (Butler & Crack, 2022) Qualifications sought by hiring departments (Wang & Kardes, 2015). Mismatch between what candidates want and what institutions desire in terms of qualifications (Basil & Basil, 2008; Pagani et al., 2008) Contingent faculty are increasingly prevalent (Callie & Cheslock, 2008) Career patterns of women across stages show recruitment obstacles (Kuck, 2006; Kuck et al., 2007) Bias exists in letters of recommendation (Schmader et al., 2007) Interventions that mitigate bias exist (Stockard et al., 2008) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Barnett et al., 2010; Barnett & Feeley, 2011; Mai et al., 2015); some evidence that the networks are growing more diverse (Feeley & Tutzauer, 2021) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Way et al., 2016) Qualifications sought by hiring departments (Applegate et al., 2009; Sitren & Applegate, 2012) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Fabianic, 2011) Qualifications sought by hiring departments vary by institutional type (Allgood et al., 2018) Market conditions shape the prevalence of elitism in hiring (Gallet et al. 2005) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (DiRamio et al., 2009; Tomlinson & Freeman, 2018) Hiring practices in schools of education exclude Faculty of Color (Gasman et al., 2013) Campus interviews are a prime place where candidates experience bias (Cartwright et al., 2018) Increasingly clinical faculty are being hired (Mayes, 2000) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Ermagun & Erinne, 2022; Saigal & Saigal, 2012) Bias is present in the hiring process (Blair-Loy et al., 2017; Constant & Bird, 2009), including pertaining to pipeline perceptions (Rios et al., 2020), but strategies exist to expand diversity and mitigate bias (Bates et al., 2017; Blair-Loy et al., 2017; Somerton, 2002) Qualifications sought by hiring departments have changed to emphasize innovation (Harichandran, 2007), credentialism (Hildebrant et al., 2018), and applied focus (Hill et al., 2014). Some departments now emphasize teaching more (Pilcher et al., 2021) The Great Recession significantly lowered the availability of academic jobs (Coomes et al., 2022; Franklin & Ketchum, 2013) Bias and exclusionary practices in who is encouraged to apply for graduate school and faculty positions limit the representation of women (Kobayashi, 2006) Faculty trained in US institutions are most likely to be employed in this field, but there is more epistemic diversity/openness (Maliniak et al., 2018) (continued)

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Field/discipline Kinesiology

Law

Mathematics Neuroscience Nursing

Physics Political science Psychology

Public affairs Public health

Recreation and leisure Religion Social work

Sociology

Urban planning Veterinary medicine

L. D. Gonzales et al. Notable findings Implicit bias among academic leadership and faculty has negative impacts on the hiring, retention, and promotion of faculty from underrepresented backgrounds, contributing to the lack of faculty diversity in kinesiology (Russell et al., 2019) Clinical faculty experience challenges in terms of hiring and promotion (Adamson et al., 2012) Affirmative action applies to the hiring of Faculty of Color (Lai, 2015) Low pay drives lawyers away from the faculty (Pjesky & Sutter, 2011) More women are being hired into TTK and contingent positions in mathematics (Jahan et al., 2022) Qualifications sought by hiring committees and what candidates think they need to be successful (Hsu et al., 2021) Bias can infiltrate multiple aspects of the search process for nursing faculty, but there are strategies that can be used across the process (Bradford et al., 2022; Salvucci & Lawless, 2016) Qualifications sought by hiring committees (Agger et al., 2014; Oermann et al., 2016). Credentialism is present in hiring in nursing education though all nursing faculty are primarily teaching (Agger et al., 2014; Oermann et al., 2016) Gender and racial bias exist in hiring (Eaton et al., 2020) Interventions can mitigate the role of bias and increase diversity in hiring (Thies & Hinojosa, 2023; King, 2023; Michelson & Wilkington, 2023) Gender bias exists in hiring (Steinpreis et al., 1999) Qualifications sought by hiring committees. Some qualifications are universal, but teaching and research skills are prioritized differently across institutional types (Boysen et al., 2019) Qualifications sought by hiring committees. Credentialism is a barrier (Slage et al., 2022) Most clinical faculty are at the lowest rank and have contracts that are less than 2 years (August et al., 2022) Qualifications sought by hiring committees (Rojas-Guyler et al., 2004), dependent on program emphasis/institutional type (Rojas-Guyler et al., 2004) Qualifications sought by hiring committees. Teaching, research, and service skills desired across institutional types (Elkins & Ross, 2004) Stereotypes are reproduced in job ads (Fuerst, 2020) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Bair & Bair, 2002) Qualifications sought by hiring committees. Hiring departments want practical experience (Barsky et al., 2014). Credentialism is an issue (Barsky et al., 2014; Mackie, 2013) Elitism in networks does not change over time (Burris, 2004; Weakliem et al., 2012). Highly productive women are employed at lower prestige institutions (Wilder & Walters, 2021) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Lee, 2022) Efforts have been made to increase diversity in hiring (Burkhard et al., 2022; Greenhill, 2009) (continued)

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Field/discipline STEM

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Notable findings Gender (Casad et al., 2021; Eaton et al., 2020; Glass & Minnotte, 2010; McNeely & Vlaicu, 2010; Mosley & Hargrove, 2014; Moss-Rascusin et al., 2012; O’Connell et al., 2015; Sheltzer & Smith, 2014; Roper, 2019), racial (Gibbs et al., 2016; Mosley et al., 2016), and sexual orientation (Nadeau, 2005) bias exclusion exists in recruitment and hiring. There is some evidence that gender bias is not as prevalent as is commonly thought to be the case (Ceci & Williams 2015; Williams & Ceci, 2015) Interventions can mitigate the role of bias and increase diversity in hiring (Blair-Loy et al., 2022; Boyle et al., 2020; Constant 2011; Cresiski et al., 2022; Devine et al., 2017; Fortino et al., 2020; Golubchik & Redel, 2018; Laube, 2021; Lord et al., 2015; Moher et al., 2018; Shea et al., 2019; Smith et al., 2015; Su et al., 2015) Elitism and prestige networks shape job placement (Rosser et al., 2006; Sandekian et al., 2022)

Appendix C: Special Vocabulary (i.e., Jargon) Used in Academic Hiring Term Adjunct faculty member Assistant professor

Associate professor

Campus visits

Clinical faculty

Contingent faculty

Definition A faculty member hired on a part-time contractual basis who is not eligible for tenure; often called contingent faculty A tenure-eligible (e.g., tenure-track) entry-level appointment held by individuals. Assistant professors are typically eligible for tenure and promotion after a period of 6 or 7 years. Granting of tenure and promotion involves several layers of peer review, including peer review internal to the employing institution and peer review external to the institution The associate professor rank is typically the second “step” or “rank” in the tenure-track ladder. Individuals are typically promoted from the assistant professor rank to the associate level and granted tenure simultaneously. In some cases, faculty might be granted a promotion to associate but not tenured Campus visits are a stage of the selection process, spanning 1–2 days, where “job finalists” are invited to campus. These visits typically include job talks, a teaching demonstration, various interviews, as well as social interactions (e.g., shared meals, campus tours) Clinical faculty are non-tenure-eligible professors who teach and/or supervise students in some of clinical setting (i.e., in the treatment of patients), sometimes called professors of practice A contingent faculty member refers to faculty who either teach part-time or teach full-time but are not on the tenure-track and thus not eligible for tenure. Often referred to as non-tenure-track faculty (continued)

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Term Diversity, equity, and inclusion statement

Dual couple accommodations

Equity officer or equity advocate

Failed search Full professor

Job talk (or chalk talk)

Long-short list

Non-tenure-track faculty member

Open search Search or screening committee

Search waiver Short list or finalist list Target-of-opportunity hiring

L. D. Gonzales et al.

Definition A statement candidates submit as a part of their application to demonstrate their commitment to diversity, equity, and inclusion, as well as how it relates to their scholarly work, teaching, and service Dual-career academic couples are couples wherein partners are faculty members. Dual-career accommodations are hiring policies that facilitate the hiring of both members of the couple to the institution Equity officers and advocates are administrators (sometimes faculty with administrative appointments) who oversee compliance with fair employment practices in the hiring process and/or are faculty members who are assigned to help search committees think about making hiring decisions more equitable and inclusive A failed search occurs when a candidate(s) declines an offer and the position remains vacant A tenure-eligible, likely tenured professor of the highest rank. Full professors are often referred to as senior scholars; in the context of academic hiring, a job notice might call for “senior faculty” or “advanced career faculty” to signal interest in a full or advanced associate professor The job talk or chalk talk, as it is called in some disciplines, is an opportunity for candidates to present prior and future research to students and potential colleagues After narrowing down the initial applicant pool based on standard evaluation criteria, the screening committee develops a long-short list of applicants. These applicants undergo “firstround” phone or online interviews A non-tenure-track faculty member refers to faculty who either teach part-time or teach full-time but are not on the tenure-track and thus not eligible for tenure. Often referred to as contingent faculty Refers to a search wherein a job advertisement is posted and any candidate can apply Because most faculty search committees do not possess hiring authority, they are referred to as search or screening committees. Accordingly, their charge includes recruitment, reviewing and screening applicants, identifying a list of finalists to be invited to campus, developing interview and campus visit protocols, and collecting feedback to draft recommendations A search waiver is formal approval to hire an individual directly into a faculty position without conducting an open search The finalist candidates in a search; typically, these candidates are brought for on-campus interviews In contrast to open search, target-of-opportunity hiring occurs when departments do not have an active job posting wherein anyone could apply but, rather, make a bid to hire a specific candidate outside of the normal search process (continued)

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Term Tenure

Tenure-track faculty member Tenured faculty member

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Definition An indefinite academic appointment that can only be terminated under extraordinary circumstances. Tenure safeguards academic freedom Faculty members who, after completing a probationary period, are eligible for tenure or the guarantee of lifelong employment (typically assistant professors) Faculty members who have completed the probationary period and been deemed by the colleagues and institutions as meriting lifelong employment (typically, associate and full professors)

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Leslie D. Gonzales is a Professor of Higher, Adult, and Lifelong Learning at Michigan State University. She also serves as an affiliate faculty member in the Center for Gender in a Global Context and Chicano/Latinx studies. Gonzales serves as the College of Education’s Faculty Excellence Advocate – a role in which she merges research, theory, and practice to advocate for a more inclusive academic workplace. Gonzales is proud to have earned all three degrees from Hispanic serving institutions and to have her work published in several outlets. Dawn Culpepper is a research assistant professor and director of the University of Maryland ADVANCE Program. Her research examines diversity, equity, and inclusion in the academic workplace with a particular emphasis on identifying strategies for disrupting bias and enhancing full participation for scholars from historically marginalized groups. Recent work examines faculty hiring, evaluation and rewards, workload, work-life, and institutional responses to the COVID-19 pandemic. She holds a PhD in Higher Education from the University of Maryland. Julia Anderson is a doctoral student in the Higher, Adult, and Lifelong Education program at Michigan State University. Her research interests are broadly concerned with issues pertaining to racial equity and systems change in higher education, particularly with respect to the local and national political economies, racial politics, and how higher education institutions (re)produce state power.

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Tribal Community-University Partnerships for Indigenous Futures Theresa Jean Ambo

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Purpose and Organization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Positionality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Indigenous Peoples in the United States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Indigenous–US Relationships . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . On Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . On Tribal Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Review of Tribal Engagement Efforts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Political and Legislative . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Government and Community Relations/External Relations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Economic Relationships . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Curricular . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Co-Curricular . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary of Section . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Tribal Community–University Partnership Framework . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Principles for Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Practices for Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary/Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter Summary and Future Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Samuel D. Museus was the Associate Editor for this chapter. T. J. Ambo (*) Department of Education Studies, University of California, San Diego, La Jolla, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © This is a U.S. Government work and not under copyright protection in the U.S.; foreign copyright protection may apply 2024 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 39, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-38077-8_9

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Abstract

The nexus of the #LandBack movement, the discovery of unmarked gravesites at residential schools, the return of ancestral remains, the uptake of settler land acknowledgments, and uncovered truths about the expropriation of Indigenous lands by higher education institutions individually and collectively illuminate historic and ongoing tensions between settler colonial schooling and Indigenous Peoples; incidents that continue to have severe consequences on educational outcomes. Reckoning with extraction, exploitation, paternalism, and violence, institutional leaders nationwide have commented on the need to “engage Native Nations.” However, within community–university scholarship, there are limited guiding frameworks for building and strengthening sustained relationships with Native Nations that respect and reinforce tribal sovereignty. This chapter reviews research on university engagement with Native Nations and Indigenous communities to forward a framework for fostering tribal community–university relationships, that is, the political, external, economic, curricular, and co-curricular relationships and partnerships between Indigenous Peoples and institutions of higher learning that recognize, reinforce, and respect tribal sovereignty and selfdetermination. I conclude with principles and practices for engagement and offer implications for future research and theory. Keywords

Native Nations · American Indian/Alaska Native · Native American · Indigenous Peoples · Tribal Engagement · Community–University Partnerships

Introduction The confluence of this chapter is marked by a series of events related to recently reignited reckonings with racial justice in the United States. For Native Nations and Indigenous Peoples, this nexus includes the rematriation of Indigenous lands to ancestral communities (#LandBack), discovery of unmarked gravesites at residential schools, return of ancestral remains, uptake of settler land acknowledgment statements, and uncovered truths about the expropriation of Indigenous lands by higher education institutions (#LandGrabU). Individually and collectively, these events illuminate the historic and ongoing tensions between settler colonial schooling and Indigenous Peoples. Reckoning with ongoing issues of extraction, exploitation, maternalism, paternalism, and violence, many institutional leaders nationwide have commented on the need to “engage Native Nations.” Likewise, Indigenous higher education scholars have asserted the need for institutions to move beyond “consultation” and toward “respectful engagement” (American Indian College Fund, 2019; Reyes & Shotton, 2018). These clarion calls bring to light a future research area in Indigenous higher education, specifically examining educational partnerships that advance Indigenous futures.

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Existing research in the field of Indigenous higher education focuses on the educational, cultural, and institutional experiences of students, staff, and faculty. For example, Brayboy et al. (2012a) offered a comprehensive review of academic preparation and attainment at the postsecondary level. Regarding college experience, Brayboy (2004) and Reyes and Shotton (2018) write about how students navigate invisibility and hypervisibility on college campuses. Likewise, Pewewardy (1994) offered the first insights into student experience with campus climate by examining institutional and systemic racism. Regarding institutional challenges, scholars have documented the lack of professional role models and mentorship (Shotton et al., 2007), financial aid or college affordability (Greyeyes et al., 2023; Nelson, 2015; Nelson et al., 2021), familial obligations (Jackson et al., 2003), and cultural dissonance (Bickel & Jensen, 2012; Huffman, 2003). Relatedly, a rapidly growing area of research addresses factors that profoundly support students’ educational pathways, including familial, faculty, and staff support (HeavyRunner & DeCelles, 2002; Jackson et al., 2003) and sustained connections with home (Guillory, 2009; Waterman, 2012). Likewise, numerous Indigenous higher education scholars have researched the importance of the sense of belonging (Lundberg & Lowe, 2016; Oxendine, 2015; Tachine et al., 2017; Tachine, 2022) and the role of “giving back” to home communities in students’ experience and completion (Lopez, 2018a; Reyes, 2019; Stewart-Ambo, 2021a). These are only a few areas of a growing and robust research area led by Indigenous scholars. In fact, Beyond the Asterisk, Beyond Access (Shotton et al. 2013a) and Reclaiming Indigenous Research in Higher Education (Minthorn & Shotton 2019) – edited by Heather Shotton, Stephanie Waterman, Shelly C. Lowe, and Robin Minthorn – represent a compendium of edited books primarily authored by Indigenous Scholars about Indigenous higher education topics. A less explored area of research in Indigenous higher education, yet growing institutional practice, is the informal and formal engagement between Native Nations and historically white colleges and universities. Notably, this chapter focuses on institutions often referred to as mainstream, predominately white, historically white colleges and universities (HWCU), or non-Native-serving Colleges and Universities (NNCU) and does not speak to Tribal Colleges and Universities that have established relationships with Native Nations. In most academic or practitioner circles, this interaction is commonly known as community-engagement or community–university engagement (Moore and Ward 2010). Ward and Moore (2010) define community–university engagement as the “interactions between faculty, students, administrators, or other professional staff members on a given campus and [members of] the geographically delineated communities primarily located external to the university” (p. 39). Community–university engagement is a well-established area of study in educational research, and existing research in this field that includes Native Nations and Indigenous communities often reflects exemplary partnerships and cautionary tales. Furthermore, scholarship predominantly focuses on the findings of participatory research projects and less on organizational engagement. For example, scholarship on research–practice partnerships primarily focuses on educational outreach, public health, and improving existing disparities (Champagne & Stauss, 2002;

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Norman & Kalt, 2015; Wallerstein & Duran, 2006, 2010). This robust interdisciplinary record often describes the formation of partnerships, discusses lessons learned, or presents the outcomes of successful partnerships. This chapter aims to capture these nuances, present a typology of tribal engagement, and argue for expanding this area of organizational research. My prior writings define tribal–university partnerships as “the external, economic, curricular, and cocurricular relationships and partnerships between Native Nations and universities that recognize, reinforce, and respect tribal sovereignty and self-determination” (Stewart-Ambo, 2021b, p. 4). This term heavily draws from community–university partnerships scholarship to center Native Nations and communities. Moreover, in my work with Drs. Robin Zape-tah-hol-ah Minthorn and Christine A. Nelson, we extended this phrasing to include “tribal communities” to recognize the complex colonial histories of American Indian/Alaska Native people in the United States, many of which experienced forcible removal and relocation from their ancestral homelands to urban areas or have been denied federal recognition by the US government (Minthorn et al., 2023). The evolution of this phrasing and the collaborative nature of its reframing were only possible with Drs. Minthorn and Nelson. As such, this chapter builds on our understanding of tribal community–university partnerships to situate such relationships within community–university and higher education scholarship to address the exclusion of Indigenous Peoples, Native Nations, and tribal communities from this scholarship. Moreover, I argue for the need to expand this area of research beyond models of ethical and collaborative researcher partnerships to organizational frameworks that guide engagement activities that respectfully build, strengthen, and sustain relationships with Native Nations.

Purpose and Organization In the next section, I provide some essential framing about American Indian/Alaska Native people to situate readers in the discourse of Indigenous education. Specifically, I provide background on Indigenous Peoples in the United States, Native Nation-building, and public secondary and postsecondary enrollment. Following, I briefly review the history of education in the United States to contextualize the origins of Indigenous-settler relations from an educational standpoint. This summary does not justly capture the nuances of educational systems thrust upon Indigenous Peoples in the United States. For a more detailed understanding of this history, I impress upon readers the importance of visiting scholarship by David Wallace Adams (2020), Brenda Child (1998), Cary Michael Carney (1999), K. Tsianina Lomawaima and Teresa L. McCarty (2006), Sandy Grande (2015), Jon Reyhner and Jeanne Eder (2017), and Irvin Lee “Bobby” Wright (1991), who offer detailed histories of these events. Then, I situate the heart of this chapter within community–university engagement before summarizing the scholarship on research, curricular, co-curricular, research, external, and economic partnerships with

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Indigenous Peoples and communities. I conclude by offering a framework for engaging Native Nations, what I regard as tribal community–university partnerships. Guided by existing research, these principles provide direction for enhancing and advancing tribal community–university partnerships at the highest organizational level. I draw from Indigenous scholars to offer apprehensions and cautions along the way. My intention is to provide directions for transforming relationships between Native Nations and postsecondary institutions and, by virtue, reimagine the future of higher education for Native Nation-building.

Positionality Before proceeding, I must position myself in relation to the field of higher education, community–university engagement, and the communities I love. My identities inextricably connect to my ethics and commitments as a scholar, moving consciously and subconsciously to influence my research, teaching, and service. First, I am a Gabrielino-Tongva woman living in San Diego, California, on lands shared of the Payómkawichum and Kumeyaay Nations. I am the third daughter of Lane and Dolores Stewart. Through my maternal lineage, I descend from the ancestral villages of Jaibepet and Toibipet. In my community, I am a member of Nohaaxre Miyii Pokuu, which means “Weaving as One” in the Gabrielino-Tongva language and represents a group of people dedicated to revitalizing our traditional basketry practices that were devastated by Spanish, Mexican, and US colonialism. Through my paternal side, I am European-American, descending from some of the first settlers of what is known as Massachusetts Bay. I am also a first-generation college student and faculty from a working-class, low-income household. These identities shape my commitments to historically subjugated communities and my intentions as a researcher studying relational accountability between public universities and local Native Nations. Before moving to San Diego, I lived and worked across Tovaangar (known as Los Angeles), the homelands of my Tongva ancestors and community. I am currently an assistant professor at the University of California San Diego in the Department of Education Studies, where I also co-founded the Indigenous Futures Institute with colleagues Drs. Keolu Fox and K. Wayne Yang. In these roles, I work with members of local Native Nations – including my own – to understand the relationships between Indigenous communities and universities, a topic that this chapter tackles. Over the last several years, I have worked closely with communities on the return of their ancestors and co-research the Indigenous histories of universities, which will undoubtedly be a lifelong project. Orienting oneself to their research is a growing practice in education and is often contested by positivist scholars asserting the importance of objectivity. It is also a task that editors and reviewers more frequently ask me to engage in to validate my critique of settler colonial institutions. This request is often unsettling for me as an Indigenous scholar as such practices can subsequently be used to invalidate scholarly and analytical arguments. Moreover, positioning oneself to others, including

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one’s work, is a deeply embedded relation practice in many Indigenous communities. My identity as a first-generation, Gabrielino-Tongva woman from a workingclass background and my partnerships with California Indian Peoples and Native Nations anchor me and guide my professional intentions and commitments as a scholar. This chapter reflects these identities, my past and existing partnerships, and my hopes for the future.

Context Beginning conversations about Indigenous education requires the foregrounding of several essential understandings, particularly around Indigeneity, Nation-building, and history, to anchor and guide conversations for readers unfamiliar with the historical and political consequences of settler colonialism on the lived realities of Indigenous Peoples. The following section contextualizes the lived and desired realities of Indigenous Peoples in the United States regarding education, mainly higher education. Throughout this chapter, I use the terms tribe(s) and Native Nation(s) interchangeably to refer to sovereign American Indian Nations. Whenever possible, I regard these communities at Native Nations to affirm the inherent sovereignty of these communities. When necessary, I use tribe to align with terminology used in federal and state policies.

Indigenous Peoples in the United States First, the settler nation-state currently known as the United States is home to 574 tribal entities recognized by the federal government – 347 Native Nations located within the contiguous 48 states and 227 villages/tribes within Alaska (Federal Register, 2022). Federal recognition is a designation the federal government provides to American Indian and Alaska Native entities. Moreover, these counts do not represent nonfederally recognized or unrecognized Native Nations in the United States. According to the 2020 U.S. Census, there are approximately 9.7 million selfidentified American Indian/Alaska Native residents in the United States, accounting for 2.9% of the total US population, a significant increase from 5.2 million in 2010 (U.S. Census, 2022). Approximately 18.9% of these residents are American Indian/ Alaska Native youth under 18 (U.S. Census, 2022). Notably, the National Congress of American Indians (NCAI) (2022) acknowledged a 5.6 undercount of American Indians living on reservations in the decennial census and decried the implications to federal funding. The term Native Nation, otherwise referred to in policy or research as a tribe or tribal nation, refers to a specific combination of kinship, government, shared territory, worldview, and spiritual community predating the formation of the United States (Champagne, 2007). Since its formation, the US federal government has made numerous attempts to bring Native Nations under its jurisdiction and diminish tribal sovereignty, finding varying degrees of success. Regardless of the United States’ efforts, Native Nations are sovereign entities, meaning that they have “the inherent

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right to direct their futures and engage the world in ways that are meaningful to them” (Brayboy et al., 2012a, p. 17). Relatedly, Native Nation-building is rooted in the sovereignty, self-determination, self-reliance, and self-education of tribes. The term, as presented by Brayboy et al. (2012a), is “the conscious and focused application of Indigenous people’s collective resources, energies, and knowledge,” including developing language, behaviors, values, institutions, and physical structures to clarify the community’s history and culture, infuse and protect the knowledge of the past and present-day practices, and ensure the future identity and independence of Native Nations and communities (p. 12). Nation-building promotes the development of infrastructures in Native communities that necessitates the return or involvement of skilled tribal citizens. There is a prevailing argument that Native Nation-building is reliant, in part, on educational achievement. This understanding is expansive and inclusive of traditional knowledge and Western schooling. Concerning the role of higher education, Brayboy et al. (2012a) write, “Nation-building cannot be fully realized or adequately pursued without some agenda of higher education” (p. 29). Indigenous higher education scholars have called this theory “higher education for Native Nationbuilding” (Brayboy et al., 2012a; Lopez, 2018b). Such understandings also necessitate certain acknowledgments of the tensions between Indigenous Peoples and institutions of education as part of the history of physical violence, erasure, assimilation, oppression, and exclusion – particularly at Indian residential schools – discussed in the following section. American Indian/Alaska Native people in the United States hold a unique political status as members or citizens of Native Nations. This distinction is given to members of federally recognized Native Nations, which is not to diminish the membership or descendancy of individuals from nonfederally recognized tribes. Like other communities, American Indian/Alaska Native people have been – and continue to be – racialized and subjected to the pressures of the US government to categorize other individuals and communities. Identity politics is complex across communities because of colonial and settler-colonial histories. This issue has become an extensive social and academic discourse in recent years because of tribal disenrollment and identity fraud, which constantly surfaces within and across communities (Galanda & Dreveskracht, 2015; Ratteree & Hill, 2017; TallBear, 2003, 2013). The most discussed cases are of Senator Elizabeth Warren, who tied their Native ancestry to DNA testing, and academics Andrea Smith and Elizabeth Hoover, who falsely claimed enrollment and membership in Native Nations (Viren, 2023). In recent years, more academics have been challenged for fraudulent claims of Indigenous identity and critiqued for how they materially benefited from these claims over their career. This is not a critique of those issues but an acknowledgment of the ongoing discourse and complexities of Indigenous identity. TallBear (2013) argues that terms of membership are the inherent and sovereign rights of Native Nations. Throughout this chapter, the term American Indian/Alaska Native will be used interchangeably with Indigenous, Native American, Native, and Indian. I only use the term Indian when referring to federal and state policies that use such phrasing and acknowledge the harm and violence perpetuated when used outside of Native circles.

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With this context in mind and shifting our focus to education, I draw attention to the fact that most American Indian/Alaska Native students attend public secondary and postsecondary schools. For example, in 2020, approximately 459,000 American Indian/Alaska Native students enrolled in public secondary schools, whereas 35,000 were enrolled in Bureau of Indian Education schools (NCES, 2022). Similarly, in the fall of 2018, 120,000 American Indian/Alaska Native undergraduate students were enrolled in public postsecondary institutions, 16, 2018 of which were registered in Tribal Colleges and Universities (TCUs) (Hussar et al., 2020; NCES, 2022). Notably, American Indians/Alaska Natives were not accounted for in the 2020 and 2021 reports by the National Center for Educational Statistics on the Condition of Education. Interestingly, college enrollment of American Indian/Alaska Native students decreased from 179,000 to 120,000 between 2010 and 2018, a 33% drop (Hussar et al., 2020). The likelihood of American Indian/Alaska Native students enrolling in public secondary and postsecondary institutions highlights the importance of accessibility, affordability, presence, and belonging across college and university settings. Moreover, the intersection of these figures with Native Nation-building underscores the importance of addressing partnerships between Native Nations and colleges and universities, what I will also refer to as settler colonial universities or non-Nativeserving colleges and universities throughout this chapter.

Indigenous–US Relationships The following section offers an overview of the historical relationships between Native Nations and Western or settler colonial educational institutions to contextualize contemporary relationships and partnerships between Native Nations and higher education institutions. In their seminal work, Red Pedagogy, Dr. Sandy Grande (2015) characterizes three significant eras of Indian education: (1) missionary domination, (2) federal government domination, and (3) a self-determination period, which are used here. These eras encapsulate the arch of Indigenous education, both secondary and postsecondary, preceding and under the jurisdiction of the United States and provide a backdrop to scholarship on the history of Indigenous education in the country. This section primarily focuses on the formation and development of US higher education, with occasional references to secondary education when policy and schooling are relevant. Missionary Domination. Missionary domination encapsulates the early colonial period and reflects the assumption that Indigenous Peoples lacked educational systems and attempts by settlers to civilize the Indigenous populations during the colonial period (Adams, 2020; Child, 1998; Grande, 2015; Lomawaima, 2014; Stewart, 2022; Wright, 1991). This period includes the establishment of numerous Indian colleges that focused on converting Indigenous Peoples to Christianity and integrating Native youth into mainstream culture through the adoption of Western norms (Wright, 1988, 1991, 1995; Wright & Tierney, 1991).

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Between the 1500s and 1600s, numerous Indian colleges were established under the auspice of “serving” Indigenous youth. For example, Harvard became the first college in the colonies and was not intended for Indigenous youth. However, nearing bankruptcy, the college revised its charter to access funds from the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel Among the Indians of New England, a fund established by settlers to finance efforts of assimilating Indian children (Carney, 1999). The revised operating charter reads: “the education of the English and Indian Youth of this country in knowledge and godliness” (Harvard University, ca. 1650). Following Harvard’s lead, the founders of William and Mary College and Dartmouth University took similar approaches to establishing their institutions (Carney, 1999; Calloway, 2002, 2010, 2021; Wade, 2013). Over the last few decades and at the urgencies of American Indian programs, staff, and faculty, each college has made various reconciliatory efforts to reassert its commitment to Native students (Champagne & Stauss, 2002). For example, in 1997, Harvard officials, along with the Harvard University Native American Program (HUNAP) staff, faculty, tribal leaders, elders, and students, unveiled a plaque on campus commemorating the history and contributions of American Indians to the campus (Graham & Golia, 2002). The plaque states: Near this spot from 1655 to 1698 stood the Indian College. Here American Indian and English students lived and studied in accordance with the 1650 Charter of Harvard College calling for the ‘education of the English and Indian youth of this country.’ The Indian College was Harvard’s first brick building and housed the college printing press, where from 1659 to 1663 was printed the first bible in North America. (Graham & Golia, 2002, p. 128)

In 2011, Harvard also posthumously awarded Joel Iacoomes, one of the first Native American students to attend Harvard, with his diploma after nearly 350 years. The Chairman of the Mashpee Wampanoag tribe indicated that the degree presentation symbolized “the historic bond between Harvard and the Native American community” (Seo, 2011, p. 8). Although these recent narratives of reclamation are documented, little empirical research exists recording the relationship between the community and universities beyond assimilation nor the perspective of tribal members who were severely impacted by the introduction of settler colonial schooling. Federal Domination. Federal domination marks a critical time point in American Indian/Alaska Native education – both secondary and postsecondary education – with the United States demonstrating little obligation to provide educational services originally articulated in treaties (Carney, 1999). Instead, policymakers prioritized the continued assimilation and dispossession of Indigenous Peoples from their homelands as part of the settler colonial project. According to Carney (1999), under the supervision of the federal government, the status of American Indians in higher education proceeded to worsen, with resistance by political leaders to support Indigenous Peoples in pursuing higher education. For example, the Secretary of War William Wilkins and Commissioner of Indian Affairs William Medill argued that higher education for Natives produced “excessively limited results” and offered some logic for introducing vocational education for Native youth, resulting in

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federal funds being diverted to lower-level education programs. According to Carney (1999), during the nineteenth century, the federal government did not maintain any higher education institutions for American Indians despite its “trust responsibility.” Rather, policymakers prioritized building a new government and assimilating and dispossessing Indigenous Peoples from their homelands. During federal domination, there is significantly less documentation on Indigenous Peoples in US higher education institutions; however, it has become increasingly evident that Native land was integral to financing land-grant institutions. During this time, Congress passed the Land-Grant Act of 1862, which made it possible for public lands to be “donated” to states to provide a land base for educational institutions (Cohen & Kisker, 2010; Lee & Ahtone, 2020; Nash, 2019; National Research Council, 1995; Stein, 2020). The recent scholarship discusses how these “donations” would not have been possible without the expropriation of Indigenous lands (Lee & Ahtone, 2020). Goeman (2020) remarks that land acquisition occurred during the reservation era when the “United States government herded Native peoples onto contained reservations and away from populations it chose to protect” to physical violence experienced during removal (p. 50). Although less is known about American Indians within postsecondary institutions during the federal period, procuring land through the first Morrill Act is critical to future discussions about institutional missions. It is important also to acknowledge that concurrent with the removal of Indigenous Peoples from their lands was the introduction of Indian residential or board schools targeting Native youth. Critical aspects of these institutions were the removal of Native children from their homes, families, and communities and the forceful indoctrination of students into the mainstream educational systems. Schools provided various academic, domestic, agricultural, vocational, and religious education. Self-Determination Period. The self-determination period spawned the most dramatic legislative changes by the federal government in education policy targeting Indigenous Peoples in the United States. This period preceded the 1928 Meriam Report, published by the Institute of Government Research and officially titled The Problem of Indian Administration (Meriam et al., 1928). The report highlighted the conditions of Native people under the federal government’s authority, including the state of education. Although the report did not exclusively examine higher education, it asserted that “higher education should be encouraged, not just allowed, by restructuring federal schools to provide adequate more financial aid and funding” (Carney, 1999, p. 101). The Meriam Report also had significant implications on federal Indian policy, such as the Indian Reorganization Act, which featured a “renewed recognition for tribal governments and sovereignty” (p. 102). Related to education, the Indian Reorganization Act diverted $250,000 to support college loans for Native students and supported the sovereign right of tribes to control their education by contracting with the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) for services. This time saw a 40% increase in Native college student enrollment, from 385 students in 1932 to 515 in 1935 (Wright & Tierney, 1991). A significant development during the self-determination period was the establishment of Tribal Colleges and Universities (TCUs) by Native Nations. TCUs

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continue to serve a dual purpose across Native communities – advancing tribal culture, language, and histories and offering accredited degree programs to students (Guillory & Ward, 2008). The first tribal college, Diné College (originally known as Navajo Community College), was established in 1968 by the Navajo Nation and continues to represent a significant movement toward self-education for Indian communities. Additionally, the self-determination period brought about the emergence of American Indian or Native American Studies, partly from a desire to foster culturally relevant education for students and communities. Champagne and Stauss (2002) explored the origins and evolution of numerous American Indian Studies programs nationwide, describing the conditions, challenges, and strategies for developing this field of study at private and public institutions. Finally, the 1970s also brought forward several other bills supporting American Indian higher education, including the Indian Education Act of 1972, the Indian Self-Determination Act and Education Assistance Act of 1975, the Education Amendments Act of 1978, and the Tribally Controlled Community College Acts of 1978 (Carney, 1999; Lomawaima & McCarty, 2006). This history has been the bedrock of Indian education over the last few centuries (Lomawaima, 2000) and provides insight into the contemporary landscape of Indigenous higher education. Advancements in Indian education speak to the evolving relationships between American Indians and postsecondary education. However, the progress made since colonization does not address the continually low enrollment, retention, and completion of American Indian students nationwide at public and private colleges and universities. Indigenous education scholars contend that these issues are instigated by this initial relationship between American Indians and higher education at the time of contact, focusing on extraction and assimilation. Given the placement of Indigenous students across public and private education, we now turn our attention to considering the role of tribal engagement in shaping the future of Indigenous education.

On Engagement Depending on the classification, institutions of higher learning in the United States have an expressed commitment to community engagement, often clearly articulated in their public mission statement. For example, public and land-grant universities uphold commitments to research, teaching, and service as laid out in legislation establishing these institutions. However, over the years, the intention of these commitments has drifted from being concerned with the public good to private interests. Higher education scholarship offers several definitions of “community engagement,” depending on the location of the conversation within the institution. These definitions are a convenient place to orient discussions about tribal engagement. In the late 1990s, several scholars opened conversations about community engagement that continue to orient conversations about local community engagement (Boyer, 1996). Earnest Boyer (1996), former president of the Carnegie

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Foundation, wrote on the decline of engagement, noting the distance between higher education institutions and the historic commitment to a public good. Following a 1998 report by the Kellogg Commission on the Future of State and Land-Grant Universities, Returning to Our Roots: The Engaged Institution, grappled with institutional reform and the responsibility of institutions to be more responsive to communities. Since its release, this report continues to serve as an anchoring text for engagement, particularly for public and land-grant universities in the United States. The Kellogg Commission (1998) refers to engagement as “institutions that have redesigned their teaching, research, and extension and service functions to become even more sympathetically and productively involved with their communities, however, [a] community may be defined” (p. 27). They identify seven characteristics that define an “engaged” institution, including (1) responsiveness, (2) respect for partners, (3) academic neutrality, (4) accessibility, (5) integration of engagement into the institutional mission, (6) coordination, and (7) resource adequacy (p. 12). The primary recommendation from the Kellogg Commission’s (1998) report argues for institutional reform wherein engagement is not a separate or distinct effort of the university but core to the mission of the university. Relatedly, in 2002, the Committee on Institutional Cooperation (CIC) convened the Committee on Engagement to explicate the Kellogg Commission’s definition of engagement and identify benchmarks for institutions to demonstrate their efforts toward engagement. Extending the work of the Kellogg Commission, the CIC defined engagement as The partnership of university knowledge and resources with those of the public and private sectors to enrich scholarship, research, and creative activity; enhance curriculum, teaching, and learning; prepare educated [and] engaged citizens; strengthen democratic values and civic responsibility; address critical societal issues; and contribute to the public good. (Committee on Institutional Cooperation Committee on Engagement, 2005, p. 2)

Offering specificity to these definitions, Ward and Moore (2010) define engagement as the “interactions between faculty, students, administrators, or other professional staff members on a given campus and [members of] the geographically delineated communities primarily located external to the university” to name the individuals involved in engagement activities (p. 39). Later in the chapter, I draw from this definition to orient a framework around tribal community–university engagement. Naturally, the calls for renewed engagement by scholars and organizations led to several discernable scholarly and practical approaches to engagement – what some might refer to as engaged scholarship and others may reference as a scholarship of engagement. Engaged scholarship represents a “form of scholarship that cuts across teaching, research, and service. It involves generating, transmitting, applying, and preserving knowledge for the direct benefit of external audiences in ways that are consistent with university and unit missions” (Provost’s Committee on University Outreach, 1993, p. 2). In contrast, scholarship of engagement “is about reflecting on and writing about [engagement]” (McNall et al., 2009, p. 319). Moore (2014) further nuances this by identifying areas of scholarship as (1) defining engagement,

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(2) documenting and describing engagement, (3) advancing engagement as scholarship, (4) institutionalizing engagement, (5) considering community experiences with engagement, and (6) engaging for democracy. These definitions are relevant to scholarship on tribal engagement for several reasons. First, such definitions allow us to situate tribal engagement within the discourse. Specifically, I will present examples of engaged scholarship and scholarship of engagement in a subsequent section. Moreover, we will see that the literature primarily focuses on engaged scholarship, documenting partnerships between Native Nations and universities. Second, the delineation between engaged scholarship and scholarship of engagement highlights the exclusion of tribal entities from the field, which this chapter addresses. Finally, such distinction situates us to reflect on individual and institutional practices and principles of engagement – scholarship of engagement. As such, the following section extends existing definitions of engagement to practice and research on engagement with Native Nations and Indigenous communities.

On Tribal Engagement In a 2005 report on including American Indians in secondary education curriculum writing, Reinhardt and Maday (2005) initiated conversations on who is responsible for American Indian education, which is essential framing for understanding the practical, empirical, and theoretical articulations of tribal community–university partnerships. They put forward the concept of trilateral responsibility for American Indian education, which accounts for the legal and political obligations of tribal, federal, and state governments for American Indian education (Reinhardt & Maday, 2005; Reinhardt et al., 2020). This framework is helpful in situating tribal community–university partnerships across education – secondary and postsecondary. The trilateral responsibility for American Indian education articulated by Reinhardt and colleagues (Reinhardt & Maday, 2005; Reinhardt et al., 2020) attends to the inherent sovereignty of Native Nations and the legal obligation of treaties to communicate the political responsibilities of tribal, federal, and state governments to American Indian education. First, Reinhardt & Maday (2005) point out that Native Nations have “inherent sovereignty over the education of their citizens” (p. 9). In other words, Native Nations have the authority and autonomy to educate their people on knowledge most important to the community, such as language, using the most desired methods. Second, Reinhardt et al. (2020) remind us that the federal government has a trust responsibility to Native Nations based on the treaties signed between the United States and tribes that articulated rights and responsibilities between governments. While the United States never fully honored treaty obligations, the federal government is legally obligated to fulfill these commitments today, including providing Native people with educational services (Reinhardt & Tippeconnic, 2010). Significant to this chapter is the state-level responsibility to Native Nations regarding education. Reinhardt and Maday (2005) write, “Through subsequent legislation, the Federal Government has delegated much responsibility for Indian education to state

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governments” (p. 9). Reinhardt & Maday (2005) and Mackey (2017) point to the policies that authorized state authority over American Indian education, including the Indian Reorganization Act of 1934, Johnson-O’Malley Act of 1934, Every Student Succeeds Act P.L. 114-95, Title VII, and ESSA Title VI (Indigenous Education Act of 1972) (Mackey, 2017, 2018; Reinhardt & Maday, 2005). These policies shifted the responsibility and resources of American Indian education from the US federal government to state public secondary education. We can extend this logic to higher education institutions, which is this chapter’s focus. Like secondary education, federal authority over higher education is ceded to state governments. According to the U.S. Department of Education (2008), “State governments exercise oversight and coordinating authority over higher education within their jurisdictions, issue corporate charters to institutions, regulate standards and quality to varying degrees, and may have regulatory authority over various aspects of the operation of public institutions” (n.p). The cession of authority by the federal government to the states arguably transfers the legal obligation of American Indian education to higher education institutions. Furthermore, Shotton and Reyes (2019) write that “tribal nations share government-to-government or sovereign-tosovereign relationships with state governments . . . This has particular relevance for public institutions of higher education, as state entities, and their relationships with tribal nations and their citizens” (p. 10). Moreover, recent scholarship highlights the moral and land-based responsibility of universities, namely land-grab universities, to Indigenous Peoples because of their relationships to violent dispossession, unlawful removal, and subsequent financial benefit (Lee & Ahtone, 2020). With this in mind, it is fair to argue that higher education institutions have an institutional, historical, legal, and moral obligation to engage Native Nations. The following accounts for how postsecondary institutions have partnered with Native Nations and Indigenous communities across time and space.

Review of Tribal Engagement Efforts While there has been a shift by universities to focus efforts on engagement, according to Smith et al. (2017), “there is nothing that explicitly requires a broader commitment to Indigenous community engagement” (p. 38). In the existing literature, limited empirical studies have explicitly examined contemporary relationships with Native Nations and educational institutions, wherein the relationship was the unit of analysis (Conner, 2014; Stewart-Ambo, 2021c). Conner (2014), for example, interviewed program heads of Indian education programs and surveyed 150 Indian education directors in public schools to characterize positive aspects of relationships and identify challenges, such as limited consultation with Native Nations or poor communication. Similarly, my dissertation research included interviews with 20 institutional representatives and finding a tendency for university leaders to delegate responsibilities of tribal engagement to American Indian personnel and centers (Stewart-Ambo, 2021b). As two of the few organizational studies examining educational relationships with Native Nations, this work offers significant insight

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into the partnerships, or lack thereof, of secondary and postsecondary educational institutions with Native Nations. Focusing on tribal engagement in higher education institutions, Smith et al. (2017) summarize what is known about community engagement in Indigenous education contexts in Australia and how this might impact pathways into higher education. Smith et al. (2017) pose the following question to readers most relevant to this chapter: What do we know about Indigenous community engagement in higher education? They share two critical issues related to community engagement. First, there has yet to be a systematic review or subsequent critical analysis of the success factors of such programs. Two, such research would extend knowledge and investments in Indigenous community engagement in education settings. These questions are relevant to US higher education and tribal engagement and what this chapter attempts to address. The wide range of partnerships between tribes and higher education institutions continuously evolves in response to changes in disciplines and institutions. For instance, some institutions have made symbolic commitments to collaborate and serve local tribes, written into land acknowledgments (Ambo & Rocha Beardall, 2023). In other cases, Native communities and institutions work together on mutually beneficial projects, such as language revitalization or academic outreach programs. In recent years, partnerships have become increasingly complex because of the ability of Native Nations to make significant financial investments in postsecondary institutions. Of the communities that have provided charitable donations directly to universities or university programs, we know little about how partnerships developed and how they are presently sustained beyond contracts, agreements, and gifts. Although these partnerships can serve as models for engaging Native Nations, a limitation of this scholarship is that it focuses on community–campus relationships between tribes, research units (e.g., departments, programs, teams), Native programs or centers, or Indigenous faculty and staff, not entire institutions. The following review offers multiple examples of collaborations, engagement, consultation, and partnerships between Native Nations, Indigenous communities, and universities, which serve as models for tribal community–university partnerships. There is existing research offering the phrasing of tribal–state or tribal–school partnerships, my intention is to expand on these articulations to higher education institutions (Poitra, 2016). The literature is organized around six themes – research, political and legislative, external relations, economic, curricular, and co-curricular. Each section offers background on and multiple examples of partnerships.

Research Research relationships between Native Nations and communities and postsecondary institutions are among the most documented partnerships across existing scholarship. This research captures critiques, guidance, and collaborations in response to histories of harmful and unethical research practices. Critiques of research relationships emerged as early as 1969 in Vine Deloria Jr.’s well-known text, Custer Died for

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Your Sins, which probed the unethical research practices of anthropologists. Deloria (1988) called on the field to demonstrate responsibility and obligation toward the Native communities being researched, writing: I would advocate a policy to be adopted by Indian tribes which would soon clarify the respective roles of anthropologists and tribes. Each anthro[pologist] desiring to study a tribe should be made to apply to the tribal council for permission to do his study. (p. 95)

Scholars and organizations have added to this critique, which affirms the need to understand the facets of tribal community–university partnerships. For example, in Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples, Linda Tuhiwai Smith declares: “The word itself, ‘research,’ is probably one of the dirtiest words in the Indigenous world’s vocabulary” (Smith, 2021, p. 1). This framing characterizes Western research from an Indigenous perspective, viewing it as extractive of Indigenous knowledges, information, and material culture for the benefit of academic institutions and with little benefit to the communities or individuals subject to research (Burhansstipano et al., 2005; Minthorn et al., 2019; Smith, 2021). Such deeply sowed distrust of universities and researchers has promoted Indigenous communities globally to develop and enhance methods of engagement around research, such as review boards, advisory councils, and material and data-sharing agreements. Exemplary partnerships between Native Nations and research teams within postsecondary institutions often engage community-based participatory research methods. These approaches intervene in unethical research practices to engage communities respectfully and meaningfully for mutual benefit and are documented in the following section. Tribal and Institutional Research Review Boards. In response to unethical research practices across disciplines, many Native Nations and communities in the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand have adopted guidelines, protocols, agreements, and approval procedures for conducting research within tribal communities – especially research conducted on tribal lands or with tribal members (e.g., Hopi Cultural Preservation Office Protocol, Navajo Nation Human Research Review Board, Ho-Chunk Nation’s Tribal Research Code) (Nason, 1996a). These actions are in response to ongoing concerns about unethical and exploitive research practices, including, but not limited to, securing informed consent from tribal citizens (Champagne, 2015), misuse of data (Garrison & Cho, 2013), centering of damage-based narratives for professional advancement (Tuck, 2009), inappropriate use of sensitive information (Nason, 1996b), and the failure to politically or socially advance Native nation-building goals (Champagne, 2015; Champagne & Goldberg, 2005; Smith, 2021). Tribal guidance and oversight of research intervene in the continuance of harm endured by Indigenous Peoples and the power imbalance between communities and research institutions. While the uptake of this practice continues to grow across Indian Country – especially considering the Indigenous data sovereignty movement and developments in Indigenous-led genomic research – university boards do not require or defer to tribal research requirements (Champagne and Goldberg 2005; Claw et al., 2018; Kowal et al., 2023; Kukutai & Taylor, 2016;

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Marley, 2019). Champagne and Goldberg (2005) explain: “The focus on protecting sovereignty, community cultural property, ancestral remains, and protecting cultural intellectual property are not issues directly addressed by the university humansubjects review boards” (p. 55). Some postsecondary institutions, including TCUs, have been proactive or responsive to tribal guidance and review boards, developing partnerships and approval practices for studies involving American Indian/Alaska Native communities or people (Lomawaima, 2000; Nason, 1996b). For example, some institutions require researchers to obtain consent from Native Nations to conduct research (e.g., the University of Oregon). Others, such as the University of Arizona, work collaboratively with American Indian Studies staff to review the merits of applications (Lomawaima, 2000). Tribes have also developed material and data-sharing agreements with universities, such as the partnership between the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation and Oregon State University that address the purpose of research projects, materials to be collected, ownership of data collected, access and security, and publication processes (Harding et al., 2012). Using document analysis, Marley (2019) examined the alignment between university human subjects and consultation policies in Arizona, finding that Northern Arizona University and Arizona State University’s policies loosely support Indigenous data sovereignty, whereas the University of Arizona strongly supported such efforts. Adhering to tribal research regulations respects and upholds tribal sovereignty and reflects a commitment to honoring tribal voices in determining research goals, questions, methods for data collection, data sharing, and more. While existing efforts represent significant strides, they are not observed universally, nor do they operate perfectly across the country, thus signifying potential partnerships between communities and universities. Participatory Research. Research partnerships are another collaboration between Native Nations and researchers at colleges and universities. Participatory research methods represent a spectrum of approaches (e.g., community-based, communityengaged) that involve community members in research processes. Increasingly, research with Indigenous communities takes up Community-Based Participatory Research (CBPR) partnerships, an iterative methodology where communities and research institutions fully partner on every aspect of the research process (Burhansstipano et al., 2005; Wallerstein & Duran, 2010). Similarly, Tribal Participatory Research (TPR) extends the principles of CBPR to offer culturally specific principles that attend to tribal sovereignty, histories, and priorities of tribal communities (Fisher & Ball, 2002; LaVeaux & Christopher, 2009; Thomas et al., 2009). For example, TPR encompasses tribal oversight and approval (discussed above), the integration of tribal members to work on and to move between groups, works to build the capacity of tribal members, and includes culturally relevant assessments (Fisher & Ball, 2002). Adapting CBPR to address tribal sovereignty, histories, and futures is a critical intervention in poor research practices and an essential mechanism for transforming relationships between research institutions and tribal communities, for the benefit of tribal communities. Across the literature, there are numerous examples of research

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partnerships between Native Nations that describe how partnerships adhered to CBPR and TPR principles to respect Indigenous Peoples in every sense. For example, the Suquamish Tribe developed the Healing of the Canoe project, an Alcohol and Drug Abuse Institute at the University of Washington (Thomas et al., 2009). This partnership took up participatory principles, including developing a Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) that addressed data ownership and publication and presentation rights (Thomas et al., 2009). Likewise, Sowerwine et al. (2019) document a decadelong partnership between the Karuk, Yurok, and Klamath tribes of California and Oregon, researchers at UC Berkeley, a local nonprofit, the U.S. Forest Service, and the University of California Cooperative Extension to conduct research restoring traditional foodways in the Klamath Basin. In Chicago, Megan Bang and colleagues have sustained a community-based design research program between researchers at Northwestern University and the American Indian Center of Chicago (Bang et al., 2013, 2016). Notably, these few research partnerships represent only a small number of partnerships between Native Nations and Native organizations and research institutions. For more examples of collaborative and participatory Indigenous research, visit the Tkaronto Circle Lab’s Collaborative Indigenous Research Digital Garden at https://www.collaborativeindigenousresearch.com/. In addition to offering examples of research partnerships, much of the literature discusses “lessons learned from the field” or core principles in CBPR and TPR, such as investing considerable time to create partnerships and ethically housing and allocating resources (Absolon & Dion, 2017; Bang et al., 2013, 2016; Burhansstipano et al., 2005). Other recommendations include providing salaries to tribal partners, ensuring effective and transparent communication, challenging traditional data ownership practices of data, and building the internal capacities of communities and their members to participate in research efforts (Hicks et al., 2012; Gittelsohn et al., 2020; Sandoval et al., 2012). A 2012 research partnership between the National Congress of American Indians (NCAI) Policy Research Center (PRC), the University of New Mexico, and the University of Washington examined the conditions and characteristics of partnerships that produced effective and sustainable CBPR and community-engaged research, which resulted in a CBPR Conceptual Model (Hicks et al., 2012; NCAI Policy Research Center and MSU Center for Native Health Partnerships 2012; Sandoval et al., 2012). Likewise, Gittelsohn et al. (2020) remarked on the need for universities the build internal capacities to work with Native communities, such as developing mechanisms for learning about tribal histories, appropriate approaches for engagement, and developing and providing training that builds capacity in tribal communities.

