The Art of Deanship

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By RICHARD J. BORDEN

One of the beautiful things about higher education is that deans, provosts, and even presidents are seldom the products of schools of management. They are usually drawn from faculty ranks, and many return to teaching after a period of service, while others remain in lifelong administrative careers. In all instances, they bring their own distinctive talents and styles. It is this diversity, perhaps, that keeps American higher education as strong as it is.

The other side of the coin is that most of what we learn about leadership and management is on the job. Our lessons come from a variety of sources. Sometimes we receive guidance directly from a predecessor or caring mentor. Other times it comes from books, colleagues, or family members. Occasionally it is our mistakes and late-night meditations on them that teach us best.

After 20 years as chief academic officer of a small college, I have just returned to full-time teaching. My decision generated some anxiety and doubts: Would teaching still be fun? Was I still good at it? Should I change institutions? I chose to stay where I am, and I feel that was the right choice.

My academic life started in 1972 on a research professor's track at a large midwestern university. Then, in the mid-1970s, I discovered a newly founded, interdisciplinary college on the Maine coast -- College of the Atlantic. When I joined the faculty of this remarkable little place, I had no inclinations toward administration. But like many academic administrators, I was drawn into it unwittingly -- with little forethought and about the same measure of preparation. Now, 20-some years later, it is a treat to reflect on some of my own touchstones, acknowledge their sources, and share them with others.

20 Questions. My first position after graduate school was a postdoctoral fellowship in psychology at Ohio State University's main campus, with Bibb Latané. Bibb's research on bystander apathy and diffusion of responsibility was widely known in the field at the time, but it was his gift of grant writing that has been especially valuable to me. One day as we were discussing long-range research goals, he asked if I ever played the game 20 Questions. "Yes," I said. "Then you know," he replied, "that by asking questions judiciously, you can narrow down the whole universe and get the answer. Or you can ask them in an unconnected way and get nowhere." He continued: "That's how it is with life. Essentially, we have time to do 20 or so things well. If we choose our questions carefully, they can be parlayed into much more -- or we can piddle around in separate puddles." Bibb's analogy has been a reminder ever since to stay focused on major initiatives and mindful of how diverse accomplishments can add up.

The job is. ... My first administrative position came in the early 1980s as a request from College of the Atlantic's founding president, Ed Kaelber. Our academic vice president was going to be away for a year, and Ed asked if I would chair the academic-affairs committee. Though I protested on grounds of ignorance about college administration, he replied that it required only one thing: "to arrange affairs so that people will work together." Ed had formerly been a dean at the Harvard Graduate School of Education. The simple job description he gave me was a steady keel and a treasured inheritance of wisdom. When I pulled it off, everything worked out.

Keep your friends. College of the Atlantic's Board of Trustees includes people of considerable means and influence. Working closely with them and socializing at dinner parties in their homes can sometimes be a heady experience. Shortly after I became provost, one of our leading trustees -- a major donor and supporter -- took me aside and offered some invaluable counsel: "Remember, these are not your friends." Academic leaders experience ebbing and flowing tides of popularity among board members; but in the end, the loyalty of the board is to the institution, as it should be. Do not let your work, or