Political and Legislative My prior research found that political and legislative relationships – related to government affairs or federal, state, and university policies – motivate formal engagement with Native Nations in higher education (Stewart-Ambo, 2017). Political and legislative relationships are primarily those mandated by federal, state, and university

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policies and differ from voluntary or mission-driven institutional efforts in community relations offices. Such relationships are also present across other sectors and take the shape of tribal consultations and mandated tribal engagement. For example, at the secondary education level, Mackey (2017) highlights how the Every Student Succeeds Act (ESSA) requires meaningful tribal consultation. Specifically, Title VI programs must develop education plans in consultation with “representatives of Indian tribes located in the state . . .” (Sec. 1111, P.L. 114-95, p. 20). Likewise, at the higher education level, Arizona has a tribal consultation policy (e.g., Arizona Board of Regents (ABOR) 1-118 Tribal Consultation Policy) that outlines expectations and requirements when engaging Native Nations, such as research. Nationally, policies, such as the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) and the National Historic Preservation Act, mandate engagement with Native Nations of descendant communities and dictate terms of relationships between institutions receiving federal dollars, including postsecondary institutions (Butzier & Stevenson, 2014; Mihesuah, 2000). Recently, there have also been blossoming commitments to state and university tuition free and waiver programs, following in the footsteps of institutions such as Fort Lewis College (Greyeyes et al., 2023). Scholars and communities have critiqued the limitations of legislative relationships. First, policies requiring consultation are limiting because organizations are not required to incorporate or address tribal concerns. Additionally, most national policies concern federally recognized Native Nations, excluding those not recognized by the federal government, yet many of the issues addressed by policies significantly impact unrecognized Indigenous communities. In California, for example, Assembly Bill-978 or California NAGPRA requires all state agencies and museums receiving federal to abide by federal NAGPRA. Recent legislation (discussed below) guides working with state and unrecognized Native Nations (California Native American Heritage Commission, 2023), complicating community relationships. The following describes how postsecondary institutions often interface with Native Nations and communities concerning federal, state, and university policies, including repatriation and undergraduate and graduate student admissions. Repatriation Policies Passed in 1990, the national NAGPRA mandated that federally funded museums and repositories, many located at major research universities, report holdings to a federal register and work with descendant tribes to repatriate collections as requested (Henson et al., 2008). This policy responded to decades of expressed concern by American Indian communities over the unethical study and improper care of Native American ancestral remains, sacred objects, and cultural artifacts in museum archives, repositions, and teaching collections. NAGPRA shifted consultation and engagement with tribal groups to ensure the respectful return of ancestors and items and has since received varying degrees of success. Compliance with this policy, particularly by postsecondary institutions, has also received significant attention in recent years. Recent investigative state audits, reports, and journalism have demonstrated the failure of universities to comply with national and state NAGPRA policies, which has led to the development of new policies. For example, California passed Assembly Bills 275 and 2836 to

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address the lack of compliance with federal NAGPRA, particularly across the University of California system (UC Office for the President 2021). This recent attention has brought forward discoveries at colleges and universities and various responses. For example, in late 2022, the Peabody Museum at Harvard University announced the discovery of hair samples taken from Indigenous people around the globe by anthropologist George Edward Woodbury, with over 700 being from American Indian youth attending US Indian Boarding Schools (Peabody Museum of Archeology and Ethnology, 2022). In March 2023, the ProPublica Repatriation Project exposed the decades-long battle at UC Berkeley (Garrett et al., 2019; Hudetz & Brewer, 2023; Platt, 2011, 2023). Shortly following, in April 2023, US Senator Brian Schatz (Hawai’i), chair of the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs, and US Senator Lisa Murkowski (Alaska) led a bipartisan group of senators in urging universities, including UC Berkeley, Harvard University, and Indiana University, to comply with NAGPRA (U.S. Senate Committee on Indian Affairs, 2023). In their recent work, Teeter et al. (2021) note the unanticipated benefits of NAGPRA: Continuous discussions with tribes and Indigenous communities initiated through NAGPRA consultation, have resulted in more innovative and collaborative exhibitions and programming, a holistic approach to collection curation that includes cultural sensitivity and respect, and revamped and expanded interpretative materials that discuss Indigenous communities’ present and future, not just their past. (p. 201)

Wendy Teeter and Desiree Martinez detail research and community-based collaborations between Southern California Native Nations, many of which are not federally recognized, and the University of California, Los Angeles. For example, Teeter and Martinez formed the Pimu Catalina Island Archaeology Project with members of the Ti’at Society (a Tongva maritime organization) (Teeter et al., 2013, 2021) field school that reexamines previous excavations on Santa Catalina Island, located off the coast of southern California in part of Gabrielino-Tongva territory. Likewise, Richland (2019) writes of a collaboration between the Hopi Cultural Preservation Office and Field Museum in Chicago to identify holdings at the museum, which resemble sustained and respectful engagement between both groups to care for cultural items honoring Hopi beliefs. Gray (2019) and Garrett et al. (2019) discuss the opportunities for museums, archives, and libraries to build relationships with Indigenous Peoples by opening access to communities, limiting access to the public, repatriating materials physically and digitally, and more – thus, opening vast possibilities for universities to partner with communities in ways that honor cultural heritage, needs, and needs. Undergraduate and Graduate Admission Policies. Undergraduate and graduate admissions policies are yet another way that postsecondary institutions have attempted to be more inclusive of American Indian communities and conscientious of social barriers impacting the educational attainment of Native students. To account for historical, social, and political barriers, colleges and university boards of regents and trustees have developed undergraduate and graduate admission policies that allow for the consideration of enrollment in a federally recognized

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tribe in admission. These policies have come in the light of anti-affirmative action policies and affirm the political status of enrolled citizens and members of Native Nations with government-to-government relationships with the federal government first established in federal treaties (Neconie, 2012). The UC system has been one university to pass such an admission policy in 2008. The UC Board of Regents agreed to consider membership in a federally recognized tribe as a “plus factor” in the undergraduate admissions process at all UC campuses (Reynoso & Kidder, 2006, 2008). This admission policy was a significant touchpoint in policy reform in California because legal scholars determined that state Proposition 209, which prohibits racial and gender preferences in admissions, does not apply to federally recognized tribes and their members. After all, such recognition was necessary to meet long-standing federal obligations to these American Indians (Goldberg, 2002). In this case, the University of California (i.e., Academic Senate, administrators, and faculty) acted on behalf of federally recognized tribes for admissions despite the state voter referendum to rule out special considerations for underrepresented groups. Less is known about the impact of this system change, leaving vast opportunities for future research. Moreover, these efforts do not reflect direct engagement or partnerships with Native Nations and universities, in this case, the UC system, leaving ample areas for future exploration.

Government and Community Relations/External Relations Government, community, or external relations offices are common among most colleges and universities. These units are designed to engage local constituents as part of the service mission of the institution. Over the last decade, we have seen significant development regarding Native Nations in two primary ways. One, there has been a notable development in adopting agreements signed between Native Nations and postsecondary institutions, including memorandums of understanding. These agreements communicate commitments by universities and communities, such as using tribal names in university sports or commitment to resources for students. Two, there is a growing tendency by institutions to hire or appoint personnel with the primary role of fostering relationships with Native communities (Francis-Begay, 2013, 2022; Pidgeon, 2016). Special advisors or tribal liaisons are responsible for local community engagement on behalf of the university, with varying degrees of responsibility to work with tribal leaders to foster, improve, and sustain relationships (Cross et al., 2019). The following discusses both developments and offers examples from colleges and universities across the United States. Memoranda of Understanding. In recent years, several institutions have signed agreements or memorandums of understanding (MOU) with tribes in the spirit of cooperation and collaboration. Moreover, these agreements are important affirmations by institutions about their understanding and respect for tribal sovereignty. These agreements vary in scope regarding what is stipulated and who is included. For example, some agreements stipulate the formation of task forces, advisory boards, presidential advisory councils, or tribal relations staff on campus. Other

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agreements involve collaborations around student programs or research projects, such as language revitalization initiatives (McCarty, 2013). Research remains particularly sparse in this area, but public documents shed light on the nature of these agreements and relationships. In reviewing agreements, it is common to observe contracts with individual or multiple Native Nations. For example, in 1997, Washington State University (WSU) signed an inter-tribal agreement with six local American Indian tribes: Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, the Yakama Nation, the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Reservation in Oregon, and the Kootenai, Coeur d’Alene, and Nez Perce in Idaho. The six Native Nations and WSU renewed the agreement in 1998, 2002, and 2013. In 2015, it expanded to include five more tribes: Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes of the Flathead Reservation, Confederated Tribes of the Warm Springs Reservation, the Cowlitz Indian Tribe, the Kalispel Tribe, and the Spokane Tribe. On the other hand, the University of Utah signed a memorandum with the Ute Indian tribe that expressly states, The Ute Indian Tribe acknowledges that its association with the University of Utah—the flagship institution of higher learning in Utah—raises tribal visibility and community awareness and generates a source of pride for members of the Ute Indian Tribe. The Tribe desires to reaffirm the long and valued relationship between the University and the Tribe to promote educational benefits for its youth. (University of Utah, n.d.)

While contentious, this agreement also sanctioned using the tribe’s name and the image of a Ute Indian as the university mascot. Similarly, California State University, Chico (CSU Chico) signed a memorandum with the Mechoopda Tribe. At the time, the document uniquely acknowledged that the campus sits on the traditional lands of the Mechoopda. The memorandum articulates: That the California State University, Chico, and the Mechoopda Indian Tribe of Chico Rancheria shall seek to remove procedural impediments to working directly and effectively with each other and practice open, candid, respectful, timely, and effective communication in a cooperative process that works toward an agreement before a decision is made or an action is taken affecting the University, the Tribe, or their interests. (California State University Chico, 2005)

This agreement articulates an institutional commitment by CSUC to the Mechoopda Indian Tribe and contains language for how this relationship should proceed. In February 2023, Cal Poly Humboldt (formerly CSU Humboldt) signed an agreement with the Yurok Tribe to form educational partnerships. As institutions increase their efforts to engage Native Nations, it is expected that agreements may also evolve in nature. Yet another example of a signed memorandum is between the Miami Tribe of Oklahoma and Miami University (MU), who have had an established relationship since the 1970s, which led to formalizing a relationship through tuition waivers for tribal members. Since the commitment has now allowed nearly 80 tribal students to attend MU at an unprecedented completion

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rate – 77 percent (Baldwin et al., 2013; Mosley-Howard et al., 2015). Years following, Baldwin and Olds (2007; Baldwin et al., 2013) shared how a proposal was prepared and submitted to MU to develop a language revitalization project – the Myaamia Project. Since 2001, the Myaamia Project has been operating as a jointly controlled and funded initiative between the tribe and MU. Tribal Liaison. Universities are gradually creating full-time staff tribal liaisons or special advisors to attend to local tribal engagement. These positions vary in placement across campuses; some appointments are in American Indian programs, while others reside in government and community relations offices. Increasingly, campuses are developing Offices of Tribal Relations with direct reporting responsibilities to university provosts and presidents (e.g., the University of Washington and Washington State University) (Pidgeon, 2016). Francis-Begay (2013) indicates that several public postsecondary institutions have created liaison or advisor positions to “advise the university president on issues relevant to Native American communities and to serve as an advocate for students” (p. 82). Moreover, the creation of positions and offices represents the distinct knowledge and expertise required to engage communities, the need to address wrongs, the unique political status of Native Nations, and the need to develop government-to-government relationships. Serving as Assistant Vice Provost on Native American Initiatives at the University of Arizona, Dr. Karen Francis-Begay is the foremost scholar on tribal advisor roles within postsecondary institutions and authored the first and primary source about special advisors to campus leaders on Native American Affairs. This seminal work documents efforts at the University of Arizona to establish a Native American advisory council, which comprised the highest elected tribal leaders from six tribes, two tribal college presidents, community leaders, and student representatives (Francis-Begay, 2013). The council was responsible for advising the presidents on workforce development, student recruitment and retention, and research, and in doing so, affirming “UA’s commitment to understanding and valuing tribal sovereignty” (Francis-Begay, 2013, p. 86). Since, Francis-Begay conducted in-depth interviews with tribal advisors across the country to understand how they navigate their roles between the community and university, documenting the challenges and strategies of individuals in these roles to forge relationships (Francis-Begay, 2022). Francis-Begay’s (2022) participants commented on the lack of understanding by university leaders of tribal sovereignty, lack of power and authority to actualize changes to campuses, and superficial or inconsistent support from leaders – to name a few – as critical challenges to integrating these roles in external relations. Over the last decade, institutions such as Montana State University, University of Idaho, University of New Mexico, Washington State University, University of Oregon, Northern Arizona University, Arizona State University, University of Arizona, California State University San Marcos, San Diego State University, and the University of California at Los Angeles, to name a few, have appointed part-time or full-time special advisors and tribal liaisons on their campuses to attend to tribal relations (Champagne, 2003; Francis-Begay, 2022). For example, in 2022, UC Berkeley recruited possible candidates for the following job description:

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At the University of California, Berkeley, we recognize that every member of our community has benefited, and continues to benefit, from living, working, and occupying the ancestral territories of California Native Nations. . . In this way the University seeks to prioritize respect for both the historic culture and the contemporary presence of Native Americans throughout California and on its campus by striving to hold UC Berkeley more accountable to the needs of American Indian and Alaska Native Nations and Native Hawaiian Organizations. (UC Berkeley, 2023)

This call uniquely acknowledges the history of UC Berkeley and the role of the tribal liaison in redressing this legacy. Moreover, the day-to-day duties of these advisors include liaising between the community and university, educating and advising leadership, protecting Indigenous Peoples and communities, and more (FrancisBegay, 2022). Some scholars might contend that such positions silo efforts into a single office; therefore, more needs to be understood about these positions from an institution and community perspective.

Economic Relationships Economic relationships are also a growing area of engagement with Native Nations, which have seen very little empirical attention. These relationships represent charitable giving by Native Nations to universities for academic programs, often programs that focus on Indigenous students and communities. There is frequently a misconception by institutional leaders that all Native Nations have the economic means to “give” charitably to institutions. Many assume that all American Indian communities participate in casino-style gaming enterprises, enabling them to donate excess revenue as they deem appropriate (Treuer, 2012). This misconception could not be further from the truth. According to National Indian Gaming Commission, Indian gaming only occurs in 29 states, and less than half of the federally recognized tribes in the United States participate in gaming operations (National Indian Gaming Commission, 2023). Moreover, gaming ranges from casinos, bingo halls, travel plazas, and convenience stores, generating varying degrees of revenue for tribal communities. Nevertheless, because of these assumptions, some college or university leaders view tribes as prospective donors regardless of whether or not they have the financial means, further complicating existing relationships between communities and institutions. Gifts and Donations. The introduction of Indian gaming and investment in other economic development efforts have placed some Native Nations in the position of making sizable financial contributions to organizations – cities, nonprofit organizations, and higher education institutions. Existing research on economic partnerships is limited, yet nevertheless indicates that communities that invest in postsecondary education expect to improve the educational attainment of their members and other Indigenous Peoples to advance their Native communities (Champagne, 2005). California is one of several states where this phenomenon continues to develop. For example, for nearly two decades, the San Manuel Band of Mission Indians, a small tribe in Highland, California, has given multiple donations to postsecondary

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institutions throughout southern California to invest in the local region and economy. California State University, San Bernardino, UCLA, and Claremont Graduate University have all been recipients of these large-scale gifts (UCLA Law School, 2017a). In 2003, for example, San Manuel gifted UCLA with $4.5 million for the development of the Tribal Learning Community and Educational Exchange program. During the same year, San Manuel also endowed $3 million to California State University, San Bernardino, to renovate a student union (Champagne, 2005). In 2017, the Claremont Graduate University received a second gift from San Manuel for $7.4 million to expand the San Manuel Tribal Administration Certificate Program, which provides training and education for tribal management and employees. Most of these initiatives aim to educate and create professional development opportunities for California Indian tribal members (Champagne, 2005; Collins & Rivera, 2013). Similarly, in 2015, the Agua Caliente Band of Cahuilla Indians, located in Palm Springs, California, signed an MOU with George Washington University to fund Native American students’ participation in the summer Native American Political Leadership Program. This agreement established the Richard M. Milanovich Fellowship and supported members of federally recognized California tribes to study, live, and work in Washington, D.C., while enrolled in the program (George Washington University, 2015). Also, in California, the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria committed $15 million to UCLA’s Law School to support the development of the Federal Indian Law program. This contribution included the creation of the Graton Scholars Program, which will provide scholarships to Native students pursuing law degrees at UCLA (UCLA Law, 2020). In April 2022, Graton Rancheria also dedicated $2.5 million to create the Graton Rancheria Scholarship Fund, which would provide tuition and fees to California Native Americans from nonfederally recognized tribes (Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria (FTGR), 2022). This commitment came following the announcement of the Native American Opportunity Plan from the UC Presidents’ Office, which covers in-state tuition and fees for California residents who are members of federally recognized Native American, American Indian, and Alaska Native tribes (University of California, 2022). Most announcements regarding tribal donations remark on increasing educational opportunities for tribal members. However, research examining agreements and assessing impact is limited. Undoubtedly, charitable giving by Native Nations to colleges and universities will continue to grow, leaving vast opportunities for evaluating the effectiveness and impact of gifts on students and communities.

Curricular Curricular engagement with Native Nations, such as service-learning, community engagement courses, and tribal legal development clinics, reflects the intersection of the teaching, service – and, in some instances – the research missions of public universities. These partnerships convene instructors with community partners to offer students courses, research, or service opportunities in Native communities. Several scholars have documented the history of curricular relationships.

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For example, Guillory (2013) notes a collaboration between UCLA and Sinte Gleska University (SGU) – a Tribal College in South Dakota – on Project HOOP (Honoring our Origins and Peoples), which developed eight new Native American theater courses at SGU. Likewise, Rivera (2013) shares about the UCLA Tribal Learning Community & Educational Exchange program developed in partnership with the San Manuel Band of Missions Indians, which functions as an educational opportunity program by offering courses to high school and college students. The Manoomin Science Camp Project is a partnership between the University of Minnesota, the Fond du Lac Tribal and Community College, and the Fond du Lac Band of Lake Superior Chippewa to study manoomin (i.e., wild rice) and prompt interest in science education (Dalbotten et al., 2014). Finally, Champagne and Stauss (2005) point out the vital role that American Indian Studies and American Indian research centers have had on community engagement: Native American/Indian studies programs should maintain active relationships with Native communities, both urban and reservation . . . Universities and Indian studies centers are often located particularly well to assist tribes with issues of law, policy, the environment, repatriation, recognition, state-tribal relations, and other concerns. (p. 9)

Two growing yet limited areas of curricular relationships include service-learning and graduate education partnerships, as discussed below. Service-Learning. Service-learning is an evolving curricular initiative, shifting from traditional service models to one focused on equity and social justice (Mitchell, 2008). Research on service-learning in Indigenous education is limited. After conducting a comprehensive search on service-learning research in Indigenous education, Nelson and Youngbull (2015) assert that “there exists no testimony exploring the experiences of American Indian students who engage in servicelearning” (p. 91). In searching for recent developments along this line of inquiry, Nelson and Youngbull’s assertion remains true several years later. As such, their qualitative study represents one of the only examinations of service-learning relationships, opening an essential thread for future research. Graduate Education. Graduate and doctoral training of Native American scholars is not a new occurrence, but recent changes to program development have revived programmatic efforts across higher education institutions. This change may be due to the number of Indigenous scholars across academia equipped with the training, resources, and commitments to develop community-engaged programs responsive to community interests. Nevertheless, several programs nationwide are transforming education to serve Indigenous communities. In 2012, for example, the School of Social Transformation at Arizona State University partnered with 19 Pueblo communities and organizations, including the Santa Fe Indian School and Leadership Institute, to create the Pueblo Doctoral Cohort (PDC), notably the “largest program of graduate study in direct partnership with Pueblo institutions and communities” (Brayboy & Huaman, 2016, p. 134). Likewise, in 2020, Muckleshoot Tribal College staff collaborated with the new Director of the Educational Leadership Doctoral Program at the University of Washington Tacoma to

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develop the educational leadership doctorate focused on Native American Leadership (Bill et al., 2022; Minthorn, 2020, 2022; Minthorn et al., 2021). While the graduate programs mentioned focus on recent developments in the training of Indigenous graduate and doctoral students, many programs prepare non-Indigenous graduate students to work with and in urban and reservation communities and reflect partnerships between Native Nations and organizations and educational institutions. For example, Lees (2016) documents the perspectives of community partners in preparing teachers to serve urban Indigenous youth. These participants are part of a partnership between the Kateri Center of Chicago and Loyola University Chicago’s Teaching, Learning, and Leading with Schools and Communities program, a field-based teacher preparation program in Chicago. Kitchen et al. (2013) also document a teacher education partnership between Brock University and the Northern Nishnawbe Education Council (NNEC) to prepare Nishnawbe teachers in the Sioux Lookout District of Northwestern Ontario, which emphasizes teaching from a culturally responsive pedagogy that centers relations. A unique feature of these collaborations is the community-engaged process for design, with each program hosting meetings with community leaders and members to understand the needs of the community (e.g., 35 at ASU, 18 at UW-Tacoma).

Co-Curricular Finally, co-curricular partnerships appropriately describe the public service and outreach responsibilities tied to institutional mission statements. These relationships are growing and do not represent the research, legislative, curricular, or economic relationships with universities. More often, co-curricular relationships may be represented in the inclusion of Indigenous Peoples at campus events, the adoption and performance of a land acknowledgment statement at campus events, or the inclusion of artwork, gardens, banners, and the like across campuses. Settler Land Acknowledgment. Like scholarship on tribal engagement, literature on settler land acknowledgment practices in the United States is scant, albeit growing. As a practice in higher education institutions, it is difficult to pinpoint precisely when settler land acknowledgment emerged. Institutional isomorphism helps us to understand that these practices were likely imported from Australia and Canada, where protocols were adopted following decades of social and political activism around truth, reconciliation, and national apologies (Keefe, 2019; Keeptwo, 2021; Kowal, 2015; Merlan, 2014). In these countries, practices hold a variety of names, including Indigenous or territorial acknowledgments, Welcome to Country, Welcome of Country, acknowledgment of country, and land introduction (Goeman, 2020; Kowal, 2015; Merlan, 2014). In Australia, for example, it is understood that acknowledgments and welcomes gained traction in the 1990s as part of institutionalized reconciliation efforts, including a public apology by then Prime Minister Keating to Australia’s aboriginal communities (Merlan, 2014). In Canada, territorial acknowledges became more commonplace following the release of the Truth and Reconciliation Report. However, the practice is not legally mandated, nor is there a

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consensus on how the practice should be engaged (Keeptwo, 2021; Robinson et al., 2019). Higher education institutions in the United States started to import the practice around 2015 (Beckmann & Wilson, 2021; Ambo & Rocha Beardall, 2023; Stewart-Ambo & Yang, 2021). On the surface, settler land acknowledgments can be understood as an evolving social justice practice adopted by Indigenous and non-Indigenous people to recognize the land on which an event is taking place and the people who are indigenous to those lands (Stewart-Ambo & Yang, 2021). Depending on the speaker, there are numerous intentions when reciting acknowledgments, including recognizing the enduring relationship between Indigenous Peoples and their traditional territories, correcting and disrupting colonial narratives that have been suppressed, creating discomfort around settler privilege and complacency, and more. Often, these statements preface events, speakers, or presentations, only to fade into the background, which explains why the uptake of this practice is surrounded by critique and tensions. Speakers and institutions often uncritically adopt and recite statements without considering how language implicates institutions in settler colonialism and Indigenous land politics (Robinson et al., 2019). In fact, in higher education institutions, the insertion of acknowledgments has become a multicultural or social justice practice, a part of a “checklist,” if you will, that is void of real or meaningful political, legal, or structural change impacting local Indigenous Peoples, faculty, staff or students. Indigenous higher education and Native American Studies scholars have called for “moving beyond” land acknowledgments, urging institutions to actualize expressed commitments in tangible ways (Red Shirt-Shaw, 2020; Stewart-Ambo & Yang, 2021). While research is limited in this area, only two empirical studies exist in Canada (Wilkes et al., 2017) and the United States (Ambo & Rocha Beardall, 2023), but the discourse is growing. Critical scholars constantly critique whether such inclusion impact the material conditions of Indigenous Peoples, particularly local Native Nations, and their members. This limited understanding warrants further research to understand the depth and limits of co-curricular relationships.

Summary of Section This section reviewed six institutional relationships between Indigenous Peoples and Native Nations and colleges and universities, including research, political, external, economic, curricular, and co-curricular relationships. At the postsecondary level, there have been noteworthy efforts by colleges and universities to include and engage local Native Nations (e.g., Arizona State University, Northwestern University, Denver University, California State University, San Marcos, Washington State University, University of Washington). For example, institutions have begun to transform physical spaces with signage and traditional Indigenous structures on campuses (e.g., the University of Washington and the University of British Columbia), there has been rapid adoption of departmental and university-wide formal settler land acknowledgment statements (e.g., Northwestern, UCLA, UC Santa

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Cruz, and University of Wisconsin), and universities are increasingly signing MOUs with Native Nations (e.g., the University of Utah and Washington State University). These actions represent significant organizational efforts to recognize and include Indigenous Peoples at colleges and universities. However, these practices are not universally practiced across postsecondary education. Moreover, such changes often reflect decades of activism and advocacy by Indigenous communities, students, staff, faculty, and allies, not necessarily structural changes and deep institutional commitments. Existing research on these partnerships demonstrates that, while robust, few studies examine institutional partnerships from an organizational standpoint, examining the relationships at an institution’s highest level. Before identifying gaps in existing research, I offer 10 principles and practices for engaging Native nations.

A Tribal Community–University Partnership Framework This final section offers a guiding framework for fostering and sustaining engagement with Native Nations and Indigenous communities as institutional partners. I avoid referring to Native Nations and communities as “stakeholders” as this term is rooted in colonial violence and suggests a vested interest. Instead, I privilege the term “partner” to elevate federal and state institutions’ institutional, historical, legal, and moral responsibilities to engage Native Nations. The framework comprises 10 principles and practices for advancing relationships at the organizational level, including respect, reciprocity, responsibility, relevance, rapport, resources, recognition, reconciliation, responsiveness, and reeducation. “R” words have been deliberately selected to compliment and honor scholars in Indigenous education and Native American and Indigenous studies that have laid an essential foundation and terminology for engaging Native Nations, particularly regarding ethical research. For example, Shawn Wilson (2008), Kirkness and Barnhardt (1991), and Brayboy et al. (2012b) discuss the primacy of relationships, responsibility, respect, and reciprocity in Indigenous research. Audra Simpson (2007) extended ethnographic refusal, and Mihesuah (2000) and Tuck (2011) have written about rematriation. Adding to this conversation, I weave these concepts into my framework on tribal community–university partnerships and elaborate on them for a postsecondary context. Relatedly, Norman and Kalt (2015) offer a Native Nation-building framework rooted in sovereignty, self-determination, and self-reliance, providing a foundation for developing these principles. They offer four principles that serve as a framework for guiding Native nation-building partnerships with entities outside of Indian Country, including universities. Norman and Kalt (2015) argue that adopting these principles can enrich the academy by allowing individuals involved in partnerships to “develop perspectives and experiences that lead to better research and teaching” (p. 5). The four principles in their nation-building framework are sovereignty, culture, institutions, and leadership. These principles are articulated below: (1) universities respect and support tribal sovereignty, (2) universities recognize that culture is central to the design and effectiveness of tribal policies and institutions, (3) institutional infrastructures work cooperatively and all-encompassing to support nation-

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building goals, and (4) formal and informal university leadership guide the academy to have more productive relationships with Native communities. Last, before proceeding, it is important to communicate my intentions with this framework as I am highly aware of the irreparable harm endured by communities and individuals at the hands of higher education institutions. One, these principles are intended to guide those within the university, particularly non-Native leaders who need more sense of how to engage Indigenous Peoples. While preparing this framework, I experienced and witnessed the neglect, harm, and violence endured by Indigenous Peoples because of the actions and inactions of university leaders. Second, these principles are for Indigenous Peoples, who are often tasked to guide these relationships – the ones engaging communities on the university’s behalf. Three, these principles should not be seen as a step-by-step guide or checklist for fostering relationships but instead as a set of principles essential for engaging Native Nations, Indigenous Peoples, and communities that must be iteratively engaged. Finally, it should always be understood that Native Nations and Indigenous Peoples are not a homogeneous group; therefore, these principles cannot and should not be universally applied to all higher education institutions. Those wishing to engage Indigenous Peoples through their work at a college or university must be aware of time and place circumstances, must understand the diversity of Native Nations, and must prioritize Indigenous perspectives to guide any partnerships.

Principles for Engagement Table 1 depicts the 10 principles and practices for engagement with Native Nations and Indigenous communities, which are not linear but intersecting and overlapping. The following elaborates on each item. Relationality. First and foremost, the underpinning of these principles is rooted in Indigenous understandings of relationality. Shawn Wilson (Cree) (2008) shares that all forms of interpersonal relationships take on special significance within Indigenous communities, which is a critical understanding when seeking to engage Indigenous Peoples. Wilson (2008) explains: Identity for Indigenous peoples is grounded in their relationships with the land, with their ancestors who have returned to the land, and with future generations who will come into being on the land. Rather than viewing ourselves as being in relationship with other people or things, we are [emphasis added] the relationships that we hold and are part of. (Wilson, 2008, p. 80) Table 1 Principles and practices for engagement

Principles Relationality Responsibility Respect Relevancy Reciprocate

Practices Redress Recognition Resources Rapport (Re)educate

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These relational understandings guide our interactions with others, human and nonhuman, interpersonal and organizational; they operate conscious and subconscious. As such, it is necessary for non-Native individuals within organizations, especially leaders, to adapt their relational approaches when wishing to foster authentic relationships with Indigenous Peoples, moving away from transactional, capitalistic, or extractive interactions. Building rapport (discussed in the next section) requires time and authentic engagement. Many of the partnerships highlighted in this chapter were built after considerable time was spent in communities working with tribal members. This investment is only sometimes conducive to the pressures of settler colonial structures that thrive on productivity, therefore, not conducive to the schedule of university leaders. Nevertheless, institution leaders and staff from non-Native backgrounds and without aligning worldviews need to understand that any future of their institution involving Native Nations and Indigenous Peoples reflects the quality of relationships held; that coexistence as separate entities with mutual but differentiating goals will not advance partnerships nor institutional futures. Responsibility. Another core principle of this framework is responsibility, which Wilson (2008) might otherwise refer to as relational accountability. Either way, this principle puts accountability into action. Presently, higher education institutions are responsible to internal and external constituencies – students, faculty, staff (less so), funders, and local communities. Externally, constituent groups include federal and state governments, governing and accrediting boards, and increasingly private donors. As the funding model for institutions has increasingly moved toward private funding, institutions are more responsive to these needs. Internally, constituencies include students, staff, and faculty senate, all with varying levels of influence and shared governance. Inherently, Indigenous Peoples, internally and externally, are included in these constituencies; however, less explicitly. In some instances, as presented in the literature, some institutions enter political relationships with Native Nations by signing a Memorandum of Understanding. In other cases, economic relationships drive relationships. In both circumstances, such mechanisms are codified through signed agreements. Where these agreements do not exist, there are no measurable or evaluative frameworks for assessing responsibilities to Native Nations and communities. These partnerships represent mutually beneficial agreements, yet there is a need for institutions to do more. For example, institutions need to be accountable for histories of physical violence, expropriation of lands, extraction of knowledge, and exploitation of labor, and more deliberately, including Native Nations and Indigenous students into the institutional fabric as a part of espoused institutional missions. Respect. Indigenous scholars consistently use the term respect to underscore the significance of our relationships, which historically has been disregarded by federal and state governments and universities. Respect is a reciprocal, shared, constantly interchanging principle expressed through social conduct (Smith, 2021). Kirkness and Barnhardt (1991) write of the disrespect experienced by First Nations students in Canada, stating:

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the most compelling problem that First Nations students face when they go to the university is a lack of respect, not just as individuals, but more fundamentally as people. The university represents an impersonal, intimidating and often hostile environment, in which little of what they bring in the way of cultural knowledge, tradition, and core values is recognized, much less respected. (p. 6)

This statement can also be made about Indigenous faculty and staff and is why most Indigenous research frameworks call on investigators to demonstrate respect. Moreover, the legacy of paternalism and extraction of knowledge by institutions of Indigenous communities, with little to no benefit to communities, sets a foundation and entrenched ethos of disrespect within institutions of higher learning that requires redress. Drawing from this, tribal community–university partnerships must center respect for Indigenous staff, faculty, and students expected to engage communities. Moreover, relationships must be built on mutual and ongoing respect regardless of location or type within an institution. Relevancy. Education must also be relevant to community needs. Meaning engagement efforts must center and align with existing nation-building goals. Writing up Tribal Critical Race Theory, Brayboy (2005) reminds us that “no research should be conducted with Indigenous Peoples that is not in some way directed by a community and aimed toward improving the life chances and situations of specific communities and American Indians writ large.” Working with federally or nonfederally recognized Native Nations; universities must allow tribes to dictate the terms of relationships to ensure interactions are guided by tribally specific goals that strengthen and build Native Nations. Universities should seek guidance, knowledge, and direction from tribes on the terms of the relationship, not have a predetermined agenda or set of expectations. This approach requires existing relationships (relationality) to understand the needs of communities. The literature offers prime examples of such approaches as well. Reciprocate. Finally, definitions of engagement have been critiqued for not having mutual and reciprocal benefits to community and campus members (Moore, 2014). Reciprocity is typically regarded as a quid pro quo transaction, where something is given or received in exchange for something else. From an Indigenous worldview, however, reciprocity reflects “the notions of paying it forward,” what Brayboy et al. (2012b) explain as “we take so that we can give and provide for others–in order to survive and to thrive. In so doing we are bounded, through these relationships, to care for those things around us” (p. 439). Likewise, Kirkness and Barnhardt (1991) argue that greater reciprocity must occur between Native Nations, tribal members, American Indian students, faculty, staff, and institutions. Thus, teaching, research, and service activities must have a local return. Teaching, for example, about American Indians should prioritize accurate narratives and include local communities’ voices and perspectives. Moreover, such commitments should be expressed in written agreements, such as a memorandum of understanding/agreement. Similar to the signing of articulation agreements with other nations or universities, I urge institutions to articulate and outline areas of educational accountability and commitment to Native nations – such as student enrollment – to foster stronger relationships.

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Practices for Engagement The process of preparing this review and my overall study of tribal community–university partnerships have demonstrated the need for practical guidance in developing relationships; there are simple steps that institutions can take to be on the correct path for engaging Native Nations and Indigenous communities. Redress. Over the last decade, there has been an increasing number of institutional reports documenting the education histories of institutions, histories tied to violence-backed land cessions, strategic removal, unethical research practices, and more (e.g., Rutgers, Northwestern, Denver University, and the University of Minnesota, to list a few). For these reasons and more, Native people have a history of distrust toward universities, especially if there has been a history of conflict on issues of great importance to tribes. In addition, universities must be aware of how many of their actions continue to inflict harm on Native communities (i.e., salvage anthropology, testing of ancestral remains, failure to comply with repatriation policies, etc.). To foster meaningful relationships with Native Nations, universities must redress historic and ongoing wrongs, including an acknowledgment that current actions continue to harm Indigenous Peoples and local Native communities (e.g., dispossession), and actively work to reduce the harm done to communities. Redressing past and ongoing harms is about accountability, honoring institutional missions, and upholding public charters. Recognize. Universities should actively work to recognize that their institution occupies Indigenous land – often unceded lands – their intimate connection to the illegal and unjust acquisition of unceded land and Indigenous dispossession. Restoring connections to tribes can have implications for federally and nonfederally recognized tribes. Universities should create an environment on campus for members of local tribes that is inviting and hospitable. Invitations to campuses should be presented as opportunities to develop and discuss partnerships, not a summon of local tribal communities to campus by the administration. Moreover, institutions must acknowledge the local tribes – including tribal leaders and political sovereignty. There needs to be a greater acknowledgment of tribal sovereignty and recognition of elected leaders’ authority. Universities often fail to consider American Indian nations as government entities that should be engaged through campus relations as external partners. I urge institutions to recognize the cultural and political sovereignty of tribal nations – be it federally or nonfederally recognized – and form government-to-government relationships with Native nations as a form of diplomacy and demonstrated commitment. Resources. This work can only be accomplished without ample resources. While resources do not fix or solve preexisting inequities, they profoundly equip individuals and programs to foster systemic change. The total enrolled Indigenous students, number of employed faculty and staff, and existing campus programs are often marginal compared to all other groups. This point is not to make a comparative argument of who is in greater need but rather to say that any investment in students, personnel, or programs for community engagement initiatives would not come at a tremendous financial burden, making such commitments tangible. Moreover, several

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federal and state policies, such as repatriation, legally require that institutions allocate resources to mandates. Additionally, sustained engagement required the continued presence of Indigenous staff, faculty, and students. It also exceeds the written job responsibilities of these individuals. Universities must invest in tribal liaisons and special advisors with specialized knowledge about Indigenous Peoples and communities to navigate relationships successfully: liaising between the university and communities, guiding administration the community relations, meeting with individuals, attending events on the university’s behalf, understanding protocols for engagement, and more. This full-time position would differ significantly from a parttime appointment, delegating to these personnel the primary responsibility of advising administrators on campus-wide affairs. Rapport. Meaningful engagement with Native Nations and their members requires leaders to develop a rapport with communities (Minthorn et al., 2023). Advising others to rapport with Native Nations and communities to form future relations feels ingenuine. Simultaneously, I am weary of how such a recommendation might subject communities to unauthentic people with ill intentions disguised as care and interest. For those seeking to build meaningful relationships, this practice should be authentic; to work well with others, you need authentic interest and knowledge of that person or group to build a relationship. This requires a sustained and established presence within the community. Specifically, institutional leaders need to be physically present at local community events (e.g., council meetings, annual gatherings, powwows) and engage with community members consistently. Continued presence signals respect for the community as a priority and interest of the institution. Re-educate. Finally, engagement with Indigenous colleagues, students, and communities requires an individual and institutional investment in (re)education about Indigenous Peoples broadly and local communities specifically. Despite the growth in research in Indigenous studies and education and a growing presence of Native people in academia, there is a fundamental ignorance about Indigenous Peoples in every sense. This lack of knowledge is indicative of the efforts of the settler colonial project to erase histories and entire communities from physical and psychological presence. Such re-education can occur by adopting mandated Indigenous studies courses for students or staff. In many ways, these principles and practices are wholly inadequate and may subject communities to more maltreatment by institutions. This is not my intention or hope when encouraging tribal engagement. In preparing this framework, I keep in mind and heart the writing of Smith et al. (2017), who shares: We hypothesise [sic] that incorporating Indigenous knowledges and practices into the development of Indigenous community engagement tools, and therefore increasing the potential to improve the way in which Indigenous community engagement occurs in practice, will ultimately strengthen Indigenous education outcomes. (Smith et al., 2017, p. 33)

Fundamentally, I believe that improved relationships with Native Nations and Indigenous communities will improve the education outcomes of Indigenous youth and positively impact the future of Native Nations.

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Summary/Conclusion Chapter Summary and Future Research In the last decade, universities have made varying efforts to include and empower American Indian/Alaska Native students and communities through equity-based initiatives. Despite this movement, research on tribal engagement is scattered across disciplines, and there is a paucity of scholarship examining organizational aspects of government-to-government or institution-to-institution relationships. The purpose of this chapter was to trace what is known about university engagement with Native Nations and communities. First, I contextualized the topic within the United States and offered background information about Indigenous Peoples and Native Nations. Next, I provided a brief overview of American Indian higher education history in the United States. Then, I discussed the literature on engagement broadly and tribally engagement specifically. This framing enabled an overview of various types of relationships and partnerships across colleges and universities in the United States, including research, political, external, economic, curricular, and co-curricular. Drawing on scholarship from education and Indigenous studies, I also offered a tribal community–university partnership framework to guide leaders of postsecondary institutions on how to foster partnerships that de-center their goals and re-center tribal sovereignty. It is my belief that Indigenous and non-Indigenous scholars would significantly benefit from additional empirical research that probes the complexities and characteristics of tribal community–university partnerships. As such, before closing, I offer implications for future work to extend current research and address knowledge gaps on tribal community–university partnerships. A well-established area of research regarding tribal engagement and partnerships focuses on research-based partnerships. This research ranges from cautionary tales and best practices to evolving tribal review board protocols and community-based research partnerships. Writing about research relationships, Champagne (2015) asserts that “research institutions can promote engagement by creating and maintaining long-term, beneficial, and respectful relations with Indigenous nations and governments,” affirming that such partnerships are a site of fostering relationships with Native Nations and communities (p. 77). Given the diversity of Native Nations – there are currently 574 Native Nations and Alaska Villages recognized by the federal government and over 200 Native Nations without recognition – each tribal government has the sovereign right to determine the terms of research with their communities, especially research occurring in their territories. Researchers are also ethically obligated to secure formal permissions from communities, be it review boards or tribal leadership, to conduct research with communities. An international and nationwide survey and repository of tribal research protocols would be a timely and significant contribution to our understanding of existing research partnerships and tribal review protocols. Moreover, a comprehensive survey could aid researchers, research institutions, and, more importantly, Native Nations wishing to engage communities or develop tribal review processes.

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Likewise, CBPR and TBR have established legacies in fostering mutually productive relationships between communities and research institutions, especially in the health sciences. While community-engagement practices are evolving in arts, humanities, and social sciences, much can be learned from these CBPR and TBR models that foreground the expressed needs and desires of Native Nations. In November 2022, the Tkaronto Collaborative Research for Communities, Land, and Education (CIRCLE) Lab, located at the Ontario Institutes for Studies in Education at the University of Toronto, launched the Collaborative Indigenous Research Digital Garden. This online interdisciplinary repository features over 200 collaborative and participatory research profiles (Tkaronto CIRCLE Lab, 2022). This website represents the breadth and depth of research collaborations with Indigenous communities, yet more can still be learned from examinations of modes of engagement across disciplines, such as health sciences, to develop research agendas and theoretical articulations of strategies for forming new and enhancing sustained research relationships in education. Political and legislative relationships between Native Nations and universities are growing in practice, yet less is known empirically about the background of relationships, mutual agreements, and the implementation of legislation. In recent years, more states and university systems have adopted policies regarding reduced or free tuition for members of federally recognized Native Nations. Similar to policies providing free tuition to students from low-income households (Gándara & Li, 2020), much can be learned about the immediate and long-term impact on Native American admissions – an increase in the number of applications, impact on admissions, and completion. Relatedly, given the newness of these policies, the institutional mechanisms for implementing these admission and tuition programs have yet to be studied, yet they will potentially have vast implications for practice at colleges and universities nationwide. Likewise, while there has been progress in forging institutional partnerships at select universities, it is essential to note that most institutions do not have written agreements with Native Nations. Moreover, there is limited research on the benefits of formal drafted for Native Nations, such as the partnership between MU and the Miami Tribe. While it is the sovereign right of Native Nations to release research on the success of these initiatives, such as the increase in student enrollment or the number of scholarships awarded to tribal citizens, others can learn much about the positive outcomes of entering formal relationships with colleges and universities. Many formal partnerships between these two entities are products of economic relationships, mainly donations or gifts from Native Nations to universities. Less is known about how colleges and universities report to Native Nations that have gifted monies. Overall, formal agreements present an area of research that can further tribal community–university partnerships nationwide, including the content and outcome of formally constituted relationships. Research on tribal liaison and special advisor positions is also extremely limited. Karen Francis-Begay is the primary author of existing research on these roles across US colleges and universities, yet much can be learned from personnel in these capacities. Similarly, Bringle et al. argue that service-learning courses are a critical step in developing engaged campuses (Bringle & Hatcher, 2002), but only one peer-

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reviewed article documents the service-learning experience of Native students (leaving vast ground to cover in such area (Nelson & Youngbull, 2015). Given the lack of research in these areas, any addition would be helpful. Nevertheless, empirical research understanding the Indigenous perspective of these positions and academic offerings is essential, particularly the tribal perspective.

Conclusion The primary goal of this chapter was to survey existing partnerships between Native Nations and Indigenous communities and postsecondary institutions and offer tribal community–university partnerships as an emerging area of study and framework. There are numerous reasons why Native communities and higher education institutions should enter formal partnerships; some logic relates to the institutional mission, while others relate to historical events that have had dire consequences for Native people. Nevertheless, postsecondary institutions should engage Native Nations in a government-to-government capacity, not as a special population with mutual goals but as sovereign governments with specific and unique interests. The benefits of partnerships are critical to the futures of Indigenous Peoples, thus an important matter of educational equity that has gone long unaddressed.

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Theresa Ambo is an assistant professor in the Department of Education Studies at the University of California, San Diego, and co-director of the Indigenous Futures Institute. She holds a Ph.D. in Education from the University of California, Los Angeles. Her research broadly considers the historical relationships and contemporary partnerships between Native Nations and postsecondary institutions.

Inclusion at the Center: Teaching and Learning in the Community College Context

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Audrey J. Jaeger, Kaitlin N. S. Newhouse, Ece Yilmaz, and Emily R. VanZoest

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Organization of the Chapter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Community Colleges in Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Contextualizing Community College Learners . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Contextualizing Community College Instructors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Learning from Community Colleges About Teaching Diverse Learners . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fundamentals of Teaching and Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . High-Impact Practices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Theories of Teaching Diverse Students . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Culturally Responsive Teaching . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Community-Engaged Teaching . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Theories of Learning for Diverse Students . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Andragogy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Self-Directed Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Transformative Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Aimee La Pointe Terosky was the Associate Editor for this chapter. A. J. Jaeger · K. N. S. Newhouse (*) · E. Yilmaz North Carolina State University, Raleigh, NC, USA e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected] E. R. VanZoest Belk Center for Community College Leadership and Research, North Carolina State University, Raleigh, NC, USA e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 39, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-38077-8_10

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Theory to Practice: Distance Education in Community Colleges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Student Motivations to Partake in Distance Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Distance Learning and Equity Gaps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fostering Inclusion Via Distance Learning Practices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Theory to Practice: Professional Learning in Teaching and Learning in Community Colleges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Professional Learning: Definitions and Objectives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Strategies and Approaches for Professional Learning on Teaching and Learning in Community Colleges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Challenges and Issues in Professional Learning on Teaching and Learning in Community Colleges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Promising Practices in Professional Learning on Teaching and Learning in Community Colleges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . More to Learn: Impacts of Professional Learning Around Teaching and Learning in Community Colleges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . North Carolina Teaching and Learning Hubs: A Statewide Professional Learning Opportunity Built Upon Promising Practices in Teaching and Learning in the Community College . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Invitations for Future Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abstract

Given that community colleges serve a broad swath of students with a broad swath of goals, expectations, and outcomes, exploring what we know about teaching and learning in the community college – where putting inclusion at the center of pedagogical practice is essential – may help educators and practitioners at all types of institutions serve diverse populations of students more successfully. The following chapter provides an overview of the community college context, including a review of what is known about students and instructors in the modern community college. We then highlight key theories of learning and teaching that are most applicable to diverse classroom settings and focus on two key areas – distance learning and instructor professional development – where these theories and promising practices are applied in the community college context, including a discussion of a first-of-its kind statewide professional development network serving the North Carolina community colleges. By centering community colleges and offering action-oriented solutions and recommendations, this chapter aims to guide scholars and practitioners who are invested in improving teaching and learning in higher education toward impactful future research. Keywords

Teaching and Learning · Community Colleges · Distance Education · Inclusive Teaching and Learning · Faculty · Diversity · Professional Development · Diverse Learners · Pedagogy

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Introduction The first community college in the United States was established in 1901, providing a modicum of college preparatory and vocational courses. Over the next century, community college programs continued to develop and expand across the country. They were significantly elevated in the educational arena during Barack Obama’s presidency (Chen, 2023). These colleges are now positioned as providing the greatest access and opportunity to postsecondary education for low-income, women, minoritized, and first-generation students (Malcom, 2013; Meier, 2013; Townsend & Twombly, 2007). At the same time, community colleges have often been unappreciated as compared to other postsecondary institutions (Hagedorn, 2010). In 2010, President Obama stated that community colleges “are places where anyone with a desire to learn and grow can take a chance on a brighter future for themselves and their families. . . they aren’t just the key to the future of their students, they are also one of the keys to the future of our country” (Chen, 2023, para. 5). He referred to community colleges as the “unsung heroes of America’s higher education system” and “a gateway to millions of Americans to good jobs and a better life” (Associated Press, 2010, 0:02–0:16). These realities present community colleges as a unique setting to explore teaching and learning as they take a leading role in providing the most diverse educational experiences to the most diverse student body. From workforce skills to credentials and degrees, to pathways to the baccalaureate, and developing personal and civic interests (Bahr & Gross, 2016; Cohen et al., 2013), community colleges provide a plethora of opportunities to consider teaching and learning contexts and strategies. Improving teaching and learning is not new to any postsecondary institution. Sufficient research has been collected to have multiple, extensive literature reviews addressing improvements in higher education teaching (Campbell, 2023), yet these reviews do not sufficiently address community college teaching and learning. For community college students, the classroom is their primary place of learning and academic engagement (Bradley & Graham, 2000; Kasworm, 2003). Students benefit from quality interactions with faculty (Lundberg, 2014) and in fact, community college students are more likely to persist when encouraged and validated by faculty (Deil-Amen, 2011), mentored by faculty (Barnett, 2011), and seen by faculty as supporting to their personal welfare (Braxton et al., 2004). Unlike faculty from other postsecondary education institutions, community college instructors see their primary responsibility as teaching and face unique challenges based on the diverse set of learners they teach. Community colleges enroll more than 10 million students in credit and noncredit programs (AACC, 2016). These learners are the most racially, economically, and demographically diverse of any student body (Cohen et al., 2013), and community college instructors often know students well and are uniquely positioned to intervene when a student needs support (Stout, 2018). Despite these conditions – and understanding that learning is fundamental to both the

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instructor and student experience – the majority of research focuses on “how, and in what ways students learn” and little know about how instructors learn and how that learning contributes to student success (Baker, 2016, p. 16). It is well-established in the literature that active learning techniques and effective instruction have proven positive outcomes for student learning (De Vlieger et al., 2016; Paolini, 2015). Instructors are essential for empowering community college students, improving career prospects, and promoting educational equity in community colleges. Approximately 67% of instructors are defined as part-time or adjunct (Hurlburt & McGarrah, 2016), and scholars suggest that students taught by part-time instructors have less favorable outcomes (i.e., persistence, retention, completion, and transfer) compared to those students taught by full-time instructors (Eagan & Jaeger, 2009; Ran & Xu, 2017; Yu et al., 2015). Therefore, fostering learning environments in community colleges that focus on student inclusivity and active pedagogical practices may yield positive outcomes for diverse learners.

Organization of the Chapter This chapter will begin by providing a review of the historical and demographic contexts of community colleges in the United States, situating community colleges as critical sites to understand and examine teaching and learning, with a focus on the diverse learners and learning environments. We then review the foundational literature on the promising practices and theories around teaching and learning, with an emphasis on those practices and theories that are especially relevant in the community college context. Next, we highlight two key areas – distance learning and professional learning for instructors – where community colleges have been at the forefront of innovating their practices to improve student outcomes, including a review of a recent state-wide professional development network for community college instructors in North Carolina. We conclude with an invitation for future research around teaching and learning in the community college context.

Community Colleges in Context Since their inception, community colleges have opened their doors to diverse student bodies with broad lived experiences. Although the functions of these colleges have developed and adapted over time based on the communities they serve, the legacy of their open access model remains today (Bailey & Morest, 2006; Dowd et al., 2020; Lichter et al., 2012). The community college open access commitment continues to attract students with diverse backgrounds and characteristics, education goals, and career aspirations (Bragg, 2001, 2011; Diener, 1994; Dougherty, 1994, 2002; Witt et al., 1994). The earliest community colleges served as an extension of high school, a differentiation from the more “elitist” university, with some vocational courses (Tillery & Deegan, 1985). Extensive growth in enrollment occurred with the passage of the GI Bill in the 1940s, when community colleges began offering education to the masses

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(Drury, 2003). The number of community colleges blossomed in the 1960s and 1970s with an average of one new community college opening each week (Cohen et al., 2013). Today, there are more than 1040 community colleges in the United States (AACC, 2016).

Contextualizing Community College Learners Community colleges educate, train, and support the most diverse group of students enrolled in postsecondary education – nearly 10 million students nationwide. Understanding this learner in the context of teaching and learning is critically important yet underrepresented in literature. Campbell’s (2023) recent book Great College Teaching documents highly effective teaching practices and policies. She notes that community colleges represent an increasingly important sector of postsecondary education, but that limited research exists on practices at these institutions and thus warrant further study of teaching. In 2020–2021, 8.9 million students were enrolled in community colleges in the United States, representing 41% of undergraduates (Community College Research Center [CCRC], 2013). The largest enrollments come from California, Texas, Illinois, New York, and North Carolina. And despite enrollment declines resulting from the COVID-19 pandemic, this percentage is relatively consistent with earlier data – specifically data from 2017, which showed that approximately 40% of all undergraduates attended community colleges that year (Ginder et al. 2018, p. 9, Table 5). The California Community Colleges system, the nation’s largest community college system, enrolls approximately two million students per year at their 116 colleges (California Community Colleges Chancellor’s Office [CCCCO], 2020), which represents approximately 20% of all community college students in the United States. Like other places across the country, the California Community Colleges were also significantly affected by the COVID-19 pandemic. Over a 2-year span between the fall of 2019 and the fall of 2021, their colleges lost nearly 300,000 students (Bulman & Fairlie, 2022). Online education was a common practice at many community colleges prior to the pandemic and has continued to grow in the aftermath due to its flexibility and convenience in accommodating the diverse needs of students who navigate multiple roles as students, parents, partners, caregivers, and employees (Bailey et al., 2015; Fox, 2017; Jaggars, 2014; Jaggars, 2018). In the fall of 2019, prior to the pandemic, community colleges were already serving approximately two million distance learners enrolled in at least one distance education course, constituting 36.8% of community college students, while 15% of community college students were exclusively enrolled in distance education courses (National Center for Education Statistics, 2020). In fall 2020, there was a significant increase in the number of community college students enrolling in online courses due to the COVID-19 pandemic (Sublett, 2022). During this period, just over 70% of community college students – about 3.3 million students – took at least one distance education course, and 48% of community college students were enrolled exclusively in distance education courses (National Center for Educational Statistics, 2021). In the fall of 2021, the percentage

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of community college distance learners remained high at 66.4%, with approximately three million students taking at least one distance education course (National Center for Educational Statistics, 2022). In the section on distance education practices in community colleges, we will further discuss teaching and learning insights gained from community college distance learning practices and explore how these insights can contribute to envisioning a more inclusive higher education system. In California and across the nation, community college enrollments have not returned to pre-pandemic levels, but are growing slightly through increases in dual enrolled high school students (Berg et al., 2023). Dual enrollment is defined as programs that allow high school students to earn college credit prior to high school graduation (An & Taylor, 2019; Fink et al., 2017). Students find that dual enrollment saves time and money, which can be an imperative for historically and systematically underrepresented racial and ethnic groups, as well as those from low-income backgrounds. But a recent report acknowledged that in four of five US school districts, these students don’t have equitable access to or success with dual enrollment programs (Mehl et al., 2020). In the report, the authors noted that on average, 12% of White students participated in dual enrollment as compared to only 7% of Black students and 8% of Hispanic students. Yet, community colleges and school systems across the country doubled the size of their dual enrollment programs over 8 years (Mehl et al., 2020; Patrick, 2019; Zinth & Barnett, 2018). Over the last decade, due in part to dual enrollment, the average age of community college students has decreased. Currently the average age of a community college student is 27 (AACC, 2016). In 2023, 57% of students were younger than 22 years old and only 8% of students were over 40 years of age, compared to 2015–2016 when more than half of community college students were over 40 years of age (Campbell & Wescott, 2019, p. 6, Table 1.1). Dual enrollment programs at community colleges were designed to increase access to college and postsecondary degree attainment, but present challenges to instructors with the significantly diverse population of students they educate (Ison & Nguyen, 2021). For instance, community college instructors are sometimes teaching high school students in a high school setting while also teaching older adults on the community college campus. The diverse learners in community colleges create a unique teaching context for instructors. It is critical to meet students where they are in terms of logistical, connectivity, and life circumstances (Barricklow, 2023). One of the most common logistical challenges for students is proximity to education. Community colleges are unique in that they are found in the most urban and most rural parts of states. Rural students are often geographically bound (Baber et al., 2019), and community colleges are strategically placed to provide easy access to postsecondary education (Baber et al., 2019). For example, in North Carolina, a community college is located within a “30-minute drive of its citizens” (North Carolina Community College System [NCCCS], 2023). Nationally, rural community colleges make up more than half of all community colleges (Eddy et al., 2019) and serve 3.4 million students (Rural Community College Alliance, n.d.). These rural institutions are the most reliable means of economic and social mobility (Carnevale & Strohl, 2011; Salomon-Fernandez, 2019; Urahn et al., 2012). Rurality, apart from controlling for

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socioeconomic status, may cause unique obstacles for postsecondary attainment for rural versus nonrural students (Wells et al., 2019). Rural communities are often under-resourced and underserved, with limited infrastructure, thus presenting distinct challenges for students and faculty. Consistent with their mission to serve all students, community colleges provide postsecondary education for more low-income and first-generation students, because their tuition and fees are lower than other postsecondary institutions. A greater portion of community college students come from low-income backgrounds as compared to baccalaureate degree granting institutions (Ma & Baum, 2016; Fry & Cilluffo, 2019). And according to Fry & Cilluffo, (2019), the share of dependent students at community colleges who are in poverty has doubled – rising 14% from 1996 to 2016. Despite the fact that the average cost of attending a public community college for 1 year is $3860 – compared to $10,940 at public, baccalaureate degree granting institutions – 56% of students attending community colleges receive financial aid, 44% receive federal grants, and many others attend college tuition-free (AACC, 2016). Even with lower costs and financial aid assistance, a community college education may still be unattainable to many. Many community college enrollees are also more likely to face food and housing insecurity (Fry & Cilluffo, 2019; Goldrick-Rab et al., 2017). In fact, as many as two-thirds of those enrolled in community colleges may experience food insecurity (Ahmed et al., 2023). According to Goldrick-Rab et al. (2017), 53% of rural community college students faced food insecurity while 11% were homeless. Often, these students are also challenged by transportation issues. Although they may have sought a rural community college because of its close proximity, without adequate public transportation in rural areas, students are challenged to get to and from campus (Smith, 2016). More than half of the undergraduates attending community colleges in 2023 identify as people of color, further illustrating how these institutions serve a racially diverse group of students. In fact, according to the American Association of Community Colleges (AACC, 2016), 27% of community college students are Hispanic, 12% are Black, 6% are Asian/Pacific Islander, 4% are two or more races, and 1% are Native American. More than 50% of all students who identify as Hispanic in higher education attend a community college (AACC, 2016). However, it is not only racially minoritized students who are more likely to attend a community college. Adult learners, economically disadvantaged students, part-time students, firstgeneration students, students who are single parents, and other diverse populations are also attending community colleges at higher rates than their 4-year counterparts (AACC, 2016; Hagedorn, 2010; Levin, 2014). Within this student population, approximately 66% attend part-time, as the majority (59%) of community college students are also full-time employees (AACC, 2016; Ma & Baum, 2016). These numbers represent the critical role community colleges play in providing access to higher education for historically underserved and underrepresented groups. The diversity of the community college learner is a critical reason to better understand teaching and learning in the community college context. Baber and colleagues note,

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“Structural or compositional diversity is a significant feature of many community colleges as open access, low-costs, and flexible delivery of content fosters the presence of learners from traditionally underrepresented populations – students of color, first-generation students, students from low income backgrounds, returning adults, and/or students from immigrant families” (Baber et al, 2019, p. 2018).

The authors also note that academic failure is often viewed as a reflection of student characteristics instead of a “complex pattern of historical developments, sociocultural structures, and pedagogical practices that persist beyond the access point” (p. 219). The learning that takes place in the community college classroom can shed light on systemic barriers faced by students and how colleges, particularly, can support students through their own learning. Recognizing the institutional presence of diverse populations is a precondition, according to Baber et al. (2019), “for individual and collective meaning-making across differences” (p. 221). This chapter highlights the compositional diversity of community colleges and suggests that the institutions are a unique place for meaning-making in the teaching and learning space, as it represents the most diverse population of students in any institution of higher education, as well as a faculty that spends the majority of their time supporting the teaching and learning mission.

Diverse Learners, Diverse Goals The diverse learners attending community colleges have a vast array of goals for attending, which highlights the variety of missions of community colleges nationwide. Cohen et al. (2013) describe community colleges as “comprehensive,” offering a range of program offerings including short- and long-term certificates, workforce-oriented credentials and degrees, transfer-degrees, basic skills education, and other personal and professional growth opportunities. According to AACC (2016), 6.1 million community college students are enrolled in credit opportunities – which primarily include associate degrees – and another 4.1 million students are enrolled in noncredit courses. In 2020–2021, these institutions awarded 877,240 associate degrees, 592,863 certificates, and 25,023 baccalaureate degrees. Of students seeking an associate degree, most are pursuing a degree in Liberal Arts and Sciences, General Studies and Humanities that is intended to transfer to a baccalaureate degree granting institution (Berg et al., 2023). Although Table 1 shows declines in enrollment stemming from the COVID-19 pandemic, four of the top five majors reflect our current workforce needs. For example, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, science, technology, engineering, and math (STEM) positions are projected to grow at nearly twice the rate of the overall workforce (Laughlin et al., 2022; Mathieson et al., 2023). As the need for high-skilled workers increases, so too has the importance of workforce development at community colleges. Education to meet the demands of new industry is likely to take place at the community college. Students also recognize the strong relationship between college credentials and increased incomes (Carnevale et al., 2011, 2019). Community colleges are responding to local, regional, and national labor market trends and business demands for high-quality

Enrollment 395,042

166,673

112,790

47,756

34,336

Enrollment 409,230

165,650

112,659

46,841

36,127

Spring 2020

47,497

31,003


5.0%

109,547

162,505

Enrollment 370,795

2.0%

0.1%

0.6%

% Change from Previous Year
3.5%

Spring 2021

102,747

45,753


2.9%
0.5%

28,797

143,982


2.5%


9.7%

Enrollment 357,967

% Change from Previous Year
6.1%

Spring 2022


7.1%


3.7%


6.2%


11.4%

% Change from Previous Year
3.5%

26,473

49,370

99,915

137,573

Enrollment 344,784

Spring 2023


8.1%

7.9%


2.8%


4.5%

% Change from Previous Year
3.7%

Note. Adapted from Table 11 of Current Term Enrollment Estimates: Spring 2023, by B. Berg et al., May 2023, Herndon, VA: National Student Clearinghouse

CIP Title Liberal Arts and Sciences, General Studies and Humanities Health Professions and Related Clinical Sciences Business Management, Marketing, and Related Support Computer and Information Sciences and Support Services Security and Protective Services

Spring 2019

Table 1 Estimated undergraduate enrollment by Major at primarily Associate Degree Granting Baccalaureate Institutions (PABs): 2019 to 2023

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employees (DeLoach et al., 2023). At the Georgetown University Center for Education and the Workforce, Carnevale et al. (2012) report an 800% increase in pre-baccalaureate certificates since the early 1970s. Carnevale (2017) adds that we do not know enough about how students learn and succeed in these programs. While others (Baber et al., 2019) caution the dependence of community colleges on business and industry, there is also a growing need to offer students a pathway to a higher living wage and thus a better quality of life. Community colleges offer far more than associate degrees and workforce credentials. They offer substantial development education opportunities (also known as remedial, compensatory, preparatory, or basic skills) (Cohen et al., 2013). Developmental education courses are designed to help address variation in academic preparation for college by providing students with the skills necessary to successfully complete college-level courses in math and English, seen as the fundamental building blocks of most credentials or degrees (Bailey, 2009a; Bickerstaff et al., 2022; Kozeracki, 2002). Notably, for the past several decades, much of the policy and discourse around teaching and learning in the community college has centered on developmental education, likely because more than half of all first-year students who enroll in community colleges have taken a developmental education course (Bailey, 2009b; Cox, 2018; Jaggars & Stacey, 2014; Kozeracki, 2002). Accordingly, much has been written about developmental education and reforms in community colleges and a full review of that literature is beyond the scope of this chapter. However, we note that the most recent review of the evidence of the impacts of different forms of developmental education suggest that more inclusive practices that aim to support diverse learners – such as reducing the barriers to entry into college-level courses, providing holistic resources to meet students’ needs inside and outside of the classroom, and using student-centered materials and pedagogies – seem to show the most promise in improving academic outcomes among community college students (Bickerstaff et al., 2022). Beyond developmental education, community colleges also enroll hundreds of thousands of students in continuing education courses that create an “unbounded universe of lifelong learning” (Cohen et al., 2013, p. 28). These colleges also enroll reverse transfer students who leave their original 4-year institution and enroll at a community college or less-than-2-year institution for a consecutive amount of time. As previously discussed, community colleges also enroll growing numbers of dual enrollment students. In 2019, dual enrollment students accounted for 16% of community college students nationwide (Knox, 2022). These diverse learners, high school students, adults returning to college, and community members seeking continuing education, make the community college an especially fruitful, though potentially challenging, environment to examine teaching and learning.

Challenges and Opportunities for Community Colleges in Serving Diverse Learners Although the community college serves as a unique institution to study teaching and learning, the weak credential completion rates suggest there is still room for growth to support students inside and outside the classroom. Because of this, scholars are

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highly critical of some community college outcomes, including remedial and gatekeeper courses, completion, transfer, and post transfer (Bailey, 2016; Hagedorn, 2010; Lester, 2014; Wang, 2017). Others have documented the access/success agenda (see Lester, 2014; O’Banion & Culp, 2020) and the challenges for community colleges in improving student success. Wyner (2017) denoted three time periods along this agenda: If the access mission around which community colleges were founded and expanded was in essence the 1.0 version of the community college, and the completion-focused shifts of the past decade signal version 2.0, this lecture argues that we must now look ahead to version 3.0: community colleges that are fully focused in their missions and practices to the student outcomes after graduation that make community colleges vital to students and communities. (p. 2)

Although access is a central element of the community college mission and continues to be a priority because of economic and social barriers for students (O’Banion, 2013), the documented poor student outcomes for community colleges has increased calls for accountability and reporting. These calls are driven by the large numbers of students attending community colleges but not completing a credential. Underwhelming student outcomes – such as 14% of students starting in community colleges, transferring and earning a baccalaureate within 6 years, and only 32% of students earning a certificate or associate degree within 6 years (Jenkins & Fink, 2016) – stimulated national conversations about performance metrics. This push for performance measures and accurate data was not without skeptics, but the possibility of illuminating processes, policies, and practices that maintain and create social and educational inequities (Baber et al., 2019) continues to drive local, state, and national conversations. Persistent gaps in completion and transfer for students from diverse backgrounds (Crisp & Nuñez, 2014; Shapiro et al., 2017a, b) highlights the need to better understand teachers and learners together in the community college while also providing sufficient, quality professional learning for instructors. The large number of diverse and academically underprepared students arriving at community colleges, along with low numbers for those being retained, transferring, or completing a credential (Hagedorn, 2010; Wyner, 2017), suggest teaching practices and learning experiences in the community college classroom deserve greater attention (Wang, 2017). Students and instructors bring their unique identities, lived experiences, and even traumas into the community college classroom, a space which is not isolated from the outside world (Doran, 2021). Therefore, neither teaching nor learning in the community college context is an easy task. Community college students face challenges incorporating their courses and other educational activities into their schedules because of part-time or full-time employment, family obligations and childcare responsibilities, or other commitments (Cohen et al., 2013). All these unique challenges create diverse student needs and have distinct implications for serving diverse learners. Teaching a socioeconomically diverse student population in community colleges necessitates an in-depth understanding of their unique needs and challenges to build

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classroom environments that are attentive to students’ social, academic, and noncognitive needs (Gilken & Johnson, 2019). As a response to diverse student needs, some interventions, such as personalized instruction and academic and nonacademic student support, are significant in fostering inclusive and equitable classroom environments (Baugus, 2020; Jones, 2019). To better serve diverse learners, it is crucial to understand the diverse learning needs of students in community colleges and examine their implications for effective, inclusive, and equitable teaching strategies (Hurtado et al., 2012). Given the overrepresentation of Black and Latine students in community college enrollments (Baylor, 2016), it is essential to understand the implications of this racial composition for community college teaching and learning. Such an understanding helps instructors develop effective teaching strategies that promote inclusion and equitable student outcomes as these students may have different learning needs and styles (Cejda & Hoover, 2010; Jones, 2019). For example, Cejda and Hoover (2010) found that “culture matters when working with Latine students” (p. 150). An understanding of Hispanic cultures, as well as knowledge of learning styles and preferences of Latine students (e.g., preference for collaborative learning over more individualistic and competitive tasks), helped instructors engage Latine learners more meaningfully. Community college instructors in this study who successfully supported the academic achievement of Latine students underscored the significance of acquiring knowledge and sensitivity toward Hispanic cultures. They incorporated students’ cultural backgrounds into classroom assignments and discussions and emphasized the relevance of their culture to course content. Additionally, these instructors recognized the value placed on community over individualism by Latine students, and they integrated community issues and social justice topics into their teaching to bridge abstract theories with their practical, real-life, and work applications (Cejda & Hoover, 2010). Similarly, Jones’ (2019) study highlighted the importance of cultural sensitivity to Black men’s needs in the community college classroom. These students benefited from having culturally sensitive instructors who acknowledged the strengths of Black men and demonstrated a strong commitment to the community. The students also benefited from personalized instruction and validation from instructors during class lectures. Instructors also had a crucial role in providing support beyond the classroom – helping Black men surmount fears and instilling confidence in their ability to meet higher educational standards. Building meaningful connections with the community college instructors improved Black men’s sense of belonging and self-efficacy. In addition to the racial diversity among community college students, community college students are also more likely to have familial and care-giving responsibilities compared to their peers in 4-year institutions. The learning needs of parenting students may differ from those who do not have similar responsibilities. Existing research reveals challenges for parenting students in community colleges, particularly in terms of attaining their academic goals while raising and caring for children (Gardea-Hernández, 2022; Huerta et al., 2022; Manze et al., 2022; Sallee & Cox, 2019). Balancing multiple roles, these students benefit from teaching strategies that

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demonstrate greater flexibility (e.g., assignment and testing deadlines) (Manze et al., 2022). Considering the characteristics of community college student populations, it is also important to understand the learning needs of rural and low-income students. Existing research identifies some common challenges such as “inadequate broadband connectivity, lacking public transportation, and limited access to affordable high-quality childcare” (Rush-Marlowe, 2021, p. 3). These learner needs demonstrate the significance of addressing students’ nonacademic needs for better academic outcomes, highlighting that learning is not merely dependent on the availability of academic support (Baugus, 2020). For example, the Jefferson Community school program, which offered a food pantry, transportation, and childcare for enrolled students, was implemented to address nonacademic needs of students attending a rural community college in northern New York. The persistence and retention rates of those who participated in this program was an indicator for the importance of nonacademic support for students with fewer resources (Baugus, 2020). The COVID-19 pandemic demonstrated the role of nonacademic support systems in supporting learning in community colleges. Many community college students face challenges in accessing the internet, and even those who have access to the technology they need often experience difficulties in maintaining their regular class schedules due to various other challenges of the pandemic. Some of these challenges are related to managing childcare responsibilities, teaching their children full-time, navigating other obligations, changes in work schedules, and employment uncertainties. A number of students have also experienced extreme situations, such as becoming homeless due to dorm closures (Neuwirth et al., 2021). When these nonacademic needs are not met, learning remains a challenge in community colleges. An in-depth understanding of the community college student populations is necessary to truly comprehend the complexities of serving diverse learners in community colleges. These students’ needs extend beyond academic support needs. In such a context, a holistic approach to addressing academic and nonacademic needs is essential to support student learning. In this section, we aimed to reveal a broad range of academic and nonacademic needs that can vary among student populations (e.g., student needs for validation, culturally responsive instructional strategies, instructional flexibility, and financial support).

Contextualizing Community College Instructors According to the National Center for Educational Statistics (NCES), there are more than 261,123 instructional employees at community colleges in the United States – 65% of whom are employed part-time (NCES, 2021). Of the associate degree granting institutions’ full-time faculty (approximately 90,000), roughly 52% are tenured or on the tenure track [not all community colleges have ranking systems]; whereas more than 35% are on annual contracts. Notably, community college faculty

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are not as racially diverse as their students (Espinosa et al., 2019; Office of Planning, Evaluation and Policy Development, 2016; Stout, 2018). Of the full-time faculty at community colleges in 2021, just over 22% were people of color and 55% were women (NCES, 2021). However, it is important to highlight that while community college instructors may not be fully representative of their students, they are more racially/ethnically and gender diverse than faculty at 4-year colleges and universities. Further, community college instructors vary extensively in their backgrounds, experiences, and preparation, and play a wide variety of roles within their institutions. For example, through structured interviews with faculty in rural Virginia, Finnegan (2019) found that rural faculty, like other community college faculty, view themselves as instructors first, despite also filling significant other roles for students. For example, while these instructors were primarily responsible for teaching large numbers of underprepared students with diverse backgrounds and cultural views, they also served as transportation and technology managers; advisors and role models; social workers addressing food insecurity, opioid addiction, mental health issues, housing insecurities and more; and economic developers within their communities (Finnegan, 2019). Accordingly, these roles required significantly different types of professional development that are often rare or nonexistent in community colleges. Few instructors at community colleges would describe their role similar to university faculty, where teaching, research, and service are the primary activities. Instead, at community colleges, the number of hours in the classroom is large and the diversity of students’ needs leaves community college instructors with limited discretionary time for research or scholarship (Morest, 2015). In some ways, this is unsurprising as instructors’ responsibilities are aligned with the teaching mission of the community college. Townsend and Twombly’s (2007) review of literature on community college faculty emphasizes that central teaching role: “given the community college’s overarching mission of providing open access to higher education, the most important role of community college faculty members is to teach, and they do teach” (p. 37). Further, community college instructor workloads rarely feature research or scholarship (Cohen et al., 2013). However, Hagedorn (2015) suggests that community college instructors engage in a different kind of research, one that is based on improving teaching and developing curriculum and is immediately relevant to the classroom. She adds that scholarship is similar to what Cross (1990) defined as, “any systematic inquiry designed and conducted for the purpose of increasing insight and understanding of the relationship between teaching and learning,” (p. 136). Additionally, community college instructors represent varying disciplines and through socialization, Palmer (2015) shares that the community colleges foster the abstention of scholarly work beyond teaching. There are too few resources and too little time to engage in scholarship, yet, he adds that academic disciplinary organizations are one place for instructors to find their voice and legitimize their work within the discipline. The 2022 Community College Faculty Survey of Student Engagement (CCFSSE) provides further insights into how community college instructors spend their time.

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The CCFSSE was administered to 105 institutions and 9856 instructors (CCCSE, 2022). Of those that responded, 62% were full-time and 53% were women. The majority were older than 40 and identified as White. In a typical 7-day week, 28.5% of full-time and 5.2% of part-time instructors spent 17 or more hours teaching. Further, CCFSSE results indicated that instructors often teach the same course, with 41.4% of full-time and 28.5% of part-time, having taught a selected course 21 or more times. Conversely, most instructors reported spending little time on scholarship, with 70.9% of part-time and 71.4% of full-time instructors indicating spending four or less hours on research and scholarly activities. In terms of service, 23.5% of part-time instructors spent one to four hours of administrative work as compared to 37.1% of full-time faculty. Almost all respondents (97.4% of part-time faculty and 98.5% of full-time faculty) indicated professional development was made available and the majority of both groups took advantage of the professional development, with 69.6% of part-time instructors and 90.9% of full-time instructors engaging. Many instructors indicated that professional development was a required part of their teaching role (77.2% of full-time and 43.6% of part-time); although, only 8.1% of part-time instructors indicated they received release time for the professional development as compared to 18.6% of full-time instructors. These data paint a picture of how instructors are spending the majority of their time, and it is clear that most of it is spent in the classroom or in classroom-related activities, leaving limited time for all other work and for professional development to improve their teaching. As scholarship also suggests the preeminence of the classroom for student engagement and learning at the community college (Lundberg, 2014), seeking to better understand the teaching and learning experiences of instructors and students at community colleges is critical.

Learning from Community Colleges About Teaching Diverse Learners As reviewed above, community colleges in the United States serve the most diverse population of students pursuing a post-secondary degree, due in large part to their democratic mission (Baime & Baum, 2016; Cohen et al., 2013). This orientation to education requires that community colleges place an emphasis on inclusion in their practices, ensuring broad access and supporting the goals of those who enroll regardless of academic preparation, identity, age, professional aspirations, or any other characteristics. Further, because of this orientation, the diverse backgrounds and goals of the students, and the structural organization of community colleges, community college students, unlike their counterparts at 4-year institutions, spend nearly all of their time “in college” in the classroom, rather than in residence halls, with clubs and organizations, doing research, or the myriad of other activities with which students engage on a primarily residential campus (Lundberg, 2014). In other words, teaching and learning is not merely one aspect among many, but rather the primary facet of the college experience among community college students. Taken

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together, we assert that community colleges provide an especially useful context from which many lessons can be learned about teaching diverse learners. Yet, community colleges are understudied compared to predominantly White, 4-year institutions in general (Chambers & Freeman, 2017; Gulley, 2021; Kiyama et al., 2017), and this is true of the teaching and learning literature as well. In fact, despite increased calls for accountability and performance-based funding (Kelderman, 2019), there is still uncertainty about to what extent and how specific teaching practices might impact a wide variety of critical student learning outcomes, including pass rates, retention, completion, and transfer. Accordingly, in this chapter, we examine some of what is known about fundamental theories and high-impact practices for teaching and learning as applied to community college environments, and then highlight two areas of practice wherein community colleges have invested significant resources to improve teaching and learning in an effort to better serve diverse learners: distance learning and professional development and learning for instructors. We selected these two areas both because there was a robust body of literature on these topics to review, and because they speak more broadly to teaching and learning challenges that have been present for a long time across all sectors of higher education but were further exacerbated by COVID-19 in 2020. To be sure, the context for teaching and learning in 2023 is much different than it was less than a handful of years ago. As such, our goal in this review is to highlight specific challenges and promising practices around teaching and learning in the community college as a means to provide insights around persistent disparities across the educational spectrum. Further, in accordance with the ethos of our community college colleagues, we emphasize what is known about specific practices that have been successful in the community college context, in an attempt to demonstrate where theory and research have informed action. In summation, given that community colleges serve a broad swath of students with a broad swath of goals, expectations, and outcomes, exploring what we know about teaching and learning in the community college – where putting inclusion at the center of pedagogical practice is essential – may help educators and practitioners at all types of institutions serve diverse populations of students more successfully.

Fundamentals of Teaching and Learning Responding to the workforce demands of today and tomorrow, higher education institutions are investing in innovative teaching and learning practices to help students tackle the world’s most pressing societal problems. Community colleges in regions big and small are centering practical teaching and learning strategies to directly meet the needs of employers in local communities (Cook, 2015). Prior to diving into the various facets of teaching and learning in community colleges, this section will explore the fundamental elements of teaching and learning more broadly across institutional types. In higher education, we often think of teaching and learning as a cohesive pairing – learning cannot happen without teaching and vice

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versa. But these two concepts should be explored independently to understand the nuances attributed to each before examining them together. This section will examine foundational elements of teaching and learning in community colleges, including effective teaching and learning tactics, fundamental theories, and examples of community college students undergoing learning in their own ways. In 1988, the American Association of Community Colleges (AACC) documented in its Building Communities: A Vision for a New Century report that teaching should be at the forefront of the community college vision (American Association of Community Colleges 1988). This report stated, “The community college should be a nation’s premier teaching institution. Quality instruction should be at the hallmark of the movement” (p. 25). More than 35 years later, teaching remains the cornerstone of community colleges around the United States. Teaching in higher education is defined as developing students’ ways of thinking, acting, and approaching a field of study and practice (Dall’Alba, 1994). This definition involves providing students with experiences necessary to apply what they are learning to real-world scenarios they would encounter in the community. To execute these applied teaching methods, community college instructors must hone their pedagogical skills to meet students’ needs. Pedagogy is the study of being a teacher and delivering educational content with the goal of enhancing student knowledge (Sengupta et al., 2021), and was originally applied in the context of children’s education. Salazar (2013) argues that the goal of pedagogy is to decipher how to help students learn more effectively, and how to meet the various learning needs of diverse students. This necessitates a reflexive mindset that involves the instructor critically reflecting on their own teaching practices to teach students of color, low-income students, students with disabilities, adult learners, veterans, and student parents, among other student populations. Learning is the process of acquiring knowledge, skills, or competencies through academic programs or experiences, and could look different for each of these student groups (Brown et al., 2014). Learning specifically at a community college takes on new meaning with a broad array of curriculum and continuing education programs that require different kinds of teaching in the classroom. Community colleges typically offer associate degree programs, certificate programs, and vocational training in areas like cosmetology, healthcare, or information technology (Jepson et al., 2014). With such a variety of program types – and the positionality within the community – student learning takes place formally and informally in the community college. Formal learning is a more structured or organized form of learning that most often takes place in an educational setting (Malcolm et al., 2003). For example, an instructor in the English department may conduct a lecture on intercultural communication in a classroom setting. There is often a clear objective for the students, and these objectives guide the instruction and assignments. Assessment for formal learning include tests, exams, projects, or other measures that evaluate a student’s understanding of the material. Further, formal learning is typically associated with a credential, such as a grade in a course, or a degree or certificate that demonstrates completion of a program. Informal or nonformal learning, on the other hand, is a more spontaneous and self-directed learning approach that takes place through experiences and interactions

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with others (Park, 2008). Although it can take place on a college campus, it does not typically happen in an educational setting or in a formal classroom setting. Informal learning does not follow a structured curriculum, and draws from a student’s lived experiences at work, at home, or in the community through leisure activities, family, or work (Nygren et al., 2019). Steven, for example, an adult student in his 70s, had lived a full life as a helicopter mechanic during the Vietnam War before running a nursery and florist shop in rural North Carolina. When his wife of 53 years was diagnosed with cancer later in life, becoming her caretaker inspired Steven to return to community college to become a nurse. The informal learning Steven did at home with his wife inspired his later-in-life career trajectory. Community colleges lead the way in recognizing and supporting the informal learning of prospective and current students, which broadens the teaching and learning conversation in unique ways. Teaching and learning with diverse students in mind require recognizing and addressing the unique needs, backgrounds, and characteristics of students. It aims to create an inclusive and equitable learning environment where each and every student feels valued, supported, and empowered. By exploring teaching and learning tactics and theories in a community college context, readers can identify innumerable opportunities for future research that would benefit learners in all settings.

High-Impact Practices High-impact practices (HIPs) are educational practices that research has shown to increase rates of student retention, student engagement, and persistence to graduation for students across diverse backgrounds (Kuh, 2008). HIPs are active learning practices that promote deep and transformative learning by promoting student engagement within the academy (Kuh & O’Donnell, 2013). Kuh identified 10 learning experiences as high-impact practices for undergraduate students, but there are undoubtedly more available as colleges continue to expand their services to students. These HIPs, as defined by the American Association of Colleges and Universities, include: • Capstone Courses and Projects – Projects at the end of a student’s undergraduate program that culminate experiences into a project that integrates and applies what they have learned. Capstone projects include a paper, performance, portfolio and highlighted work, or exhibition of artwork. These programs are offered both in the departmental program or in general education. • Collaborative Assignments and Projects – Collaborative assignments have two primary goals: learning to work and solve problems with others and honing one’s understanding by listening to the insights of others with diverse perspectives. Examples of collaborative assignments/projects include study groups, team-based assignments or writing, and cooperative undergraduate research. • Common Intellectual Experiences – Students might share a set of required common courses or a vertically organized general education program that

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includes advanced integrative studies and/or required participating in a learning community with common goals or interests. These programs often combine broad themes, like technology and society, or global politics, and have a variety of curricular or co-curricular options for students. Diversity/Global Learning – Many colleges and universities are emphasizing courses and programs that allow students to explore different cultures and life experiences in a globalized world. These studies often explore differences among groups of people, such as race, ethnicity, gender, disability, global human rights, freedom, and power. This learning might take place through study abroad or an international learning community. ePortfolios – ePortfolios allow students to collect on their work over time, reflect on their growth, and share selected items with others, including professors, advisors, and potential employers. First-Year Seminars and Experiences – Community colleges often have a firstyear student success or college transition class for all incoming students with the goal of bringing small groups of students and instructors together. These first-year experiences often place an emphasis on critical thinking, writing, information literacy, collaborative learning, and other skills that allow students to build practical competencies that will help them in college. Internships – Internships are a form of experiential learning that typically take place in a student’s field of study. They provide students with direct experience in a work setting with coaching and supervision from someone in the field. Internships can be taken for credit or experience only and may be paid or unpaid. Learning Communities – Learning communities allow the integration of learning across courses and involve students with critical questions that matter beyond the classroom. In learning communities, students take two or more linked courses as a group and work closely with one another and their professors. Many learning communities explore a common topic or have a shared reading. Service Learning and Community-Based Learning – By participating in fieldbased experiential learning with community partners, students have direct experience with issues they are studying in the curriculum and with ongoing efforts to solve problems in the community. A key component is to have students apply what they are learning in real-world settings, and later, reflect in a classroom setting on their service experiences. Undergraduate Research – While not as applicable in community colleges, many 4-year institutions are now providing research experiences for undergraduate students. This most often happens in science, technology, engineering, and math (STEM) fields, and allows students to learn key concepts of research and systematic investigation. The goal of undergraduate research is to involve students with research questions, empirical observation, technology, and ideally a sense of excitement around the research process. Writing-Intensive Courses – Writing intensive courses emphasize writing at all levels of instruction. Students are encouraged to provide and revise various forms of writing for many different audiences and many different purposes. These

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courses help with quantitative reasoning, oral communication, information literacy, and ethical inquiry. However, community colleges and four-year institutions have different infrastructures and priorities for student success. The Center for Community College Student Engagement (CCCSE) (Center for Community College Student Engagement [CCCSE], 2014) defined a series of HIPs specifically for community college students. Several of these HIPs are the same or similar to four-year institutions but have been adapted for community college students based on specific student service offerings. Others are new and specifically developed with community colleges in mind. The CCCSE’s HIPs for community colleges include: • Orientation – A single event or a structured experience, orientation helps students become familiar with the community college, its services, policies, and organizations. During orientation, students can build a network of support, develop an academic plan, and set individual goals for their educational journeys. • Accelerated or Fast-Track Developmental Education – Accelerated courses help students move more quickly through developmental courses in order to move on to college-level work. Colleges are adopting 8-week or mini-mesters (short for miniature semesters) for many of their courses to help students reduce time to degree. • First-Year Experience – First-year experience courses are offered in-class or outof-class during a student’s first term or year at community college. • Student Success Course – Student success coaches are specifically designed to teach students the skills and strategies necessary to succeed in community college, including time management, study skills, and test-taking skills. Some colleges are revising their advising models so that instructors for these courses are also advisors for the students throughout their time at the college. • Learning Community – These communities involve two or more linked courses that a group of students take together. • Academic Goal Setting and Planning – Usually done with an academic advisor or a success coach, this type of advising creates a path to help students reach their educational goals. • Experiential Learning Beyond the Classroom – At a community college, experiential learning takes place via co-op experiences, internships, apprenticeships, field experiences, clinical assignments, and community-based projects. • Tutoring – Tutoring is academic assistance that is provided outside of the classroom, typically in a group or one-on-one setting. • Supplemental Instruction – Supplemental instruction typically involves a regularly scheduled, supplemental class for a portion of students enrolled in a larger course section. As many of the four-year university HIPs can be applied to community colleges, so too can community college practices be applied to four-year institutions. HIPs at 4-year institutions help students pursuing a bachelor’s degree reach that educational

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attainment goal by participating in practices like internships, ePortfolios, or capstone courses that serve as a culmination of a student’s educational journey. HIPs in community colleges aim to supplement students specifically pursuing an associate degree or certificate program or aim to transfer to a four-year institution. Evaluation of high-impact practices is still needed at the community college level. In their book Promising and High-Impact Practices: Student Success Programs in the Community College Context, community college scholars Crisp et al., (2016) address HIPs in the community college setting. In the book, researchers Nancy Acevedo-Gil and Desiree Zerquera (2016, Chap. 6) use qualitative interviews to hear directly from students about their high-impact first-year experience program. Twenty-four student participants – all of whom were low-income students and identified as students of color – shared their thoughts about information transmittal, the transfer process, and interactions with an advisor. This first-year experience program aimed to improve student preparation, retention, and transfer for first-year students who were placed into developmental courses. Findings showed that students who enrolled in a first-year experience course were motivated by family members and peers who attended community college and said the course was an essential resource to reach their goals.

Theories of Teaching Diverse Students Given the established fundamentals of teaching and learning outlined above, in the following section we review commonly applied theories of both teaching and learning, with an emphasis on those that are most applicable to the community college setting and the diverse learners they serve. Because the classroom is where community college students spend the majority of their time when at the college, a focus on ensuring that learning has maximized potential to impact student success is paramount (Harrington et al., 2021). First, we centralize the development, improvement, and implementation of theories focused on pedagogical and andrological practice related to culturally responsive and community-engaged teaching. Then, we describe foundational theories for diverse student learning, including andragogy, self-directed learning, and transformative learning.

Culturally Responsive Teaching The community college’s open-door mission necessitates equity and inclusion of all learners, regardless of cultural backgrounds (Smith & Ayers, 2006). Given that community colleges serve a diverse student population, educators and scholars in the community college context should take into account various needs that stem from cultural and familial backgrounds and prior experiences while designing teaching and learning (Doran, 2021; Kiyama et al., 2017). Considering this diversity, culturally responsive teaching practices emerge as an effective pedagogical tool and highlight the fact that traditional curricula and teaching methods were designed for

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dominant identities – including White, middle-class, able-bodied, and heterosexual individuals – which often fail to meet the needs and experiences of underrepresented students (Garrett et al., 2021). Scholars have used terms such as “culturally-relevant teaching,” “culturallyresponsive teaching,” and “culturally-sustaining pedagogies” to emphasize the significance of addressing students’ diverse learning needs in teaching. Ladson-Billings (1995) used culturally relevant teaching as a pedagogy, emphasizing the importance of students’ academic success – and developing and maintaining their cultural competence – while cultivating critical consciousness to question and challenge the existing norms and structures of the prevailing societal system. Gay (2002) used the term culturally responsive teaching and defined it as “using the cultural characteristics, experiences, and perspectives of ethnically diverse students as conduits for teaching them more effectively” (p. 106). Paris (2012) offered the term culturally sustaining pedagogy as an alternative to culturally relevant and culturally responsive pedagogies, highlighting the need for moving beyond teaching that is culturally responsive and relevant and supporting students in preserving “the cultural and linguistic competence of their communities while simultaneously offering access to dominant cultural competence” (p. 95). What unifies the different interpretations and definitions of the term is the acknowledgment that students’ cultural values, identities, and literacies hold significance in teaching and learning (Garrett et al., 2021). Culturally responsive pedagogy acknowledges students’ diverse cultural backgrounds and identities and considers these in the instructional design and delivery (Alfred, 2009). The dynamic nature of culture informs culturally responsive teaching practices, underscoring the importance of remaining adaptable and responsive to learner needs (Ray, 2019). However, Doran (2021) encourages community college instructors to consider the proportion of content that reflects students’ backgrounds and identities and their surrounding communities, emphasizing the need for meaningfully including materials from sources that reflect students’ realities rather than simply including a reading from Black or Latine author as a superficial attempt to diversify the content. Certain teaching practices in community colleges are benefiting from what culturally responsive pedagogies have to offer (Flynn et al., 2017; Garrett et al., 2021; Kim et al., 2022; Ray, 2019; Sanczyk, 2020). Some exemplary practices include asking students to collect their families’ histories, asking students with Latine cultural backgrounds to examine the course content from the viewpoint of Spanish-speaking nations (Garrett et al., 2021), offering personalized instruction, and supporting Black men’s self-esteem through appreciation for their class participation (Jones, 2019). Ray (2019) discussed how culturally responsive teaching necessitates flexibility on the part of the instructor (e.g., taking on various roles such as an instructional designer or consultant leader) in order to meet students’ dynamic needs. However, it is up to the instructors to implement culturally responsive teaching criteria and challenge the status quo (Ladson-Billings, 2006). It is important for instructors to consider their students’ diverse learning styles and needs in designing and implementing teaching strategies. Culturally responsive teaching is a crucial pedagogical tool in meeting the needs of underrepresented

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students and acknowledging their cultural values and identities. By implementing culturally responsive pedagogies, community colleges can enhance their teaching practices and create an inclusive and supportive learning environment that benefits all students.

Community-Engaged Teaching Community colleges are the epicenters of the communities they serve. As such, there is potential for a mutually beneficial relationship between the colleges and their surrounding communities. Community-engaged teaching (CET) focuses on connecting classroom learning with real-world issues and fostering collaboration between students, educators, and the broader community (da Cruz, 2018). CET is defined as “collaboration between institutions of higher education and their larger communities (local, regional/ state, national, global) for the mutually beneficial exchange of knowledge and resources in a context of partnership and reciprocity” (Driscoll, 2008, p. 39). In a 4-year institution, CET is typically enacted through service-learning, a HIP that emphasizes instructional strategy that connects course content to out-of-classroom experiences in community settings – including community organizations, government agencies, or advocacy groups (Heasley & Terosky, 2020). In a community college context, local industries and trade organizations might be added to this list of experiential learning settings, incorporating community-based projects and partnerships directly into the curriculum and continuing education programs. For example, local employers can provide internship, apprenticeship, and other experiential learning opportunities for community college students. In January 2022, Wilkes Community College (WCC) in Wilkesboro, North Carolina partnered with N.C. Tech Paths, a local nonprofit dedicated to helping job-seekers in rural North Carolina communities access technology jobs in the area. N.C. Tech Paths works alongside WCC to recruit students into the college’s 12-week boot camp, 2-year degree program, or 4-year degree program (McClellan & Thomas, 2023). In exchange for WCC recruiting students into the program, N.C. Tech Paths supports students with living stipends, laptops, and professional coaching services as they pursue their credential (McClellan & Thomas, 2023). This reduces barriers for access for community college students, as they can choose not to work while enrolled in the program. Community-engaged efforts take place when instructors and community partners work together to accomplish a common goal by sharing expertise and resources (Liang et al., 2015). Heasley and Terosky (2020) conducted a study of faculty at research universities, comprehensive universities, liberal arts institutions, and community colleges to understand their sensemaking of community-engaged teaching. The faculty respondents affirmed that CET positively influenced their students’ learning, citing several pedagogical benefits: recognizing the intricacies of applying theory to real-world problems and practices, shifting from deficit to asset thinking, and confronting power structures in society. Recognizing the intricacies of applying theory to real-world problems and practices refers to the ways instructors observe students grappling with challenges of applying

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what they are learning in class to real-life scenarios (Heasley & Terosky, 2020). Students were more likely to connect theory to practice when immersed in practical settings in their communities. An example of this could be applied to nurse practitioner programs. When learning about human anatomy, a nursing student might be more likely to retain concepts if they are able to apply and practice these concepts in a medical facility. When community colleges partner with community-based organizations and employers, students are more likely to find an opportunity to apply their learning in a practical setting (Reagan, 2022). Although this is true of most postsecondary institutions, it is critical as community colleges are often a central figure within communities bringing various organizations together. These links from the community college to the community are foundational to their mission. Shifting from deficit to asset thinking was another benefit of CET, specifically among racially diverse student populations. Heasley and Terosky (2020) found that faculty participants in this study stated their students previously held negative perceptions of underserved, minoritized populations. After implementing CET strategies, including journal reflections and classroom discussions, students adopted an asset-based lens when thinking about the communities in which they were engaged. Facilitating opportunities for students to engage with community members from diverse cultural backgrounds can open their perspectives to expand their knowledge (Welch & Plaxton-Moore, 2019). This connection is foundation to the community college as many students are active members of the community and remain in the community post their college experience. Confronting power structures in society asserts that faculty implementing CET pushed their students to deeply understand and critique existing power structures within society that perpetuate inequity (Heasley & Terosky, 2020). Throughout history, students have played a crucial role in challenging and reshaping existing power dynamics, advocating for social and restorative justice, and driving positive change (Heasley & Terosky, 2020). Incorporating advocacy efforts into community college classes can expose students to existing injustices that exist in society. For example, a community college’s teacher preparation program might partner with an elementary school in a neighboring socioeconomically disadvantaged community to conduct teaching practicums. This CET practice would allow the instructor to coordinate authentic, problems-based experiences or problematize what is learned through traditional coursework (Heasley & Terosky, 2020), while also providing opportunities for aspiring teachers to engage with diverse student groups. CET combines community collaboration, experiential learning, reciprocity of student and community knowledge, and social responsibility by encouraging students to adopt a sense of civic responsibility (Jones et al., 2023). It encourages students to apply what they have learned in a practical community setting and creates a mutually beneficial relationship between the college and community. Community college instructors are implementing culturally relevant pedagogy and community-engaged teaching as equitable teaching practices; although, there is limited research about how and with what impact, which requires further exploration and research.

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Theories of Learning for Diverse Students Adult learners are traditionally defined as students over the age of 25, but they also include those students who can file independently on the Free Application for Federal Student Aid (FAFSA), such as veterans and single parents (Panacci, 2015; VanZoest et al., 2023). Higher education scholars and practitioners have studied how adults learn since the 1920s (Merriam, 2001). While the answer to this question is constantly evolving, there are a set of foundational theories and principles that allow us to know more about adult learners. This section will look at three foundational theories for adult learners as put forth by Sharon Merriam in the PAACE Journal of Lifelong Learning in 2017: andragogy, self-directed learning, and transformative learning.

Andragogy Whereas “pedagogy” is the art and science of teaching children, “andragogy” is specifically teaching adults (Knowles et al., 2005). The term andragogy was coined in 1833 by German educator Alexander Kapp, and further expanded upon and made popular in the United States by Malcolm Shepherd Knowles in the 1970s with four core tenets and amended in 1989 with two additional tenets (Knowles et al., 2005). The framework highlights the specific characteristics and needs of adult learners and provides guidance for creating effective learning experiences for them. These tenets include: (1) the learner’s need to know, (2) self-concept of the learner, (3) prior experience of the learner, (4) readiness to learn, (5) orientation to learning, and (6) motivation to learn (Knowles et al., 2005, 2012). It is an individual-transactional model of adult learning, and therefore is not embedded in a critical paradigm or in the larger society (Knowles et al., 2005). • The Need to Know – The need to know is the idea that adult learners need to know why they need to learn something before they go through the process of learning it. Adults who take the initiative to return to school are not interested in wasting time. One of the tasks of an educator of adult learners is to make students aware of what they do and do not need to know. At a minimum, educators can let students know that learning the material will have benefits of academic performance and quality of their lives (Knowles et al., 2005). • The Learners’ Self-Concept – Adult learners have a self-concept of being responsible for their own decisions in their educational and personal lives. They do not like being put in situations where they feel others are imposing their wills on them. This is why higher education for adult learners is so tricky. They are not interested in being lectured or dependent on someone else to learn everything they need to know. • The Role of Learners’ Experiences – Adult learners have a plethora of work and life experiences they bring with them to the classroom. Adult learners may have had one or several full- or part-time jobs, are veterans, have families or are caretakers, among many other experiences that shape their identities. These

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students can draw upon these experiences in the classroom to apply knowledge and build their positionality when approaching various educational topics. Therefore, emphasis for adult learner education is being put on individualization of teaching and learning to meet the adult learners where they are with their multitude of life experiences. • Readiness to Learn – The concept of readiness to learn highlights the importance of creating learning environments that take into account the needs and interests of adult learners. Educators and instructional designers can enhance readiness to learn by providing clear goals and objectives, connecting new information to learners’ existing knowledge and experiences, and offering opportunities for active participation and practical application of the learned material. • Orientation to Learning – Adult learners are “life-centered,” (Knowles et al., 2005) meaning they are motivated to learn things they perceive will help them perform during situations they may encounter in their daily lives. Additionally, learning takes place most effectively when concepts are taught in the context of real-life situations. For example, elementary education students who are focusing on math education may learn about basic trigonometry concepts in one of their courses, but trigonometry is not in the curriculum for their district. Students may not see the benefit of learning these concepts if they are not applicable to what they will be teaching in the classroom. • Motivation to Learn – Motivation plays a crucial role in learning for adult students. Adult learners are motivated by external factors (e.g., promotions, salary increases, etc.), but mostly by internal factors like increased job satisfaction, social interaction with classmates, and increased quality of life. Motivation can be interrupted by low self-image when learning or competing time commitments. These tenets are not strict rules to implement andragogical practices but serve as a guiding framework for educators to recognize the unique characteristics and needs of adult learners (Knowles et al., 2005). Andragogy provides a basis for understanding how adults learn and offers principles for designing and facilitating effective learning practices that align with adult learner motivations, experiences, and goals. However, there are critics of andragogy who argue that the concept does not explicitly embrace outcomes like social change and critical theory (Brookfield, 2001). This leads us to our next theory for adult learners: self-directed learning.

Self-Directed Learning Self-Directed Learning (SDL) as a concept was introduced by Knowles around the same time andragogy was introduced (Knowles, 1975). Tough (1967, 1971) and Houle (1961) provided the first comprehensive description of self-directed learning through empirical study (Merriam, 2001). However, it was Stephen Brookfield in 1984 who took a critical approach to SDL. SDL is defined as “an approach where leaders are motivated to assume personal responsibility and collaborative control of the cognitive (self-monitoring) and contextual (self-management)

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process in constructing and confirming meaningful and worthwhile learning outcomes,” (Garrison, 1997, p.18). It focuses on the active learning process of taking control of one’s own learning through critical reflection and choice making (Brookfield, 1993). SDL is empowering for adult learners because of the sense that there is something about self-directed education that dignifies and respects people and their experiences and attempts to break traditional authoritarian forms of education (Brookfield, 1993). The goals for SDL include the development of the learner’s capacity to be selfdirected, fostering transformational learning, and the promotion of emancipatory learning and social action (Merriam, 2001). These goals can vary by learner and by situation. One cannot assume that just because they succeed in SDL in one instance that they will succeed in a different context. Therefore, SDL is situational and contextual for each individual learner (Loeng, 2020). For example, a high school student enrolled in dual enrollment courses at a local community college may not have their career path mapped out. They may opt to pursue community college later in life as an adult because of their changing motivations and increased readiness to learn. Garrison’s (1997) model of SDL includes three dimensions: self-management, self-monitoring, and motivation (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1 Dimensions of self-directed learning. (Note: Adapted from Garrison (1997))

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Self-management focuses on task control and the external social and behavioral activities associated with learning (Garrison, 1997). In other words, it is the ability to effectively and regularly control one’s own learning process. It is a crucial skill for successful self-directed learners because it enables them to take ownership of their learning journey and make decisions about their learning. An example of selfmanagement is when community college students are given the option to attend a class session online or in person depending on their preferences. A student may decide that only attending classes online will help them accomplish their educational goals rather than attending in person because they do not have access to transportation to travel to campus. Self-monitoring is the process whereby learners take responsibility for the construction of personal meaning and it incorporates a necessity to observe, reflect on, and evaluate one’s social construction of their own learning (Garrison, 1997). Selfmonitoring means ensuring new and existing knowledge structures are integrated together so that learning goals are being met (Garrison, 1997). There is an element of responsibility necessary for self-monitoring. For instance, Diamond, an information technology student, is enrolled in an online course on programming languages. She is motivated to learn specific coding skills and demonstrates self-management in several ways. She maintains motivation by reminding herself of her passion for coding and her long-term goals for continuing with classes. She sets goals within her class to track progress, like doing the extra optional practice coding exercises the instructor provided. She also engages in self-reflection by reflecting on her own understanding and performance within the class. She assesses her knowledge of the class material and identifies where she needs extra coding practice. She also reflects on the questions she could ask her instructor during office hours. Lastly is motivation, which plays a significant role in achieving learning outcomes in community college education. Garrison (1997) defines entering motivation as the ability to establish a commitment to a particular goal and the intent to act, and task motivation as the tendency to focus on and persist in learning activities and goals. Motivation focuses on the “why” behind learning and on the learners’ desire, persistence, and engagement in learning (Garrison, 1997). As an example, Stefanie is a former justice-involved single mother of two children under the age of 5. She recently enrolled in a local community college as part of the building and construction continuing education program. Her motivation for coming back to school is to build generational wealth for her family and provide for her children. Motivation is a multifaceted aspect of self-directed learning, and it is crucial to stay engaged and persist through community college. Notably, SDL has recently become more relevant and widely practiced. Over the past 3 years of the COVID-19 pandemic, higher education institutions have been forced to adapt their teaching and learning practices to meet the needs of students in remote or hybrid learning environments. Given that many pedagogical and andragogical practices that instructors relied on before 2020 became inaccessible, individual or SDL became a useful framework to build and execute online and distance learning opportunities (Roberson et al., 2021).

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Transformative Learning Transformative learning was first conceptualized by Jack Mezirow in the 1970s and was originally contextualized in the community college setting. Transformative learning refers to the process that results in significant and irreversible changes in the way a person experiences, conceptualizes, and interacts with the world (Snyder et al., 2016). Transformative learning does not happen every day but is typically a life-changing occurrence that is accompanied by a long period of mental and emotional turmoil (Hoggan, 2019). Further, transformative learning is voluntary; that is to say people have the choice of being critically self-reflective in their learning or not (Cranton, 2016). Transformation typically happens because of large moments that change a person’s way of knowing. There are ten aspects of transformative learning developed by Mezirow in 1975 that were later expanded on by adult education scholars like Patricia Cranton (2016) and Chad Hoggan (2023; Hoggan & Browning, 2019;). These aspects are outlined in Table 2. Transformative learning offers community college students an opportunity to critically examine their assumptions, broaden their perspectives, and develop a more inclusive and reflective worldview (Hoggan & Browning, 2019). For example, Gary is an adult learner enrolled in a sociology course to fulfill a general education requirement. Throughout the semester, he engaged in transformative learning that challenged his beliefs about his understanding of social issues he was learning about in class. Gary encountered information about systemic racism and social inequality that contradicted his former beliefs. This dilemma created dissonance in Gary’s ways of thinking and prompted him to question these beliefs. He engaged in critical reflection about his own biases, privileges, and assumptions about race. He examined his positionality, including upbringing, race, social class, and other identity factors of which had influenced his understanding of the world. In this example, Gary’s transformative learning experience challenged his existing beliefs, expanded his perspective, and empowered him to become an active participant in addressing social issues. Through transformative learning, community college students can Table 2 Mezirow’s phases of transformative learning Phase Phase 1 Phase 2 Phase 3 Phase 4 Phase 5 Phase 6 Phase 7 Phase 8 Phase 9 Phase 10

Aspect Disorienting dilemma Self-examination/critical reflection Self-assessment Recognition that others have been there Exploring options for new ways of acting Building competence and self-confidence in new roles Planning a course of action Acquiring the knowledge and skills for implementing a new course of action Trying out new roles and assessing them Reiterating into society with new perspective

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experience personal and intellectual growth, enhanced self-awareness, and an increased capacity for empathy and understanding. Thus far, we have discussed the fundamentals of teaching and learning in community colleges, emphasizing effective instructional strategies, fundamental theories, and exemplary practices addressing diverse student needs. In the following sections, we will focus on two areas of significance in community college teaching and learning – distance education and professional development for instructors – in an effort to highlight how some of the promising practices and theories we have described above are applied in the community college setting and some of the challenges therein. We begin with distance education practices in community colleges, which has long been a significant aspect of community college teaching and learning. Our emphasis will be on what we learn from long-standing community college distance education practices to foster inclusion in the post-pandemic higher education landscape.

Theory to Practice: Distance Education in Community Colleges Distance education and distance learning have been employed interchangeably to describe a diverse range of unconventional education programs using emerging technologies. During the mid-1980s, distance education gained prominence as an alternative to traditional classroom teaching and learning, although it was constrained by the technologies of the time – radio and television. Distance education has evolved under the impact of developing new technologies and the increasing need for flexible instructional access. In this evolutionary history, distance education is used as “an umbrella term to describe courses of study delivered to students in any number of non-classroom formats” (Lever-Duffy & Lemke, 1996, p. vii). Although changing and developing new technologies lead to the use of new terminologies to describe distance education options (Kentnor, 2015; Singh & Thurman, 2019), we will use distance education, distance learning, online education, and online learning interchangeably for the purposes of this section, where we aim to discuss what higher education practitioners can learn from the distance learning practices in community colleges, emphasizing their role in promoting broader access to higher education and fostering inclusive and equitable teaching and learning practices (Cohen et al., 2013; Lever-Duffy & Lemke, 1996). Community colleges have played a pioneering role in distance education within the realm of American higher education (Cohen et al., 2013; Cox, 2005; Lever-Duffy & Lemke, 1996). Their distinctive position in advancing distance education is rooted in their focus on teaching and learning, as well as their utilization of emerging technologies. This focus on instruction sets them apart from 4-year institutions, where faculty primarily dedicate their time to research and academic scholarship (Cohen et al., 2013; Lever-Duffy & Lemke, 1996). With the advent of new technologies, community college instructors have actively sought out innovative methods to improve distance education; ensuring accessibility, quality, and flexibility for their diverse student populations with unique needs and challenges (Lever-Duffy & Lemke, 1996).

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Our discussion on community college online teaching and learning will continue with an exploration of student motivations to enroll in online courses. Next, we will discuss achievement gaps in online learning in community colleges. In the final section, we will focus on what we can learn from online teaching and learning practices in community colleges as we envision a more equitable and inclusive higher education system, particularly given the steep rise in online courses since the COVID-19 pandemic. Community colleges have been pioneers in the distance learning and online education space as they have worked to deliver course content to students who need and want increased flexibility in their coursework. Accordingly, community colleges are a useful context to explore the challenges and opportunities around online teaching and learning, particularly as a means of expanding access to higher education.

Student Motivations to Partake in Distance Learning Distance education remains a source of flexibility and convenience to meet diverse student needs in community colleges (Bailey et al., 2015; Jaggars, 2014; Jaggars, 2018). Students report several motivations for enrolling in online courses, including the desire to avoid negative interactions on campus, reduced classroom anxiety, the need to balance multiple responsibilities, the opportunity to progress at their own pace, and the potential time and cost savings (Fox, 2017; Mayfield-Johnson et al., 2014; Roblyer, 1999). Students perceive the scheduling flexibility of online learning and approaching the material at their own pace as a means to effectively handle the various time demands and commitments. Effectively handling their multiple responsibilities is also related to how they manage their multiple identities as parents, partners, caregivers, and employees (Fox, 2017). While students, staff, and community college instructors agree on the benefits of distance learning for community college students, students strategically decide on what courses to take online, considering the benefits (e.g., flexibility with time) and challenges (e.g., cost-related or technological barriers) of distance learning (Fox, 2017; Mayfield-Johnson et al., 2014). Jaggars (2014) found that the majority of students had doubts about their level of understanding of the course material when they studied it online. The reasons for their doubts included decreased teacher explanation and decreased interaction with instructors and peers (Jaggars, 2014). The expenses linked to owning a computer, accessing the internet, and acquiring other technological equipment might also be seen as a hindrance – especially for students receiving federal aid (Mayfield-Johnson et al., 2014). In Mayfield et al.’s study, participants in focus groups recognized that distance education formats offer benefits, in terms of reducing costs associated with traveling from remote or rural areas to community college campuses. Despite mentioning these barriers, student respondents acknowledged the worthiness of distance education, mainly due to its flexibility, convenience, and the cost-related benefits it offers (Mayfield-Johnson et al., 2014).

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Distance Learning and Equity Gaps Despite some benefits, such as increased flexibility and convenience, online courses may contribute to the achievement and equity gaps in community colleges (Sublett, 2022; Xu & Xu, 2019). Students in online courses may be more likely to withdraw or get lower grades than students in traditional classrooms (Francis et al., 2019; Johnson & Mejia, 2014; Smart & Saxon, 2016; Xu & Jaggars, 2013b, 2014; Xu & Xu, 2019). While online learning may not effectively reduce inequities in academic performance among different racial/ethnic groups, it may make these gaps more pronounced (Johnson & Mejia, 2014; Sublett, 2020, 2022; Xu & Jaggars, 2014). However, existing research examining the short-term and long-term outcomes of community college online learning offers mixed results regarding student outcomes. Johnson and Cuellar Mejia (2014) reveal some long-term benefits of online learning, such as earning a degree and transferring to 4-year institutions. Research indicates a higher likelihood of degree completion among students in online courses compared to those in face-to-face classes only (Johnson & Mejia, 2014; Shea & Bidjerano; 2014). Explaining these mixed results, Jaggars (2018) highlights the role of contextual factors and student characteristics. According to Jaggars (2018), different students may have different experiences in online courses. For example, an older full-time working mother may take additional courses thanks to online course offerings. In this case, online course enrollment can help degree completion because the benefits are more than the risks (e.g., obtaining a slightly lower grade). However, in the case of a young first-generation man who is struggling academically, online course enrollment may lower the chances for degree completion (Jaggars, 2018). In addition, different community college contexts may have different student demographics, policies, practices, and online course quality. In light of these discussions, an in-depth understanding of the student population in a specific context is essential before promoting online courses among different student populations (Jaggars, 2018; Snart, 2017).

Fostering Inclusion Via Distance Learning Practices Compared to their peers in 4-year institutions, community college students are more likely to be older, have work and family obligations, and represent racially and socioeconomically more diverse populations (Fishman, 2015). In the community college context, online learning is attractive for many students who need greater flexibility for various reasons (e.g., work, family, and caregiving responsibilities) (Crespín-Trujillo & Hora, 2021). In this respect, online courses can make higher education more accessible for students with greater flexibility needs, but more needs to be done to close the equity gaps in achievement (Sublett, 2022; Xu & Xu, 2019). Our review of community college online education practices reveals four key insights that we can learn from community colleges. First, we highlight the importance of understanding students’ unique needs and challenges. Second, our focus will be on translating this understanding into teaching design and practice. To

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achieve this goal, we also discuss how to equip instructors with the necessary support and training. Lastly, we share some innovative ways community colleges have used technology to expand their student support services to address distance learners’ needs.

Understand the Multiplicity of Student Needs in Online Learning One valuable lesson we learn from the research on students’ online learning experiences in community colleges is about the need for understanding the multiplicity of student needs in developing online education options. The absence of physical presence, support, and encouragement from instructors and peers makes higher motivation and self-discipline desirable attributes in successful online learning (Seeman, 2001). In such an environment that requires higher motivation and selfdiscipline, both students, instructors, and institutions need to be aware of potential barriers to online learning to ensure student success. Existing literature presents evidence for challenges and widening achievement gaps in online education among different student populations (Iloh, 2019; Jaggars, 2011; Palacios & Wood, 2016; Sublett, 2022). For example, Iloh (2019) studied the experiences of adult learners with online instructional delivery. Students reported the difficulties of being a novice online learner adapting to technology and highlighted that their socializing and onboarding needs were not met by online education. Therefore, solid conclusions about the benefits of online learning must be balanced with barriers students face in the online environment. Studies also documented racial and gender disparities in online learning (Aragon & Johnson, 2008; Palacios & Wood, 2016; Xu & Jaggars, 2013a). In Palacios and Wood’s (2016) study, Asian, Black, Latine, and White men were more successful in face-to-face courses than online courses. To explain these findings, Palacios and Wood (2016) focused on men’s needs for classroom dialogue and interpersonal connections. Similarly, Xu and Jaggars’ (2013a) found that Black students and men had more challenges in adapting to online courses. Convenience and flexibility of online courses may be more important for women than men due to familial and other obligations, as women had higher completion rates in online courses than men in Aragon and Johnson’s (2008) study. Research also reveals unique needs of low-income and underprepared students in online learning due to the additional challenges they may have (Crespín-Trujillo & Hora, 2021; Jaggars, 2011). Jaggars (2011) argues that even the increased opportunities for affordability may not help this student population due to the required technological infrastructure and because online education does not significantly lower the attendance costs. While access to technological resources and infrastructure to participate in classes has always been an issue in online learning, homeless students lacking access to the internet and shelters faced greater barriers, especially during the COVID-19 pandemic. Community colleges developed various solutions ranging from expanding wireless access to their parking lots to providing students with laptops (Crespín-Trujillo & Hora, 2021; D’Amico et al., 2022). Student characteristics, such as learning preferences and basic computer skills, are other significant predictors of student success in community college online learning

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(Harrell & Bower, 2011). Harrell and Bower’s (2011) study indicated a positive relationship between students’ auditory learning styles and course withdrawal. While this finding may arise due to auditory learners’ preference for receiving information verbally, the misalignment between a student’s learning style and the characteristics of the online learning environment can result in frustration, ultimately leading to the decision to withdraw from the course (Harrell & Bower, 2011). One-size-fits-all approaches to online programming do not necessarily result in equitable and inclusive online learning experiences. For instance, women may only need the convenience and flexibility online education offers, but adult learners may have different onboarding and socialization needs. Likewise, low-income students may need more than instructional support, ensuring that they have access to the required technology and the internet. Therefore, institutions and instructors need to gain an in-depth understanding of diverse student needs to build an inclusive distance learning environment.

Translate the Understanding of Diverse Student Needs into Teaching The theoretical frameworks of inclusive online teaching and learning resemble those in traditional on-campus courses, but effectively implementing these frameworks in online courses remains a complex subject for institutional leaders, instructional designers, and technologists (Pacansky-Brock et al., 2020). In Aragon and Johnson’s (2008) study, course design and communication (i.e., instructors’ responsiveness and the quality of course design and teaching) were among the main reasons influencing community college students’ decisions to complete or drop online courses. While the quality of course design and teaching are important factors influencing online course completion, a crucial lesson in achieving inclusive and equitable online teaching and learning is to ensure responsiveness to students’ unique needs and challenges. Community colleges participating in the Every Learner Everywhere project – whose mission is to assist educational institutions in employing emerging technologies to foster inclusion and equity in teaching and learning – performed an exemplary job using student data in the teaching design and practice. They used student survey data to identify achievement gaps and understand students’ needs. They did so by disaggregating the course performance data by the characteristics of the student population. They redesigned courses where they saw equity gaps in student outcomes, and they benefited from digital tools and applications like VoiceThread to offer their students a range of learning options and opportunities while addressing issues of equity, inclusion, and racial justice (Wiley et al., 2023). Students with distinctive needs can benefit from such flexibility and having agency to make choices according to their needs and challenges. Similarly, other studies highlighted the significance of student agency in community college online learning, emphasizing its role in addressing students’ individual needs and making learning meaningful for diverse learners (Li et al., 2022; Zhou et al., 2023). By understanding the diverse needs of students, course designs and teaching practices can be effectively shaped, thus rendering one-size-fits-all approaches invalid. For example, while systematically integrating interpersonal interactions (e.g., interactions with instructors and peers) into online teaching and learning allows

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for a responsive approach to online teaching and learning (Jaggars et al., 2013; Li et al., 2022; Xu & Xu, 2019), it is also crucial to acknowledge students’ varied needs for interpersonal connections in online courses (Jaggars, 2014). For example, some community college students need more instructor and peer presence, but some adult learners in Jaggars’ (2014) study preferred online courses due to decreased peer interactions. They emphasized age differences with their peers enrolled in the same course. While research on community college distance learning experiences demonstrate the crucial role of interpersonal interactions (e.g., incorporating group assignments, assigning students to peer groups, and structuring in occasional in-person meetings) in improving the learning experience (Li et al., 2022; Xu & Xu, 2019), instructors should also take time to understand how much and what type of interactions different student populations find helpful. Some students choose online courses to avoid negative campus interactions, and this strategic decision can be specifically true for students judged by their age, gender, race, and parental status (Fox, 2017). Therefore, while enhancing interactions with instructors and peers is significant, it is also important to set specific guidelines regarding how these interactions will take place. For example, an art instructor in Li et al.’s (2022) study provided the guidance that students should “use respectful and professional language” and that “no insensitive comments pertaining to a person’s race, religion, sexuality, political affiliation etc. is appropriate” in their class (p. 7). Different course components and rubrics included these crucial statements to ensure inclusion in the online learning environment. While the first step in building online teaching and learning environments is getting to know student characteristics, it is crucial to translate this understanding into course design and teaching practice. This may be possible by offering students options that fit their needs most. For example, courses can incorporate opportunities for both collaborative and individual learning tasks using different technological tools and applications. Students can benefit from this flexibility that accommodates individual preferences and learning styles in assignments. By understanding and accommodating diverse student needs, online course design and teaching can help create a supportive and inclusive learning experience for all learners.

Equip Instructors with Necessary Support and Training The increase in online enrollment has reshaped the nature and characteristics of the teaching profession in community colleges (Garza Mitchell, 2009; Smith, 2010). In the context of increasing online enrollments, community college instructors need to acquire novel skills to use emerging technologies and instructional strategies effectively (Smith, 2010). In Garza Mitchell’s (2009) study, teaching online impacted faculty members’ approaches to teaching – even in face-to-face teaching and learning environments – and faculty members started to acknowledge learner autonomy and adopt more interactive approaches with greater use of technology. As community college instructors navigate the demands of online teaching, they benefit from significant institutional support, including dedicated time for professional development, sufficient resources and equipment, and the facilitation of local support networks and learning communities (Crespín-Trujillo & Hora, 2021).

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Therefore, the third lesson from community college online teaching and learning practices underscores the role of professional development opportunities in providing high-quality online education. Such professional engagement is important to foster humanized, inclusive, and equitable online education that is responsive to students’ unique needs and challenges (Pacansky-Brock et al., 2020). To support instructors in achieving this goal, community colleges should avoid one-size-fits-all approaches to professional development and meet instructors at their current stage to support them as they develop interventions, programs, and policies to address the specific challenges of the post-pandemic community college environment (CrespínTrujillo & Hora, 2021). Online teaching is not free from challenges for instructors. Existing research indicates concerns about instructor readiness to teach online (i.e., technical competencies), increased workload, and concerns regarding the tracking of student progress, including issues of plagiarism and academic dishonesty, and students’ reluctance to actively engage with both their peers and the instructor (Garza Mitchell, 2009; Haber & Mills, 2008; Vang et al., 2020). Although research also reveals some instructor apprehension and skepticism toward online learning, the opinions of instructors and administrators regarding online education can undergo significant changes after they participate in professional development activities, which allows them to address their concerns regarding teaching and learning in a different environment by providing firsthand experience of online engagement (Garza Mitchell, 2009). While technical support is important, it is also important to expand instructors’ capacity for online inclusive pedagogy by offering technological and pedagogical support simultaneously. Forsyth Technical Community College (FTCC) in North Carolina has an exemplary practice in this respect. In Summer 2021, FTCC offered a professional development program for its full-time and part-time faculty members. The theme of the professional development was IGNITE, which stood for Innovation, Growth, Networking, Inclusiveness, Teaching, Excellence. The goal was to build capacity for the post-pandemic teaching and learning, and sessions on multimodal/synchronous learning and inclusive pedagogy were available. While the technical support was important for faculty, FTCC’s focus on multicultural and inclusive pedagogy helped the campus community progress with an equity-focused approach (D’Amico et al., 2022). Similarly, community college instructors participating in the Every Learner Everywhere project received training on how to build more inclusive and equitable syllabi and were supported in developing equityfocused approaches to teaching and learning (Wiley et al., 2023). All in all, professional development opportunities that move beyond technological support are essential for community college instructors to equip themselves with tools, strategies, and pedagogical approaches to build inclusive and equitable online teaching and learning environments. Merely relying on technology cannot lead to improved student learning, so it is crucial to carefully integrate technology within a broader curriculum and pedagogical transformation (Bailey et al., 2015). Therefore, an important lesson we learn from community colleges is the need for simultaneous technological and equity-focused pedagogical support in instructor professional development.

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Expand Online Student Support Services Online learning offers opportunities to enhance access to current courses and programs while developing new ones. However, just assigning a professor and uploading content to an online platform are not sufficient for effective online teaching and learning (Smith, 2005). In addition, the difference between student populations and residential services of community colleges and 4-year universities necessitates specific attention. Unlike residential universities, community colleges often lack a strong sense of community, and students’ opportunities to access on-campus student support services may be more limited (Cohen et al., 2013). Whether due to accreditation demands or a belief in equal opportunities, the same support services provided to on-campus learners should also be accessible to online learners (Smith, 2005). Various factors may impact students’ use of student support services. For example, students in community colleges (i.e., students who commute, are adults, are returning to school, attend part-time, work, or transfer from other institutions) have diverse academic support needs (Smith, 2005). These students may experience challenges in accessing the on-campus support services. Therefore, it is important to establish a connection between the campus and students, even if students spend only a few hours on campus each week (Cohen et al., 2013). Furthermore, online student support services available to distance learners can be beneficial for any student who faces challenges in attending campus during regular hours (Smith, 2005). Therefore, offering online student support services is crucial because not being able to effectively benefit from student support services may contribute to the low completion rates in online courses (Russo-Gleicher, 2013). Community colleges need to intentionally redefine conventional support systems to promote success for all students, including distance learners, because educational inequities can deepen due to insufficient student services in online courses (Floyd & Casey-Powell, 2004; Xu & Xu, 2020). To avoid such a negative impact, institutions might reconsider traditional services such as admissions, advising, registration, financial aid, career services, counseling, and library services to address the needs of a technologically inclined student body – since online students, who often choose this format to accommodate their work and family responsibilities, may encounter challenges in accessing these on-campus supports (Floyd & Casey-Powell, 2004; Smith, 2005; Xu & Xu, 2020). Many community colleges have taken steps to provide virtual student support services even before the pandemic to address such challenges (Smith, 2005; Xu & Xu, 2020). Some exemplary community college practices in providing online student support services include online orientation services, online counseling, and advising services. Mount San Antonio College in California, for instance, offers an interactive orientation where students can navigate relevant campus information and the matriculation process, and complete short assessment tests. This orientation also provides information about online counseling, where students can directly engage with one of the college’s full-time advisors. Such examples are important because well-planned orientation programs online or in person can be highly effective in improving retention rates, particularly for at-risk students (Cohen et al., 2013). Auntie Carol is a pseudonym for the online advising service in Lorain County Community

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College in Ohio that answers students’ questions via email. When students’ concerns are too complex, sensitive, or involve ethical or confidential concerns, the students may be invited for an in-person appointment (Cohen et al., 2013). Similarly, the objective of the Online Education Initiative (OEI) by the California Community College System was to provide students with a holistic online learning experience. The vision for such an experience encompassed offering support to students in areas such as admissions, financial aid, and student success services (e.g., online tutoring and online counseling) to promote strong retention and graduation rates. The success rates in the pilot group after the first year’s evaluation were higher than their non-pilot counterparts (Nguyen, 2017). While recognizing the potential advantages of online student support services, as indicated by the findings of Nguyen (2017), Xu and Xu (2020) note that merely offering additional resources will have limited influence on the performance of students in online courses if they do not actively utilize them. For the efficacy of these resources, colleges should place emphasis on ensuring services are clear, user-friendly, and easily accessible to all students (Floyd & Casey-Powell, 2004; Xu & Xu, 2020). Redefining traditional student services is of utmost importance in ensuring equitable and successful distance learning experiences. Offering comprehensive student support services (i.e., academic advising, tutoring, counseling, and orientation) makes these services accessible for distance learners. A holistic approach to online learning can bridge the achievement gaps between diverse students and enhance their learning outcomes. In this section, we explored the key takeaways from the long-standing community college distance teaching and learning practices, highlighting the crucial role of recognizing diverse student needs and translating this understanding into effective instructional design and implementation that can support student learning in the best possible way. We highlighted the significance of supporting instructors in achieving these goals, which underscores the need to invest in professional learning for community college instructors so that they are better able to serve their students, whether teaching online or in person. Accordingly, in the next section, we review what is known about professional learning practices around teaching and learning in community colleges, the challenges of creating meaningful professional learning activities, and the most promising practices for designing and executing professional learning opportunities that are most impactful for students. We conclude this section with a discussion of the North Carolina Teaching and Learning Hubs, a first-of-its-kind statewide professional learning opportunity for community college instructors that was developed with the research on the promising practices reviewed here in mind.

Theory to Practice: Professional Learning in Teaching and Learning in Community Colleges As student populations in the 1970s ballooned at colleges across the country, institutional leaders and instructors began to realize the necessity of continuous learning and development that focused particularly on teaching skills and learning

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sciences (Burns, 2017; Burnstad & Hoss, 2010; Eddy, 2005; Murray, 2002b; Ouellett, 2010). This was most significant at community colleges, which saw increased enrollments of the most diverse students with more heterogeneous academic preparation and a wider variety of academic and career goals (Burnstad & Hoss, 2010; Eddy, 2005; Murray, 2002b). Since then, providing instructors with the opportunity and resources to develop their teaching skills has remained a priority, both within specific institutions and more broadly as national education policy shifted to outcomes-based reform efforts (Brown & Bickerstaff, 2021). Yet how to provide these opportunities, what they should consist of, and even what to call them has evolved over the last 50 years.

Professional Learning: Definitions and Objectives While it is fairly well established what the purposes of development around teaching and learning are, more recently, the nomenclature and, accordingly, the underlying philosophy has been contested. Recently, researchers, professional development instructors, and teachers in the K-12 education sector have moved toward a more in-depth and systemic model of “professional learning” rather than professional development or faculty development. Largely in response to the expanded definition of professional learning activities for elementary and secondary educators defined in President Obama’s 2015 reauthorization of the Elementary Secondary Education Act (Learning Forward, n.d.). Professional learning is meant to encompass in-depth and dynamic activities, and a structure for those activities that “is intended to result in system-wide changes in student outcomes. . .[and] when designed well, is typically interactive, sustained, and customized to teachers’ needs” (Sherff, 2018, n.p). Conversely, professional development “is often associated with one-time workshops, seminars, or lectures, and is typically a one-size-fits all approach” (Sherff, 2018, n.p.). Like their K-12 peers, researchers, leaders, and instructors in the community college sector have also shifted to adopting this terminology as some of the most promising practices around improving community college student outcomes and are more in line with “professional learning” than traditional ideas around development (Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020). Further, while the higher education literature often refers to “faculty development,” the student-centered mission of community colleges often requires that employees beyond those designated as faculty are committed to working toward student achievement (Burnstad & Hoss, 2010; Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Murray, 2002b). Accordingly, the nomenclature of professional learning invites and includes full-time and part-time classified staff, college administrators, and adjunct instructors to engage with improving how they work with students as a means to improve student outcomes. Despite the use of many terms in the literature (professional development, faculty development, and professional learning), in alignment with community college practitioners, we use “professional learning” in this chapter when discussing activities and promising practices that are aimed at helping community college instructors and other employees develop their competencies in instructional methods and student learning.

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Generally speaking, professional learning activities are considered those that “. . .assist faculty in developing the skills and strategies necessary to provide effective instruction” (Murray, 2002a, p. 50). Adding further specification, Brawer (1990) notes that most of these kinds of activities fall into one of four categories: professional, instructional, curricular, and organizational (p. 51). According to her schema, these different areas for growth aim to advance instructors’ competencies at a variety of levels, whether by building on the skills they use day-to-day as scholars and teachers (professional and instructional) or supporting their work more broadly as departmental colleagues and collaborators (curricular and organizational) (Brawer, 1990). However, as noted by Eddy in her 2005 national assessment of professional learning offerings for faculty at community colleges, most of the activities community college instructors reported engaging with were usually focused on developing and improving instructors’ competencies as teachers. To some extent, the data trends in Eddy’s study are not surprising, as Angelo (1994) argued that the focus on improving teaching – or addressing community college faculty behaviors – using professional learning has long been considered simpler to deliver than focusing initiatives on improving student learning – or community college student outcomes. He asserts that this focus only on faculty behaviors is often to the detriment of student and faculty success, as focusing professional learning efforts on building students’ skills as learners is likely a more efficient way to see improvements on learning than focusing exclusively on teaching. Accordingly, professional learning opportunities, programs, and initiatives around teaching and learning should aim to address two key objectives: first to enhance instructors’ skills in teaching and content delivery and second to promote student success in learning outcomes and retention (Beach et al., 2016; Brawer, 1990; Burnstad & Hoss, 2010; Castillo-Montoya et al., 2023; Eddy, 2005; Elliott & Oliver, 2016; Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Murray, 1999, 2002a, b). Both are particularly salient concerns of community college leaders, given their explicit student focus and the pressing need to address long standing educational equity gaps in a variety of student outcomes. The following sections review what is known about the specific strategies community colleges use to work toward these objectives and the challenges and benefits to doing so. We conclude with a case study that describes North Carolina’s Teaching and Learning Hubs – a state-wide professional learning program that exemplifies many of the promising practices discussed.

Strategies and Approaches for Professional Learning on Teaching and Learning in Community Colleges Effective professional learning around teaching and learning takes place through a variety of settings or structures, yet despite the large body of literature and resources on faculty development and professional learning, large-scale, rigorous studies indexing what kinds of professional learning instructors have access to or have completed are as scant as when Murray (2002a) noted the same gap in the literature

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in two decades ago. However, from Murray’s (2002b) study of nearly 300 academic officers (CAO’s) at community colleges across the southern United States – and the work that exists to describe specific professional learning programs – it appears that most commonly, instructors engage in workshops, seminars, and conferences on their own campuses or elsewhere (Murray, 2002b, Eddy). For instance, all of the CAO’s in Murray’s (2002b) study indicated providing funds for instructors to attend conferences, while more than 90% indicated hosting workshops on campus by experts or by faculty. Examples of institutional or national teaching and learning workshops, seminars, and conferences are numerous. These opportunities can be institution-wide, like Guided Pathways (Harrington, 2020; Jenkins et al., 2019; Jenkins & Cho, 2013) or Perez et al.’s (2012) study of the Gaining Retention and Achievement for Students Program (GRASP), which explored how a semester-long professional learning program at one New Mexico community college used peer and expert coaching to improve instruction. However, these formats are also useful to target specific instructor populations, such as a particular program or workshop for adjunct instructors (Burnstad & Hoss, 2010; Burnstad, 2002; Eddy, 2005; Fuller et al., 2017), or professional learning for specific disciplines (Brawer, 1990; Eddy et al., 2022; Laughbaum, 2001; Murray, 1999; Sansing-Helton et al., 2021). These formats also provide ample opportunity to engage in promising practices that are especially impactful, including developing peer networks of instructors within or across disciplines or forming communities of practice or professional learning communities. Defined by Wenger and Snyder (2000), communities of practice “offer a forum for groups of people within an industry or field of expertise to exchange and develop ideas and formulate new approaches to problems” (n.p.). In the context of professional learning around teaching and learning, this model can cultivate deeper relationships between peer instructors that facilitates the trust necessary to brainstorm and problem solve or for giving and receiving feedback on instructional demonstrations (Beaumont, 2020; Daly, 2011; Eddy et al., 2021; Elizaga & Haynes, 2013; Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Harrington, 2020; Putman & Kriner, 2017; Sansing-Helton et al., 2021; Valentine & Price, 2021). Sansing-Helton et al.’s (2021) recent study of a community of practice for mathematics instructors at two large Wisconsin community colleges highlights the strengths of this approach. They note: “Over time, the personal connections formed within the community allowed members to exchange ideas for best practices across courses, programs, and institutions surrounding the curriculum and instructional strategies for math contextualization,” (Sansing-Helton et al. 2021, p. 177). Such communities can also facilitate cross-disciplinary relationships and peer mentoring, as explored by Beaumont (2020) in his study of a learning community at a community college in the northeastern United States. Within these learning communities, cross-disciplinary groups were led by tenured faculty who served as mentors to nontenured instructors; participants engaged in discussion and observed each other’s teaching and provided feedback (Beaumont, 2020). Opportunities for “low-stakes” (Beaumont, 2020) or “non-evaluative” (Mueller & Schroeder, 2018) peer classroom observation are particularly impactful because they center the

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development of the instructors’ skills and each instructor’s teaching goals, rather than emphasize an endpoint, like promotion or tenure (Denton et al., 2013; Drew et al., 2017). Peer observation creates a context that provides immediate feedback to the instructor being observed, and also encourages instructors who are observing their peers to be more likely to try new teaching techniques or alter their existing practices (Mueller & Schroeder, 2018). These opportunities can be particularly transformative for part-time or adjunct instructors, who, despite their numbers in the ranks of community college instructors, often struggle with establishing peer support networks and professional socialization on campus (Bonde, 2017; Elizaga & Haynes, 2013; Putman & Kriner, 2017; St. Clair, 1994; Tapp & McCourt, 2017). Another promising practice in professional learning opportunities for teaching and learning is community college instructors’ engagement with scholarship of teaching and learning (SOTL) activities. The scholarship of teaching, defined as researching and applying pedagogical methods and sharing findings with colleagues, is typically supported at the organizational level through in-service training and professional development opportunities (Murray, 2002a, b; Sperling, 2003; Townsend & Twombly, 2007). The body of literature on SOTL is expansive (Braxton et al., 2018; Hatch, 2005; Hutchings et al., 2011; Perry & Smart, 2007; Terosky & Conway, 2020) and beyond the scope of this chapter, particularly given that community college instructors’ engagement in this practice has been less explored. However, the research that does exist suggests that community college instructors’ engagement with SOTL practices – like classroom research – are impactful and provide benefits to participants, including the improvement of teaching skills and opportunities to publish or present their findings (Burns, 2017; Goto & Davis, 2009; Harrington et al., 2021; Lightner & Sipple, 2013; Sydow, 2000). In their recent study of 13 professors from around the country who participated in the Carnegie Academy for the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning (CASTL) program, Burns, (2017) found that every participant reported changing their practices and their orientation to teaching after participating in the SOTL program and classroom research project. Specifically, the authors note: “Some faculty gained confidence in trying new things in the classroom, and others were validated that their pedagogical approaches work. One professor became more comfortable in the role of learner with his students as a result of his analysis of how students felt about being in a learning community. Some faculty realized they cannot assume one way of teaching is effective for all students” (Burns, 2017, p. 160). Thus, despite the more limited body of research on SOTL in the community college sector, the literature does indicate that these practices are a useful form of professional learning when community college instructors are given the time and resources to participate in them. Finally, it is important to note that before the COVID-19 pandemic, and certainly since, many of the aforementioned professional learning opportunities around teaching and learning for community college instructors have been and can be executed in a wholly online format. In many ways, community colleges have operated on the cutting-edge of online program delivery, both for students and for staff. This is due in large part to meeting the needs of instructors and staff at the more than 600 rural-

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serving community colleges in the United States (Rural Community College Alliance, n.d.), where service areas are vast and require a patchwork of dynamic methods to deliver content to students and employees across the miles. For instance, in the 1990s, the state of Mississippi pioneered the creation of an online course delivery system, whereby students at one institution could access courses being taught elsewhere in the state (Pruett & Pollard, 2013). Since then, the Mississippi Community College System has grown their offerings into a consortium-based model that includes student courses and virtual faculty development that can be accessed by students at staff and member colleges across the state (Pruett & Pollard, 2013). Taking Mississippi’s lead, many community colleges have continued to use virtual methods to support professional learning, as doing so provides synchronous and on-demand content to instructors regardless of campus location, commute time, or rank (Chang et al., 2018; Diaz, 2011; Eddy et al., 2021; Hodges et al., 2021; Pruett & Pollard, 2013; Schrum et al., 2005). Further, while such offerings were made available to community college employees prior to 2020, the rapid shift to online teaching, meetings, and work that occurred in response to the COVID-19 pandemic made offering online professional learning opportunities even more critical. While much has (and is still) being written about the move to online teaching, there is some literature that suggests continuations or pivots to online delivery for instructor professional learning, especially around (digital) teaching and learning, were especially successful at this time (Bartlett et al., 2021; Crespín-Trujillo & Hora, 2021; Eddy et al., 2021; Hodges et al., 2021). For instance, Hodges et al. (2021) described the total shift in the work of their college’s teaching and learning center, which not only had to work to move its programming online, but also had to expand new offerings to topics most relevant to teaching online in a post-pandemic world. Eddy et al. (2021) described how the professional learning program for community college instructors they were studying began as a hybrid program and shifted totally online. The authors were surprised that in this shift, participants remained interested and engaged and many noted that their work and practice with Zoom, and other virtual teaching tools at the onset of the hybrid program, made the transition easier (Eddy et al., 2021). This perception of participants is not surprising, given that the strengths of online professional learning opportunities about teaching and learning are that they both convey content about teaching and learning and allow coaches and mentors leading these programs to model best practices for teaching and learning online (Crespín-Trujillo & Hora, 2021; Eddy et al., 2021).

Challenges and Issues in Professional Learning on Teaching and Learning in Community Colleges While the previous sections enumerated the purpose and many formats for professional learning around teaching and learning at community colleges, there remain well-documented challenges in developing and executing high-quality professional learning initiatives that yield successful results. First, it is well-understood that community colleges are expected to provide a host of services, courses, and supports

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to students who need the most resources to be successful with the least amount of state and federal resources (Crisp & Mina, 2012). In fact, 4-year institutions get more than twice as much funding per full-time equivalency (FTE) student ($17,540) than community colleges ($8,695) (Yeun, 2020). This perpetually resource-constrained environment makes it difficult for colleges to divert precious dollars to instructor professional learning with so many other student, staff, and instructor needs to contend with. Yet, as the recent higher education policy context has evolved to emphasize accountability and link student outcomes to funding (Brown & Bickerstaff, 2021), the need for high-quality professional learning around teaching and learning in community colleges – where just over 40% of students finish a degree or certificate in six years (Causey et al., 2022) – has never been more pressing. Beyond the financial constraints, much of the literature on community college faculty development and professional learning suggests that instructors are often resistant to engaging in professional learning (Angelo, 1994; Murray, 2002a). Low participation rates among community college instructors in professional learning opportunities can be explained by a myriad of factors. First, full-time community college instructors typically teach anywhere from four to ten courses per semester, in addition to other responsibilities including advising and departmental service (Jenkins & Fink, 2016). These heavy workloads leave little time for engaging in meaningful professional learning, and extremely busy instructors are not motivated to invest time on professional learning opportunities that provide minimal return (Angelo, 1994; Murray, 2002a), especially given that participating in professional learning in the community college is not often associated with any credit towards service commitments or financial remuneration (Angelo, 1994; Brown & Bickerstaff, 2021; Burnstad & Hoss, 2010; Eddy, 2005; Murray, 1999, 2002a; Tuitt, 2010). Secondly, and somewhat related, instructor perceptions of the extent to which most professional learning opportunities are going to help improve their teaching are poor (Murray, 2002a). This may be explained least charitably by Angelo (1994), who asserted that most instructors have an overinflated sense of their teaching abilities and no real basis for comparison to their peers. However, it could also be that many professional learning opportunities are not actually very useful to community college instructors, typically because they are too general in scope and fail to connect to each other and to overall departmental or strategic plans or goals (Angelo, 1994; Elliott, 2014; Murray, 1999, 2001; Sorcinelli, 2002). Further, these overly general, one-off opportunities may fail to address the unique needs of instructors that may center around their status as adjunct instructors, or differences across the academic disciplines (Burnstad & Hoss, 2010; Eddy, 2007; Murray, 1999; Wallin, 2007; Wallin & Smith, 2005). Specifically, within the community college context, designing a meaningful professional learning opportunity for audiences – including everyone from full-time English instructors and part-time truck driving instructors – is a tall order. Finally, many have noted that professional learning opportunities around teaching and learning in community colleges are not often effectively evaluated or assessed, and accordingly much of their actual impact on teaching practices or learning

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outcomes is unknown (Angelo, 1994; Beach et al., 2016; Murray, 2002b). Murray (2002b) attributed this lack of evaluation to two connected causes: a lack of agreement or consensus around what successful teaching and learning would look like, and accordingly, uncertainty about what kinds of outcomes to measure and how to measure them. Taken together, these challenges represent some of the barriers to successful development and implementation of professional learning opportunities around teaching and learning in the community college. However, these barriers are not insurmountable, and a myriad of examples exist in the literature to demonstrate the most promising practices for supporting professional learning at community colleges specifically and at institutions more broadly. The following section touches on those practices and some of the documented benefits of professional learning around teaching and learning.

Promising Practices in Professional Learning on Teaching and Learning in Community Colleges Despite the aforementioned challenges, much has been written about the creation and adoption of professional learning programs and initiatives in the community college and the specific strategies that facilitated their implementation. In general, the consensus in the literature seems to suggest that professional learning initiatives in the community college are best executed under three conditions: first, that they are driven by the needs of instructors; secondly, that they are assessed regularly and improved based on assessment; and finally, that they are connected to broader institutional goals, plans, and resources (Beach et al., 2016; Eddy, 2005; Elliott, 2014; Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Murray, 2001, 2002b; Sorcinelli, 2002). In terms of instructors driving professional learning initiatives around teaching and learning, it should come as no surprise that the resounding recommendations in the literature suggest that such initiatives should be both responsive to the actual needs of instructors and involve instructors in their development and execution (Angelo, 1994; Burnstad & Hoss, 2010; Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Haras et al., 2017; Murray, 2002a; Rutz et al., 2012; Sorcinelli, 2002). Put succinctly by Murray (2002b), “Faculty development programs are more effective when faculty participate in the design and implementation stages. Although faculty need support from academic administrators, they often resist and resent development activities imposed on them” (p. 95). Yet, the benefits of involving instructors in the development and execution of these programs goes beyond attenuating instructor resistance. In the context of community colleges, ensuring that instructor needs are accounted for in professional learning opportunities requires engaging with the nearly 70% of instructors in community colleges who are part-time or adjunct (Hurlburt & McGarrah, 2016). As noted previously, adjunct instructors in community colleges stand to benefit most from professional learning opportunities, given that they are often disconnected from campus resources (Green, 2007; Kimmel & Fairchild, 2017; Tarr, 2010), lack social

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networks on campus (Bickerstaff & Chavarin, 2018; Lightner & Sipple, 2013; Tarr, 2010), and most concerningly, that student outcomes in their courses tend to be lower than for students in courses taught by full-time instructors (Baldwin & Wawrzynski, 2011; Eagan & Jaeger, 2009; Ran & Xu, 2017). Including adjunct instructors in the planning of these initiatives can be as simple as inviting them to department meetings or providing information about professional learning opportunities at orientation (Bickerstaff & Chavarin, 2018; Bonde, 2017; Green, 2007). Other colleges have found success developing “Adjunct Faculty Institutes” (Wallin, 2007) or incentivizing mentoring relationships or communities of practice to form between full-time and part-time instructors (Bonde, 2017; Elizaga & Haynes, 2013). In Burnstad’s (2002) review of Kansas-based Johnson Community College’s intentional professional learning opportunities for adjunct instructors, she noted that adjunct instructors are encouraged to create an individual development plan (IDP) to map out their goals and strengths and that these IDPs are used by the Center for Teaching and Learning to plan programming. Further, involving all instructors in developing professional learning opportunities ensures inclusivity based on rank and also on discipline. As noted above, one of the main challenges of professional learning opportunities around teaching and learning centers on the fact that many workshops and programs are too general or broad to be applicable to the unique skills required to teach in various disciplines. By involving instructors in the development of programs and accounting for their specific needs, such initiatives can begin to reflect the discipline-specific challenges (Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020). To be sure, this can pose a challenge at community colleges where “the disciplines” vary from welding to writing, and where collaboration across departments and across the institution is integral to the success of developmental education curricula or programs like guided pathways. However, such diversity highlights the need for more engagement between administrators and instructors to develop more programming opportunities suited to the wide variety of teaching and learning occurring within community colleges. Next, in addition to being driven and developed with instructors’ needs in mind, many have highlighted that successful professional learning for teaching and learning at community colleges should be connected to the institutions’ broader goals, and accordingly, to institutional resources (Beach et al., 2016; Burnstad & Hoss, 2010; Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Haras et al., 2017; Hardré, 2012; Murray, 2002b). Given that the community college’s mission is to support the educational goals of any student who enrolls, connecting professional learning on teaching and learning to institutional goals or strategic plans is logical in theory. In practice, ensuring professional learning stays on the radar of community college leaders can be more challenging given the many demands these individuals face. Murray (2002b) and others (Gillespie & Robertson, 2002; Harrington, 2020; Sorcinelli, 2002; Wallin, 2003) have highlighted the importance of the chief academic officer and deans in being thoughtful about the professional learning available to instructors and to keep these needs in mind. As noted by Brown and Bickerstaff (2021), “While college administrators are often wary of being perceived as interfering with instruction, they can communicate why high-quality instruction is central to the institution’s mission

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and allocate resources accordingly” (p. 137). Specifically, deans and provosts have been successful in working with instructors and other administrators to ensure resources are available to incentivize instructors to participate in professional learning, whether financially or by linking participation in professional learning with promotion and tenure processes (Brown & Bickerstaff, 2021; Gillespie & Robertson, 2002; Haras et al., 2017; Murray, 2002b; Wallin, 2003). Beyond the importance of chief academic officers, community colleges have also created infrastructure to support professional learning for teaching and learning by creating teaching and learning centers (TLCs) or what Achieving the Dream a national organization dedicated to supporting America’s community colleges through research and training, refers to as Professional Learning Hubs (PLHs). While the composition, location, and offerings vary from campus to campus, Lauridsen (1994) proposed a general definition of “. . .any identifiable offices or programs that strengthen the teaching and learning missions of the campus by providing programs, resources, and services for faculty” (p. 231). In the community college context, these hubs are most effective when they are directed by a designated faculty leader who can leverage the expertise of instructors to create innovative resources and opportunities to improve student learning (Beach et al., 2016; Elliott, 2014; Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Lauridsen, 1994; Sorcinelli, 2002). Further, while creating a center or office is not without its challenges, having a hub dedicated to professional learning on teaching and learning has been shown to facilitate collaborations among community college units, specifically among instructors, student affairs staff, librarians, and information technology offices (Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Haras et al., 2017; Hodges et al., 2021; Sorcinelli, 2002). In so doing, these hubs represent a physical and programmatic commitment to supporting instructors, and by extension, supporting the learners who enroll at the institution. Finally, there is broad consensus that professional learning opportunities on teaching and learning should be continually assessed, to ascertain their effects on instructors and students, to inform the continuous improvement of professional learning opportunities, and to help administrators make the case for additional resources (Elliott, 2014; Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Haras et al., 2017; Kinzie et al., 2019; Murray, 2002b; Rutz et al., 2012). While many community colleges provide their instructors with opportunities for professional learning on teaching and learning topics, high-quality assessment of the opportunities is less common (Angelo, 1994; Kinzie et al., 2019; Murray, 2002b; Rutz et al., 2012). Accordingly, as will be discussed in the next section, the impacts of many professional learning opportunities on instructor performance and, more importantly, on student outcomes are poorly understood, if assessed at all.

More to Learn: Impacts of Professional Learning Around Teaching and Learning in Community Colleges As we have reviewed, many community colleges, nonprofits, instructors, and staff have demonstrated a long-term commitment to developing and executing professional learning opportunities around teaching and learning, and accordingly, that there is a

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wide variety of professional learning opportunities occurring in community colleges to better improve teaching and learning outcomes. The logic of this commitment is sound, and it stands to reason that when instructors are given the opportunity to develop their skills as teachers, students also stand to benefit, which can and should be seen in improved instructor and student learning outcomes (Beach et al., 2016; Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Haras et al., 2017; Murray, 2002b; Rutz et al., 2012). Unfortunately, as noted by Rutz et al. (2012), “This assumption is one of the most poorly tested in higher education, despite the pervasiveness of faculty development, the allocation of considerable resources to it, and trust in its efficacy” (p. 41). Indeed, despite the wide swath of literature on professional learning opportunities in community colleges, very little is known about the impacts or effects of these opportunities on actual changes in instructor practice or on student outcomes. To be sure, ample evidence exists that measures self-perceptions of professional development opportunities (e.g., Beaumont, 2020; Lightner & Sipple, 2013; Wallin & Smith, 2005; Williams-McMillan & Hauser, 2014) or self-reported changes in beliefs, knowledge, or practices (e.g., Daly, 2011; D’Amico et al., 2019; Eddy et al., 2021; Gomez et al., 2018; Harnish & Wild, 1992; Harrington et al., 2021; Sydow, 2000). However, more objective, or quantifiable assessments of the impacts of these opportunities on outcomes like student retention, student persistence, credential completion, and transfer are rare. Among the few studies that do explore impacts of professional learning on student outcomes, most are single-institution studies that explore the impacts of standalone programs (e.g., Elliott & Oliver, 2016; Finkelstein, 1995), raising questions about generalizability of the results and broader scalability of such programs. Further, and perhaps most concerning, the results of these few studies indicate a relationship between professional learning and student outcomes in community colleges that is tenuous at best (Elliott & Oliver, 2016; Finkelstein, 1995; Perez et al., 2012). Despite these limitations, our assessment based on the literature is not that professional learning opportunities for community college instructors around teaching and learning should be reduced or eliminated. Rather, we agree with Murray’s (2002b) assertion from more than two decades ago that it is likely that many of these programs are not being meaningfully assessed, and accordingly, our understanding of their impact on student outcomes is minimal. It is also likely that there are exemplary professional learning programs yielding tremendous results at community colleges that have not been written about or published for academic audiences, given the constraints on community college administrators’ and instructors’ time and how they are incentivized to spend it, highlighting the importance of promising practices we have discussed above like intraand interinstitutional collaboration, SOTL in the community college, and the connection of professional learning to institutional priorities. By way of example, in the next section we highlight a professional learning opportunity for teaching and learning designed for community college instructors that has not been extensively written about previously. This initiative was developed with many of the aforementioned promising practices in mind and has been and continues to be rigorously assessed and evaluated to ascertain its impacts on instructors and students.

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North Carolina Teaching and Learning Hubs: A Statewide Professional Learning Opportunity Built Upon Promising Practices in Teaching and Learning in the Community College Community colleges are an essential gateway to postsecondary opportunities for millions of students. However, students from educationally underserved groups, including Black students, Latine students, and low-income and rural students, are overrepresented in 2-year institutions (Shapiro et al., 2018); making community colleges critical to efforts to reduce disparities in higher education attainment and subsequent economic prosperity. While community colleges provide pathways to careers and to bachelor’s degrees and beyond, their promise has not been fully realized. Only 40% of community college enrollees obtain a credential within six years, with significant equity gaps between student subgroups (Shapiro et al., 2018). In response to these challenges, community colleges have embarked on significant reforms over the past decade focused on enhancing student advising, creating more coherent programs of study, improving student supports, and reforming developmental education (Micari & Pazos, 2012; Wood, 2014). However, within these reform efforts, the role of faculty as classroom instructors has received less attention (Stout, 2018), despite the fact that faculty are the most frequent institutional point of contact for community college students and course-based learning is at the heart of the college experience (Micari & Pazos, 2012; Wood, 2014). Further, relationships with faculty have been shown to be important to students’ educational attainment, particularly for students from traditionally minoritized groups (Bauer, 2014; Lundberg & Schreiner, 2004). As discussed above, Teaching and Learning Centers (TLCs) can be a critical piece of infrastructure for building instructor capacity in the service of improving student outcomes (Condon et al., 2016; Haras et al., 2017; Stout, 2018). Accordingly, many community colleges across the country have invested in professional learning for instructors through some version of a TLC (Eynon & Iuzzini, 2020; Lauridsen, 1994). However, many institutions (especially smaller, rural colleges with fewer available resources) do not have any organized structure for instructor professional learning (Jaeger et al., 2020). To address these highly variable opportunities in instructor development in North Carolina, the Belk Center for Community College Leadership and Research, a research center based at North Carolina State University that supports North Carolina community colleges, began collaborating in 2018 with Achieving the Dream (ATD) to explore how professional learning around teaching and learning might be best coordinated and delivered across the state (Colclough, 2020; Colclough & Deal, in press; Deal et al., 2023; Jaeger et al., 2020). North Carolina is a unique and fruitful context in which to attempt statewide coordination of community college professional learning. The North Carolina Community College System (NCCCS) is the third largest community college system after California and Florida, and its 58 institutions vary widely in size, composition, and urbanity (North Carolina Community College, 2023). Further, in 2022, the 6-year completion rate for students who began at a 2-year public institution in the state was

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48% overall, 46% for men, and 30% for Black students (myFutureNC, 2022). Accordingly, the need for system-wide efforts that would address student outcomes in North Carolina was clear, however, little data existed on existing professional learning around teaching and learning, and how those opportunities impacted credential completion, transfer, or other key outcomes of interest. To address this lack of data, researchers at the Belk Center identified several institutions across North Carolina to participate in a comprehensive evaluative case study that explored existing institutional teaching and learning initiatives and their impact on student success outcomes, as described by Colclough and Deal (in press). In their interviews with 214 individuals, including 130 instructors representing both curriculum and career and technical areas, Belk Center researchers identified several key findings – many of which echo some of the best practices around professional learning highlighted earlier in this chapter (Eddy, 2005; Murray, 2002; Angelo, 1994). Findings of these case studies included the importance of leadership in supporting these opportunities, the need to incorporate part-time instructors in professional learning opportunities, and the necessity of connecting professional learning to institutional goals (Colclough & Deal, in press). After the case study, a self-assessment survey was distributed to more than 15,000 full-time and adjunct instructors within the NCCCS to gauge their interests in professional development and assess their needs. More than 2,800 faculty members responded to the survey and expressed an interest in discipline-specific professional learning, as well as exploring new approaches to effective instruction. Additionally, the Belk Center surveyed chief academic officers at all 58 community colleges to determine how, and to what extent, each college delivered professional development offerings. The case study identified significant gaps in colleges’ capacity to execute the necessary steps to make a culture of teaching and learning excellence a reality (Colclough & Deal, in press). Even colleges with adequate resources were not necessarily investing in and designing opportunities in ways that engaged their full-time and adjunct instructors in ongoing, reflective professional learning that would make a difference in classroom practice and student success. Notably, during focus groups held with instructors to assess their interest, many expressed a desire to participate in professional learning to improve student learning. Instructors noted specific interests in learning classroom management and teaching skills that would allow them to better serve their students (Deal & Valentine, 2021). Using these findings, Belk Center researchers, in collaboration with the North Carolina Student Success Center (NC SSC) and ATD, developed the North Carolina Teaching and Learning Hubs (the Hubs) in early 2019. The Hubs were organized to be strategically situated at high-opportunity locations around the state of North Carolina. In the fall of 2021, the Hubs were launched in the East and West regions of the state, and later, Hubs were rolled out in Central North Carolina and the Piedmont region. Based on feedback received in the focus groups, programming efforts focused on opportunities for educators to learn about, adopt, test, and scale evidence-based strategies that have been associated with increased equitable student success outcomes across disciplines (Colclough & Deal, in press). As many promising practices in the literature suggest professional development be instructor-driven (Angelo, 1994; Beach et al., 2016; Eddy, 2005; Murray, 2002a, b),

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specific types of professional learning opportunities offered through the Hubs are driven by Hub co-directors – instructor leaders within each Hub region responsible for facilitation and logistics of professional learning opportunities. In 2021–2022, Hub co-directors elected to focus on creating strategically designed professional learning opportunities targeted toward diversity, equity, and inclusion. These opportunities included workshops on creating engaging virtual learning opportunities, revising syllabuses with an eye on equity, giving constructive feedback to diverse learners, and trainings on suicide prevention and intervention skills for staff and instructors (Colclough & Deal, in press). Since their founding, Hub co-directors have been thoughtful about assessing the programming provided to instructors and the impact of the programming on student outcomes. Accordingly, Belk Center researchers recruited a national consulting and evaluation firm to conduct a comprehensive evaluation of the East and West Hubs after their inaugural academic year to determine their initial reach to North Carolina community college faculty, staff, and students (Deal et al., 2023). In their report titled “The Reach of the North Carolina Teaching and Learning Hubs: An Inaugural Year Report,” Deal et al. (2023) reviewed the Hubs’ scale, staff and instructor participation, courses taught by participants, and students enrolled in courses taught by Hub participants. Results from this evaluation suggested the scale of the East and West Hubs, even in its first year, was significant. These Hubs reach included more than half of North Carolina’s 58 community colleges, including nearly 300 instructors, more than 2,400 courses, and almost 21,000 students through high-quality, evidence-based professional learning opportunities (Deal et al., 2023). Also, in aligning with the Hub’s focus on equitable student success, Hubs reached 37 instructors of color who taught 312 courses that enrolled 2,888 students. This metric is significant given that Instructors of Color are more likely to be newer instructors, more likely to teach in continuing education departments, and teach in career and technical programs with a higher population of students over the age of 25, Students of Color, and Pell grant recipients (Deal et al., 2023). These findings highlighted both the successes and areas for opportunity for future programming. Specifically, increasing outreach and engagement of participants who are underrepresented in current Hub-offered professional learning, including newer instructors, part-time and adjunct instructors, continuing education instructors, and staff educators. In spring 2022, a select number of instructor participants engaged in focus groups and shared their reflections about the opportunities provided by the Hubs, including increased awareness of professional learning activities, the diversity of topics addressed, as well as ongoing opportunities to connect with other instructors (Colclough & Deal, in press). Further, the next phase of evaluation of the Hubs aims to link instructor professional learning with student outcomes. As of January 2023, nearly two-thirds of students enrolled in courses taught by instructors who had participated in professional learning via the Hubs received a grade of A, B, or Pass (Deal et al., 2023). While this is a comparable pass rate to students in the NCCCS in general, future evaluations will aim to disaggregate these outcomes by student characteristics to better understand to what extent the Hubs are helping to address equity gaps in student performance. They will also explore other longitudinal

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outcomes like retention and degree completion. Moving forward, the Hubs will continue to rely on ongoing evaluation and feedback to ensure its model – which is the first of its kind – can continue to provide actionable and relevant content that allows instructors to better support students. Beyond the impact in North Carolina, Hub leadership and the collaborating organizations ultimately aim to provide a model for other states and community college systems with a blueprint for supporting equitable student success through the statewide provision of instructor professional learning.

Invitations for Future Research Year after year, the population of students pursuing higher education grows more diverse (in terms of race/ethnicity gender, income, and other categories) (Cahalan et al., 2019; De Brey et al., 2021), and accordingly, colleges and universities are rethinking and refocusing their energies on creating more inclusive campuses. Indeed, in the wake of COVID-19, the uprisings against racism and racialized violence in 2020, and other sociopolitical forces, moving toward inclusion and equity have become more of a mandate (from students, families, and policymakers), and less of an auxiliary benefit of attending higher education. This renewed focus has left many institutional leaders and higher education practitioners looking for solutions to long-standing equity problems, particularly in terms of student learning and outcomes. To this end, in this chapter, we assert that community colleges offer a rich setting in which to explore regarding the centering of teaching and learning practices around diverse learners. Not only are community college students more diverse than students at other institution types in regard to race/ethnicity, age, family income, academic preparation, and other characteristics (Beer, 2023; Community College Research Center, 2023), but community college instructors have a responsibility to focus almost explicitly on teaching, given the mission and goals of these institutions (Angelo, 1994; Baber et al., 2019; Goldrick-Rab, 2010). Accordingly, this chapter reviewed theories of teaching and learning relevant to the unique context of community colleges and then highlighted two key areas – distance learning and professional learning for instructors – about which there is ample literature and wherein community college instructors, staff, and administrators are working toward more equitable student outcomes. In the case of distance learning, community colleges have been on the forefront of online course delivery since the dawn of the World Wide Web, particularly as a means to expand access to rural students and others facing barriers to their inclusion, physical, or otherwise (Cohen et al., 2013; Cox, 2005; Lever-Duffy & Lemke, 1996; Pruett & Pollard, 2013). To be sure, the promising practices in effective distance learning established by community college instructors and other experts gained national attention in 2020, as every college and university instructor was forced to move their courses online. Relatedly, community college instructors, administrators, and staff have been working for decades to develop a wide variety professional learning opportunities

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dedicated to improving student outcomes by improving instructor teaching, despite often having the least amount of resources to do so (Angelo, 1994; Brawer, 1990; Lauridsen, 1994; Murray, 2002a, b). To that end, we aimed to highlight a first-of-its kind statewide collaboration around improving teaching and learning that not only is based on the thoroughly researched best practices we reviewed here but is being rigorously evaluated and continuously improved in order to best serve the diverse community college instructors participating and their diverse students. However, despite the lessons they may have to offer, we note that community colleges have historically received less attention in the literature than predominantly White, 4-year, research institutions (Chambers & Freeman, 2017; Kiyama et al., 2017), and there is an even greater dearth in the teaching and learning literature that pertains to community colleges. That being said, we consider the limitations in this body of literature instead as invitations for further inquiry and rigorous evaluation. For instance, as we have noted, much of the research on the promising practices around teaching and learning and instructor development come from the 4-year sector in higher education, and it is likely that many of the recommendations and lessons in this scholarship are at least, in part, applicable to many community college instructors teaching in the curricular disciplines (e.g., English, math, biology, history). Yet, broadening what we know about teaching and learning to be fully inclusive of the community college sector will require a deeper engagement with instructors and learners who are in career technical education, developmental education, short-term certification programs, and other instructional units underrepresented or missing from theories and research on teaching and learning. This expansion may require a transformation in how we view instructors in these fields, who are not only experts in welding or truck driving, but also should be seen as experienced pedagogues with their own unique insights to offer. Also, a deeper exploration and application of prominent theories of teaching and learning in the community college context is necessary. For example, while culturally relevant and culturally sustaining pedagogies have gained more popularity in higher education research and practice, many have suggested these practices – which include validating and incorporating students’ identities in the classroom and in the curriculum, teaching from texts and materials that are representative of those identities, and encouraging discussions where students can critically grapple with the power structures that perpetuate their marginalization (Doran, 2021; Gay, 2010; Ladson-Billings, 1995) – are an excellent fit for the community college context (Doran, 2021; Garrett et al., 2021; Kiyama et al., 2017; Ray, 2019). Yet, while some existing research highlights different examples of instructors’ perceptions (Doran, 2021) or engagement with culturally relevant pedagogies (Garrett et al., 2021; Ray, 2019; Smith & Ayers, 2006), little is known about the extent to which these practices impact student outcomes. Accordingly, qualitative and quantitative inquiries into the effects of culturally relevant and culturally sustaining pedagogies on community college students’ learning would be helpful to the field, to community college instructors aiming to enact these practices, and to instructor developers who are designing professional learning opportunities around culturally relevant and culturally sustaining pedagogies.

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Finally, though there is broad consensus in the importance of community college instructors in their role in cultivating and sustaining student success (Aguilar-Smith & Gonzales, 2021; Richardson & Elliott, 1994; Wang, 2017), very little is known empirically about specific practices instructors can or should adopt and to what extent those practices will yield meaningful impacts on students (Goldrick-Rab, 2010; Rutz et al., 2012; Wang, 2017). As noted by Wang (2017): A critically important missing link in our knowledge base is the potential barriers and opportunities in faculty adoption of these [evidence-based teaching] practices and students’ reception of and participation in practices [in them]. (p. 294)

To address the “missing link” highlighted by Wang will require rigorous assessment of both the impacts of professional learning opportunities around teaching and learning and of the actual teaching practices in which instructors engage, and how these affect student learning outcomes. Notably, scholars have begun to explore the impacts of other initiatives on student outcomes to tremendous ends, providing empirical evidence for the importance of providing students personalized advising and tuition support (Fulcher Dawson et al., 2020). Similar investigations of academic interventions, instructor practices, and professional learning initiatives would not only expand our understanding of what matters when it comes to teaching diverse learners, but would also provide evidence with which community college leaders can build the rationale for more resources dedicated to teaching and learning – a necessity in the current climate of resource-constraint and accountability. Further, clarifying our understanding of instructor practices and student learning outcomes may also require an expansion in the outcomes worth exploring. To be sure, pass rates, credential completion, and transfer remain critical outcomes ripe for inquiry, particularly given the persistent racial/ethnic, gender, and income disparities therein (Complete College America, 2022). However, other areas like the development of cognitive skills, critical thinking, information literacy, and other competency-based outcomes are also critically important. As others have noted, (Bers, 2005; Culver et al., 2022; Thonney & Montgomery, 2019) these outcomes are certainly more difficult to define and measure, particularly among a population as diverse as community college students. Accordingly, rethinking such learning outcomes and designing new ways of assessing how different teaching practices impact them may be fertile ground for innovation and collaboration between higher education scholars and community college practitioners.

Conclusion In this chapter, we have sought to advance community colleges as especially useful contexts from which much can be gleaned about teaching diverse learners in the twenty-first century. To be sure, studying and understanding teaching and learning within community colleges is important for the sake of community colleges themselves, due to their importance in the higher education landscape in the United

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States. However, we assert that researchers, faculty, and practitioners at all types of institutions might turn to community colleges as a resource to better understand teaching in diverse contexts and support diverse learners. As institutions of higher education attempt to navigate increasing complexity regarding external politics and climates, community colleges stand out as champions for creating inclusive spaces centered on student learning and enhancing teaching pedagogy and practices. The lessons learned in these communal spaces can help to shine a light on ways for further innovation across higher education in support of enhanced outcomes in teaching and learning.

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Zhou, X., Li, Q., Xu, D., Li, X., & Fischer, C. (2023). College online courses have strong design in scaffolding but vary widely in supporting student agency and interactivity. The Internet and Higher Education, 58, 100912. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.iheduc.2023.100912 Zinth, J., & Barnett, E. A. (2018). Rethinking dual enrollment to reach more students. Education Commission of the States. https://www.ecs.org/wp-content/uploads/Rethinking_Dual_Enroll ment_to_Reach_More_Students.pdf

Audrey J. Jaeger, Ph.D., is the executive director of the Belk Center for Community College Leadership and Research and W. Dallas Herring Professor of Community College Education at NC State University. Examining relationships and experiences among faculty and students in postsecondary institutions, her research illuminates issues of transition, access, equity, climate, agency, and community engagement. Contributing to the growing body of research about student outcomes and institutional effectiveness, her work advances equitable student success by bringing actionable data to leaders and policymakers in North Carolina and beyond. Kaitlin N. S. Newhouse, Ph.D., is an Associate Director of Research and Evaluation at the Belk Center for Community College Leadership and Research. In this role, she is primarily responsible for overseeing the PACE Climate Survey, a nationwide survey of community college faculty and staff perceptions campus climate, and provides support for a variety of other research projects aimed at improving student outcomes at North Carolina community colleges. Her research interests focus on addressing long-standing educational inequalities in a variety of higher education environments, with a specific interest in improving experiences and outcomes for poor and working-class students. Ece Yilmaz, M.Sc. is a doctoral candidate at NC State University studying Educational Leadership, Policy, and Human Development in the Higher Education Opportunity, Equity, and Justice program at North Carolina State University, as well as a research associate at the Belk Center for Community College Leadership and Research. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Foreign Language Education from Bogazici University and Master of Science Degrees in Educational Administration and Gender and Women’s Studies from Middle East Technical University. Prior to graduate school, Ece served in both academic and administrative positions in higher education in Turkey. Emily R. VanZoest, M.A is a doctoral candidate in the Educational Leadership, Policy, and Human Development – Higher Education program at North Carolina State University. She serves as a research associate at The Belk Center for Community College Leadership and Research at NC State where she works with the PACE Climate Survey and Adult Learner research teams. Her research centers on community college students, governance and leadership, and those in higher education who identify as women. Emily earned her bachelor’s and master’s degrees from Michigan State University.

Humanizing Policy Implementation in Higher Education Through an Equity-Centered Approach

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Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Policy Implementation in the Community College Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Synthesizing the Policy Implementation Literature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Organizing Policy Implementation Research As Schools of Thought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rational-Scientific . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Culture-Cognition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Critical-Emancipatory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Toward A Different Approach to Policy Implementation Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Humanizing Implementation: Toward an Equity-Centered Approach to Policy Analysis . . . . Identity Conscious . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Implementation Imagination . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Institutional Complexity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sociopolitical Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Layered on Prior Reforms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leveraged for Racial Equity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Tenets Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Implementation Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Community College Contexts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Equity-Centered Implementation Tenets in CCC and CUNY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Policy Continuity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Pamela Eddy was the Associate Editor for this chapter. E. R. Felix (*) San Diego State University, San Diego, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] H. K. Nienhusser University of Connecticut, Storrs, Storrs, CT, USA e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 39, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-38077-8_11

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Future Considerations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 634 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 637 References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 638

Abstract

With an urgency to leverage existing and emerging policy reforms to improve student outcomes by centering educational equity, this manuscript explores the critical role of policy implementation in higher education – specifically in community colleges. In doing so, we explore historical and contemporary approaches to higher education, highlighting how policy implementation often serves as an opportunity and barrier to educational equity. In the first half, we summarize the literature on policy implementation in higher education and weave together a conversation that centers on the importance of equity. Then, we highlight our Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Framework and its six tenets to consider in centering the role of the individual within the implementation process and how they influence what implementers can achieve with policy reform. These tenets are Identity Conscious, Implementation Imaginations, Institutional Complexity, Sociopolitical Context, Layered Reforms, and Leveraged for Educational Equity. Next, we share implementation stories that draw from our body of research conducted across two higher education contexts (i.e., the California Community Colleges and City University of New York [CUNY] community colleges) to showcase research-informed strategies and approaches to policy implementation that led to more robust and transformative equity-oriented implementation processes in community college. Keywords

Higher education · Community college · Public policy · Education policy · Policy implementation · Implementation studies · Implementation framework · Equity · Educational equity · Racial equity · Equity-centered approaches

Introduction While higher education degree attainment is frequently considered an instrument to ameliorate societal inequalities, that goal has been challenging to achieve given the persistent inequities that exist in higher education (Brown & James, 2020; Haverman & Smeeding, 2006). The community college, often a vehicle for supporting marginalized communities’ college access and success, has faced relentless challenges as they seek to support marginalized students (Grubbs, 2020). These challenges include systemic funding disparities relative to other publicly supported institutions (Dowd, 2003; Mitchell et al., 2019), increased demands to function as the segment of education that meets the needs of all learners with inadequate support, an inability to serve lower-income and racially-/ethnically-minoritized students (Fletcher & Friedel, 2018), all the while being over-legislated by state and local policymakers complicating the ability to serve students equitably (Felix, 2021b). To address the challenges in community college, various federal, state, and local policies have been formulated to remedy institutional policies and practices that

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reproduce educational inequity. For example, reform efforts to remove developmental education, improve onboarding and first-year retention, simplify degree majors and career pathways, increase available financial aid, and the creation of standalone baccalaureate programs all seek to make an impact on student success. However, one area often overlooked in the public policy realm is how, if at all, these policies are intended to address persistent higher education inequities. Between the announcement of new educational reform and its documented impact years later, the process of implementation sits in the middle as a complex, messy, and time-elongated step where the reform unfolds as institutional leaders attempt to move policy intents from what is promised to what is practiced (Felix, 2021a; Felix & Trinidad, 2020). The policy stages framework highlights five phases in the policy lifecycle: agenda setting, policy formulation, policy selection, policy implementation, and policy evaluation (Anderson, 2003; Giest et al., 2015; Hoefer, 2021). Agenda setting involves identifying the problem and gaining the attention of policy actors on the issue of interest (Anderson, 2012; Hoefer, 2021). Policy formulation entails recognizing possible policies that could address the issue or problem and narrowing them down to those that decision-makers might accept (Hoefer, 2021). Policy selection comprises identifying the proposal that could address the issue or problem (Anderson, 2002; Hoefer, 2021). Policy implementation involves putting into action the policy. Finally, policy evaluation entails assessing the policy outcomes (Anderson, 2002; Hoefer, 2021). While the policy stages framework is a helpful tool to use in understanding the policymaking process, there are several critiques (Hoefer, 2021). First, the stages framework seems to imply a rational approach to policymaking. Second, this framework infers a linear process that begins with agenda setting and finalizes with policy evaluation. Third, the stages framework is only descriptive and fails to examine any causal linkages between the stages. Policy implementation, the focus of this chapter, has been referred to broadly as “what happens after a bill becomes law” (Anderson, 2003, p. 193). This process, however, is multifaceted, complex, and involves an extensive array of actors (McLaughlin, 2006; Viennet & Pont, 2017). Although vast and diverse, the study of policy implementation has been described by many scholars as “misery research” due to its deficit-framed and negative outcomes (McLaughlin, 2006, p. 209). Further, other scholars have framed policy implementation as leading to an “intellectual dead end” because of the literature’s lack of generalizable theories or well-developed frameworks (deLeon & deLeon, 2002, p. 467; Sætren, 2005). While many scholars have framed policy implementation as one of the shortcomings in the policy process, we conceptualize it as one opportunity to attend to persistent inequities (Gornitzka et al., 2005). Within the higher education literature, policy implementation has been largely an overlooked area of study (Gonzalez et al., 2021). While true, the last decade has seen an emergence of critical higher education policy implementation scholars who have shed light on further understanding the complexities of implementing policy, while also framing this policy stage as a tool to address inequities (Ching, 2023; Connors, 2022; Felix, 2021a, b; Felix & Ramirez, 2020; Nienhusser, 2018; Nienhusser & Connery, 2021). It is this final understanding of policy implementation as an

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opportunity to address higher education equity that we frame the focus of this chapter. We argue that framing policy implementation from an opportunity lens allows policymakers and implementers to center elements such as implementers’ identities as a strength in the implementation process (Felix, 2021a; Nienhusser & Connery, 2021), to capitalize on the vagueness in public policies (Nienhusser & Connery, 2021), and to give implementers agency to act (Felix et al., 2015; Gonzalez et al., 2021) as they seek to eradicate inequalities that are rampant in our higher education systems and institutions (Baber et al., 2019; Ray, 2019).

Policy Implementation in the Community College Context We focus on the community college sector as it is described as a “democratizing” force in the US higher education landscape (Boggs, 2010; Dougherty, 1994, 2002, p. 316). Though some critics have noted how community colleges serve as a “cooling out” function (Clark, 1963, p. 229) and “part of an educational tracking system that reproduces social inequality” (Pincus, 1983, p. 411), the community college remains an access point into higher education for many underrepresented students (Rose, 2012). Regardless of the philosophical underpinnings of supporting or discouraging postsecondary access and completion, the community college sector has a substantial stake and purpose in the US higher education system. There are 1043 community colleges in the United States (comprising approximately 20% of all degree-granting postsecondary education institutions; American Association of Community Colleges [AACC], 2022). In 2020 these institutions enrolled 10.3 million students (6.2 million students in credit programs and 4.1 million students in noncredit programs; AACC, 2022). However, within the last decade, the community college sector has seen a steady decline in enrollments (National Center for Education Statistics, 2022), with greater declines since 2020 attributed to the COVID-19 pandemic (Knox, 2022; National Student Clearinghouse Research Center, 2022). Racially minoritized students experienced a large decrease in their community college enrollment during that period. From Fall 2020 to Fall 2022 Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC) communities’ enrollment fell – Asian 10.0%, Black 5.3%, Native American 4.9%, and Latine/x1 4.7% (National Student Clearinghouse Research Center, 2022). Many community colleges are also minority-serving institutions (i.e., Historically Black Colleges and Universities, Hispanic-Serving Institutions, Tribal Colleges and Universities, Asian American and Pacific Islander Serving Institutions). As sites of access, community colleges enroll high percentages of racially/ethnically minoritized students – 53% of American Indian, 50% of Latine/x, and 40% of Blacks (AACC, 2022). The majority

1

We use both Latine and Latinx as gender-inclusive terms, Latine as it is used by Spanish speakers to move away from masculine-based descriptors and Latinx intentionally recognizes gender fluidity and systems of oppression faced by trans and queer communities at the intersection of their racioethnic Latinx identity (Gonzalez, 2022).

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(56%) of community college students received some form of financial aid (i.e., federal grants, federal loans, state aid, or institutional aid; AACC, 2022). Community colleges fill important voids in the US higher education landscape for students given their open-access mission (Bragg & Durham, 2012; Dougherty, 1994; Nienhusser & Connery, 2021). The colleges provide a wide variety of programs and credentials (Dougherty et al., 2017), a more affordable postsecondary option (Sublett & Taylor, 2021), a geographically accessible option (Reyes et al., 2019), more flexible in meeting their communities’ needs (Salomon-Fernández, 2019), and a more supportive environment for students who may need academic supports (Edenfield & McBrayer, 2021), among many others. This chapter seeks to highlight the role policy actors have in the implementation of policy reform and the ways in which this implementation can drive equitable change. We begin by synthesizing the known scholarship on policy implementation into three schools of thought: rational-scientific, cognitive-cultural, and critical. Next, we introduce and describe six tenets drawn from our synthesis that scholars should consider in the study of higher education policy implementation. Third, we provide implementation stories from our empirical research to reveal what policy implementation looks like in practice in community colleges in relation to those six tenets, especially with respect to addressing higher education inequities. In the final section, we offer concluding thoughts for higher education policy scholars, higher education systems, and institutional agents with the desire to use policy implementation as a lever of opportunity to eradicate persistent higher education inequities for marginalized communities.

Synthesizing the Policy Implementation Literature How we study and understand policy implementation dictates what we as researchers assume, observe, and value as we interrogate the process of educational reforms unfolding over time and across varying institutional contexts. As we engage with the complexity of policy implementation, it is critical that we recognize the different schools of thought and scholarly genealogies driving how we examine the policy process in higher education. This exploration is especially important as policy research has placed varying levels of attention and care on the actual implementers – the people who carry out the reform – based on the theoretical perspective taken. In some schools of thought, the implementer is not a focal point in the enactment process (e.g., Top-Down Approach), at other times the implementer is assumed to have symmetrical information while being a relatively stable actor (e.g., Institutional Rational Choice), be agentic actors shaped by personal experiences (e.g., Sensemaking), or serve as critical navigators of reform using policy toward racially just ends (e.g., Trenza Policy Framework). We surveyed decades of implementation research to synthesize and categorize how we understand the study of policy implementation in higher education and the emphasis placed on the institutional actors (e.g., street-level bureaucrats, institutional agents, implementers) who manage and lead reforms at the local level. This subsequent section organizes the literature

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on policy implementation into three schools of thought with particular attention to the theories and perspectives developed over time and how they each emphasize different aspects of the enactment process. Given the intricacy of the policy process in addressing social problems – one that involves numerous actors, diverse environments, institutional factors, and often unforeseen obstacles – researchers have developed and applied theoretical frameworks to guide their work (Heck, 2004; Lasswell, 1950; Sabatier, 1999). Since the Great Society’s federal reforms in the 1960s, there has been an interest in understanding and evaluating public policy, from formulation to implementation and its impact. With such an ambitious social agenda, policy analysts in the 1970s were focused on documenting and understanding the impact of government programs that included wide-scale programs to reduce inequality and poverty, increase urban renewal and development, and expand access to education from the creation of Head Start to making colleges and universities more affordable to attend. As deLeon and deLeon (2002) describe it, the 1970s ushered in the formal study of implementation within public policy and offered the opportunity for policy analysts to examine the “major stumbling block in the policy process” and improve the public administration of social programs (p. 468). By then “implementation” as a term entered the public policy lexicon and became a particular interest to education scholars seeking to assess federal reform efforts brought about by the passage of the Elementary and Secondary Education Act (Kingdon, 1984; Mazmanian & Sabatier, 1981). As a specific line of inquiry, implementation studies grew from Pressman and Wildvasky’s 1973 work examining Economic Development Projects in Oakland, California where they described the enactment process as one where “policy is carried out, accomplished or fulfilled” by public servants (p. 13). Interestingly enough, the publication titled “Implementation” was subtitled “How Great Expectations in Washington are Dashed in Oakland” alluding to the difficulty of administering public policy and achieving the good intentions of reform in practice. Since then, a rich history of frameworks, theories, and models emerged to understand how a policy is interpreted, negotiated, and enacted at the local level, namely, schools, district offices, colleges and universities, and system-level agencies.

Organizing Policy Implementation Research As Schools of Thought Scholars have attempted to categorize and present policy analysis frameworks in coherent ways, many of which follow the paradigmatic developments in academia where earlier theories were rooted in rational approaches and then expanded to more interpretivist, and critical ones (Stein, 2004). For example, Lejano (2006) used epistemological traditions to categorize policy analysis frameworks into three groups: positivist, post-positivist, and post-constructionist. Heck (2004) focused on educational policy and synthesized available policy frameworks into rational, cultural, and critical categories. Sabatier and Weible (2014) authored an edited book on policy theories that focused on two critical elements: the strength of causal theory and its application in active research. Each of these categorizations highlighted the

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significance of understanding policy analysis traditions and how frameworks have progressed over time to serve policy researchers. Based on our review of the policy implementation literature over the years and in higher education specifically, we present three schools of thought in the next section that capture how policy implementation has been studied in the field. They are Rational-Scientific, Culture and Cognition, and Critical-Emancipatory (see Table 1). Within each subsection, we delineate epistemological underpinnings, key theories, type of research questions asked (i.e., implementation focus), guiding assumptions, and how they center institutional actors in the enactment process.

Rational-Scientific In the early years of policy analysis, researchers sought ways to simplify the policymaking process and the study of implementation. Pioneering policy scientist Harold Lasswell (1950) viewed the policy process as several ordered sequences of stages, or steps (John, 2013). These steps include agenda setting, policy formulation, policy selection, policy implementation, and policy evaluation. Early theories within this category include Easton’s (1965) systems framework, Lowi’s (1972) policy typologies, and Mazmanian and Sabatier’s (1989) policy implementation framework. At the same time, these policy perspectives followed rational assumptions entrenched in economic, bureaucratic, and systems-oriented theories (Lejano, 2006). Rationality implied that implementation was supposed to occur as designed since implementers were viewed as systematic, efficient, informed, and consistent (Carley, 1980).

Key Elements and Assumptions The Rational-Scientific school of thought has four shared assumptions. First is the belief that the policy process, as complex as it is, can be simplified to a reasonable number of steps or factors. Carley (1980) described this element as the “application of analytical rationality to policy problems that involves the disintegration of some complex problem into simpler models” (p. xi). Stages heuristics introduce “clarity and elegance” into the explanation of public policy research (John, 2013, p. 21). Second, a rational-scientific perspective to studying policy implementation believes that policymakers’ choices, organizational responses, and individual actors are rational and that behavior and response to mandated change can be controlled. Within this perspective, policies are systems of thought and action that are used to regulate behavior toward an intended result (Stein, 2004). Third, policies and subsequent analyses, are considered objective, value-free, and neutral, hiding the potential biases of policymakers and implementers alike. Lastly, there is an assumption that full information to identify, interpret, and implement a policy by actors is available (Young, 1999). This predicted outcome is tied to the notion within traditional approaches that actors have the required information, fidelity to policy goals, and resources to enact the prescribed changes (Heck, 2004).

CultureCognition

School of Thought RationalScientific

Acknowledge the complexity in which policies are implemented focusing on cultural and cognitive factors that may shape and influence the process

Definition The policy process can be analyzed and simplified through categories, stages, or models rooted in assumptions that actors behave in largely rational or predictive ways

Key theories Rational Choice Cost-Benefit Analysis Policy Stage Heuristics Principal Agent Theory Advocacy Coalition Framework Punctuated Equilibrium Interpretive Policy Analysis Discourse Analysis Sociocultural Analysis Sensemaking Social Construction of Policy Targets Street-Level Bureaucrats

Implementer Role Implementer largely follows policy mandates with little to no agency

Implementer is an influential actor who centers their identities and lived experiences in their work

Assumptions The policy process is objective and value-free Intentional pursuit of interests by individual actors underlies all behavior

Culture and cognition influence the policy process Policy formulation and implementation are situated in multiple social contexts

Implementation focus Has the policy been effectively implemented? Did the policy design, causal theory, and instruments use structure conditions for successful implementation? Did the policy meet its intended goals and outcomes?

How does an organization’s culture, values, and beliefs influence implementation? How do actors make sense of policies? In what ways do actors’ prior experiences and knowledge influence how a policy’s meaning and goals are interpreted?

Table 1 Schools of thought within policy implementation research

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CriticalEmancipatory

Policy and its implementation are seen as a practice of power that needs to be deconstructed to understand the impact on marginalized groups as reforms unfold across educational levels

Feminist Theory Critical Policy Analysis Critical Race Theory Critical Discourse Analysis Emancipatory Frameworks Institutional Agents

What is policy? What does policy do? How are policy targets constructed, framed, and impacted by implementation? Who continuously benefits from the implementation of a policy? Who continually loses from the implementation of a policy? In what ways does the policy incorporate the experiences of marginalized communities in the implementation process?

Policies have underlying values, ideologies, and power dynamics that impact marginalized communities Recognizes the lived experiences of those impacted by the policy

Implementer carefully considers the role of systemic barriers in their work

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This approach to policy analysis focuses on the macro-level aspects using a series of stages to make assumptions about how organizations behave, the rationality of policy actors, and the alignment between policy goals and policy targets (Schneider & Ingram, 1993). The strength of the rational-scientific approach is the ability to highlight the linkages within the policy process and explore identifiable forces that drive the process (Kingdon, 1984). Within this school of thought, there is an emphasis on “top-down” approaches that start with policy formulation and then examine, in a linear fashion, the extent to which its objectives were achieved over time (Sabatier, 1986). This linear process is especially helpful when a researcher is interested in understanding the hows and whys of implementation, to systematically understand how certain variables within their contexts influence the implementation of policy. Similarly, these frameworks allow researchers to backward map the successful, flawed, or failed attempts to implement policy (Levinson et al., 2009).

Frameworks Within Rational-Scientific and the Role of the Implementer More contemporary theories in this first school of thought include the Institutional Analysis and Development (IAD) framework (Ostrom, 2014), Multiple Streams (Kingdon, 1984; Ness, 2010; Zahariadis, 2007, 2014), and Advocacy Coalition Framework (Sabatier, 1986; Jenkins-Smith et al., 2014; Sabatier & Weible, 2014). Researchers using frameworks within this School focus on understanding if a policy’s causal theory led to effective implementation, understanding why a policy was successful or failed, and the impact and outcomes of a policy years after implementation (Heck, 2004). An additional strength of this school of thought is the ability of researchers to use a framework that helps explain policy formulation and enactment across different contexts (Jenkins-Smith et al., 2014). Richardson and Martinez (2009) used the IAD framework to understand how state governance structures, political actors, and policy lead to developing performance funding in higher education. In a recent book by Dougherty and Natow (2015) The Politics of Performance Funding for Higher Education, the authors used the Advocacy Coalition Framework to trace the policy origins, development, and implementation of performance-based funding models in eight states. Critiques of the Rational-Scientific Approach Theories and models developed within this approach have significantly influenced the field of public policy and how scholars interrogate policy implementation (Carley, 1980; Weible & Sabatier, 2018). Although the rational-scientific approach provides a simplified understanding of the policy process by dividing it into distinct parts, there are three primary criticisms. First, Heck (2004) critiques the rational and stages approach for making the policymaking process too simplistic and more ordered and rational than what it really is. He argues that rational models are overly linear and too basic, failing to understand the complexity that occurs “between statehouse and classroom” (Heck, 2004, p. 23). These models fail to account for contextual factors that influence the implementation process. Second, these approaches make unrealistic assumptions about how policymakers, organizations, and actors behave (John, 2013). For example, critics argue that the rational approach

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is faulty in that it assumes individuals will implement a policy with fidelity, organizations have information symmetry, and policies are able to create the statutory conditions for successful implementation. Another criticism of the frameworks within this first approach is the lack of causal theory, top-down bias, and oversimplification of the policy process (Sabatier & Weible, 2014). These models at times paint an inaccurate picture of the policy process by developing abstract models that do not exist in the real world where policy is implemented (John, 2013). Sabatier (1999) went further with his critique stating that process-oriented frameworks had potentially outlived their usefulness since they lacked descriptive accuracy, neglected several levels of government processes, and held a top-down bias. These critiques aligned with the views of Schneider and Ingram (1990) who believed that early frameworks provided an “incomplete portrayal of the complexity and richness of policy” (p. 510). Lastly, these approaches may leave out important informal aspects of the implementation process. In response to these critiques, the second school of thought identified the cultural and cognition approach, increased scholars’ ability to explore the complexity within the policy process by incorporating more variables into the examination of how implementation occurs.

Culture-Cognition The culture and cognition school of thought captures how implementation is shaped by institutional and individual contexts, emphasizing how cultural (e.g., institutional history, organizational arrangement, shared values) and cognitive elements (e.g., prior experiences, beliefs, positionality) influence the ways that policies are interpreted and implemented. This school of thought emerged in the literature beginning in the 1980s and drew concepts from cultural anthropology, social psychology, education studies, and sociology (deLeon & deLeon, 2002; Levinson et al., 2009), diffusing from historical roots in political science, public administration, and public policy. Lejano (2006) described this school of thought as intentionally countering traditional positivist approaches by developing more subjective, value-laden, and culturally and historically derived analysis techniques. Yanow (2000, 2007) asserted that the practice of policy analysis had for too long overemphasized rational approaches that “enacted positivistic presuppositions” and now required new perspectives and guiding theories that highlight different elements that interact to influence implementation (2007, p. 110). Through this school of thought, researchers developed new approaches to understanding and describing how reform unfolds at the site of implementation and is influenced by organizational conditions as well as actor-specific characteristics (Levinson et al., 2009; Stein, 2004).

Key Elements and Assumptions We describe four shared assumptions that guide cultural and cognitive approaches to studying policy implementation. First, this school of thought recognizes that context, culture, and cognition matter in the implementation process and foregrounds the

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interactions of people, place, and policy. There is an explicit focus on understanding how organizational contexts such as campus culture, institutional identity and history, levels of bureaucracy, and decision structures all shape what actors can do with mandated change. Second, understanding meaning-making is central to studying the implementation process. In moving away from taken-for-granted assumptions like having seemingly “rational” actors or presuming fidelity to reform goals, this school of thought attempts to uncover individuals’ beliefs, motivations, and commitments by learning about their worldviews (Ching et al., 2018; Spillane et al., 2006), experience with change management (Chase, 2016; Kezar, 2014), willingness to carry out reform (Tummers, 2011, 2012; Weatherly & Lipsky, 1977; Weimer & Vining, 2005), and understanding of what can be achieved through the policy’s goals (Acevedo, 2022; Felix, 2021a). This focus on actor meaning making extends to the researcher as well, requiring scholars to reflect on their own interpretations and worldviews in the process of examining implementation (Yanow, 2007). This is especially important from a Culture-Cognition approach since studies have documented how new ideas and change strategies brought on by educational reform are at times misunderstood by individuals as familiar and tend to interfere with achieving the policy goals being introduced (Spillane et al., 2006). Just as the policy scholar examines how institutional actors understand required change, it is helpful to assess the researchers’ own assumptions on how they interpret policy and what they plan to document in the implementation process. Third, the study of implementation in this school of thought shifts to situationspecific cases deemphasizing the need to be generalizable and instead allowing more interpretivist approaches that examine the process as one that is intertwined between policy goals, actors’ beliefs, and organization conditions. Spillane et al. (2002) add that within policy implementation research, most conventional theories fail to take into account the complexity of human sensemaking, both individually and collectively. Finally, by understanding factors such as culture, cognition, and context, this school of thought goes beyond simplified implementation analysis to understand how policy enactment is influenced by individual actors, organizational arrangements, and the culture(s) in which policy mandates are trying to permeate and change.

Frameworks Within the Culture and Cognition and the Role of the Implementer Scholars have moved toward new research perspectives that consider cultural and cognitive aspects of implementation that include sensemaking approaches (Chase, 2016; Coburn, 2001; Spillane et al., 2002, 2006; Weick, 1995), interpretive analysis (Yanow, 2000, 2007), discourse analysis (van Dijk, 1997; Winkle-Wagner et al., 2014), sociocultural analysis (Stein, 2004; Sutton & Levinson, 2001), multilayered contexts (Felix, 2021b; Nienhusser & Connery, 2021), and social construction of policy targets (Schneider & Ingram, 1993; Schneider et al., 2014). The focus of these perspectives helps us to uncover the “complex social processes” between policymakers, implementers, and assumed policy beneficiaries (Koyama, 2015, p. 548). Specifically, this school of thought helps to illuminate how settings and

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people influence policy implementation (Chase, 2016; Spillane et al., 2006) given the emphasis on the roles of institutional context (e.g., institutional history, culture) and individual cognitive elements (e.g., prior experiences, beliefs, identities) that influence how policy is understood and subsequently implemented. With a focus on the “settings,” implementation researchers have highlighted how organizational bureaucracy, institutional culture, and campus history serve as impediments or catalysts for achieving the intent of reform. In her examination of culture, politics, and policy interpretation in a Wisconsin community college, Chase (2016) found that institutional identity and history played a significant role in influencing policy implementation. Employing an in-depth policy case study, organizational elements were described as the “DNA” (Chase, 2016, p. 971) of an institution and helped to explain why institutions operate and respond to policy mandates in different ways. In the case of expanding their institutional mission to serve transfer-oriented students, the organization’s founding mission as a “technical college” served as the rationale for resisting mandates to expand course offers related to liberal arts and transferring. Similarly, Trujillo (2013) used the concept of a “zone of tolerance” (p. 543), adapted from the work of Oakes et al. (2005), to explore the implementation of equity-oriented instruction policies in California and found that district-level bureaucracy and leader’s entrenched practices acted as a buffer to nullify the required changes that sought to benefit students. The spotlight on the individual actor also allows for a deeper understanding of how implementation is shaped at the local level, especially by the meaning-making of individual actors regarding the intended change. A key approach to understanding the implementer has been through sensemaking theory (Spillane et al., 2002; Weick 1995) and exploring how individuals’ preexisting beliefs, experiences, and knowledge combine into a frame of reference from which they understand, interpret, deconstruct, and respond to the intended policy (Coburn, 2001). Based on this individual-level meaning-making, Nienhusser (2014) described implementers as “powerfully influential intermediaries” (p. 16) between policy goals and the gains to be made by marginalized students. In their work exploring the implementation of policies affecting undocumented students, Nienhusser (2018) found that implementers draw on their personal identities, experiences, and positionality to advocate for implementation that expands educational opportunities. Individual actors carry a responsibility to interpret complex policies and consider how the mandated change can be used as a tool to improve conditions for marginalized students.

Critiques of Culture and Cognition The Culture and Cognition school of thought enables policy researchers to capture complexity in the implementation process and highlight the critical role of people and place. One critique of this approach is the short-length studies that take a snapshot of the process, rather than the traditional long-term view. Policy research suggests that analyzing policy reforms takes several decades to identify and track policy cycles and their ability to produce changes (Heck, 2004; Mazmanian & Sabatier, 1989). With a focus on depth over breadth in interrogating organizational

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context and individual characteristics, scholars within this school of thought may be less interested in longitudinal implementation studies. Additionally, others argue that there is a lack of conceptual clarity around concepts like organizational culture, institutional context, and individual meaning-making (Chase et al., 2021; Coburn, 2001; Eddy, 2003). From this perspective, it may be hard to understand the impact and influence of a policy when the central construct is ambiguous or difficult to measure (Scribner et al., 2003). In addition to these critiques, more critical scholars argue that interpretive approaches fail to recognize key elements that influence policy formulation and implementation (Apple, 1992) such as power dynamics, the role of social production, and oppressive structures like racism, sexism, classism, and homophobia.

Critical-Emancipatory The third school of thought brings critical and emancipatory perspectives to policy implementation research. The critical approach to policy analysis emerged as a critique of reform efforts that failed to improve the lives and conditions of marginalized communities (Apple, 1982; Apple & Weis, 1983; Ball 1994, 1997). Critical analyses went beyond rationality and interpretivism, examining power, ideology, social reproduction, and policies under advanced capitalism. These approaches explicitly explore racial, social, and economic arrangements and practices that policies and analyses tend to ignore (Anyon, 2005). Heck (2004) suggested that critical perspectives go against the grain of conventional theories, models, and methods of analyzing policies. Rather than assuming an “anti-” approach, critical perspectives provide a new lens by which to understand the policy process, often attending to voices that are typically silent or missing from policy analysis (Martinez-Aleman, 2015). As more women and scholars of color have entered the field of policy analysis, new theories and frameworks have been developed and employed to explore, deconstruct, and critique the policy process.

Key Elements and Assumptions The Critical-Emancipatory school of thought deviates from traditional policy analysis, especially in higher education, which neglects the pervasiveness of racism, sexism, and social inequities embedded within the policy process (Heck, 2004; Marshall 1997; Young & Diem, 2017). Within this approach, the researcher seeks to interrogate how existing power structures influence the ability of policy to achieve its equitable intents via the implementation process. Drawing on Young and Diem’s (2017) synthesis of Critical Policy Analysis, there are five key elements that the Critical school of thought concerns itself with. The first is a focus on discourse, highlighting the differences between policy as text and policy as reality (Ball, 1994, 1997). Young and Diem (2017) note that critical approaches to implementation must contend with the gap between the rhetoric and promise of policy and what actually occurs at the institutional level. Second, is the recognition that policy – its problem identification and proposed

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solution – is directly shaped by people who often have differing perspectives on the root causes of inequities and the type of policy alternatives necessary to make change. Scholars must question the policy itself, who developed it, the type of language used, the framing of the problem, as well as the ideology underlying the policy solutions (Felix & Trinidad, 2020). Third, policy is seen as a practice of power, where influence, resources, and knowledge are distributed unequally (Levinson et al., 2009). This school of thought highlights how the policy process creates “winners” and “losers” (Young & Diem, 2017, p. 4). The researcher must then ask how this policy is written, and who it seeks to benefit, harm, or render invisible once implemented. Fourth, scholars using critical approaches need to explore how ideologies and values are embedded in policies and the ways that they potentially reproduce inequalities in society (Alemán, 2007). At times, a policy may be performative, punitive, or full of possibility; it is up to the researcher to explore how the formulation and implementation of the reform would affect minoritized communities. Lastly, this type of implementation analysis centers not just on the production of knowledge, but also institutional change. Neumann and Pallas (2015) share that researchers using a lens of criticality to analyze policy, focus both on developing policy knowledge and addressing matters of social and educational equity. Grace (1984) presents the idea of “critical policy scholarship” (p. xii) – policy analysis that is theoretically and socioculturally situated and generative of social action (Lipman, 2002). The focus is on understanding the policy intent and effects of silenced groups (e.g., women, people of color, LGBTQ+). The goal of the analysis is to uncover dimensions of power, oppression, and racism. Feminist scholars critiqued the long-standing gender-neutral stance of policymakers (Allan et al., 2010; Bensimon & Marshall, 1997; Young, 1999). A Feminist approach grounds the study of policy within critical theory and focuses on the impact of policy on populations frequently overlooked, namely, women and women of color (Allan et al., 2010; Lester, 2014). A critical and emancipatory approach requires the examination of “silence” in policies, or what could have been written, but was not (Martinez-Aleman, 2015). In emphasizing how policies are written, what language is used, and who and what is left out, CPA suggests that even policies that strive to promote equitable outcomes for all students are inherently biased, benefiting some while disadvantaging others. Similarly, these approaches see the analyses of policies as a way to dismantle statutes and laws that have adversely affected marginalized communities and offer policymakers policy alternatives that may improve the conditions for these communities in areas like education, healthcare, and housing (Dumas, 2014).

Frameworks Within the Critical-Emancipatory Approach and the Role of the Implementer Approaches within the Critical-Emancipatory school include feminist frameworks (Allan et al., 2010; Bacchi, 1999; Bensimon & Marshall, 1997; Young, 1999), critical policy analysis (Young & Diem, 2017), critical theories (Anderson, 2012; Ball 1997; Dumas & Anyon, 2006; Harper et al., 2009; Iverson, 2007), and

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racialized organizations (Gándara et al. 2023; Lerma et al., 2019; Ray, 2019). Dumas and Anyon (2006) used political economy to understand the “(non)implementation” (p. 162) of school finance reform brought on by Abbott v. Burke in New Jersey in the mid-1990s. They highlight several non-implementation lessons such as the inability of policy mandates to influence behavioral changes, especially among affluent communities. Additionally, they found that finance policies that fail to acknowledge historical context, previous economic policies, and discourse around race would undermine any goals of finance equity during implementation. A critical approach reminds researchers that the policymaking process is not neutral and that the intentions of reform being enacted may not be well-intended or actually benefit minoritized communities (Rodriguez et al., 2022). More recently scholars have applied Victor Ray’s (2019) Theory of Racialized Organizations (Gándara et al. 2023; Liera & Hernandez, 2021; McCambly, 2023; McCambly & Colyvas, 2022; Rodriguez et al., 2022) to understand the racially curious effects of the policy process in higher education and why implementation efforts do not yield espoused goals of educational equity. Using Bonilla-Silva’s (2003) racial frames and Ray’s (2019) theory of racialized organizations, Liera and Hernandez (2021) studied the adoption of new hiring practices to improve faculty diversity in higher education. They found that search chairs served as the lead implementer of diversity hiring policies since they heavily influenced if these new mandates were followed. In particular, they noted that implementers’ race/ethnicity and disciplinary background heavily influenced the adoption of or resistance to policy efforts seeking to improve racial equity within the university. Similarly, Gándara and colleagues (2023) examined “racialized administrative burdens” (p. 7) and how entrenched organizational practices and routines may be the institutional roadblock in front of implementers, which limits the effective implementation of policies that can benefit minoritized students. Studying philanthropy and higher education, McCambly and Colyvas (2022) noted that equity-based policies with weak theories of change can “unintentionally, create new and more deeply institutionalized modes of reproduction” during implementation if scholars don’t recognize how historically white-serving organizations reshape the intents of reforms (p. 23). Scholars over the last two decades, but especially since the COVID19 pandemic, have amplified calls for racial justice using perspectives from the Critical-Emancipatory school of thought to place greater analytic focus on interrogating the systemic role of race, gender, and power asymmetry in the implementation process. Through this school of thought, scholars do not just seek to document the enactment process but employ critical and emancipatory frameworks to illuminate and disrupt the mechanisms of inequity experienced in implementation. In this way, research on the implementation process can directly benefit the individual actors carrying out the work to understand the systemic and organizational factors that influence how policy unfolds in community colleges.

Critiques of the Critical-Emancipatory Approach At times, approaches within the Critical-Emancipatory school of thought were described as reactive and solely providing critique, failing to offer recommendations for better policy formulation or ways to improve the implementation process (John,

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2013). Anderson (2012) describes this as the “bridge still too far,” where critical policy analysis is unable to connect with policy knowledge that informs institutional practice, improves policy formulation and implementation, and contributes toward scholarship (p. 141). Heck (2004) adds that a critical approach can help understand what is wrong with policy implementation but fails to offer concrete actions that can be taken to alleviate a social issue. By taking a critical perspective, the implementation researcher must consider how they are working, not only critiques policies, interrogates systems, and advances the field, but also provides implementers themselves with insight and tools that help them to enact policy reform that achieves more equitable results.

Toward A Different Approach to Policy Implementation Research Each of these schools of thought provides differing perspectives that guide scholars’ exploration of policy implementation based on underlying assumptions, key elements emphasized, varied prominence of the individual, and the purpose for why the researcher is conducting their study. Rational-Scientific places a high value on simplifying the implementation process and allows the researcher to use models and stages to explore how policy unfolds over time and across institutions. CultureCognition perspectives ask scholars to recognize that individual meaning-making, as well as organizational context, plays a significant role in understanding, responding to, and adopting reform mandates. Critical-Emancipatory approaches prompt scholars to interrogate why celebrated policies that espouse goals of improving student success tend to fall short of expectations and highlight the mechanisms within our institutions that restrict the achievement of more equitable outcomes through the implementation process. When seeking to explore and understand the process of implementation each of these schools of thought alone fails to capture the complexity of how reform unfolds within higher education. What is required of policy researchers are comprehensive perspectives that embrace the messiness of human beings and how they interact to carry out reform mandates, consider how individuals come to understand and imagine the possibilities of policy, and ultimately the forces that shape, if and how policy intents can be leveraged to create more equitable institutions through implementation. Drawing from our synthesis of implementation studies and the three schools of thought, we present six tenets in the next section to humanize how scholars conduct policy research on the people leading and implementing reforms in higher education.

Humanizing Implementation: Toward an Equity-Centered Approach to Policy Analysis From the beginnings of policy implementation research, white scholars (Bardach, 1980; Derthick, 1972; Moynihan, 1970; Pressman & Wildvasky, 1973, 1984) have written about the process in pessimistic, deficit-oriented ways that frame the complexities of policy enactment as failures and misunderstandings. Combating

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pessimistic views in policy implementation within education, Milbrey McLaughlin (2006) famously highlighted how scholars of policy implementation conduct “misery research” due to the “litany of failed expectations, dashed hopes, and misjudged implementation” occurring during the process (p. 4). Rather than dwell on the discouraging accounts from the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s, she tried to give policy scholars a path forward, shining light onto the obscure and unknown aspects of how public policy moves from ideas at state capitals to the college campuses where policy implementation is enacted by multiple and diverse stakeholders. The “lessons learned” in Milbrey McLaughlin’s (2006) conclusions were offerings to the field in hopes that a new generation of implementation researchers could bring new perspectives to fully understand the comprehensive and complex nature of implementation, especially in education. In the early 2000s, researchers used new theories and tools to place greater attention on cognition (e.g., motivation, sensemaking, social construction), context (e.g., temporality, geography, spatiality), and complexity (e.g., power dynamics, shared governance, multilevel politics) to highlight the varied ways that policy reform is interpreted, responded to, and used to achieve its anticipated change (Chase, 2016; Coburn, 2001; Spillane et al., 2002, 2006; Yanow, 2007). More recently, scholars have used critical theories and methods to uncover institutional and societal mechanisms that maintain inequities despite policies seeking to disrupt patterns of inequity during the implementation process (byrd, 2022; Gonzalez & Cataño, 2022; Kwyasee Wright et al., 2023). Rather than continuing to document the ways the status quo is upheld, critical approaches explicitly focus on understanding how issues of power, social reproduction, and systemic inequities are embedded in the policymaking process and must be centered in any analysis of how educational reforms are formulated and implemented in higher education (Martinez-Alemán, 2015; Young & Diem, 2017). In this section, rather than advocate for new tools or theories to help implementation researchers, we argue that the policy scholars themselves must reflect, reshape, and respond to current social contexts as they study policy implementation. To this end, we invite policy scholars to explore how their social identities, academic training, criticality, and commitments to a just world shape how they see the study of policy implementation. For example, how policy implementation continuously flows and unfolds, and ultimately what can be achieved by people leading the enactment of policy. This equity-centered approach seeks to move us – policy scholars – from a perspective that conducts implementation research as a documentation of failure and disappointment to one that empowers, provides hope, and humanizes the process of understanding policy implementation and the barriers and opportunities faced by institutional actors in improving educational equity. Drawing on Bensimon’s work on equity-mindedness (2005, 2007, 2018), we recognize that policy analysis needs to be identity-conscious, focused on addressing institutional conditions, systemically aware, and attuned to how opportunities such as policy implementation are able to improve racial equity in higher education. Below we outline the six tenets that comprise our Equity-Centered Policy

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Fig. 1 Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Framework

Implementation Framework (see Fig. 1) and highlight why policy scholars should explore, deeply consider, and embed these tenets in future implementation studies focused on higher education. Within our Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Framework, we present six tenets that place attention on aspects of the implementation process from individuals’ identities and imaginations (people) to institutional complexity and sociopolitical context (place); layering policy elements (i.e., prior reforms and leveraging racial equity) to provide a more comprehensive understanding of the interaction between people, place, and policy. Within the social sciences, tenets provide a set of principles or beliefs that guide how researchers pursue inquiry and analysis (Rodgers et al., 2023). Our use of tenets offers specific ways to examine policy implementation that places attention on people, place, and policy without being prescriptive (Baber, 2016). As displayed in Fig. 1, the six tenets are independent, yet connected conceptual elements that serve to guide policy researchers as they design, conduct, understand, and communicate their implementation studies. While the tenets can be read in a sequential manner, there is no explicit direction or hierarchy within them. Our approach is multifocal and spotlights the importance of people, place, and policy possibilities in the implementation of higher education policies (Young, 1999). The first set of tenets highlights people, centering on the individual actor – who they are and what they believe they can do with policy – and their influence on how implementation unfolds. To this end, it is critical to start with an awareness of implementers’ individual identities and imaginative approaches to carrying out mandates for change and transformation. The second set focuses on place. In doing so, we capture the complexities that exist within an institution, and the sociopolitical context in which an institution is embedded shapes how actors respond to and enact reform mandates. Part of our approach to studying policy implementation is an awareness of prior reforms as they have lasting tentacles into the modern day because of their legacy requirements and cultivating expectations of how things are done. The last set of tenets prompts attention to the policy possibilities. In the fifth tenet, we ask the policy researcher to consider how the policy of interest is layered on top of prior reforms that may create faulty grounds or strong foundations moving forward, recognizing that we cannot study the implementation of current reforms in an ahistorical vacuum. In that vein, our final tenet seeks to understand how the implementer and implementation process are leveraged to improve

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educational racial equity, particularly thinking about how individual actors use implementation as a tool for transformative change to address rampant racial inequities.

Identity Conscious The individual implementer is not a universal figure devoid of their own identities, beliefs, motivations, or commitments. Many theories neglect the critical role of the individual actor and the characteristics they possess (Gándara et al., 2023); beyond their sensemaking, how their identity, agency, and role within the institution mediate what they can do with policy (Nienhusser & Connery, 2021). As we examine implementation processes, scholars must place attention on understanding the implementer and how their social identities like race, gender, and socioeconomic status, all shape how they understand, interpret, and respond to the mandates of educational reform. In our work, we have sought to humanize the implementer by recognizing that who they are, how they are perceived, what they believe, the institutional capital possessed, and their understanding of what can be achieved under the policy mandates all influence how they lead the enactment process on campus and the type of support or resistance they receive in moving policy into practice (Felix, 2021a, 2022; Nienhusser 2014, 2018). The first tenet calls on implementation scholars to be identity conscious and consider how the social identities and lived experiences of institutional actors structure the possibilities of what can be achieved with policy reform. For example, if policy scholars are examining the implementation of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) efforts to increase the retention of racially minoritized students and colleagues in community college, would the experience be the same for a queer Latina dean as that of a tenured cisgender white faculty member? Race and gender, for example, play a clear role in how the leader is perceived on campus and the potential backlash faced as they interact with campus structures to implement a policy. Similarly, the position held and status on campus, such as an administrative dean versus tenured faculty, will also provide the implementer with institutional capital (Coleman, 1990; i.e., trust, resources, and reputation) to carry the work forward with varied roadblocks. Implementers’ ability to highlight and uplift identities and associated rich lived experiences – both their own and that of colleagues – is another important element to highlight in an equity-centered policy implementation landscape (Sánchez et al., 2021). When studying how policy unfolds on campus, scholars need to consider how personal and professional identities like race/ethnicity, sexual orientation, gender identity, disability, immigration status, educational status, and formal position held enable or potentially restrict implementing actors from carrying out reforms. For example, there is a growing body of evidence that recognizes how BIPOC implementers tend to use policy as opportunities to explicitly address patterns of inequity and to have a greater awareness of systemic barriers on campus since they faced them as students themselves (Estrada et al., 2021; Leon & Vega, 2019). Gonzalez

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and Cataño (2022) examined how implementers at Hispanic-Serving Institutions embodied the opportunities within Title V grants to improve the conditions and outcomes for Latine/x students. They found that by examining the “ontological, epistemological, and axiological essence” of these leaders, those actors that claimed a Latine/x or first-generation college student identity were more likely to enact practices that were explicit in addressing systemic inequities affecting Latine/x students (p. 6). By being identity-conscious, scholars can illuminate how possessing minoritized identities may place greater levels of resistance on implementers as well as how they leverage their own lived experience into a catalyst for institutional change.

Implementation Imagination The use of imagination is essential to our second tenet as it centers on the ability of institutional actors to individually and collectively dream of a different “educational world” that moves us from “what is. . .to what can be” a possible world where students thrive and experience racial equity (Davis, 2003, p. 27; Dumas, 2014). Along this tradition of imagination and freedom-dreaming, we draw on Kelley’s (2003) “radical imagination” to remind implementation researchers of the power and necessity of imagination in leading for social and institutional change: “Without new visions, we don’t know what to build, only what to knock down” and that in the process of building anew, if we lack that creativity, “we not only end up confused, rudderless, and cynical, we forget that making a revolution is not a series of clever maneuvers and tactics but a process that can and must transform us” (p. xii). We see implementation imaginations as central to leading policy enactment toward more equitable ends and the need to understand if institutional actors can envision something that is yet to be experienced, educational equity. In the community college context, imagination can be seen as the confluence of actors’ agency, frame of reference (e.g., understanding of systemic racism, collective action), commitments (e.g., motivation, willingness, advocacy), and creativity that enable them to see and respond to policy reform in more profound ways (Nienhusser & Connery, 2021). McLaughlin (2006) shares that “organizations do not act, people do” (p. 8); thus, it is critical to emphasize the imaginations of implementers, uncovering what they believe policy can do, what their specific role in the change process is, and ultimately what can be achieved through implementation. A frame of reference – the worldview actors possess – is used to understand how individuals interpret policy and are able to steer implementation efforts in ways that successfully address educational inequities (Dowd & Bensimon, 2015; Felix & Ramirez, 2020; Spillane et al., 2002). Scholars have previously examined how personal beliefs, professional values, lived experiences, and equity-minded competence guide implementers to fulfill the intent of policy to improve conditions for minoritized groups. Implementation imagination captures how individual actors’ desire for change is galvanized into the enactment

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process and how they see leading reform efforts as an opportunity for institutional transformation. By highlighting actors’ agency in the process, researchers can account for how implementers’ frames of reference shape actions and explore how individuals draw on beliefs, values, and understandings to lead change. In the community college context, many have studied the role of “institutional agents” (Stanton-Salazar, 2011, p. 1066) and how those actors use their status, position, and authority to implement reforms that challenge existing practices and structures to better serve minoritized students (Bensimon & Dowd, 2009; Dowd et al., 2013; Nienhusser, 2018). Layered into this tenet are the ideas of willingness and creativity and how both elements allow for implementers to have a more expansive imagination, and significantly alter the trajectory of actualized impact. Tummers (2011, 2012) highlights how actors’ attitude toward policy and the level of personal or societal meaning they assign to the reform drives their (un)willingness to implement policy. Creativity explores the disposition of the individual to be inventive in navigating around implementation impediments like institutional backlash, faculty resistance, or lack of organization resources (Ekpe et al., 2023). Taken together, implementation imaginations help policy scholars understand how the implementer acts on their beliefs, commitments, and willingness to carry out complex change efforts and where they see the possibilities and opportunities for equity-centered transformation within policy mandates, or see it as just another reform effort to be implemented in a compliance-oriented way.

Institutional Complexity Moving from social identity and imagination, we turn to the place of implementation to understand institutional complexity – the organizational environment and conditions – in which implementers are embedded and the space where policy unfolds. This third tenet helps to uncover the institutional conditions, barriers, and pressures that exist when a policy is introduced and the forces shaping how individuals carry out reform during the implementation process. Within this tenet we ask implementation researchers to consider institutions’ “DNA” (Chase, 2016, p. 971), the contested organizational terrain (Felix & Trinidad, 2018; Shaw & London, 2001), how community colleges operate as racialized organizations (McCambly et al., 2023; Ray, 2019), and the level of commitment placed by institutions on mandated changes (McNair et al., 2020; McCoy-Simmons et al., 2022). Scholars seeking a more comprehensive understanding of implementation should consider and document the “DNA” of the institution and how the espoused organizational mission, identity, culture, goals, and demographics of students served, all come together to enable or potentially hinder what the individual implementer can do to move policy reform forward. This is a first step in recognizing the importance of place and how implementation varies from institution based on unique organizational features. Scholars like Bensimon (2005, 2007, 2018) and Kezar (2014, 2021)

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make it clear that any study exploring the implementation of equity-oriented policies must examine organizational features to understand the “readiness” of the institution and how organizational culture, leadership, bureaucracy, and politics prompt implementers to respond, reshape, or resist the policy being introduced. With this type of awareness, researchers then have the ability to examine how the organizational terrain where implementation occurs is potentially receptive or resistant to the type of change required by reform mandates. This approach of mapping the organizational terrain has been critical within the community college context, where scholars examine the varied institutional responses to new state-mandated policy efforts seeking to dismantle longstanding developmental education practices or expand transfer pathways in vocational- and workforce-oriented campuses. Within this tenet, we also recognize community colleges as racialized organizations that require implementers to navigate entrenched practices and bureaucratic elements that may operate as mechanisms of racial inequity and influence their ability to do their work and advance implementation efforts (Aguilar-Smith, 2021; Felix et al., 2022; McCambly et al., 2023). This element is an active approach to interrogating the racialized nature of higher education and the ways that organizational routines and practices may operate to dilute or delay the intent of equityoriented reforms during the process of implementation. Lastly, we focus on organizational commitment from senior leaders to set the tone, empower, and support the implementers responsible for reform change. If these new policies serve as the blueprint for equity-oriented change, then the organization and its leadership must commit to providing the materials and supplies to build out the envisioned efforts. Material commitments provide the much-needed personnel, funding, and capacity required to turn the symbolic rhetoric of racial equity into reality. Earlier research documents how an absence of organizational capacity, infrastructure, and dollars limit, if not, derail implementation efforts. Ultimately, this tenet provides the researcher with the ability to contend with the ways that the institution diminishes or enables what implementers can do and how organizational conditions like capacity and commitment can supersede the vision, advocacy, and type of transformation individuals want to carry out.

Sociopolitical Context Our fourth tenet focuses on understanding the dynamics of place (Morrison et al., 2017; Massey & Denton, 1993; Wilson, 2012) within policy analysis and recognizing how individuals and institutions are embedded in a sociopolitical context (i.e., local, regional, state, and federal levels) that shape the response and potential results of policy reform. Whether in elementary (Lawrence-Lightfoot, 1983; Valenzuela, 1999), high school (Hernandez et al., 2022; Tichavakunda & Galan, 2020), or postsecondary education (Harris, 2021; McMillan Cottom, 2016), place has been a critical issue to explore to understand the conditions, trajectories, and outcomes experienced by minoritized students and address the mechanisms that

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produce those racial injustices. When examining policy implementation, researchers should explore and contend with the social-political context that affects both the individual and institution as implementation unfolds. Specifically, we highlight three elements: external-political forces, geographic context, and community involvement, and the influence of multilevel governance structures. As Payne (2017) argues in their book, So Much Reform, So Little Change, the “tendency to discount the social, political environment” (p. 172) in the implementation process is a shortcoming of policy research and the ability to document the impact of reform efforts on schools and students. Anderson (2012) reminds higher education scholars that “the formation and implementation of policy are intensely political, based on pragmatic compromises as well as careful and, at times, manipulative language” that must be considered when conducting policy analysis, but often, “we ignore them at our peril” (p. 141). This tenet is one where we choose to acknowledge and embed, whenever possible, the social-political forces that serve as undercurrents swirling below the surface that push against or advance the implementation processes. For example, we might ask what resources individuals and institutions have to successfully implement reform, both in terms of inducements directly provided for the specific policy as well as the type of capacity available based on the state-level funding patterns. At the state level, Taylor et al. (2020) examined hyper-partisanship and its influence on higher education policy across states, helping to understand how colleges and universities are funded to achieve their mission of serving students and the reforms placed on them. They found that community colleges in Republican-led states experienced lower rates of state appropriations and added levels of accountability for those resources. This adds to the historic patterns of funding inequities based on state and system funding formulas that tend to provide less to community colleges (Dowd, 2003; Romano & Palmer, 2016). These external political forces then shape the environment, infrastructure, and resources available for the individual implementer based on the community and context in which their institution is embedded. Second, policy scholars can provide a more comprehensive analysis of implementation by documenting the geographic context of implementation, and how, for example, rural, urban, and suburban spaces create material consequences for implementers. Embedded in these spaces are remnants of segregation, redlining, and differing economic opportunities that influence the magnitude of inequity and what implementers can do to use reform to address those educational inequities on their campuses and the context they are situated in. Studying the implementation of in-state resident tuition for undocumented students, Nienhusser (2018) found how geographic context offered distinct examples of equitable or exclusionary approaches to implementing policies that benefited or harmed undocumented students in states like California and Georgia, respectively. Lastly, we recommend scholars think about the influence of governance structures on policy implementation in community colleges. As Morgan et al. (2023) argue, governing boards and trustees are “the stakeholders with the most legal power and responsibility for institutions, [but] do not have a strong record of

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contributing to equity work” (p. 2). These boards tend to act as “bottlenecks” of implementation, where the politics of governing boards dictate what individuals can do based on their receptiveness to external reform (p. 16). Potential misalignment between the intentions of equity-oriented reforms and the values of a governing board tend to constrain and impede activities that seek to advance equity and should be examined when exploring how policy unfolds in community colleges and the potential impact of these reforms. This tenet becomes much more critical to incorporate as states (e.g., Florida, Missouri, Tennessee, Texas) and communities increase the banning of diversity and equity initiatives and limit the use of allocated resources toward these endeavors. Over the last several years, news articles capture the restrictions on implementing equity efforts such as the move to “defund diversity” in Tennessee as of 2016 or more recently Texas’ SB-17 where DEI offices, employees, and services are prohibited as of September 1, 2023. All policies are political; researchers studying the enactment of policy must consider who has the power to craft reform, how they frame the educational problems being addressed, and the solutions identified and associated with them. We assert that policies can be promising in addressing educational inequities, but at the same time performative, or at worst punitive; in conducting equity-minded policy analysis, the researcher must be interested in what is being implemented as much as how it is being implemented.

Layered on Prior Reforms As policy scholars, we tend to enter the field wanting to study a single reform effort to understand how the implementation process unfolds and what the potential impact of the policy is. Many times, our perspectives fail to capture the reality of community college leaders that are managing multiple policy demands at the same time. This fifth tenet asks researchers to consider implementation within the existing policy landscape and how the policy of interest is layered on prior reforms; some that might complement and build on one another, others that unintentionally overlap, or worse may conflict with each other. We must not study implementation in a vacuum that neglects how the historical and current policy environment creates a stable or shaky foundation for institutional actors to carry out reform mandates. This tenet allows the researcher to explore, for example, the existing policy landscape and how current reform rests within it, the multiple reform demands on community colleges limiting policy continuity, which may result in varying levels of implementation fatigue (Miller, 2018) to enact new mandates. We begin with placing attention on the historical nature of educational reform and the ways these policies create the landscape in which implementers navigate today. For example, in the state of California, there are various equity-oriented reform efforts seeking to dismantle developmental education placement practices that tend to disproportionately impact BIPOC communities, and yet, implementers recognize the need to be race-conscious with implementation but are restricted by existing laws

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like Proposition 209 that restrict the ability of educators to be race- and gender-conscious in their work. Similarly, scholars ask how current policies can account for or amend the past legacy of racism embedded in our educational system that still actively operates to produce inequitable outcomes. Gill et al. (2017) reminds us of the silent covenants made decades ago that are antithetical to current reform efforts seeking to ameliorate the barriers and inequities experienced by racially minoritized students. For researchers interrogating the process of implementation, it is helpful to consider how current reforms being studied like Guided Pathways, Community College Baccalaureate, and Dual Enrollment complement or conflict with the existing policy landscape and the ways it shapes how policy unfolds. Second, within this tenet, we highlight the lack of policy continuity and continuous reform demands placed on community colleges. From year to year, there may be different policy priorities stemming from the governor, legislature, system-level office, or local district governing board. This, then creates the dynamic of reform demands from all sides, making it increasingly difficult for implementers to focus on the process of enacting individual policies in robust ways given limited capacity and consistency (Felix, 2021b). Continuity allows for implementers, especially novices, to build expertise and competence in navigating complex change. Policies tend not to account for the time and continuity to understand and respond to mandates and begin the process of implementing intended change. Payne (2017) asserts that successful implementation is not a product of clear directives or adequate resources, but time. In studying K12 school reform, Payne (2017) notes that the single thing educators need to do things differently is more time; “time for key relations to develop, time to change practitioner beliefs, time for professional development, time to experiment. . . and time for midcourse assessment to refine the implementation process” (p. 172). This holds true in community college as well. Not only does constant change shift the target for educators, but it also leads to a sense of fatigue toward mandated change and the implementation required to achieve it. Scholars have noted how consistency in government policy led to higher levels of receptiveness and willingness from front-line implementers like teachers and nurses (Tummers, 2011; van Engen et al., 2019). For example, van Engen et al. (2019) found that when governmental agencies pass reform and allow time for implementation, teachers see it as more meaningful, a legitimate change effort, and personally aligned with the goal of the reform. Policy continuity provides implementers with more time, which allows them a period of “incubation” (Polsby, 1984, p. 153) to adopt the idea, build buy-in, and embed it into their own context. On the other hand, constant policy changes “generate resistance among workers,” and limit “the efficiency and effectiveness of the policies,” which can be detrimental for those asked to carry them out (van Engen et al., 2019, p. 99). This fifth tenet reminds policy researchers that regardless of the actions taken now, there are remnants of prior policies that limit and shadow what implementers can do today. It is our due diligence to examine the existing policy landscape and understand how the policy being studied is layered on prior reform that can advance the intended change, limit its effects, or at worst restrict the ability of implementers to enact the goals of equitycentered reform.

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Leveraged for Racial Equity The final tenet highlights how implementation can be leveraged as a tool for educational equity and the ways that people, place, and policy can converge into an opportunity for institutional transformation. Chase (2016) argues that critical policy scholars need to trace the “implementing actions and non-actions” of individual actors to see how reform can be used as a “possible tool in reducing educational disparities” in community colleges (p. 965). We embed the concepts of equity-mindedness (Bensimon, 2018; Bensimon & Malcom, 2012) and zone of tolerance (Oakes et al., 2005) to help policy scholars understand the conditions that can advance, dilute, or derail the aims and intents of equity-oriented policy. By equity-mindedness (Bensimon, 2007), we mean how the individual and institution are able to (a) explicitly name issues of race and racism on campus, (b) use data to drive action, and (c) focus on addressing longstanding inequities that reproduce educational disparities, and (d) develop strategies that are identity-conscious, culturally relevant, and race-specific along the implementation process acknowledging that specific racial disparities cannot be addressed with generic solutions (Felix, 2021a). Ching (2023) shares how equity-mindedness serves to empower implementers to recognize the existing conditions on campus and actively work to “shift the internal environment” in ways that support robust implementation that may “foster racially equal outcomes and transform the campus to serve, validate, and empower minoritized students” (p. 5). Secondly, we highlight the need for researchers to understand the enactment zone in which implementation can occur and the possibilities within that zone. Prior studies have used concepts like the “arena of policy implementation” (Bressers & de Boer, 2013; Leon & Vega, 2019; Nienhusser & Connery, 2021, p. 617) “contested terrain” (Felix & Trinidad, 2018, p. 862; Shaw & London, 2001, p. 109), “zone of mediation” (Trujillo, 2013, p. 535), and “sites of struggle” (Dumas & Anyon, 2006, p. 151) to outline the various forces that underlie the “support, resistance, or apathy” (Oakes et al., 2005, p. 287) for mandated change. The prior five tenets allow researchers to connect how individuals within institutions are nested in diverse social contexts and policy legacies that shape what can be done with equity-oriented reforms. We use the zone of tolerance as the conceptual tool to understand the latitude that is given to the local implementer to carry out reform and map the forces that enable or restrict an individual’s agency to use reform in equity-minded ways. Exploring race-conscious implementation, Felix (2021b) showcased how the convergence of political, organizational, and individual factors allowed implementers to interpret and respond to policy in ways that explicitly targeted Latine/x students and the inequities they face. In mapping out the zone of tolerance, policy researchers can uncover the environment’s receptivity to race-conscious and equity-minded approaches to implementation. The focus of this tenet then is to explore how local actors stay committed to implementing policy in transformative ways and identifying the conditions and contexts they are nested in that create a window of opportunity to successfully carry out the ambitious goals of educational reform.

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Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Tenets Summary The equity-centered approach to policy analysis offers an expansive view of the implementation process for policy scholars and lays out six tenets to examine the interconnected and multilayered aspects of implementation, to see if and how people, place, and policy can be leveraged as a tool for action. The tenets described above asked the policy researcher to consider and expand their approach to studying implementation and shift to a comprehensive look at how implementing actors leverage policy for educational equity and the conditions that allow for it. Hurtado (2015) reminds us that scholars have been socialized to select paradigms and worldviews that “distance them from the topics or communities that are the focus of research,” which tends to decouple research from action (p. 285). Similarly, in much of our policy analysis, we study what is easy to see; like a floating iceberg in academia, the focus is on the tip above the surface, but there is so much going on underneath that influences implementation. Through an Equity-Centered approach, scholars can examine how implementation is leveraged as a tool for educational equity and the ways that policy, people, and place can converge into an opportunity for institutional transformation. In our work, we have not only focused on scholarly inquiry as academics but also scholarly instigation, which seeks to actively use our own research and insight to support implementers with tools and resources to achieve the lofty intentions of equity-oriented policies. As Bensimon (2007) states, it is our responsibility as scholars to conduct “socially conscious research and develop [the] tools institutions of higher education need to produce equity in student outcomes” (p. 1). As we conclude, the final section shares implementation stories from our own research that help bring these tenets to life and showcase how they provide a richer and more complex understanding of how education policy unfolds in community college and the ways individuals shape the trajectory and impact of these reforms.

Implementation Stories In this section, we provide implementation narrative stories from our research on how community college implementers understand and enact the previously described equity-centered approaches to policy implementation tenets. We follow the tradition of other policy researchers who have used narrative stories to provide a “fuller picture” (Fischer, 2003, p. 161; Schlaufer, 2018) of policy analysis, including the implementation process through the rich lived experiences of community college implementers. These implementation narrative stories allow us to illuminate how policy implementers come to understand their complex role as implementers of federal, state, systems, local, and institutional policies, especially in relation to addressing persistent educational inequities for minoritized communities in community college. This section begins with a brief description of the context where our scholarship took place, community colleges in California (California Community Colleges) and

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community college in New York (namely, from the City University of New York [CUNY]) as well as a description of the research projects where these data came from. Afterward, we include empirically based narrative stories from community college implementers to illuminate how they understand and incorporate the six tenets comprising the Equity-Centered Approach to Policy Implementation Framework in their work.

Community College Contexts In this section we provide a brief description of the two contexts, California Community Colleges (CCC) and City University of New York (CUNY), which the coauthors use from their past research to illustrate the previously described tenets within the areas of people, place, and policy possibilities. We begin with a description of CCC followed by CUNY.

California Community Colleges (CCC) The CCC is the largest system of higher education in the USA with over 116 individual campuses embedded in 73 districts that serve over 1.8 million students. As the open-access segment of the state’s higher education system, they enroll and support nearly any and all students, from middle schoolers in dual enrollment programs, working parents seeking a career certificate, to those looking to transfer out to attain a bachelor’s degree and beyond. Of those students, three-quarters are BIPOC enrollees, 0.33% American Indian, 2.0% Filipino, 4.0% multi-ethnic, 5.0% Black, 12.0% Asian or Pacific Islander, and 46.0% Latine/x. As a system, the CCC seeks to provide “life-changing opportunities and a clear path to [students] goals, whether it’s transferring to a four-year university or seeking the job-training skills that can help [them] move up the career ladder” (California Community Colleges, n.d., para. 1). CCCs tuition is set at a $46-per-unit fee by the system’s Board of Governors, which oversee policy decisions and guidelines. Over the last decade (2013–2023), major system-level reforms have been enacted to improve the conditions and outcomes in community college, including an overhaul of matriculation and onboarding processes, elimination of assessment practices and forced placement into developmental education, adoption of the guided pathways framework, expansion of student equity initiatives, creation of guaranteed transfer degrees, development of community college baccalaureates, revision to its role in developing the state’s strong workforce and career needs, as well as a new funding formula, among other reforms. The data presented in the implementation stories draw from a research project spanning 6 years (2017–2022) across five institutions that explored how community college leaders understand, respond to, and carry out policy implementation related to the reforms listed above. Specifically, this project focused on learning how implementers used policy reform in raceconscious and equity-minded ways to explicitly address racial disparities. A total of ten community college leaders (i.e., four deans, three faculty, and three classified professionals) are included in the CCC implementation stories below.

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City University of New York (CUNY) CUNY was founded in 1847 as the first free public higher education institution in the USA. CUNY is the largest urban public university composed of 25 colleges and schools located within New York City’s 5 boroughs. In Fall 2021, over 243,000 students (across all degree and nondegree programs) were enrolled throughout CUNY (CUNY, n.d.). Seven institutions are 2-year, and in Fall 2021, enrolled over 73,000 students across its certificate, associate, and nondegree programs (CUNY, n.d.). The enrollment in CUNY’s 2-year institutions is 32.3% of the state’s entire community college enrollment (New York State Education Department, n.d.). CUNY’s 2-year institutions are largely responsible for providing postsecondary educational opportunities to minoritized populations (Bailey & Weininger, 2002). In Fall 2021, the racial/ethnic community college enrollment was American Indian 0.4%, Asian or Pacific Islander 17.8%, Black 30.4%, Latine/x 35.9%, and white 15.5%. CUNY’s academic year 2022–2023 tuition rate (full-time) for a New York City resident was $2400 per semester, compared to $3465 at 4-year institutions (CUNY, 2023). A Chancellor and the system’s administrative offices (typically referred to as CUNY Central) govern CUNY’s individual institutions, including its community colleges. The CUNY data presented in this section is part of a larger investigation examining how higher education institutional agents make meaning of their role as policy implementers by supporting and implementing policies that shape the college access of minoritized communities (i.e., racially/ethnically minoritized and lower-income). A total of ten community college officials (five senior-level access program, two senior-level institutional research, one senior-level enrollment management, one mid-level access program, and one mid-level financial aid) were interviewed between 2021 and 2022. Next, we provide a summary of how the Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Framework tenets were evidenced in the work of CCC and CUNY implementers.

Equity-Centered Implementation Tenets in CCC and CUNY In this section, we provide a summary of how the six equity-centered policy implementation tenets were present in both systems – CCC and CUNY. Table 2 includes the six tenets and a brief description of how each tenet was evidenced in the work of CCC and CUNY implementers. We include this table to transmit the prevalence of these tenets across system and institutional contexts as well as how some elements of the tenets are evidenced within CCC and CUNY similarly (e.g., social identities), at times slightly different ways (e.g., agency and frames of reference), and differently (e.g., implementer interactions; present at CUNY but not at CCC). The elements presented in Table 2 are not an exhaustive list of elements, instead, they provide a glimpse of some of the complexities that community college implementers face as they center equity in their work.

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Table 2 Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Tenets’ Presence in CCC and CUNY Implementers Tenet Identity conscious

CCCs Social identities: Implementers drew on their identities as cultural intuition to understand and use policy in ways that minimized their experiences with barriers in higher education as first-generation, community college transfer, and financial-aid-receiving students

Implementation imagination

Agency: Actors felt empowered to push forward their equity agenda and implement the policy in ways that aligned with their vision of a more racially just campus Frames of reference: Having implementation leaders involved in social justice movements and who identified with the experiences of marginalized communities was essential to recognize ways to use reform as a social movement on campus to mobilize people and change inequitable structures and practices

Institutional complexity

Organizational mission, culture, identity: Implementers shared how they were able to navigate contentious terrain on campus by mapping out the organizational conditions, knowing what areas on campus served as allies as well as the potential spaces of resistance that could delay or restrict the intended change being planned Institutional commitments: Actors described ways that they would call on the institution’s mission and president’s priorities of improving equity as a springboard to move their race-conscious approach to implementation forward

CUNY Social identities: Rich intersectional social identities informed their work as policy implementers; identities included: racially/ethnically minoritized, grew up in lowerincome household, first-generation student (i.e., high school and college), attended community college, first- or second-generation immigrant, LGBTQ+ Agency: Implementers described a constrained agency – how central their influence and role is in implementing policies, yet their level of agency in implementing policies as “limited.” Also, implementers noted how the position they held shaped their level of agency – entry-level positions described agency as limited since they are required to follow manager directives, stifling imagination Frames of reference: Implementers ability to recognize ambiguity in policies and leverage creativity to meet specific educational equityoriented goals Organizational mission, culture, identity: CUNY and its community colleges strive to address inequities that exist in society and educational systems. Open-access mission of community colleges was highlighted by several interviewees as an essential element in addressing inequities Implementer interactions: Implementation work is done in collaboration with others, and those interactions shape the implementation landscape. Interactions included: discussions about which program(s) would be most beneficial for individual students and conversations about ways to achieve greater implementation fidelity (continued)

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Table 2 (continued) Tenet Sociopolitical context

Layered on prior reforms

Leveraged for racial equity

CCCs Geographic context: Implementation leaders benefited from being at institutions that had a large share of BIPOC students, which was also reflected in the surrounding community, making it easier to be explicit with how reforms were enacted in ways that directly benefited these students Governance structures: Actors described being part of multicampus districts, which reduced the time trustees had to examine their plans for implementation. As long as their budget was appropriately allocated, the governing board didn’t push against the race-conscious strategies being proposed and developed to address racial inequity Existing reform landscape: Actors discussed how difficult it was to lead implementation when there were overlapping, and at times competition, initiatives being carried out to improve student success. Leaders were able to recognize these overlapping efforts and work to create an integrated implementation approach Policy continuity: Implementers described how continuous policy demands decreased their capacity to understand each reform fully, needing to choose between reforms to get involved with and limited time to move beyond compliance approaches to enacting multiple policies Equity-Mindedness: Actors operated in equity-minded and race-conscious ways, recognizing the need to address systemic issues that create racial disparities on campus and carry out the policy in ways that created evidence-based, culturally relevant strategies that focused on addressing the institutional causes of inequity, rather than deficit-oriented approaches trying to “fix” students Window of opportunity:

CUNY Systemic barriers: Understanding systemic barriers (e.g., segregation, discrimination) that minoritized communities must often overcome are an important reality that should be present in their work as policy implementers. COVID-19 exacerbated systemic barriers already faced by minoritized communities

Existing reform landscape: Implementation of policies does not happen in a vacuum, shaped by and simultaneously shape other policy reforms Regulatory landscape: Regulatory and public policies influential in their implementer role was placement testing, remedial education, and income verification or financial aid eligibility

(Mis)Understanding of equity. While just over half of the interviewees in the CUNY case study had a clearer understanding of (in)equity, the remaining community college officials did not have a proper awareness of that term (e.g., using “equality” to mean “equity” or “equal opportunity for all” perspective)

(continued)

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Table 2 (continued) Tenet

CCCs

CUNY

Implementers were able to recognize the “perfect storm,” a combination of political, organizational, and individual factors that created an enactment zone for actors to implement an equity policy focused on Latinx transfer equity, explicitly directing policy dollars to support transfer to 4-year institutions

In the next section, we share in-depth implementation narrative stories of how CCC and CUNY implementers came to understand and enact policy implementation in their work. Given space limitations, we opted to include three implementation narrative stories from CCC and an equal number from CUNY. For CCC we include implementation stories on the following tenets: implementation imagination, layered on prior reforms, and leveraged for racial equity. Meanwhile, for CUNY we include stories on the following equity-centered policy implementation tenets: identity conscious, institutional complexity, and sociopolitical context.

Being Identity Conscious: A CUNY Story Being identity conscious entails how higher education administrators bring their social identities and related rich lived experiences into their implementation work. For example, this could be a Latina community college administrator who grew up in a lower-income household and attended a 2-year college reflecting on the barriers she overcame to enroll in postsecondary education, and how these experiences compel them to instigate equity-mindedness in their work, allow for sharing those experiences with students to foster stronger connections with them, and motivate her to contribute and support her Latine/x community. Throughout, community college implementers consistently shared how their identities were instrumental in their work, especially related to addressing educational inequities. Social Identities. In the CUNY research project, several community college implementers highlighted how their rich intersectional social identities helped inform their work as policy implementers. Some of the identities these officials noted as being especially salient in addressing inequities in higher education included being a member of a racially/ethnically minoritized community, having grown up in a lower-income household, being a first-generation student (e.g., high school and college), having attended a community college, being a first- or secondgeneration immigrant, and identifying as a member of the LGBTQ+ community. These identities gave these implementers a worldview to understand some of the struggles and barriers these communities must overcome to succeed in higher education and our society. Additionally, some interviewees noted how these identities also provided an entrée for students to feel a greater connection to them given a shared identity and possibly similar lived experiences.

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A Senior-Level Access Program interviewee described how they “carry” their intersecting identities and how it informs the work they do. I’m a first-generation high school graduate. I’m also a community college alum. There’s a perspective that I think that I carry with the work that I do. I’m really intentional about not dismissing student concerns, as minute or small as they may come across.

Some of their intersecting identities – first-generation high school graduate and community college graduate – provide a distinct perspective that this implementer is able to bring into their work of supporting minoritized students. Another Senior-Level Access Program official shared how their identity as a Latina from a lower-income home shaped their work as a community college professional: I use myself and my own personal experience as an example when I work with students and work with others in the sense of when I was growing up. . .After getting my bachelors, even my masters, I realized I needed to go back and I need to do better and I need to continue supporting myself and students just like me and I think sharing that with students makes it real for them and they kind of see, like, well if she was able to do it coming from the South Bronx [a lower-income community in New York City] and coming from a family on public assistance. . .So as far as equity, it might not be equal for a lot of communities, but it’s about pursuing and persevering and going through and sharing your story to make it real for others.

This colleague described how her “story” growing up as a Latina living on public assistance in the South Bronx shapes her desire to support students and her practice. Sharing her rich lived experiences with students allows her to “make it real for them” and see a role model in her. A Black Caribbean-identifying Senior-Level Access Program colleague noted how their first-generation immigrant mother was a pillar of strength that propelled them to pursue higher education: I came from a Caribbean background, so I always say to people, “Well, I’ve never had that thought that I wasn’t going to college.” It was just, “What college am I going to and how far away is the college so I can get out of here,” because I was raised in a family where my mom’s a first-generation immigrant and she didn’t have a college education, a high school education, but she saw education as being the pathway out of poverty, elevation, and upward mobility.

This administrator’s mother was a strong motivating force that supported their educational successes. This strengths-based perspective held by this implementer – family members as a source of educational motivation and support – is an important element to highlight since higher education systems, policies, practices, and administrators often frame minoritized communities from a deficit perspective (Gilliam & Beatty, 2022).

Leveraging Imagination in the Implementation Process: A CCC Story What implementers see in policies directly shapes the trajectory of implementation and what can be achieved with the reform mandates. In California, there tends to be

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wide variation in how policy is understood and interpreted across the 116 campuses in the state as well as within each institution based on who leads the implementation efforts. Implementers’ imaginations were shaped by their frames of reference, perceptions of their agency to enact the policy, and ability to be creative in implementing more equity-oriented changes within the reform. Frames of Reference. For example, at one campus, the co-chairs overseeing a new equity planning reform that required colleges to document the extent of inequity for students and then propose strategies to address these gaps saw the reform as different opportunities. One saw the equity reform as a procedural task while the other viewed it as a game-changer. The Dean of Institutional Research, a white man, viewed the equity reform as something that just needed to “get done” and was largely “inconsequential.” He also felt that the kind of equity disaggregation that was mandated by the reform was not new to him because his office did equity gap analyses in the past. He recollected, “We always did these equity calculations, we just knew it as a gap analysis.” The Institutional Research Dean minimized the new changes required by the policy and described it as “just another task that needs to be completed.” On the other hand, the Dean of Student Services, a Latina, interpreted the student equity reform differently. She saw it as a lever to address racial inequity and social injustice and to transform the campus into one that served students more equitably. The Dean of Student Services recalled: I can’t believe the state is funding this. Nobody wants to talk about equity. Nobody wants to talk about racial inequality and social injustice and how we can make changes. That’s what I was excited about. I thought it was a good time to bring together people, to find people on campus that could unite and really try to push forward the agenda on equity.

The Dean of Student Services, a Latina faculty member turned administrator, grew up in the same area as the community college and strongly identified with the history of Chicanx activism, including the walkouts of 1968 and subsequent protests over unequal education. Reflecting on her long affiliation with college she noted, “It is just surreal that I’m being paid to be here, I’m engaging in a different type of work, but pretty much similar [to community organizing].” Her roots in the community and her “activist mentality” deeply informed her frame of reference and how she understood and responded to the requirements attached to the state-wide equity policy. Agency. The Dean of Student Services also used the reform as a chance to mobilize folks who were advocating for change on campus and institutionalize new programs and practices that centered on equity. She hoped to create a broad coalition on campus for sustained change. She saw this particular initiative as an opportunity for transformation: We’re trying to take advantage of every moment and every year that we have [this reform in effect] because. . .it’s a game changer. . .that money attached to the policy helps to create positions or to help develop a resource that can improve equity. And so, I think that equity policy, even if it goes away later, will help us create some sustainable equity projects with impacts and effects on our campus. So, I’m appreciative of, again, being given the opportunity to help facilitate or contribute to leading the effort here.

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Another participant remembered the “visionary” role of the Dean of Student Services with, “[she] was definitely the head of our team, she was the visionary, sharing what she wanted to see in this plan, and she brought in people that were passionate about bringing change to our students.” Her approach to implementing the equity policy was informed by her identity as a Chicana activist from the same area as the campus, her historical understanding of the policy and original focus on improving outcomes for “ethnic minorities,” her ability to recognize the agency embedded within policy implementation to execute her bolder vision, and a race-conscious leadership that prioritized campus enacting efforts that specifically benefited Latinas, men of color, and students of color.

Capturing the Influence of Institutional Complexity: A CUNY Story Implementers mentioned several elements related to their institutional contexts and associated complexities, and how they shaped implementation efforts that focused on equity. The CUNY implementers described three elements that shaped how institutional complexity informed their implementation work: organizational mission, culture, and identity, institutional student demographics, and implementer interactions. Organizational Mission, Culture, and Identity. Numerous implementers noted how CUNY and its community colleges strive to address inequities that exist in education and our society. The open-access mission of community colleges, in particular, was highlighted by several interviewees as an essential element in allowing them to address inequities. As a Black Caribbean Senior-Level Access Program shared, “Being at a community college is essentially the definition of access.” Such an institutional mission, as this implementer alludes to, shapes implementers’ orientation to develop policies and practices that focus on providing greater educational access to students. Indeed, the presence of a rich array of programs at CUNY community colleges (e.g., College Discovery, Accelerated Study in Associate Programs [ASAP], Advancing Part-time Excellence [APEX]) created a culture of implementing programs that lead toward addressing inequities for minoritized students. Student Demographics. Most policy implementers cited student demographic data and how that should shape their work. For example, several implementers proudly highlighted their high percentages of racially/ethnically minoritized and lower-income students enrolled at their institution. While true, few interviewees gave concrete examples of how they used data to guide their implementation actions to support those specific communities, which may be due to limited resources that often stifle implementation innovation. This lack of reference was especially true when asked about how they attempt to address racial and ethnic inequities in their practice. Interviewees could more easily discuss how they attempt to address inequities faced by lower-income communities. Implementer Interactions. There was a strong understanding that the work done by implementers was done in collaboration with others and that those interactions also shaped the implementation landscape. Some examples of interactions among

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colleagues to address implementation issues included: discussions about which program(s) would be most beneficial for students to succeed, conversations about ways to achieve greater implementation fidelity, and discussions about how to create meaningful internship opportunities that are compensated for students, among others. These interactions also involved ways to build small coalitions of colleagues to strategize on how to address inequities that impacted minoritized students. A Latina first-generation community college graduate who serves as a Senior-Level Access Program officer, for example, described the importance of fostering trusting relationships with colleagues to address “barriers.” Having relationships on campus with your colleagues, with your supervisors is really critical, because the folks around you can help you understand those policies. Particularly if you’re new to a role or there’s been change in leadership, how you understand the policies can influence how you implement them. I will often go to a trusted supervisor or colleague and say, “This is the policy, but I think it’s creating a barrier. How do we create an avenue? Or this is the policy that I think is working really well, for this particular subset of students. Is there a way that we can apply it to other students? How do we open up more access to this particular policy?” I find that when you have trusting relationships, people are more willing to be honest with you about where those lines are. When you don’t have trusting relationships, that is where they just direct you to the policy, and do with it, what you will.

This implementer raises the importance of sensemaking and collective action in addressing educational inequities at their institution. First, they raised the importance of “understanding the policy,” including how the policy creates “barriers” or “avenues” for greater access. Having this critical awareness is foundational for implementers to initiate institutional transformation. To have a greater understanding of the (im)possibilities presented by the policy, they work with “trusted colleagues” to form a collective action to address inequities. They highlight how this collective action allows for seeking guidance and simultaneously obtaining colleagues’ buy-in to create organizational change.

Implementation Embedded Within Sociopolitical Context: A CUNY Story The sociopolitical context is an ever-present reality in the work of higher education implementers, especially in relation to addressing persistent educational inequities. The CUNY story highlights the importance of recognizing the role of systemic barriers such as segregation and redlining in shaping educational inequities in our society. Systemic Barriers. Four implementers mentioned how the understanding of systemic barriers that minoritized communities must often overcome are an important reality that should be present in their work as policy implementers. A white Senior-Level Institutional Research official, who identifies as a man, noted how our nation’s history with and persisting patterns of segregation is an example of what should be considered when implementing policies that address inequities.

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You have the history of segregation. You might say our school is a good example of this. We are in a very segregated environment, 90% plus a minority population. You might say it’s a demonstration of our segregation in this country. Where we are, who our students are. It’s a demonstration of it. And I think what we want to do is . . . we can’t change housing patterns. . .I’ve seen articles about how some communities around the country are trying to make students from different socioeconomic levels and now that’s probably one of the hardest things to do. Is to integrate school populations.

This Institutional Researcher critically reminds us of the role of sociopolitical elements that are present in our society that should be considered in higher education implementers’ work. The example they raise is associated with discriminatory housing patterns that have placed high percentages of minoritized communities together in their community college locality and as a result made racial integration a significant barrier to overcome. A Senior-Level College Access Program administrator, who identifies as BlackCaribbean, critically spoke about how racially and ethnically minoritized students’ presence on their campus does not mean that these communities still do not encounter “systematic” barriers. Just because we’re all Black and Brown doesn’t mean that we don’t have these issues that we really need to address. Because oftentimes it’s systematic, right? And we don’t really recognize that these policies are not supporting our students the way they should or we think they should.

CUNY community colleges have high proportions of staff and students who belong to racial/ethnic minoritized communities. As this implementer shares, given such demographic realities, may obscure the realities that even organizations that have large numbers of racially/ethnically minoritized members are racialized (Patton, 2016; Ray, 2019). Such a “diverse” organization may see the presence (i.e., access) of minoritized students, while neglecting to implement policies that support their success. In fact, some interviewees mentioned how inequities were ever-present in their institutions. A Senior-Level Access program official, a Latina, reflected on how, institutional racism has been so ingrained in student, faculty, and staff that we don’t even see it, right? That, when it’s happening, we don’t even know what’s happening. And I’ll tell you, as a student who went through it and didn’t even see it, that it was racism. . .It’s been so ingrained in our fabric of what we do, that we are desensitized. Desensitized when it’s been done to me as a person of color.

This implementer reminds us of how racism is deeply “ingrained” in higher education institutions, regardless of institution-type (e.g., community college, Historically Black Colleges and Universities) and that administrators often become “desensitized” to how we perpetuate racism and white supremacy (Patton, 2016). Some interviewees highlighted how the COVID-19 pandemic “exploded” the systemic barriers that minoritized communities face. A Latina Senior-Level Enrollment Management professional described how COVID-19 should have sparked a

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policy implementation environment that recognized “our responsibility” and a student’s “unique . . . circumstance” – an equity-centered approach to policy implementation. COVID just made all these little things that we thought were minor within our community just explode and it’s also our responsibility to create an environment where it’s like I said, to me, equity is where you can address all these things for the student, right? Everybody’s different, everybody’s unique, and everybody’s got a certain circumstance that they are dealing with, or an environment that they live with. And I feel like all the 10,000 students we service are just different. All of them have a different circumstance.

At the core of human- and equity-centered approaches is the prerequisite for implementers to recognize and prioritize the dignity and needs of each individual they serve while also finding a solution to their dilemma (Culver et al., 2022). An understanding of the needs of individuals involves a keen recognition, as this implementer notes, for example, of students’ “circumstances” and environments. The sociopolitical realities that envelop minoritized communities are an essential element that must guide the work of equity-minded implementers (Bensimon, 2007).

Studying Implementation That’s Layered on Prior Reforms: A CCC Story Within the CCC research project, practitioners were actively implementing multiple policies related to improving the conditions and outcomes for students under specific reforms like the Student Equity and Achievement Program, the Guided Pathways Project, expansion of Associate Degrees for Transfer, and the elimination of Developmental Education Assessment Practices across the state. Exploring historical and recent reforms that layer and overlap with the specific policy being studied allows the researcher to note the current policy landscape, which institutional actors must navigate and helps to illuminate how certain policies may complement, contrast, or even contradict prior reforms. Existing Policy Landscape. Within the CCC research project, practitioners were actively implementing policies related to Student Equity, Guided Pathways, Associate Transfer Degrees, and Elimination of Assessment Practices across the state. At the local level, individual actors noted how these multiple reforms need to be implemented in real time and how each of these initiatives, at times, had competing priorities, divided attention among leaders, and limited the capacity to effectively do the work. A Latina math faculty shared, “I’m co-chair of our equity efforts and guided pathways as well, I feel like I am in two totally different worlds, between what we established as racial equity goals two years ago and what we are just discussing to change in guided pathways.” At the same time, this individual shared they would have to choose between leading one workgroup over another given their existing capacity. “I have to drop one of the two initiatives, so my president wants me to lead the implementation workgroup for Guided Pathways, given my experience the last two years with Student Equity.” But what she came to realize in this process was the lack of overlap on campus between two reforms seeking to improve the success of students, she noted:

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I started to think that each of these was going about it totally different and I didn’t want to waste my time. I didn’t want to waste time because students need change now, so I advocated for us to start going to statewide trainings and recognize how these reforms overlap or at least be able to do them in ways that complement each other and don’t keep us in silos or dilute our time, attention, and especially the resources we need to change that things are not working on our campus.

In community college, things do not stand still, new reforms are introduced, others fall to the wayside, and campus implementers must attend to the demands of these policies. By examining the existing landscape, there is an opportunity to see how community college leaders wrestle with navigating multiple policy priorities and how the context of each institution creates (mis)alignment to build on these prior reforms to address and improve issues of equity.

Policy Continuity In community colleges, implementers face continuous policy demands, having to sift through reform guidelines, wishing they knew which “policies would stick, and which would be forgotten.” Examining policy continuity helps to see how actors are influenced by prior reform experiences and the lessons learned in implementation. One actor shared that they were not sure that the equity policy would last and that in previous years, there were initiatives from the system level that came and went on a frequent basis. The Dean of Counseling elaborated: I didn’t realize the magnitude and the impact [the equity policy] would have on our campus. Before it, we had the basic skills initiative – we had met, and I was a part of that implementing committee at the time. We met on a regular basis. There was some funding. We did some project planning, and then a year later the initiative and the money went away. I didn’t think it would be as big.

As the Dean of Counseling added that the continuous policy demands minimized the opportunity to see the policy as a transformation tool on campus: Nobody really said what the possibility was in terms of the funding or the capacity of how it can actually change the way we operate on our campus. . . [and] because we were so used to these soft monies leaving us, we didn’t dream big, we limited ourselves think this policy would go away after a year or two, like others.

This sentiment was shared across implementers in the project, they “wished” they could have known that the Student Equity policy would continue since its initial funding to present day 2023, nearly 10 years later. Given implementers’ histories and experiences with external reform, many assumed that the policy would be shortlived and limited their attention to carrying it out.

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A Tool for Action: Leveraging Implementation for Racial Equity: A CCC Story The final tenet of our Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Framework allows the researcher to explore the actions of the implementer and how they navigate the conditions of the organization as well as the discretion within the policy mandates to create opportunity for change and how they are able to leverage reform mandates as a catalyst for improving racial equity. Operationalizing Equity. Within the California transfer reform project, most of the interviewees espoused deeper understandings of equity that permeated how the campus utilized the reform to address the specific needs of student groups facing racial disparities, such as Latine/x students and their transfer goals. An English faculty member shared, “I believe equity on campus or in general is about – meeting students’ particularized needs, right. So, if we figure out gaps in achievement, we have to figure out what kinds of resources would help address that specific gap.” A classified professional overseeing program for a Latina transfer program noted: I feel like equity, especially here, is about being race-based. The development of sociallyculturally informed and race-conscious policies and practices, programs for specific groups who face long standing persistent, structural, and institutional inequities, like that should be the goal or that should be where we should be at.

Colleagues across this campus shared their conceptualization of equity as being raceconscious, data-driven, and institutionally focused on its approach to improving outcomes. Seeing the Policy As Shield. Implementers within the CCCs demonstrated how they drew on the mandate language, required data disaggregation and resources to create interventions as a shield to be race-conscious and address Latine/x transfer inequity. The Dean of Workforce shared that the equity policy was inherently about race and that the campus could leverage the reform to create new programs that address racial inequity. She mentioned, “That’s what the equity policy allowed us to do is look at race, because before it was like a taboo. It was like, ‘What? You’re talking race?’ and it’s like yeah, look around you. But it wasn’t welcomed at all before.” Asked if there was pushback on campus for being race-conscious, the Dean replied, “No, it was just so glaring and this is why I’m saying to you that equity gave us that ability to talk about, really talk about these disparities because it was inherent to the charge.” At this campus, the largest disparities were found among Latine/x students seeking to transfer and the implementers leveraged the reform to create a race-conscious approach to improving transfer as well as limiting potential detractors seeking race-neutral efforts. A Window of Opportunity. Lastly, two implementers reflected on why they were able to implement the equity policy in ways that explicitly targeted barriers to transfer for Latine/x students. A student services specialist shared:

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[Our campus] has more of a commitment to making sure that Latino students transfer. So, yeah, I mean [our campus] is willing to put resources towards transfer equity. As a group, we had this opportunity, we need to do better at transfer, the president had this as a priority, and we felt empowered to push transfer in the implementation meetings.

Similarly, the Dean of Workforce alluded to aspects on campus that shaped the window of opportunity: It was a perfect storm. The equity policy was created. You had the right people in place. You had a new president. You had a surge of new faculty hires. You had a shift in academic senate leadership, a shift in union leadership. And the president came on and said yeah, let’s improve Latino transfers. And it was like all right; we got this policy, we have these resources; we are all hoping for the same thing.

The words of these implementers described how a deeper conceptualization of equity, the ability to leverage the policy mandates, and aligning campus conditions established a propitious context to implement the equity reform as a mandate to address transfer inequity for Latine/x students. By leveraging the reform for action, implementers reported, “this policy allow[ed] us to change the campus culture and institutional practices to really make sure that we’re addressing transfer equity and supporting Latine/x students facing disproportionate impact.”

Future Considerations As we close the chapter, we include future considerations that are important for policy researchers and higher education professionals to consider in search of deeper understandings of how the policy implementation processes can shape educational equity. Namely, we call on policy researchers, policymakers, higher education professionals, higher education associations, among others, to consider ways to incorporate these future considerations into their work. We invite policy researchers, policymakers, and higher education practitioners to use the Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Framework to understand more deeply the role of policy implementation in addressing inequities throughout higher education. While the examination throughout all higher education is of importance, we impel policy scholars to focus their research on community college. It is essential that we study policy implementation within the community college landscape given the large percentages of minoritized students who attend that institution-type (Community College Research Center, n.d.). In other words, if we want to create more equitable postsecondary education systems, the examination of community colleges is essential (Bailey & Smith Morest, 2006). Further, the study and publication of research on community colleges are inadequate (Bragg, 2009; Crisp et al. 2016; Floyd et al., 2016), especially employing strengths-based perspectives (Carales & López, 2020; Davies et al., 2003). Simultaneously, we encourage policy scholars to engage in research that further develops and strengthens the Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Framework we present in this chapter. For example, should some existing tenets be

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reconceptualized? What new elements belong within specific tenets? How might this framework be reimagined for specific types of community colleges (e.g., Asian American and Native American Pacific Islander-Serving Institutions, HispanicServing Institutions, Tribal Colleges)? What relations exist, if any, among the tenets? An example of a tenet we encourage policy researchers to further explore is identity conscious. While in recent years some higher education scholars have examined the role of implementers’ social identities and their influence on implementation processes (Felix, 2021a; Nienhusser, 2018, Nienhusser & Connery, 2021), more research is needed. For example, a greater understanding of the lived experiences of Black, Native American, disabled, and their intersecting identities of higher education implementers is dreadfully needed in the literature. We especially encourage members of those groups to engage in research on their communities while catalyzing their rich identities and lived experiences to inform their scholarship. Unfortunately, higher education leaders have largely neglected the infusion of higher education administrators’ identities and lived experiences in their work (Floyd, 2012; Jourian et al. 2015). We encourage a radical shift to value these elements so they may be used to (re)imagine higher education systems and institutions that leverage implementation to achieve greater equity for marginalized communities. We call for an integration of “radical imagination” (Kelley, 2003, p. 6) with human-centered implementation (Buchanan, 2001; Junginger, 2013) into higher education professionals’ practice. Kelley’s (2003) radical imagination urges us to develop a “third eye” (p. 2) that allows us to “dream of a new world” (p. 3). With such a vision, higher education implementers can dream of and (re)imagine higher education systems and institutions and implementation processes that center equity. Buchanan (2001) reminds us that human-centered design is “fundamentally an affirmation of human dignity. It is an ongoing search for what can be done to support and strengthen the dignity of human beings as they act out their lives in varied social, economic, political, and cultural circumstances” (p. 37). Professionals within various higher education contexts can integrate a radical imaginative human-centered approach in their implementation work that allows them to dream of a new higher education that truly affirms the human dignity of minoritized communities. With this framing, we hope that higher education professionals can leverage implementation processes to (re)imagine higher education systems and institutions as liberatory spaces instead of ones that continue to restrain BIPOC and other marginalized communities. The sociopolitical context has always shaped the higher education landscape (Harper et al., 2009; Ramos et al., 2022). More so, systems- and institutional-level efforts related to Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, and Justice (DEIJ) in higher education have always been under attack (Lewis & Shah, 2021; Patton et al., 2019). However, more recently, those assaults have resulted in wins for conservatives who wish to overthrow DEIJ initiatives in higher education in areas such as closing DEIJ offices, eliminating diversity statements in hiring processes, requiring DEIJ trainings, among others (Chronicle of Higher Education, DEI Legislation Tracker, n.d.). In 2023, for example, Florida and Texas enacted policies that ban DEIJ centers in public

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postsecondary education institutions. Further, with the recent Supreme Court decision on the use of affirmative action in college admissions (and perhaps other areas in higher education), the implementation landscape is ripe with anti-DEIJ policies that implementers will be responsible to implement in the immediate future. With such assaults on DEIJ efforts, it will be imperative that higher education professionals find creative ways to blunt these attacks through policy implementation. In other words, while earlier we argued for the use of policy implementation to achieve greater equity in higher education, we advocate for implementation processes that lessen the detrimental impact that anti-DEIJ policies, for example, will have on minoritized communities. The same ways equity-minded actors can leverage policy for transformation, there is the potential to dilute the harm of punitive and restrictive mandates targeting higher education and minoritized communities. Implementers in states that pass anti-DEIJ policies will be compelled to consider ways to support minoritized students amid a hostile policy landscape that devalues minoritized communities’ existence and needs. Higher education professional preparation programs (e.g., Higher Education and Student Affairs [HESA], Social Work) and doctoral programs (e.g., Higher Education, Educational Leadership in Higher Education) have important contributions in shaping the understanding of and skills-building of equity-centered policy implementation in the work of current or future higher education professionals and researchers. We encourage the use of our Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Framework of people, place, and policy possibility into academic programs that prepare future higher education scholar-practitioners and researchers. The inclusion of this framework into the curriculum will acknowledge the importance of the intersections of policy implementation and equity in the work of college and university administrators and in the study of higher education. Topics that could be included in the curriculum include uplifting professionals’ personal and professional identities in their work as policy implementers, recognizing and leveraging policy vagueness and ambiguity to achieve greater equity for marginalized communities, and understanding and navigating institutional complexity to achieve racial equity-oriented goals, among others. The inclusion of this framework in preparation programs’ curriculum aligns with the ACPA – College Student Educators International (ACPA’s) Strategic Imperative for Racial Justice and Decolonization that encourages the use of “tools for personal, professional, and career development; and innovative praxis opportunities for members that will actively inform and reshape higher education” (ACPA, n.d., para. 2). Higher education associations (e.g., American Association of Community Colleges [AACC], Association of Community College Trustees [ACCT], ACPA – College Student Educators International [ACPA], Association of Governing Boards of Universities and Colleges [AGB], Association on Higher Education And Disability [AHEAD], Association for the Study of Higher Education [ASHE], NASPA – Student Affairs Administrators in Higher Education [NASPA]) have a central role in shaping the discourse on the intersections of policy implementation and equity. These professional associations have the power to uplift narratives, scholarship, and practices focused on equity-centered policy implementation. We call on higher

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education associations to strengthen members’ understandings of equity-centered policy implementation through professional learning series, blogs, and publications, among other forums so its members have a clearer understanding of how policy implementation can transform educational systems and address persistent inequities. Furthermore, these associations have the knowledge and influence to reshape professional competencies in higher education broadly and specific functional areas (e.g., Admissions, Disability Services, Registrar) to raise the importance of policy implementation and equity in the work of college administrators. For example, the ACPA and NASPA (2015) Professional Competency Areas for Student Affairs Educators fails to adequately address the complexity of policy implementation and its role in higher education professionals’ practice. A greater focus on implementation and equity in higher education competencies could transform future professionals’ understanding and practice in relation to implementation processes and educational equity.

Conclusion Policy implementation as an area of study has long been undervalued in higher education. In particular, diving into the depths of how educational policy flows from the capitol to the campus and gets implemented to achieve its intended change. This chapter served as an opportunity for scholars to recognize the importance of policy implementation in the field of higher education, explore the scholarly traditions and theoretical underpinnings driving inquiry, and model a different approach to examining how educational reform is carried out by individuals in hopes of creating collective change that benefits students and the broader community. We presented our Equity-Centered Policy Implementation Framework as one way to comprehensively study the enactment of policy reform in higher education that centers people, place, and policy possibility. Beyond presenting our framework, we brought the six tenets to life through our implementation stories and showcased the application of our approach for higher education scholars seeking to do more person-centered, race-conscious, and equity-minded research. In an era of increased racial backlash and resentment for DEI efforts, the study of implementation is more important than ever to research, theorize, and advance as one avenue for equity-oriented institutional change. Moving forward, we offer scholars a framework to embed critical elements into their work that captures the importance of implementers’ social identities, the imaginations for transformation possessed by leaders, the social context in which policy unfolds, the historical legacy of prior reforms, and how institutional leaders are able to carry out mandate change in ways that improve racial equity in higher education. As scholars, we must see the full possibility of policy reform and use our inquiry to capture how leaders, institutions, and systems are leveraging implementation to dismantle, restructure, and build new opportunities to achieve equitable outcomes for minoritized students in higher education.

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Eric R. Felix is the proud son of Mexican and Guatemalan immigrants. From Anaheim, CA, I’m the product and beneficiary of public education from kindergarten to graduate school. I’m the first in my family to graduate college and now serve as an Associate Professor at San Diego State University. I conduct critical policy research to explore the ways policymakers craft higher education reform and how institutional leaders implement them. Particularly, I focus on understanding how the implementation of lauded success reforms may benefit, harm, or render invisible racially minoritized groups in the community college context. Ultimately, I seek to highlight the possibilities of policy reform to improve racial equity in higher education. H. Kenny Nienhusser is an Associate Professor of Higher Education & Student Affairs and Faculty Director of La Comunidad Intelectual at the University of Connecticut. As a first-generation Latino college student who grew up in a working-class household of immigrant parents who were formally undocumented, diversity, equity, and inclusion are at the core of his work as a researcher, teacher, and scholar-citizen. His scholarship aims to address social and educational inequalities by (re)imagining how education institutional agents implement public, systems-level, institutional policies that support minoritized students’ greater access and success in higher education.

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Xiaodan Hu

Contents Which Research Questions Does OLS Answer? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Institution-Level Educational Outcomes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Student-Level Academic Progress and Social Engagement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Revenues and Expenditures of Colleges and Universities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Affordability and Economic Returns of Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary of Current Higher Education Research Using OLS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . When OLS Is Applicable and When It Is Not: An Example of Dual Enrollment . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brief Background of Dual Credit and Its Role in Higher Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Data Example . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Simple Regression Example . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . An OLS Example with Multiple Linear Regression . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary of OLS Modeling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Statistical Assumptions of OLS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Assumptions of Multiple Linear Regression: Noncollinearity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Linearity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Normality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Equal Variance of Errors (Homoskedasticity) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Independence of Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary of Testing OLS Assumptions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Heterogeneous Effects in OLS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Interaction Term . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Subgroup Analyses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary of Heterogeneous Analysis in OLS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Nicholas Hillman was the Associate Editor for this chapter. X. Hu (*) Higher Education and Student Affairs, College of Education, Northern Illinois University, DeKalb, IL, USA e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 L. W. Perna (ed.), Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research, Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 39, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-38077-8_13

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650 Findings Interpretation and Presentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Regression Results . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Additional Estimates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary/Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix A: Data Preparation for Illustration Replication . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix B: HSLS Variables Used for the Illustrated Example . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix C: Diagnosis and Data Recoding to Address Assumption Violations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix D: Full Model Specification for Results Interpretation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

X. Hu 694 695 701 703 704 706 708 713 716

Abstract

This chapter serves as a primer in utilizing ordinary least squares (OLS) in higher education research, by providing an overview of this commonly used quantitative approach, which often includes simple linear regression models and multiple linear regression models. The first section of the chapter reviews current literature to explain ways that OLS allows researchers to identify the goals of OLS and differentiate them from basic descriptive analyses and bivariate analyses. It then discusses the types of research questions that may be answered by OLS. The second section walks readers through an example application of OLS using a realworld dataset, reviewing the definitions, key components, and analytic steps in using OLS. The following section addresses important considerations in testing statistical assumptions and the influence of assumption violation before applying OLS. The fourth section further discusses the significance of considering heterogeneous effects in contemporary higher education. The chapter closes with topics related to interpreting findings, as well as the broader application of OLS in higher education research contexts. Keywords

Ordinary least squares · Linear regression models · Variable selection · Goodness-of-fit · Modeling strategies · Residual · Coefficient · Standard errors · R-squared · Confidence intervals · Statistical assumptions · Linearity · Normality · Homoscedasticity · Independence of errors · Endogeneity · Interaction · Subgroup analysis · Predicted means · Effect size As graduate students and practitioner scholars explore higher education literature, they find that linear regression is a commonly used approach in quantitative studies in this field. Graduate students and practitioner scholars are uniquely positioned to identify practical, feasible, and relevant research ideas, with the goal of connecting empirical findings with practices. In my own doctoral advising experience, I witnessed the formation of many practice-driven research projects. One practitioner scholar at a community college would like to study the correlational relationship between the proportion of staff members who are racial and ethnic minorities and the graduation rates of racial and ethnic minoritized students. Another graduate student expressed interest in examining the relationship between state investment and the demographic composition of undergraduate students in public 4-year universities. A student affairs professional surveyed community college students and wanted to

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examine which background characteristics predict students’ sense of belonging on campus. The list goes on. All these potential research questions may be studied using the estimation method of ordinary least squares (OLS). In the process of learning to conduct independent research, many graduate students and emerging scholars have a general idea of what they want to study. Yet, there seems to be a disconnect between quantitative methods in the study of higher education or student development and the field of Statistics: How should new researchers make sense of the equations and formulas in supporting college student success? This disconnect in content knowledge posits quantitative research in higher education as a major challenge for many aspiring researchers. Some graduate students dig through method-heavy textbooks and papers in broader social science disciplines and struggle to translate those examples to higher education scenarios. Indeed, these methodological textbooks provide an important foundation for the application of OLS in our field. However, they often offer a steep learning curve, with examples from other unfamiliar fields such as Sociology, Economics, Political Science, and Psychology, for new quantitative researchers. The aim of this chapter is not to replicate other methodology resources but to provide a higher educationfocused discussion of the OLS approach to aid quantitative research in the field. This chapter introduces the estimation method of OLS, with a focus on its applications to specific research questions, the role of theories in OLS modeling, its assumptions, its implementation in Stata, and its resulting inferences or results – all using actual higher education research examples. It also discusses the potential pitfalls of OLS, and how it can be connected to other quantitative approaches in the field of higher education.

Which Research Questions Does OLS Answer? From the perspective of research design, the use of OLS falls in the broad category of quantitative research methods. These methods are different from qualitative-based inquiries, which often lead to research on in-depth descriptions of student experiences or a phenomenon (e.g., student perceptions of participating in dual enrollment; Kanny, 2015). Instead, quantitative research questions tend to focus on statistical tests, revealing the relationship between variables, which measures attribute with different values or categorical levels (e.g., the relationship between dual enrollment and college access and completion outcomes; Taylor, 2015). Within the range of quantitative studies, descriptive studies summarize key characteristics of large amount of quantitative data and allow readers to understand the dataset without viewing the raw data (e.g., the percentage of first-year college students who have been dually enrolled), and more sophisticated quantitative descriptions are particularly powerful in providing context and explanations for research findings (Klasik & Zahran, 2022). To better describe and summarize a collection of data, inferential statistics is a step further to generalize findings from a sample to the larger population. Among methods that are commonly included in an introductory course on quantitative

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research in higher education, a t-test is a hypothesis test used to compare the means of two groups. Analysis of Variance (ANOVA) compares the means of two or more groups to determine if they are significantly different from each other, while analysis of covariance (ANCOVA) further controls for the effects of one or more continuous covariates in comparing group differences. Pearson’s correlation tests the association between two continuous variables, and the Chi-Square test of independence focuses on the association between two categorical variables. Each of these tests requires the data to meet certain statistical assumptions to ensure unbiased estimation.1 Different from these approaches in identifying group differences, the estimation method of ordinary least squares (OLS) is a common approach used in higher education quantitative research to infer the relationship between observable characteristics and make predictions about the dependent variable based on the independent variables. That is, OLS is a method of fitting a line that best fits a set of data points, and it is used to estimate the size and direction of the relationship between two or more variables (Cohen et al., 2003; Weisberg, 2014). OLS can be used to model the relationship between two variables (i.e., simple linear regression) or to model relationships among multiple variables (i.e., multiple linear regression). Before independently conceptualizing and designing research using OLS, it is beneficial to learn about how it is used by other higher education scholars in current research. This section briefly reviews examples from recent literature and highlights four content dimensions of higher education scholarship using OLS regression: institution-level educational outcomes; student-level academic progress and social engagement; revenues and expenditures of colleges and universities; and affordability and economic returns of higher education.

Institution-Level Educational Outcomes The first common type of research questions OLS regression addresses is around institutional outcomes, such as enrollment, retention rates, transfer rates, graduation rates, and the number of degrees awarded. Most studies focus on contributing factors of institutional outcomes at the institutional and state level. For example, Hemelt and Marcotte (2011) examined the influence of tuition increase on the number of students enrolled at public 4-year universities, using institution-level data from the Integrated Postsecondary Education Data System (IPEDS) between 1992 and 2007. Similarly, Jaquette et al. (2016) used institution-level data from IPEDS and estimated whether the growing share of nonresident students was associated with a declining share of low-income and underrepresented minority students at public research universities between 2003 and 2013. In this study, instead of using the raw number of students

The statistical property of unbiasedness refers to whether “an estimator whose expected value of its sampling distribution equals the true value of the population parameter” (Ezell & Land, 2005, p. 943). When the sample estimate is neither an underestimate nor an overestimate of the unknown population parameter, it is unbiased. 1

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enrolled (or any statistical transformation) as the outcome, the dependent variables were defined as a percentage of total full-time freshman enrollment being low-income and underrepresented minority students, respectively. Since institutional outcomes are often measured as continuous variables, the OLS approach is commonly used to examine whether institutional characteristics contribute to various performance metrics at the institution-level. Focusing on transfer students, Dowd et al. (2008) provided a descriptive profile of transfer students attending elite colleges, and further identified institutional factors (e.g., number of majors, tuition, and fees) that related to an institution’s transfer enrollment rate. Researchers have also restricted their sample to a certain type of institution and studied contributing factors of institutional retention and graduation rates. Focusing on 466 private baccalaureate liberal and general colleges and universities, Gansemer-Topf and Schuh (2006) found that while the amount and distribution of institutional expenditures can explain institutional retention rates, the amount of institutional support expenditures is only associated with graduation rates for highly selective institutions. Also using IPEDS data, Jacoby (2006) focused on 1209 community colleges’ reliance on part-time faculty and found that colleges with more part-time faculty tend to have lower graduation rates at the institution level.

Student-Level Academic Progress and Social Engagement To measure student-level academic performance and progress, OLS regression is often used to address research questions on the cumulative grade point average (GPA) or the number of credits earned by college students. For example, Baker and Doyle (2017) used the Educational Longitudinal Study of 2002 and found that students who took out any student loans by 2006 (i.e., 2 years after high school graduation) had completed more credits by 2012 than comparable students who did not take out any student loans. In an experimental study, Goldrick-Rab et al. (2016) revealed that students receiving the Wisconsin Scholar Grant (WSG), which offered scholarships up to $3500 per year with a $17,500 maximum per student, earned 0.3–0.5 credits more per term, which equals 1–2 credits in 3 years. In another example, Evans (2019) found that, on average, having 10 additional Advanced Placement (AP) credits is associated with earning 1.2 more credits in the first year of college, as well as 1.6 more advanced lab science credits and 1.8 more advanced math overall in college. Focusing on statewide cohorts of vertical transfer students in Hawaii and North Carolina, Giani (2019) highlighted that students of color in North Carolina may experience more credit loss in the transfer process relative to white students. Beyond academic progress, higher education researchers also use the OLS approach to study students’ cognitive development and social engagement. Because these educational outcomes are often considered to be latent variables, which can only be constructed indirectly from other observable variables (Pike, 1991), the operationalization of these variables is commonly realized by self-administrated surveys (e.g., Harper et al., 2004). For example, Strauss and Volkwein (2002)

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conducted student surveys and calculated a scale of intellectual growth based on the constructs of acquiring information, ideas, concepts, and analytical thinking. After accounting for several variables including students’ precollege characteristics, structural organizational characteristics, and interactions with agents of socialization and institutional environment, researchers found that students’ classroom experiences (along with their commitment, effort, and involvement) positively contributed to their intellectual growth during college years. Wolniak and Pascarella (2007) collected data from three cohorts of college graduates from 30 selected institutions, and the Alumni Survey results were operationalized to represent students’ college experiences, satisfaction, and educational outcomes. Across the wide range of outcomes (e.g., undergraduate colleges’ impact on developing entrepreneurial and leadership skills, citizenship and global orientations, and overall satisfaction with college), attending a work college seems to benefit students more than attending a private liberal arts college or a public regional institution. More recently, Ro et al. (2023) used OLS to identify college experiences, institutional climate factors, and student characteristics that relate to political efficacy among Asian American undergraduates at six research-intensive universities, using data collected by the 2017 Student Experience in the Research University survey.

Revenues and Expenditures of Colleges and Universities Higher education finance has been a major component of contemporary research, and prior studies have used OLS to examine contributing factors of institutional revenues and expenditures (e.g., Frederick et al., 2012). On the revenue side, prior studies have focused on state funding, tuition revenue, and private donations. Consistent evidence has indicated that public funding to higher education institutions from the state and local governments is determined by the larger economic, political, and demographic characteristics of individual states (Archibald & Feldman, 2006; Doyle et al., 2021; McLendon et al., 2009). Specifically, public 4-year colleges and universities also rely on private donations. Cheslock and Gianneschi (2008) controlled for both observable and unobservable institutional characteristics and found that every $1,000 decrease in state appropriations is associated with a $19–$48 decrease in total gifts. On the expenditure side, the study conducted by McClure and Titus (2018) serves as a good example of using the OLS regression model to test the relationship between an institution’s change in Carnegie classification and its total administrative costs. The authors found that shifting to research university status in the Carnegie classification is positively associated with the amount of administrative spending at public research universities, highlighting tuition-reliant universities’ higher probability of increasing administrative expenditures and the possibility of these institutions adopting a “hightuition, high-aid” pricing strategy. A holistic view of studies on institutional revenues and expenditures tells some important and interesting stories of how colleges and universities work from the financial perspective. Take a high-profile issue in the United States for example: Are

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university presidents reasonably paid? Yeung et al. (2019) hypothesized that the compensation of presidents at colleges and universities may be linked to changes in their institutions’ US News & World Report (USNWR) rankings. Using OLS, the authors tested this relationship and found that at public universities, higher USNWR ranking is related to higher levels of presidential compensation; however, no such relationship was found at private liberal arts colleges and universities. In a different study, Hunt et al. (2019) were particularly interested in the relationship between the university president’s compensation and fundraising outcomes. Also using OLS, the authors noted that little to no discernable relationship was found between presidential salaries and private giving. These findings provided practical implications for public universities to weigh investments in presidential salaries and revenue generation from donors.

Affordability and Economic Returns of Higher Education Quantitative studies using the OLS approach have also focused on affordability variation among institutions and the role public policies play in tuition control and financial aid distribution. For example, Li and Kelchen (2021) examined whether institutional-level characteristics, student demographics, and state conditions are associated with student loan repayment rates and cohort-level loan default rates and noted unique patterns of for-profit colleges. Private non-profit 4-year institutions with higher average SAT scores often charge higher net prices (Howell & Pender, 2016), and every 10% increase in the cost of attendance at private universities is associated with an 8% increase in total average student loan debt (Monks, 2014). More specifically, Turner (2012) used multiyear data from the National Postsecondary Student Aid Study (NPSAS) and examined if federal student aid is related to the level of institutional aid students received and the level of student loans borrowed. For public 4-year students, colleges and universities increased their net price roughly dollar-for-dollar with federal aid by lowering institutional aid instead of increasing tuition. On the contrary, for-profit colleges, which participate in federal student aid programs (i.e., Title IV eligible), charge tuition for sub-baccalaureate programs that is 78% higher than tuition charged by comparable programs in nonparticipating for-profit colleges (Cellini & Goldin, 2014). In other words, the amount of grant aid and loan subsidy received by students in Title IV eligible institutions may be absorbed by the tuition premium. These studies serve as good examples of using OLS regression analyses to test the Bennett hypothesis and understand institutional behaviors in the context of affordability. The economic return of college attendance is often operationalized as employment and earnings, making OLS an extensively used statistical tool for studying the relationship between students’ varying college pathways and earnings. Overall, college degree attainment is associated with a higher level of wages relative to individuals without a college degree, but the expected income varies by the type of institutions and the level of degrees (Cellini & Chaudhary, 2014; Kane & Rouse, 1995; Leigh & Gill, 1997). OLS approaches have been particularly useful in

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challenging the myths of lower labor market returns for graduates of minority-serving institutions (MSIs). By controlling for a series of student background characteristics and academic preparation, community context, and economic capacity of Hispanic-serving institutions (HSIs), Park et al. (2018) found that the differences in earnings between Hispanic students who graduate from HSIs and those from non-HSIs are driven by selectivity and institutional resources rather than the HSI designation. Based on OLS findings, a series of studies noted the varying expected income levels of college graduates by field of study (Perna, 2003; Webber, 2016). For instance, majoring in a science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM) field is associated with a 22% increase in earnings for women and 18% for men, after controlling for students’ probability of choosing a STEM major (Olitsky, 2014). For students with “some college, no degree,” the number of college-level credits completed can also contribute to their wage growth (Kane & Rouse, 1995). With a large sample of graduates from a Texas public high school, Giani (2019) noted that students with some college (even if they had not completed their degree) had significantly higher earnings 15 years after high school graduation than their counterparts who never attended colleges, particularly for women and economically disadvantaged students. Similarly, Bahr (2019) studied the labor market outcomes of all first-time community college students in California between 2002 and 2008, revealing a positive relationship between credits earned and quarterly earnings. However, the relationship is only positive for credits in engineering and industrial technologies, public and protective services, business and management, and information technology, but not for credits in the fields of healthcare and law. Other scholars also addressed labor market outcomes using OLS approaches by focusing on particular educational experiences, such as participating in high-impact programs (Kilgo et al., 2015; Wolniak & Engberg, 2019), participating in the federal workstudy program (Scott-Clayton & Minaya, 2016), and taking out educational loans (Minicozzi, 2005).

Summary of Current Higher Education Research Using OLS These examples of current research in higher education share a common feature in the OLS regression analyses: the dependent variable is continuous in nature. OLS tests the linear function to summarize a group of points with a line that is located in such a way as to minimize the distance between it and all the points. In other words, OLS uses a linear function to summarize the relationship between two (or more) variables and it can provide the best summary of the relationship given the sets of points. It is worth mentioning that while the term “OLS regression” is used to refer to the estimation method, OLS is not a model. With a certain model (e.g., linear regression model), the goal is to infer unknown parameters in the population based on known observations in the sample. Instead, the OLS method assumes a few conditions under which a linear model is estimated, which will be further discussed in section “Statistical Assumptions of OLS.” In other words, linear models can still

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be estimated without the OLS method, but these estimates do not have the properties of unbiased OLS estimators. While OLS regression can answer many research questions, the first question for new researchers to think about is: Is the dependent variable continuous? If the answer is yes, it is okay to move on to build the model (more details in section “When OLS Is Applicable and When It Is Not: An Example of Dual Enrollment”) and test the statistical assumptions (more details in section “Statistical Assumptions of OLS”), and then decide if OLS remains to be applicable to answer the research question. If the dependent variable is not continuous, additional work is needed to decide the nature of the variable and consider if alternative types of analysis tools are more appropriate. For instance, when the dependent variable is dichotomous (i.e., with a value of either a one or a zero), researchers can use logistic regression to examine the relationship between the independent variable and the dependent variable (Long & Freese, 2014). Instead of OLS, logistic regression uses the maximum likelihood estimation method to estimate the parameters of an assumed probability distribution. Rodriguez et al. (2018) focused on categorical and limited dependent variable modeling in higher education research, discussing details on how to approach dependent variables that are operationalized as dichotomous, ordinal, nominal, and count variables. Porter (2015) provided a holistic review of quantile regression as an alternative to OLS in higher education research. Even when the dependent variable is categorical, OLS can still be applied to predict the probability of a dichotomous dependent variable being 1 (Biswas et al., 2019; Cohen et al., 2003). Compared with logistic regression, linear probability models (LPM) with OLS estimates have a few advantages in ease of interpretation and robustness to outliers, but also are disadvantaged given the assumption violations (Cohen et al., 2003; Long & Freese, 2014). In recent years, an increasing number of higher education studies have adopted LPM in answer research questions when the dependent variable is dichotomous (e.g., Cellini & Chaudhary, 2014; Evans et al., 2019; Roksa & Velez, 2012), such as the relationship between merit aid programs and college attainment (Sjoquist & Winters, 2015), students’ course-taking patterns and registration order (Gurantz, 2015), and dual enrollment and academic performance (Hemelt & Swiderski, 2022). Because a more detailed review has been discussed by Rodriguez et al. (2018) in a prior Handbook volume, this chapter focuses on the OLS with continuous dependent variables.

When OLS Is Applicable and When It Is Not: An Example of Dual Enrollment To determine when OLS is applicable to a study, this section uses a particular example to demonstrate the steps to check OLS assumptions and explain why each step matters. For many students in higher education, OLS was taught with either simulation data or existing data from other disciplines. While the data used in class are often prepared for instruction and illustration purposes, dealing with reallife data in higher education is often messy and challenging. This example uses a

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public-use dataset, which is provided by the National Center of Educational Statistics (NCES), to demonstrate how to examine the relationship between the number of dual credits earned and the tuition level of college students’ primary first-year college. As mentioned above, usually the dependent variable in OLS regression is continuous in nature – in this case, the tuition level of the student’s primary first-year institution is selected as the outcome for illustration purposes.

Brief Background of Dual Credit and Its Role in Higher Education Dual enrollment, which refers to high school students enrolling in a college course, has become increasingly prevalent across states over the years (e.g., Marken et al., 2013; Thomas et al., 2013; Taylor et al., 2022). Earning dual credits is positively associated with student success in terms of high school graduation, college matriculation, and college readiness as well as students’ academic performance, persistence, and degree attainment in college (An, 2013a, b, 2015; An & Taylor, 2019; Cowan & Goldhaber, 2015; Grubb et al., 2017). Despite concerns about equal access (Museus et al., 2007; Taylor et al., 2022), dual credit programs are deemed to be cost-effective for students to participate in postsecondary education (Berger et al., 2013; Dannenberg & Hyslop, 2019), because many programs are provided at no cost or a reduced rate when compared with traditional college-level courses (Mehl et al., 2020; Taylor et al., 2022). While Lin et al. (2020) noted that dually enrolled students relied more on student loans to pay for their college relative to AP participants, Hu and Ortagus (2023) found no evidence supporting any difference between dual credit course-taking and the probability of incurring student loans or the amount of student loans borrowed. Hu and Ortagus (2023) suggested that any positive influence of dual enrollment can be offset by higher cost of attendance, due to nontransferable dual credits or students attending a higher-cost institution. Thus, this example will zoom in on the relationship between dual credits earned and their students’ college choices in terms of tuition levels. Students’ college matriculation decision firstly depends on the availability and accessibility of educational, financial, and information resources (Avery et al., 2014; Castleman & Page, 2017; Page & Scott-Clayton, 2016). The systematic access barriers further marginalize certain student groups such as students of color, students with low-income family backgrounds, first-generation students, and rural students (Bailey & Dynarski, 2011; Balfanz et al., 2016; Hillman & Weichman, 2016). Students’ academic performance and choice utility, admissions practices at colleges and universities, and public policies (e.g., financial aid) further complicate the process of college application, admission, and matriculation (Attewell et al., 2006; DesJardins & Toutkoushian, 2005; Killgore, 2009; Page & Scott-Clayton, 2016). Beyond the dichotomous postsecondary access outcome, students also (choose to) attend different types of colleges and universities based on the institution’s historic mission, prestige, and cost (Baker & Vélez, 1996; Stratton, 2014). The series of studies conducted by Hearn (1984, 1988, 1991) highlighted how the structural inequity based on students’ gender, race, family income, as well as their academic

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performance, and expectations influenced their college destination. Hu and Hossler (2000) confirmed how structural inequity prevents historically underrepresented students to attend higher-cost colleges and universities, and students’ willingness to pay also explained the type of college they attend. Indeed, students balance the benefits of attending a certain college and both monetary costs and opportunity costs in this dynamic and complex college-going process (Cabrera & La Nasa, 2000; DesJardins & Toutkoushian, 2005; Linsenmeier et al., 2006). Taking it together, assuming earning dual credits signals cost-saving and college readiness, it can alter a student’s utility of choosing an institution with given tuition levels, as well as their chance of admission and matriculation at the institution. Thus, this example analysis hypothesizes that the number of dual credits earned in high school is positively associated with the level of tuition of their primary first-year institution. The research question is: Is there a relationship between the number of dual credits earned and the level of published tuition and fees students choose to attend?

The Data Example In this illustration, the analysis used the public-use dataset provided by the NCES: the High School Longitudinal Study of 2009 (HSLS:09). HSLS:09 is a nationally representative dataset based on the multi-wave data collection by the US Department of Education. In 2009, HSLS:09 first surveyed over 23,500 ninth graders from 944 schools and followed up in 2012 and 2016. Both high school transcripts and postsecondary transcripts (if available) are included in the dataset, providing detailed information on students’ academic trajectories. To minimize the risk of disclosing the identity of responding students, the public-use data files differ from the restricted-use data with alteration and suppression of some of the original data (e.g., high school identifier). However, the public-use data is provided by the NCES for free with immediate access online,2 and it serves as an invaluable learning tool for readers of this chapter. I selected the analytic sample based on whether a primary first-year institution was identified by 2017 (i.e., approximately 5 years after high school graduation for the cohort) (n ¼ 8688), and further excluded 6954 students who did not have any dual credit indicated in their postsecondary transcript and 1 student with a missing value of the tuition level of a primary first-year institution. Appendix A provides more detail on how to prepare the public-use HSLS file to replicate the demonstration dataset in this chapter. Stata can generate a more detailed descriptive summary to examine the distribution of observations for the dependent variable (i.e., tuition 2

The public-use data is available at https://nces.ed.gov/datalab/. One major difference between the public-use data and restricted-use data is around how analytic weights are provided in this complex survey design. For example, variance estimation is provided through both Balanced Repeated Replication (BRR) and a Taylor series linearization, but only the BRR variance estimation method is supported for users of public-use data (Duprey et al., 2020).

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Table 1 Outputs of descriptive summary Variable X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN

obs 1733 1733

Mean 11,383 12.25

Std. dev. 11,586 13.33

Min 40 1

Max 60,614 79

and fees charged at the student’s primary first-year institution) and the focal independent variable (i.e., the number of dual credits earned). Among the 1733 students in the analytic sample, their primary first-year institutions charge tuition and fees3 between $40 and $60,614, with an average (“mean”) of $11,382 and standard deviation of $11,586. The dually enrolled students in the sample have earned between 1 and 79 dual credits, with an average of 12.25 credits with a standard deviation of 13.33 (as shown in Table 1). *Generate detailed statistics for the dependent variable and focal independent variable . sum X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN, detail

A Simple Regression Example Before rushing into regression analysis, it is important to consider if the data is suitable to answer the research question with the OLS approach. There are several assumptions underlying regression analyses using the OLS method, and it is important to know how to diagnose various problems, how assumption violations may affect OLS estimates, and how to provide remedies to these problems. This is also when a large number of equations jump into the discussion and why regression analyses can be intimidating. Before we get into that, let us go back to our example. In the illustration here, we would like to estimate if dual credits earned in high school (i.e., the independent variable, also known as explanatory variable, predictor variable, or regressor) are associated with the level of tuition and fees charged by the student’s primary first-year institution (i.e., the dependent variable in our study, also known as outcome variable, explained variable, predicted variable, or regressand). That is, we are interested in the relationship between students’ dual credits earned in high school and the level of tuition and fees charged by their primary first-year institution.

3

The dependent variable indicates the total tuition and fees charged at the primary institution during the first academic year in postsecondary education after high school completion or exit. This value accounted for students’ attendance status to reflect students’ number of months enrolled full- or part-time in a given academic year. The primary institution was identified based on transcript records with the earliest start date excluding summer enrollments immediately following high school completion/exit.

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What happens if we directly run a simple regression model without testing the assumptions? We can start with a simple regression and identify some major elements in the Stata output given its relatively simpler structure. Following the general simple regression model, we run the regression of y on x, yi ¼ a þ bxi þ ei where yi denotes the level of tuition and fees charged by the student i’s primary firstyear institution, b represents the slope for y predicted by x, xi is the number of dual credits the student i earned in high school, a denotes the intercept for y predicted by x (i.e., the value of y when x equals 0), and ei is the residual term representing the part of yi that cannot be predicted from xi. Removing ei, the estimated OLS equation can be written as: yi ¼ a þ bxi where yi is the predicted value of the outcome, which equals the sum of yi and ei. *Perform a simple regression model with the dependent variable and the focal independent variable only . regress X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN

The Stata output provides three sets of important information about the model: ANOVA table, model fit, and parameter estimation. First of all, the ANOVA table (as shown in Table 2) reports sum of squares (SS), degrees of freedom (df ), and mean square (MS) for the model, residual, and total, respectively. Specifically, the total sum of squares, which represents the total variation of the dependent variable around its mean, is a large number of 232,500,000,000. SStotal is the sum of SSmodel (i.e., variation explained by the model) and SSresidual (i.e., variation not unexplained by the model). The table also reveals that there are 1732 total degrees of freedom (i.e., calculated as 1733 observations in the sample minus 1 constant as the intercept), of which 1 more df was consumed by the model with one independent variable, leaving 1731 df for the residual. That is, df for the residual represents the number of independent values that can vary, which provides enough information to estimate the overall model. The right column is the mean of the sum of squares, which was calculated as SS divided by df for each source. Additionally, the model fit statistics reveal how well our one independent variable models the dependent variable. With a sample of 1733 students, the F(1, 1731) statistics associated with the ANOVA table is 0.97, with a statistical significance test (i.e., the “Prob > F” row in Stata outputs) of a p-value of 0.325. More specifically, Table 2 The output of ANOVA table

Source Model Residual Total

SS 130,093,866 2.3237e+11 2.3250e+11

df 1 1731 1732

MS 130,093,866 134,240,462 134,238,068

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the F-statistics measures the ratio of MSmodel to MSresidual with a null hypothesis that MSmodel equals MSresidual. Our results indicated that the ratio of MSmodel to MSresidual is only 0.97; that is, we do not have evidence to reject the null hypothesis, and the only independent variable of our univariate model does not reliably predict the dependent variable. Another important estimate in linear regression is the coefficient of determination, which is widely known as R2. In a regression model, R2 represents the percent of variances in the observed value of the dependent variable that is predicted by the independent variable. This estimate is calculated as the proportion of the regression variance of the dependent variable over the total variance of the dependent variable. Our simple regression above generated an R2 value of 0.0006 (i.e., the proportion of SSmodel out of SStotal), indicating that 0.06% of the variance in the charged tuition and fees a student primarily attends the first year can be attributed to the number of dual credits earned in high school. Because we only have one independent variable, the adjusted R2 is 0. The root mean squared error (MSE) estimate is simply the standard deviation of the residuals (calculated as the square root of MSresidual in the ANOVA table), so we can interpret it as the spread of the residuals as 11,586. The closer root MSE is to zero, the better the goodness-of-fit is. Finally, the output shows the parameters estimated by the model and their respective statistical significance using t-test (as shown in Table 3). While the null hypothesis for each estimated coefficient is that the independent variable or the constant term (i.e., intercept) has no relationship with the dependent variable, the alternate hypothesis is that these coefficients are significantly different from zero. In this example, the fitted model can be written based on the results shown below: TuitionLevel ¼ 11634:65  20:55  Dual Credit We are mostly interested in the estimate of the slope (i.e., coefficient), which is the average amount of change in y given a one-unit change in x. In this context, the coefficient for X5HSCRDERN is 20.55, and it means that for every 1-credit increase in the number of earned dual credits in high school, the average amount of tuition and fees charged by the institution student attends decreases by $20.55. Reported to the right of the coefficients in the output are the standard errors. Standard errors are always positive, and they measure the precision of the estimate of the coefficient. Dividing the coefficient by its standard error calculates the t-value in the next column. When standard errors are larger relative to the coefficient (i.e., imprecise estimation), t-values are smaller, resulting in a p-value greater than the significance level. For the coefficient for X5HSCRDERN, the corresponding t-statistic is 0.98 and it is not statistically significant ( p ¼ 0.325) at the 0.05 Table 3 The univariant regression output Variable X5HSCRDERN constant

Coefficient 20.55 11634.65

Std. err. 20.88 377.92

t 0.98 30.79

p 0.325 0.000

95% CI [61.5, 20.4] [10893.4, 12375.9]

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significance level. It is predicted that, with one increased dual credit earned, the student attends a college with $20.55 lower tuition and fees charged within a 95% confidence interval [61.5, 20.4], and this relationship is not statistically significant. In other words, large standard errors mean both wide confidence intervals and a lessened probability of rejecting a null hypothesis. The intercept (“constant”) is $11,635 and it is the predicted mean of the tuition levels students attend when the number of earned dual credits in high school is 0. While it makes sense to have the focal independent variable hold a value of 0 in this example, in some other cases (e.g., age of college students, SAT scores), the intercept cannot be interpreted when the independent variable holds a value of 0 (e.g., It is not meaningful to predict the outcome with 0-year-old college students!). *Generate a visual representation with a scatterplot with 95% CI (Figure 1a) . twoway (scatter X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN) (lfitci X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN, lcolor(black) color(%50)), legend(order(2 "95% CI" 3 "Fitted values")) scheme(s1mono) xtitle("The number of dual credits earned in high school") ytitle("Tuition and Fees Charged", size(small))

We can also visually examine the distribution of observations in the sample. In the scatterplot in Fig. 1a, each dot represents a student and the horizontal or x axis plots the student’s number of credits (i.e., earned dual credits in high school) and the student’s charged tuition and fees are plotted on the vertical or y axis. Based on the estimated slope and intercept from above, a regression line is fit to the data representing the general linear trend between the two variables. Note that not all dots fall on our prediction line, and the prediction line does not fully explain the observed scores. This difference between the observed scores ( y) and predicted scores on the regression line (yi ) is captured by the error term (i.e., residual) in the equation. The key feature of OLS is that it chooses the best regression line based on minimizing the values of squared, summed residuals (thus the name “ordinary least

Fig. 1 (a) Scatterplot with 95% Confidence Interval (CI), (b) Scatterplot with 95% Confidence Interval (CI) without minimum values of squared summed residuals

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squares”). Imagine if we allow ei to be larger than it needs to be, the plot may look like Fig. 1b, in which the regression line is not a good fit to the data.

An OLS Example with Multiple Linear Regression The simple linear regression results indicated a non-statistically significant relationship between the dependent variable and the independent variable. The coefficient seems to tell us that we failed to reject the null hypothesis so far. However, the current simple linear regression does not include “all relevant predictors” of the outcome measure (Gelman & Hill, 2007, p. 45). The interpretation of any given regression coefficient can depend on other predictors that are related to both the independent variable and the dependent variable. It is common to control for additional variables in predicting the dependent variable in higher education research. Based on the brief literature in section “Brief Background of Dual Credit and Its Role in Higher Education,” we know that many other factors can influence students’ college matriculation and the type of institutions they choose to attend. This section will go beyond univariant (i.e., one variable) linear regression and turn to multivariate (i.e., multiple variables) methods to control for additional variables. First, this section will review the basics of multiple linear regression, and then discuss how to select control variables, which are also called confounding variables or covariates, and include them in multiple linear regression.

Multiple Linear Regression The general purpose of multiple regression is to learn more about the relationship between several independent or predictor variables and a dependent variable. A multiple regression model with m continuous independent variables can be presented as yi ¼ a þ b1 xi1 þ b2 xi2 þ . . . bm xim þ ei where yi denotes the student i’s score on the dependent variable y, and b1 is called a partial regression coefficient because the influence of independent variables other than xi1 has been removed from the relationship between xi1 and yi. A partial regression coefficient provides information on the relationship between the dependent variable and its independent variable, with all other independent variables held constant (i.e., “controlled”). Similarly, bm is a partial regression coefficient of xim after the influence of independent variables other than xim has been removed from the relationship between xim and yi. Here, a denotes the intercept for the estimated average y value when all the x values are held constant at zero, and ei (i.e., the residual term) is the part of yi that cannot be predicted from xi. Different from simple linear regression, the correlation between y and xi1in multiple linear regression models may also include a proportion of shared variance with a third variable xi2. In our example, the relationship between the charged tuition and fees and the number of dual credits earned in high school may also include the

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Fig. 2 (a) Bivariate correlation between y and x1, (b) Semipartial correlation between y and x1

variance between family income and the charged tuition and fees, as well as the variance between family income and the number of dual credits earned in high school. As presented in Fig. 2a, in a simple linear regression, the total variance of the dependent variable y is represented by one circle, and we are interested in the portion of the circle explained by the independent variable x1 (i.e., the overlapping area of the two circles). Hypothetically, the independent variable x1 explains 15% of the variance in the dependent variable y (R2 ¼ 0.15). Adding a second independent variable x2 to the picture (Fig. 2b), x2 also explains 5% of the shared variance between y and x1. The semipartial correlation between y and x1, after partialing out the effect of x2 from x1, is thus 10%. In other words, we aim to examine the association between y and x1, controlling for the effect of one or more other independent variables as control variables, and the 10% area is the portion of variance in y which is uniquely explained by x1.

Variable Selection and Goodness-of-Fit The decision to include some variables while excluding others has always been a challenge in multivariate OLS regression. In higher education research, it is common to start with theoretically informed model specifications so additional independent variables are selected based on previous scholarly literature. Depending on whether the data is newly collected or secondary, the selected variables may or may not be available. In our example, it is important to consider, from the theoretical perspective, what other variables may contribute to whether a student chooses to attend a higher-cost college or a lower-cost college? Following well-established literature and theories (Cabrera & La Nasa, 2000; DesJardins & Toutkoushian, 2005; Hearn, 1984, 1988, 1991; Hu & Hossler, 2000; Linsenmeier et al., 2006; Stratton, 2014), several control variables in HSLS:09 were selected as they may influence whether students choose to attend a higher-cost college. These variables included students’ sociodemographic characteristics in their 11th grade (i.e., sex, race/ethnicity, family income, parents’ highest education level, whether parents have other dependents), students’ expectations of college and its costs in their 11th grade (i.e., educational expectations, whether students expect receiving financial aid based on financial

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needs or academic merits, the importance of cost of attendance when choosing a college), academic performance in 12th grade (i.e., high school GPA, the number of AP/IB credits earned), and high school characteristics (i.e., location, control). Because the dependent variable accounts for students’ enrollment status first year in college, a variable X5PFYENRLSTAT is also included in the model specification. Appendix B presents the description of the variables used for the current study. Besides the theoretically informed approach, there are also statistical test-driven approaches to conduct model comparisons and to determine if models with more control variables have better model fit than models with fewer control variables (Harrell, 2001; Weisberg, 2014). The higher the value of the coefficient of determination (R2) of a model specification, the higher the proportion of variances in the observed value of the dependent variable that is predicted by independent variables. That is, R2, which is the effect size measure of the entire model, shows how well the data fit the regression model, and this is called the goodness-of-fit. As a rule of thumb, model specifications with greater values of R2 indicate better goodness-of-fit than model specifications with smaller values of R2. However, in multiple linear regression, every predictor added to a model never decreases R2 because adding control variables only increases explained variance. Thus, the increasing value of R2 no longer provides useful information as more predictors are added to the model. In multiple linear regression, the estimate of adjusted R2 corrects positive bias and provides more information on goodness-of-fit because it only increases when the newly added predictor enhances the model more than what is predicted by chance, and it can decrease otherwise. Recall that one major difference between regression and bivariate correlation tests is that regression models predict the dependent variable based on the set of independent variables. Ignoring essential variables can lead to the issue of spurious correlation, which refers to relationships between variables that are not causal but appear to be related due to the influence of a third variable (Liu & Borden, 2019). A spurious correlation is often embedded in the famous story of ice cream consumption and crimes in a Statistics class (Salkind & Frey, 2021). When a third variable was omitted (i.e., hot days in the summer season), there seems to be a relationship between ice cream consumption and crime rate. In fact, these two variables happen to be associated with warmer temperatures: People tend to eat more ice cream and are more likely to engage in activities that may lead to crime in warm summer months (Salkind & Frey, 2021). In the higher education context, a spurious correlation may exist for the relationship between the number of adjunct faculty and the number of degrees awarded. When these two measures may seem positively related to one another, it is important to account for campus expansion as the third variable, which can lead to both an increased number of adjunct faculty, increased student enrollment, and an increased number of degrees awarded. In a different example, the potential relationship between major athletic events and campus crime incidents may be due to increased police patrolling. In these examples, while two variables are significantly correlated, the correlation may change when a third variable is added to the model. Thus, the theoretical foundation is important for researchers to consider all relevant independent variables that may be associated with the dependent variable

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to avoid spurious correlations in regression analysis and estimate the true relationship between variables. When regression is used to draw causal inferences, the correlation between an independent variable and the error term can be problematic, and this is often referred to as endogeneity. Endogeneity may arise due to omitted variables as discussed above, because the error term, which captures the omitted variable, is correlated with the explanatory variables. It may also be caused by the independent variable being influenced by the dependent variable in the model specification. Due to endogeneity issues, OLS methods produce biased estimates and misleading hypotheses testing results. Later in section “Findings Interpretation and Presentation,” Table 8 demonstrates how adding new blocks of variables changed the sign and statistical significance of variables that are already in the model, indicating the significance of including all relevant variables in the model. In the higher education context, Titus (2009) studied how changes in state higher education policies affect the production of bachelor’s degrees, and identified the amount of tuition, financial aid, and state appropriation as endogenous variables because they are interrelated. Instead of OLS, Hillman (2012) used the Generalized Method of Moments (GMM) techniques to instrument endogenous variables with lags of the dependent variables. Alternatively, Doyle (2012) used a two-stage least squares (2SLS) approach to examine the impact of state policymakers’ preferences on levels of tuition and financial aid in the states, because state tax appropriations, tuition and fees, and financial aid are also interrelated, leading to endogeneity issues. Similarly, Fowles (2014) investigated how public 4-year institutions respond to revenue patterns with an instrumental variable approach, because a university can simultaneously determine its expenditure and revenue patterns due to other confounding factors. Thus, it was important to include instrumental variables that affect institutional revenues but have no independent impact on expenditure patterns (i.e., the dependent variable). In these situations, it is not recommended to solely depend on OLS to generate robust estimates, and additional solutions (e.g., instrumental variables, propensity score models) have been discussed in detail by prior research (Abdallah et al., 2015; Bielby et al., 2013; Liu & Borden, 2019). The opposite issue of omitted variables is overfitting that the model predicts no real relationship between the independent variable and dependent variable in inferential statistics (Lever et al., 2016). Interpreting the values of adjusted R2 helps researchers to identify an overfitted model, as an overly complex model attempts to explain some degree of error or random “noise” in real-world data (e.g., missing values, low-quality data). Because the model specification picks up too many random errors in the sample, it usually has a high value of adjusted R2 and predicts the sample well. However, overfitted models inevitably accounted for random errors that may not exist in out-of-sample prediction, thus leading to poor estimation of the larger population. Overfitting is particularly concerning when the model has a small sample size (Babyak, 2004). As a rule of thumb, a minimum of 10–15 observations per independent variable generally allow good estimates. In the current model, besides the one dependent variable and one independent variable, we control for 13 variables. Many of the independent variables are categorical with multiple levels;

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for example, parental education has five education levels, and each level is coded as an indicator. Thus, we have about 40 independent variables and the sample size should be around 400 and 600 at least (Babyak, 2004). If overfitting turns out to be an issue, researchers can choose to increase their sample size by collecting more data or combining independent variables to reduce the number of df consumed. In our example, we cannot collect additional data given the secondary nature of NCES datasets, but we can potentially select non-essential variables and combine them. For example, we can give up specific information on the highest level of parents’ education and use a binary first-generation status as a proxy of students’ family and cultural capital of college access. In Stata, we can test omitted variables by using the command linktest to perform a link test or estat ovtest for a Ramsey regression specification-error test for omitted variables in a given model specification. In our example, both tests are significantly significant, indicating the existence of omitted variables. This is probably due to the fact that the public-use dataset does not include all relevant variables. Higher education researchers sometimes adopt fixed effects models to account for unobservable characteristics (Allison, 2009). For example, Cheslock and Gianneschi (2008) controlled for institutional effects when examining the relationship between state appropriations and private giving. Archibald and Feldman (2006) included both year- and state-fixed effects to investigate the relationship between state appropriations and the tax revolt. If the issue of omitted issue persists and no additional data is available, researchers should be transparent about how the model specification is missing a significant influence on explaining the dependent variable. Additionally, we can measure overfitting the user-written command overfit as a post-estimation to calculate shrinkage statistics. . overfit: regress X5PFYTUITION . overfit: regress X5PFYTUITION i.X2FAMINCOME i.X2PAREDU i.dependent i.X2STUEDEXPCT X3TGPAWGT X3TCREDAPIB i.X5PFYENRLSTAT

X5HSCRDERN X5HSCRDERN i.X2SEX i.X2RACE i.S2COSTATTEND i.finaidexp i.X3LOCALE i.X3CONTROL

In our example, overfitting was more of a major concern when only the number of dual credits earned was included in the model that overfitting caused an out-ofsample predictive bias by 212%. However, including the full set of control variables resulted in a decrease in out-of-sample errors due to a decrease in overfitting. More finalized model specifications presented in section “Findings Interpretation and Presentation” indicated even lower out-of-sample errors. For example, overfitting causes less shrinkage (4.4%) when Model 6 in Table 8 is used to predict the average tuition and fees level of the institution a student attends.

Modeling Strategies Using Stata It is worth mentioning that the results of variable selection using the test-driven approach may be influenced by how variables are entered into the multivariate linear regression model (Weisberg, 2014). The simultaneous method describes the circumstances when all predictors are entered into the model together, while they are entered in a specified

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order with the sequential method. The sequential method often identifies variables in an order based on the statistical analysis program. For example, forward selection procedures identify predictors with the largest, significant correlation, and add it to the model first. On the contrary, the backward elimination procedures have all predictors entered into the model first, and then remove the ones with the lowest correlation without weakening the model. These automated stepwise approaches have been criticized because they only retain independent variables that are strongly correlated with the dependent variable, ignoring theoretical foundations on which variables are truly important for predicting the dependent variable (e.g., spurious associations). This can further result in overfitting where the model explains the sample well but performs poorly on population data. Also, because variables selected based on automated stepwise approaches can be sensitive to the order in which they are entered into the model, there tends to be instability in the results and uncertainty about which independent variables are truly important (Babyak, 2004; Burnham et al., 2011; Harrell, 2001). Consistent with the theoretically informed variable selection approach, we can use a hierarchical procedure4 to group variables based on content knowledge and add them to the model (Harrell, 2001). Using this approach, predictors are entered in clusters or blocks, each of which has one or more control variables (e.g., Perna, 2003; Strauss & Volkwein, 2002). The order of entry is theoretically specified a priori that the control variables have time precedence. In our sample, the first block is the focal independent variable indicating the number of dual credits earned. The second block includes students’ sociodemographic characteristics in their 11th grade (i.e., sex, race/ethnicity, family income, parents’ highest education level, whether parents have other dependents), predicting some amount of the outcome variation (i.e., R2). These sociodemographic characteristics are determined relatively early in life within the societal structure, and they impact students’ educational expectations and academic performance later in life. The third block includes students’ expectations of college and its costs in their 11th grade (i.e., educational expectations, whether students expect to receive financial aid based on financial needs or academic merits, the importance of cost of attendance when choosing a college, predicting the outcome variation that was unexplained by the first two blocks of variables. Similarly, the fourth block predicts outcome variation that was unexplained by previously entered blocks, capturing students’ academic performance in 12th grade (i.e., high school GPA, the number of AP/IB credits earned). Following the same procedure, high school characteristics (i.e., location, control) are entered as Block 5, and students’ enrollment intensity in college as Block 6. Though multiple linear regression is not based on the notion of categorical independent variables, it can easily handle indicator-coded variables. We use the Stata command nestreg to fit hierarchical or nested models by sequentially adding these blocks of variables and report comparison Wald tests between different model specifications.

4

Note that the hierarchical procedure, sometimes called block-wise entry procedure, is used to add or remove variables from regression model in multiple steps. This is different from hierarchical linear modeling when data have a nested structure (e.g., class sections, departments, colleges).

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*Fit multiple regression model by adding variable blocks . nestreg: regress X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN (i.X2SEX i.X2RACE i.X2FAMINCOME i.X2PAREDU i.dependent) (i.S2COSTATTEND i.finaidexp i.X2STUEDEXPCT) (X3TGPAWGT X3TCREDAPIB) (i.X3LOCALE i.X3CONTROL) (i.X5PFYENRLSTAT)

When using hierarchical regression, we can assess the change in R2 that is realized by adding a new block of control variables (as shown in Table 4). For example, the R2 in the first regression with the focal independent variable only (Block 1), as shown by the fifth column, was 0.0006 (or 0.06%). When students’ sociodemographic characteristics are added as new control variables in the second regression (Block 2), this increased to 0.0695 or (6.95%). The last column also shows that this change was an increase of 0.0690 (or 6.90%). Similarly, by adding more control variables in Block 4, 5, and 6, the explanatory power of these model specifications goes up to 0.1970 (or 19.70%). When changes in R2 are not statistically significant, the new block of variables does not add prediction value to the model. With additional blocks of variables added, the residual df also decreases. That is, by controlling for additional variables, we have fewer pieces of information available to estimate the coefficients, but the number is still reasonably large enough to generate precise estimates (as discussed in section “Variable Selection and Goodness-of-Fit”). Technically, for independent variables that are not significant and do not have the expected sign based on the theoretical background, we can consider dropping them (Gelman & Hill, 2007). However, even though some variables are not statistically significant, these variables should not necessarily be excluded from the analysis. The reason is, despite not being separately significantly associated with the dependent variable, it may still be important to control for these variables for theoretical reasons to examine the relationship between the dependent variable and the focal independent variable.

Descriptive Summary of Selected Variables Finally, with all variables selected, we can look at descriptive statistics for all data, scatter plots for each variable, and calculate a correlation matrix for all variables. This is a common practice before inferential analysis: No variable selection decisions necessarily derive from these descriptive analyses, yet they assist us to know our dataset Table 4 Statistics comparison using hierarchical procedure Block 1 2 3 4 5 6

F 0.97 4.68 3.27 33.34 5.49 60.02

Block df 1 27 14 2 4 2

Residual df 1731 1704 1690 1688 1684 1682

Pr > F 0.325 0.000 0.000 0.000 0.000 0.000

R2 0.001 0.070 0.094 0.129 0.140 0.197

Change in R2 0.069 0.025 0.034 0.011 0.057

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better. Given the number and nature of predictors, the scatter plot matrix does not provide too much useful information in this particular example, but the Stata command graph matrix can often point out data points as outliers, which can be overly influential observations that increase variance of predicted values. In this example, we focus on the correlation matrix, which outlines variables’ statistical relationships with one another. In Table 5, the numbers are Pearson correlation coefficients between the value of 1 and 1, with asterisks to indicate either a statistically significant positive or negative relationship. These descriptive statistics serve as a good reminder of potential data issues as we move forward with checking OLS’s statistical assumptions. *Generate detailed statistics for the dependent variable and all independent variables . sum X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN X2SEX X2RACE X2FAMINCOME X2PAREDU dependent S2COSTATTEND finaidexp X2STUEDEXPCT X3TGPAWGT X3TCREDAPIB X3LOCALE X3CONTROL X5PFYENRLSTAT, detail *Calculate the correlation matrix [Option 1] . correlate X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN X2SEX X2RACE X2FAMINCOME X2PAREDU dependent S2COSTATTEND finaidexp X2STUEDEXPCT X3TGPAWGT X3TCREDAPIB X3LOCALE X3CONTROL X5PFYENRLSTAT *Calculate the correlation matrix with significance [Option 2] . pwcorr X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN X2SEX X2RACE X2FAMINCOME X2PAREDU dependent S2COSTATTEND finaidexp X2STUEDEXPCT X3TGPAWGT X3TCREDAPIB X3LOCALE X3CONTROL X5PFYENRLSTAT, star(.05) bonferroni

Table 5 The correlation matrix of all variables used X5PFYT UITION X5PFYTUI TION X5HSCRD ERN

X5HSC RDERN

X2SEX

X2RAC E

X2FAMI NCOME

X2PAR EDU

depend ent

S2COS TATTE ND

finaide xp

X2STU EDEXP CT

X3TGPA WGT

X3TCR EDAPIB

X3LOCAL E

X3CO NTRO L

1.00 -0.02

1.00

X2SEX

0.02

0.02

1.00

X2RACE

0.01

-0.01

-0.01

1.00

0.14*

-0.03

-0.07

0.10*

0.20*

0.03

-0.04

0.06

0.41*

dependent

0.07

-0.02

-0.03

-0.01

0.04

0.03

1.00

S2COSTA TTEND

0.10*

-0.02

-0.05

0.06

0.12*

0.10*

0.03

1.00

finaidexp

0.07

0.02

0.11*

-0.05

-0.06

-0.01

0.04

-0.01

1.00

0.10*

0.08

-0.01

-0.07

0.05

0.13*

0.03

0.06

0.12*

1.00

0.24*

0.13*

0.13*

0.06

0.13*

0.18*

0.03

0.02

0.24*

0.22*

1.00

0.20*

-0.02

0.00

-0.18*

0.14*

0.21*

-0.02

0.03

0.11*

0.20*

0.40*

1.00

-0.05

-0.04

0.03

0.12*

-0.10*

-0.08*

-0.02

0.03

0.00

-0.09*

0.03

-0.23

1.00

0.14*

-0.10*

0.01

0.05

0.22*

0.18*

0.05

0.05

0.04

0.06

0.11*

-0.01

-0.17*

1.00

-0.18*

-0.01

0.00

-0.03

-0.05

-0.03

-0.03

-0.08

0.01

-0.10*

0.00

-0.03

-0.06

X2FAMIN COME X2PARED U

X2STUED EXPCT X3TGPAW GT X3TCRED APIB X3LOCAL E X3CONTR OL X5PFYEN RLS~T Notes. * p < .05

X5PFYE NRLST AT

1.00

-0.01

1.00

1.00

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Summary of OLS Modeling This section focused on introducing key concepts of OLS methods as simple linear regression and multiple linear regression, in the context of higher education. The public access NCES dataset can be used as a learning resource for graduate students to practice conducting their own quantitative research studies. Essentially, OLS attempts to capture the most representative linear relationship among variables (Whatley, 2022). It is important for quantitative researchers to find the balance of including all relevant variables without controlling for all available variables in the model specification: Including too many independent variables inflates standard errors while excluding important variables lead to omitted variables bias. Yet, when researching the complex interaction of college students and postsecondary institutions in the real world, no statistical tools can eliminate the possibility of omitted variables or overfitted models. In quantitative research, we aim to reduce statistical bias as much as we can and be transparent about the limitations, but the goal of completely removing bias from analyses is unrealistic. More importantly, OLS does not stand alone without existing literature and theory in the field of higher education. Variable selection heavily depends on the theoretical foundation, and quantitative research cannot part with content knowledge in the field. Model identification takes multiple attempts to find the theoretically sound, methodologically rigorous, and practically legible design to stay relevant and contribute to higher education literature and practices. Simmons et al. (2011) commented that “it is common (and accepted practice) for researchers to explore various analytic alternatives, to search for a combination that yields ‘statistical significance,’ and to then report only what ‘worked’” (p. 1359). The publication bias regarding papers with statistically positive findings being more likely to be accepted and published has been well documented across disciplines (Fanelli, 2012; Ferguson & Heene, 2012; Rosenthal, 1979; Sterling, 1959). A strong theoretical foundation serves as a cornerstone for researchers to make model identification decisions and avoid fishing for significant findings. When a certain analysis decision is made, researchers should always ask themselves whether they have the theoretical foundation to justify this decision as being credible and ethical.

Statistical Assumptions of OLS Without checking the assumptions underlying OLS regression, it is impossible to confirm whether the regression model chooses the best regression line based on minimizing the values of squared, summed residuals. To make sure the estimation does not overlook major estimation biases, this section discusses the statistical assumptions of the OLS method: linearity, normality of errors, equal variance of errors (homoscedasticity), and independence of errors. For a multiple linear regression model, the assumption of noncollinearity also needs to be tested. Appendix C presents detailed Stata codes for diagnosing statistical assumptions and solutions to address assumption violations.

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The Assumptions of Multiple Linear Regression: Noncollinearity Collinearity and multicollinearity mean that one or more sets of independent variables are very strongly correlated with each other, and one of them is redundant. For example, perfect collinearity can be due to the inclusion of subscales and the composite of the subscales in the same equation or the inclusion of a reference group when each level is coded as an indicator variable. Less-than-perfect collinearity is often a result of highly related variables (e.g., multiple measures of the same construct in the equation). In other words, the problem with collinearity is that when x1 and x2 are strongly related, there is little variation in x1 when x2 is controlled for in multiple linear regression. The data then contains very little information about the relationship between x1 and y when x2 is fixed, and the model does not provide precise estimates. We can diagnose collinearity issues by calculating Variance Inflation Factor (VIF) for each independent variable j in the regression model as 1  1  R2j , and VIF values greater than 10 are considered indicative of collinearity (Cohen et al., 2003). However, it is noted that VIF is not appropriate for indicator variables or polynomial regression. Instead, we can calculate other collinearity diagnostic measures such as eigenvalues and tolerance using userwritten code collin. Tolerance, which is the reciprocal of VIF, ranges from 0 to 1, with larger values indicating complete independence between variables (Miles, 2005). What To Do If This Assumption Is Violated Though collinearity does not reduce the predictive power or reliability of the model (e.g., R2 or adjusted R2) and the OLS estimators remain unbiased, it does impact the hypothesis testing of independent variables. Because the standard errors are larger, the confidence intervals would be wider. One intuitive approach to address collinearity is to remove one of the variables indicating collinearity, and this decision should be made in conjunction with the theoretical foundation, which added the variable in the first place. Alternatively, we can combine the categorical levels of the collinear variable. In our example, we have identified a set of potential independent variables. Now let us see how the test of noncollinearity works in our example. *Perform multiple linear regression model . regress X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN i.X2SEX i.X2RACE i.X2FAMINCOME i.X2PAREDU i.dependent X3TGPAWGT i.X2STUEDEXPCT X3TCREDAPIB i.X3LOCALE i.X3CONTROL i.S2COSTATTEND i.finaidexp i.X5PFYENRLSTAT *Calculate VIF for each independent variable . vif

The VIF tests for certain values of variables are greater than 10, including X2RACE, X2PAREDU, and X2STUEDEXPCT. Thus, the levels of these variables were combined (e.g., combining the level of “high school diploma or GED or alternative HS credential” with “certificate/diploma from school providing occupational training” as “no postsecondary degree” for variable X2PAREDU) as a solution to meet this assumption. The regress and vif commands can be subsequently

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run again, and the VIF indicators are all below the value of 10, indicating no severe correlation between independent variables in the model and the model has met the noncollinearity assumption.

Linearity Intuitively, in a linear regression model, the dependent variable should be a linear function of the independent variables: The more college credits a student accumulates in high school, the more students saved, or perceived to have saved, in college tuition, and the higher cost of college the student attends within budget. To diagnose this assumption violation, we can check a scatter plot of the dependent variable and each continuous independent variable. If there is no violation, the scatter plot of the dependent variable and the independent variable should indicate a linear pattern. Alternatively, we can plot the residual of the dependent variable, which represents the difference between the predicted value of the dependent variable and the actual value of the dependent variable (i.e., the error in prediction), against the independent variable. If there is no violation, the residual analysis should indicate no particular pattern. In Stata, we can also diagnose nonlinearity with a lowess smooth of the plotted points (as presented in Fig. 3). *Perform revised multiple linear regression model (code omitted) *Generate standardized residuals . predict r, resid *Plot standardized residuals against the predictor variables . scatter r X5HSCRDERN, scheme(s1mono) *Plot augmented partial residuals with lowess smoothed line (Figure 3) . acprplot X5HSCRDERN, scheme(s1mono) lowess

Fig. 3 (a) The augmented partial residual plot with lowess smoothes line (Pre-transformation), (b) The augmented partial residual plot with lowess smoothes line (Post-transformation)

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What To Do If This Assumption Is Violated In reality, it is not unusual to notice the independent variables being related to the outcome in a curvilinear fashion. Figure 3a presents the residual-versus-predictor variable plot and indicates a departure from linearity. Though the smoothed lowess line is quite close to the OLS regression lines, the dots are clustered in the lower left corner of the plot below the regression line. Thus, we can transform the dependent variable to see if the tuition level in its natural log form improves linearity with code gen log_X5PFYTUITION ¼ ln (X5PFYTUITION). After the transformation, I reran the multiple linear regression model, calculated standardized residuals, and generated the augmented partial residuals plot. As shown by Fig. 3b, there is more even distribution above and below the OLS regression line and we should not be too concerned about nonlinearity in the data. Following this procedure for each continuous variable, the outputs show that the linearity tests and plots look slightly different for each variable. It is worth noting that linearity is automatically satisfied for a binary independent variable because a line always passes perfectly through two points representing two levels of the variable. In our example, all categorical variables are either binary or coded as indicators, so the linearity assumption is not a concern. Depending on the definition, distribution of value, and practical meaning of variables, as well as analysis goals, there are other common data transformation strategies to meet the linearity assumption. In our example, no observation has a value of 0 for the dependent variable because few colleges and universities have a $0 published tuition and fees. In other case scenarios, it is possible for a dependent variable in continuous nature to be 0 in a meaningful way (e.g., $0 income) and these observations should not be simply excluded from the sample. The log transformation is commonly used due to its ease of interpretation and improved model fit, including higher education studies we mentioned above in section “Which Research Questions Does OLS Answer?” (e.g., Doyle et al., 2021; Hemelt & Marcotte, 2011; Minicozzi, 2005; Yeung et al., 2019). Its meaning is, as x increases by one unit, y changes by b1 percent.5 Taking the log of the variable makes more sense for some outcomes (e.g., wage, state appropriations, enrollment), but does not carry similar practical implications for others like credits earned or other certain scale-based constructs (e.g., students’ sense of belonging, leadership development scale). In the meantime, it inevitably drops any cases with 0 values from the analysis, leading to estimation bias due to the sample change. In that case, data can be transformed to achieve a normal distribution using methods of Box-Cox transformation, square root transformation, or cube root transformation. On some occasions, it makes sense to create a centered variable by subtracting the mean from each data point. Other times, raw numbers can be transformed to proportions or scaled by dividing by the standard deviation. All 5

Note that percent refers to the rate of change, which is different from actual percentage points change. For example, if the baseline undergraduate enrollment being Pell-eligible is 30%, and it increased by 10 percent in a given year. The new undergraduate enrollment being Pell-eligible is 30% þ (30% 10%) ¼ 33%. If it increased by 10 percentage points in a given year, the new undergraduate enrollment being Pell-eligible is 30% þ 10% ¼ 40%.

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these approaches can lead to challenges in interpreting the findings later, so it is important to consider interpretation in the context early on in modeling decisions. In higher education literature, variable transformation is commonly justified based on practical meaning. For example, state appropriations can be divided by per $1000 personal income (Archibald & Feldman, 2006) or per full-time equivalent (FTE) (Hunt et al., 2019). Jaquette et al. (2016) captured student enrollment as the percentage of low-income full-time freshman enrollment relative to total full-time freshman enrollment. Conway (2009) used the proportion of attempted credits completed as a proxy for college persistence. If data transformation does not address the linearity assumption violation, we can also adopt polynomial regression to include additional higher-order terms in the model specification. Nonlinearity takes place when an increase in the independent variable is associated with increases in the dependent variable; but after a certain point, subsequent increases in the independent variable are associated with decreases in the dependent variable. As points of the slope of the curve change signs, the plot of the relationship between the independent variable and dependent variable forms an upside-down “U” shape. Adding a quadratic term of the independent variable can capture the “bend.” In some situations, adding a cubic term addresses nonlinearity as well. Hypothetically, if variable X3TCREDAPIB indicates a curvilinear relationship in the example data, we can use incremental F tests or Wald tests to test whether polynomial terms should be added to the model specification. *Generate a quadratic term for X3TCREDAPIB . gen quadratest ¼ X3TCREDAPIB^2 *Run regression including the quadratic term . regress log_X5PFYTUITION X5HSCRDERN i.X2SEX i.X2RACE i.X2FAMINCOME i.X2PAREDU i.dependent X3TGPAWGT i.X2STUEDEXPCT X3TCREDAPIB quadratest i.X3LOCALE i.X3CONTROL i.S2COSTATTEND i.finaidexp i.X5PFYENRLSTAT *Conduct F test . test quadratest

As indicated by the test results F(1,1692) ¼ 1.57, p ¼ 0.211, adding the quadratic term does not significantly improve the model specification or address the linearity assumption, and we do not add the term to the model. This is similar to the approach Gottfried and Plasman (2018) used to justify the exclusion of a quadratic term in understanding the relationship between Career and Technical Education (CTE) course-taking and college attendance. Webber and Ehrenberg (2010) also ran model specifications with and without quadratic terms of student enrollment in examining the relationship between institutional expenditures and graduation rates. However, if the test was statistically significant, we should consider adding the quadratic term to the model. For example, Moretti (2004) controlled for a quadratic term of students’ working experience in estimating the social return to higher education. Baker and Doyle (2017) included a quadratic term of the amount of student loans borrowed and the number of credits attained among community

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college students. Similar to other types of data transformation, the interpretation of the variable with higher order terms, or exponential terms in some cases, can lead to interpretation challenges. In reality, many variable selection decisions are made based on less harm to the model and estimation. It is not uncommon for quantitative researchers to discuss data limitations when model specifications are not perfect, but being transparent about data limitations is crucial.

Normality Because outliers in observations can have a larger influence on the slope and intercept of the regression model, OLS also needs to meet the normality assumption. For each value of the independent variable, the distribution of the y values should not be uniform; instead, it should result in the value of errors, or residuals, approximating a normal curve. There are many ways to diagnose this assumption violation (Weisberg, 2014). Examples include a visual test by plotting the kernel density of the residual against a normal density plot (Fig. 4), a standardized normal probability (p-p) plot (i.e., residuals against normal probabilities; Fig. 5), and the quantiles of the residual against the quantiles of a normal distribution (q-q plot; Fig. 6a), followed by the numerical Shapiro-Wilk test.

Fig. 4 Distribution of Kernel density plot over a normal density plot

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Fig. 5 A standardized normal probability (p-p) plot

Fig. 6 (a) Quantiles of residual against quantiles of a normal distribution (q-q) plot (including influential observations), (b) Quantiles of residual against quantiles of a normal distribution (q-q) plot (excluding influential observations) *Perform revised multiple linear regression model (code omitted) *Plot a kernel density plot to be overlaid on a normal density plot (Figure 4) . kdensity r, normal scheme(s1mono)

*Plot a standardized normal probability (p-p) plot (Figure 5a) . pnorm r, scheme(s1mono) *Plot quantiles of residual against distribution (Figure 6a) . qnorm r, scheme(s1mono)

quantiles

of

a

normal

*Numerical tests: perform the shapiro-wilk w test for normality with 4 $15,000 and < ¼ $35,000 > $35,000 and < ¼ $55,000 > $55,000 and < ¼ $75,000 > $75,000 and < ¼ $95,000 > $95,000 and < ¼ $115,000 > $115,000 and < ¼ $135,000 > $135,000 and < ¼ $155,000 > $155,000 and < ¼$175,000 > $175,000 and < ¼ $195,000 > $195,000 and < ¼ $215,000 > $215,000 and < ¼ $235,000 Above $235,000 Parents’/guardians’ highest level of education Associate Bachelor Master

Non-Hispanic students 0.002 (0.002) 0.028 (0.046)

Hispanic students 0.010* (0.004) 0.284* (0.143)

0.081 (0.097) 0.029 (0.079) 0.207 (0.260) 0.053 (0.082) 0.199 (0.122) 0.122 (0.118) 0.219 (0.120) 0.156 (0.119) 0.069 (0.125) 0.141 (0.130) 0.068 (0.143) 0.061 (0.172) 0.159 (0.200) 0.045 (0.173) 0.317 (0.270) 0.043 (0.152)

0.289 (0.271) 0.196 (0.298) 0.491 (0.321) 0.243 (0.301) 0.240 (0.359) 0.231 (0.423) 0.600 (0.502) 0.404 (0.505) 0.033 (0.560) 0.400 (1.120) –

0.158* (0.072) 0.094 (0.062) 0.253*** (0.071)

0.110 (0.202) 0.237 (0.201) 0.713** (0.246)

0.153 (0.465)

(continued)

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Table 6 (continued) log_X5PFYTUITION Doctoral or prof Number of dependent(s) Importance of cost of attendance Somewhat important Not at all important Financial aid expectations Students’ educational expectation Associate attempt or attainment Bachelor attempt or attainment Master’s attempt or attainment Doctoral or Prof attainment Weighted overall GPA AP/IB credits High school location Suburb Town Rural Private high school Enrollment intensity Exclusively part time Mixed Constant Observations Adjusted R-squared

Non-Hispanic students 0.318** (0.099) 0.073 (0.046)

Hispanic students 0.344 (0.491) 0.136 (0.152)

0.087 (0.048) 0.203 (0.132) 0.007 (0.060)

0.207 (0.165) 0.170 (0.380) 0.301 (0.168)

0.071 (0.131) 0.078 (0.097) 0.130 (0.097) 0.186 (0.102) 0.260*** (0.043) 0.037*** (0.011)

0.169 (0.322) 0.286 (0.250) 0.250 (0.242) 0.108 (0.265) 0.138 (0.125) 0.020 (0.032)

0.179** (0.063) 0.003 (0.069) 0.024 (0.062) 0.168** (0.063)

0.150 (0.180) 0.029 (0.236) 0.096 (0.209) 0.453 (0.230)

1.829*** (0.080) 0.288*** (0.057) 7.868*** (0.195) 1528 0.365

1.873*** (0.202) 0.473** (0.179) 8.530*** (0.470) 195 0.394

NOTES. Standard errors in parenthesis. * p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01, *** p < 0.001

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Interpretation of the interaction term, however, can get tricky especially when there are multiple interaction terms in the model specification. In a more complicated situation, there may be three variables that all interact with each other, or more than one interaction simultaneously exists. Both Aiken et al. (1991) and Jaccard and Turrisi (2003) offered more detailed explanations of three-way interactions. The advantage of including interaction terms in the model specification is that it retains a relatively larger sample size. In some cases, subgroup analyses generate similar findings to the interaction effect with a more intuitive approach. Again, subgroup analyses aim to answer different research questions from model specifications with interaction terms. The pitfall for subgroup analyses is that we should not simply compare the subgroup coefficients against one another. It is entirely possible that the focal independent variable has a significant relationship with the dependent variable in one subgroup and a nonsignificant relationship in the other subgroup. This does not necessarily indicate that the difference in the relationship between the subgroups is statistically significant. In our example, it may be tempting to directly jump to the conclusion that dual credits earned may influence Hispanic students more than non-Hispanic students. However, due to different sample sizes and distributions, the diagnosis of statistical assumptions would lead to different results (e.g., subgroup regression estimates have separate residual variances within each subsample). Recall that, in section “An OLS Example with Multiple Linear Regression,” we discussed how variable selection strategies and the number of variables included also depends on the number of observations to allow good estimates. With the same number of independent variables included in the model, the smaller sample size of one subgroup can bias the estimation. Regardless, we should choose to use either the interaction term or subgroup analyses depending on the purpose of the study.

Findings Interpretation and Presentation We draw overall conclusions based on the totality of evidence from all assumption checks and model tests to arrive at the final model specifications and interpret results. In section “Modeling Strategies Using Stata,” we started to include six model specifications. In section “The Interaction Term,” we found a statistically significant interaction term to include in order to reduce bias caused by omitted variables. Because of the inclusion of the interaction term, the research question on “the relationship between the number of dual credits earned and the level of published tuition and fees students choose to attend” is not answerable until we know whether the Hispanic student group is being considered. We added two more model specifications in the final analysis (as presented in Appendix D): Model 7 with the interaction term and Model 8 with robust standard errors (as discussed in section “Equal Variance of Errors (Homoskedasticity)”). This section will walk through the OLS regression results first and then additional estimates that are helpful in contextualizing the findings in practical terms.

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Regression Results We can follow the same order as outlined in section “Brief Background of Dual Credit and Its Role in Higher Education” to interpret the ANOVA table, model fit statistics, and parameter estimation of the model. Using the results from Model 7 as the full model specification, the ANOVA table (Table 7) indicated that, of the total sum of squares (SStotal) with a value of 2016.85, 788.07 was explained by the model and 1228.80 was not explained, with 1682 degrees of freedom for the residual. We then interpret the observed F-statistics and the percentage of the variability in the dependent variable explained by the independent variable (i.e., Adjusted R2). The F(40, 1682) statistics associated with the ANOVA table is 26.97, indicating that the mean sum of squares of the model is about 26.97 times greater than that of the residual, and it was statistically significant ( p < 0.001). We have evidence to reject the null hypothesis and accept the alternate hypothesis that MSmodel is significantly greater than that of the residual. This indicates that, overall, the model applied can statistically significantly predict the dependent variable. Adjusted R2 equals 0.376 means that the independent variables explained 37.6% of the variance in the charged tuition and fees at the institution a student attends. The root MSE estimate, which represents the spread of the residuals is 0.85. Recall that the value was 11,586 in the simple regression model prior to us applying any modeling strategies (presented in section “A Simple Regression Example”), and smaller root MSE indicates better the goodness-of-fit. Our final full model indicates a much better model fit, though omitted variables continue to be an issue. Most importantly, we are interested in learning about the linear relationship between the number of dual credits earned and the cost of college students attend. Based on theoretical evidence and statistical tests, we included 41 control variables and variable levels that are coded as indicators including students’ sociodemographic characteristics in their 11th grade, students’ expectations of college and its costs in their 11th grade, students’ academic performance in 12th grade, high school characteristics, and students’ enrollment intensity first-year in college. We tested all assumptions for OLS to ensure unbiased estimates. To directly answer the research question, we interpret the estimates in the full model. Table 8 presents regression outputs for all eight model specifications with blocks of variables added in sequence. As new blocks of variables were added to the model, the signs and significance of individual variables change. Focusing on the results in Model 7, coefficients are the corresponding change of the dependent variable with respect to each independent variable and the intercept. That is, they represent the change in the dependent variable for a unit increase in the independent variable, holding all other variables constant. Because we transformed Table 7 The output of ANOVA table for model 7

Source Model Residual Total

SS 788.07 1228.79 2016.85

df 40 1682 1722

MS 19.70 0.73 1.17

> $75,000 and < ¼ $95,000

> $55,000 and < ¼ $75,000

> $35,000 and < ¼ $55,000

Total family income > $15,000 and < ¼ $35,000

American Indian/ Alaska native More than one race

Asian American/Pacific islander

Hispanic

Race/ethnicity Black

Female

Dual credits * Hispanic

VARIABLES Dual credits

Model 1 0.001 (0.002)

0.226 (0.135) 0.141 (0.132) 0.208 (0.134) 0.167 (0.133)

0.246* (0.117) 0.256** (0.083) 0.049 (0.094) 0.195 (0.320) 0.174 (0.100)

0.112* (0.052)

Model 2 0.001 (0.002)

Table 8 Regression outputs with multiple model specifications

0.243 (0.134) 0.137 (0.131) 0.19 (0.133) 0.131 (0.132)

0.269* (0.116) 0.228** (0.083) 0.039 (0.093) 0.248 (0.317) 0.173 (0.099)

0.089 (0.052)

Model 3 0.000 (0.002)

0.251 (0.130) 0.203 (0.127) 0.283* (0.129) 0.193 (0.128)

0.107 (0.114) 0.198* (0.081) 0.071 (0.093) 0.097 (0.308) 0.139 (0.097)

0.032 (0.051)

Model 4 0.001 (0.002)

0.270* (0.129) 0.234 (0.127) 0.323* (0.129) 0.226 (0.128)

0.139 (0.114) 0.233** (0.081) 0.061 (0.093) 0.039 (0.306) 0.122 (0.096)

0.027 (0.050)

Model 5 0.000 (0.002)

0.243* (0.111) 0.167 (0.109) 0.271* (0.110) 0.192 (0.109)

0.087 (0.098) 0.13 (0.070) 0.017 (0.079) 0.218 (0.262) 0.055 (0.083)

0.009 (0.043)

Model 6 0.001 (0.002)

0.242* (0.110) 0.163 (0.108) 0.270* (0.110) 0.193 (0.109)

0.086 (0.097) 0.067 (0.088) 0.021 (0.079) 0.215 (0.261) 0.055 (0.082)

Model 7 0.002 (0.002) 0.015*** (0.004) 0.011 (0.043)

0.242* (0.104) 0.163 (0.102) 0.270** (0.104) 0.193 (0.100)

0.086 (0.096) 0.067 (0.090) 0.021 (0.083) 0.215 (0.300) 0.055 (0.087)

Model 8 0.002 (0.002) 0.015*** (0.003) 0.011 (0.043)

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Number of dependent (s)

Doctoral or prof

Master

Bachelor

Parents’/guardians’ highest level of education Associate

Above $235,000

> $215,000 and < ¼ $235,000

> $195,000 and < ¼ $215,000

> $175,000 and < ¼ $195,000

> $155,000 and < ¼$175,000

> $135,000 and < ¼ $155,000

> $115,000 and < ¼ $135,000

> $95,000 and < ¼ $115,000

0.207* (0.082) 0.268*** (0.070) 0.462*** (0.081) 0.606*** (0.116) 0.103 (0.053)

0.098 (0.141) 0.023 (0.148) 0.145 (0.164) 0.123 (0.196) 0.04 (0.227) 0.155 (0.203) 0.179 (0.327) 0.116 (0.171) 0.180* (0.081) 0.221** (0.070) 0.408*** (0.081) 0.486*** (0.116) 0.1 (0.053)

0.081 (0.139) 0.013 (0.147) 0.132 (0.162) 0.087 (0.194) 0.065 (0.225) 0.126 (0.201) 0.183 (0.325) 0.116 (0.170) 0.186* (0.079) 0.155* (0.069) 0.340*** (0.079) 0.373*** (0.113) 0.092 (0.051)

0.141 (0.135) 0.115 (0.143) 0.012 (0.158) 0.17 (0.189) 0.18 (0.219) 0.012 (0.196) 0.165 (0.315) 0.002 (0.165) 0.178* (0.078) 0.136* (0.068) 0.299*** (0.079) 0.344** (0.113) 0.086 (0.051)

0.193 (0.135) 0.173 (0.142) 0.049 (0.157) 0.231 (0.188) 0.245 (0.218) 0.116 (0.195) 0.24 (0.313) 0.115 (0.166) 0.151* (0.067) 0.113 (0.059) 0.299*** (0.068) 0.348*** (0.096) 0.056 (0.043)

0.112 (0.116) 0.164 (0.122) 0.012 (0.135) 0.087 (0.161) 0.192 (0.187) 0.018 (0.168) 0.369 (0.269) 0.074 (0.142) 0.154* (0.067) 0.116* (0.058) 0.300*** (0.068) 0.345*** (0.096) 0.061 (0.043)

0.118 (0.115) 0.171 (0.121) 0.002 (0.134) 0.074 (0.161) 0.18 (0.186) 0.021 (0.167) 0.356 (0.268) 0.075 (0.142)

Using Ordinary Least Squares in Higher Education Research: A Primer (continued)

0.154* (0.071) 0.116* (0.057) 0.300*** (0.065) 0.345*** (0.100) 0.061 (0.043)

0.118 (0.107) 0.171 (0.115) 0.002 (0.127) 0.074 (0.148) 0.18 (0.193) 0.021 (0.164) 0.356 (0.232) 0.075 (0.133)

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Weighted overall GPA

Doctoral or prof attainment

Master’s attempt or attainment

Bachelor attempt or attainment

Students’ educational expectation Associate attempt or attainment

Financial aid expectations

Not at all important

VARIABLES Importance of cost of attendance Somewhat important

Table 8 (continued)

Model 1

Model 2

0.122 (0.139) 0.254* (0.104) 0.294** (0.104) 0.357** (0.110) 0.383*** (0.046)

0.116* (0.054) 0.216 (0.145) 0.025 (0.066)

0.126* (0.055) 0.158 (0.149) 0.161* (0.067) 0.091 (0.143) 0.274* (0.107) 0.392*** (0.106) 0.489*** (0.113)

Model 4

Model 3

0.109 (0.138) 0.236* (0.103) 0.264* (0.103) 0.317** (0.110) 0.366*** (0.047)

0.115* (0.053) 0.215 (0.144) 0.026 (0.066)

Model 5

0.028 (0.119) 0.085 (0.089) 0.124 (0.089) 0.163 (0.094) 0.249*** (0.040)

0.061 (0.046) 0.171 (0.124) 0.028 (0.056)

Model 6

0.027 (0.118) 0.089 (0.088) 0.133 (0.088) 0.168 (0.094) 0.246*** (0.040)

0.06 (0.046) 0.164 (0.123) 0.024 (0.056)

Model 7

0.027 (0.119) 0.089 (0.090) 0.133 (0.089) 0.168 (0.093) 0.246*** (0.042)

0.06 (0.046) 0.164 (0.128) 0.024 (0.056)

Model 8

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8.818*** (0.035) No 1723 0.000

8.630*** (0.130) No 1723 0.057

8.178*** (0.160) No 1723 0.079

Notes. Standard errors in parenthesis. * p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01, *** p < 0.001

Robust standard error Observations Adjusted R-squared

Constant

Mixed

Enrollment intensity Exclusively part-time

Private high school

Rural

Town

Location Suburb

AP/IB credits

7.116*** (0.202) No 1723 0.133

0.034** (0.012)

7.120*** (0.204) No 1723 0.145

0.187** (0.069) 0.046 (0.077) 0.058 (0.069) 0.313*** (0.070)

0.039** (0.012)

1.819*** (0.074) 0.321*** (0.054) 7.994*** (0.179) No 1723 0.372

0.179** (0.059) 0.015 (0.066) 0.014 (0.059) 0.182** (0.060)

0.032** (0.010)

1.828*** (0.074) 0.316*** (0.054) 7.962*** (0.179) No 1723 0.376

0.172** (0.059) 0.015 (0.066) 0.006 (0.059) 0.181** (0.060)

0.034** (0.010)

1.828*** (0.075) 0.316*** (0.054) 7.962*** (0.189) Yes 1723 0.376

0.172** (0.060) 0.015 (0.067) 0.006 (0.059) 0.181** (0.060)

0.034*** (0.010)

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our dependent variable to its natural log form, the coefficient is now interpreted as percent change. Controlling for the set of control variables, the number of dual credits students earned in high school is not significantly associated with the cost of colleges they choose to attend, for non-Hispanic students (b ¼ 0.002, p ¼ 0.304). We are 95% confident that one more dual credit earned in high school is associated with the student’s matriculation at an institution with charged tuition and fees between 0.16% and 0.53%, and it is not statistically significant. The only significant result is for the interaction effect, for Hispanic students, the published tuition and fees of the chosen institution decrease by 1.3% for a unit increase in dual credits earned ( p ¼ 0.001), holding all other factors constant. With regard to other control variables, there are a few relationships worth noting. Among the rest of the sociodemographic characteristics, students’ family income and parents’ education level are statistically significant predictors of the level of costs of colleges students attend. Compared with students with a family income below $15,000, students with a family income between $15,000 and $35,000 attend colleges with a 24.2% lower published tuition and fees ( p ¼ 0.028), and students with a family income between $55,000 and $75,000 attend colleges with a 27.0% lower tuition level ( p ¼ 0.014). Compared with students with parents with no college degrees, students with parents with an associate degree attend colleges with a 15.4% higher cost ( p ¼ 0.021), 11.6% higher published tuition and fees with parents with a bachelor’s degree ( p ¼ 0.046), 30.0% higher for students with parents with a master’s degree ( p < 0.001), and 34.5% higher for students with parents with a doctoral degree or other professional degrees ( p < 0.001). No other 11th grade sociodemographic characteristics or any variables measuring students’ expectations of college and college costs are statistically significantly associated with the level of published tuition and fees at the college they attend first-year. Regarding students’ academic performance in 12th grade, weighted overall GPA is positively associated with the published tuition and fees level that one unit increase in GPA is associated with a 24.6% increase in the outcome ( p < 0.001), holding all other factors constant. Similarly, one additional Advanced Placement/ International Baccalaureate (AP/IB) credit earned is associated with a 3.4% increase in the published tuition and fees of students’ first college ( p ¼ 0.001). Compared to students attending high schools in the urban setting, students attending high schools in the suburb tend to attend college with higher published tuition and fees by 17.2% ( p ¼ 0.004). Compared to students attending public high schools, students attending private high schools on average attend college with higher published tuition and fees by 18.1% ( p ¼ 0.002). Also, because the dependent variable in this dataset accounted for students’ enrollment intensity, it was not surprising to see whether students attend college full-time or not is associated with the published tuition and fees. Holding all other factors constant, the value of published tuition and fees decreases by 182.8% if students attend college exclusively part-time ( p < 0.001) and by 31.6% if students attend college with mixed full-time and part-time intensity during their first year ( p < 0.001), compared to students attending college exclusively full-time. Finally, holding all other factors constant at zero, the value of the

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intercept is 7.962. Again, due to data transformation, the intercept is not an intuitive value reflecting the averaged published tuition and fees.

Additional Estimates The regress command generates massive amounts of information about the model specifications and summarizes a collection of data and infers the relationship between variables. One common misunderstanding of the interpretation is the attempt to directly compare unstandardized coefficients of different independent variables and claim that the association between one independent variable and the dependent variable is stronger than the association between another independent variable and the dependent variable. For example, we cannot directly compare the coefficient for family income between $15,000 and $35,000 (b ¼ 0.242, p ¼ 0.028) against the coefficient for parents’ highest education with an associate degree (b ¼ 0.154, p ¼ 0.021). If the goal is to compare multiple predictors within a multiple regression model, as opposed to comparing predictors across different model specifications, it is important to calculate the standardized coefficient with the beta option in regress. In our example, the beta option generates a new column in Stata output and indicates the standardized units for us to compare these coefficients to assess the relative strength of each of the independent variables. The standardized coefficient for family income between $15,000 and $35,000 is 0.075, while the standardized coefficient for parents’ highest education with an associate degree is 0.051. In other words, a one standard deviation increases in family income between $15,000 and $35,000 is associated with a 0.075 standard deviation decrease in the predicted outcome, and a one standard deviation increase in parents’ highest education being at the associate level is related to a 0.051 standard deviation increase in the predicted outcome, with all other variables in the model held constant. Additional estimates can be requested using Stata for different purposes. Because of the inherited limitations of hypothesis significance testing, the heavy reliance on p-values in interpreting OLS findings can be problematic (Cohen, 1994; Royall, 1986), and the American Psychological Association (APA) has published concise and clear guidelines on data reporting (Wilkinson & APA Task Force on Statistical Inference, 1999). For example, the effect size, which measures the strength of the relationship between variables, is one of these important estimates to report (Cumming, 2014; Slavin & Smith, 2009). What Works Clearinghouse (2022) standards consider regression adjustments using OLS as an acceptable baseline adjustment strategy to evaluate the impact of educational programs and interventions. Thus, it is highly recommended that researchers report the sample size, average predicted means of the dependent variable, and standard errors at meaningful cutoffs of the independent variable when using OLS. These estimates are critical for metaanalysis to calculate effect sizes across empirical studies. In Stata, we can use the margins command after running the regression model to calculate the adjusted prediction based on user-defined values of the focal independent variable. One option is to set all covariates fixed at their means using the atmeans option:

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*Generate predicted values holding covariates at their means . margins, at(X5HSCRDERN ¼(3 6 9 12 15 18 30)) atmeans

Number of Dual Credits Earned 0 3 6 9 12 15 18 30

Predicted Outcome Values 8.834 8.834 8.834 8.835 8.835 8.836 8.836 8.838

Standard Errors 0.029 0.025 0.023 0.021 0.021 0.021 0.023 0.036

95% CI [8.778, 8.890] [8.784, 8.884] [8.789, 8.879] [8.793, 8.876] [8.795, 8.876] [8.794, 8.877] [8.792, 8.881] [8.768, 8.908]

Again, because we transformed our dependent variable to its natural log form, it is challenging to interpret the predicted values of the dependent variable directly. Recall that in section “Brief Background of Dual Credit and Its Role in Higher Education,” we reviewed current literature and hypothesized that the number of dual credits students earned in high school is positively associated with the level of tuition of their primary first-year institution. However, our findings indicate that we fail to reject the null hypothesis that except for Hispanic students, the number of dual credits earned is not related to published tuition and fees of the college students attend. Even if it is true that earning one additional dual credit signals cost-saving and college readiness, it is not strong enough to alter a student’s utility of choosing a higher-cost institution. For Hispanic students, the increased number of dual credits earned is actually associated with a decrease in published tuition and fees the students choose. While it is beyond the scope of the current example to explain why, this finding builds upon prior research on the financial implications of dual enrollment (e.g., Lin et al., 2020; Hu & Ortagus, 2023) as well as how students of different socioeconomic backgrounds make different decisions to finance their college attendance (e.g., Boatman et al., 2017; Kim et al., 2009; Santiago, 2007) and further addresses educational equity issues in higher education. So, what do our OLS findings in the example mean in practical terms? While we value evidence-based decision-making in the field, how confident are we in drawing practical implications from these results? Does an education intervention lead to a certain outcome? Again, this is a decision that needs to be made considering the research design and various types of validity. OLS itself does not assure causal inference. Especially with omitted variable issues present as in our current example, unfortunately, limited recommendations can be made to guide practice. Because quantitative researchers encounter these inherited limitations in the process of data collection or secondary data availability, each study indicates different levels of rigor. Researchers need to clearly note these potential flaws as limitations. Rarely any programs or policies, in reality, are created, modified, or removed based on one perfect quantitative research. Instead, empirical evidence using different datasets and analytical strategies collectively contribute to our scholarly and practical knowledge of today’s higher education. The level of transparency in interpreting OLS findings

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Using Ordinary Least Squares in Higher Education Research: A Primer

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provides critical evidence for meta-analysis to quantify the varying results identified systematically and increases the credibility of quantitative research overall (Pigott & Polanin, 2020).

Summary/Conclusion As the field of higher education continues to develop, quantitative research methods are tasked with keeping up with more recent methodological developments in social science disciplines such as Economics, Psychology, and Sociology. While it is tempting to adopt more advanced approaches in examining complex research questions, it is crucial for graduate students and practitioner scholars to develop a solid foundation in understanding and using basic OLS methods. Essentially, many more advanced methods build on OLS modeling strategies. Randomized controlled trials often use OLS regression in combination with research design strategies to pursue causal inference (Evans, 2021). Similarly, quasi-experimental approaches, such as propensity score methods (Guo & Fraser, 2015; Reynolds & DesJardins, 2009), regression discontinuity (McCall & Bielby, 2012), and difference-in-differences analytic strategies (Furquim et al., 2020) often apply OLS regression techniques in analysis. These examples are prevalent in today’s higher education research (e.g., Cellini, 2009; Fernandez et al., 2023; Hu et al., 2021; Li & Gándara, 2020), and they use OLS regression, but the research design or method sections of these studies typically focus on the more advanced approaches and take OLS for granted. This development in higher education research probably contributed to the myth that OLS is no longer relevant or complex enough for quantitative research in higher education when in fact it is the foundation to most quantitative studies in the field. For newer quantitative researchers, OLS remains to be a foundational tool to be used alone or in combination with other approaches when answering empirical research questions. Independently conducting quantitative research means the ability to identify research questions, review relevant theory and literature, diagnose statistical assumptions, make analysis decisions based on the entirety of (contradictory) evidence, and interpret findings in the higher education context. This primer provides a real-world example, details of steps to consider, and Stata code to replicate a study using OLS regression. Due to the scope of the chapter, many relevant aspects of quantitative data analysis were not covered, such as how to address missing data issues (Allison, 2001), when to use fixed effects regression models (Allison, 2009), and how to handle complex survey data with sampling weights to ensure generalization (Ridgeway et al., 2015). The larger research design components beyond OLS methods, such as random sampling and random assignment, play essential roles in determining causality and generalization of findings. For example, NCES datasets typically require the use of sampling weights, primary sampling units, and strata to ensure national representation of the sample and generalization of the findings. An appropriately identified linear regression model is necessary but insufficient in rigorous quantitative research design. In the broader social science discipline, OLS

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can also be utilized in predictive models as a fundamental algorithm in machine learning (Attewell et al., 2015). Last but not least, the understanding of OLS supports graduate students and practitioner scholars to better interpret critical quantitative approaches, which interrogate how traditional quantitative methods are variable-centered, instead of person-centered, in studying student experiences and challenging institutional norms (e.g., Faircloth et al., 2015; Malcom-Piqueux, 2015). A more detailed discussion on critical quantitative approaches is well presented in research by López et al. (2018), Museus (2023), Tabron and Thomas (2023), and Wells and Stage (2015).

Appendix A: Data Preparation for Illustration Replication The public-use HSLS:09 data can be found at https://nces.ed.gov/datalab/. Once the student-level dataset is downloaded and opened in Stata, the following commands were run to generate the OLS example data.dta file. ***sample selection*** *Generate sample with known primary first-year institution identified by 2017 . keep if X5PFYEAR > 0 (14,815 observations deleted) *Exclude students who did not have any dual credit indicated in their postsecondary transcript . drop if X5HSCRDERN 0 **students’ expectations of college and costs in 11th grade *educational expectations* . replace X2STUEDEXPCT¼. if X2STUEDEXPCT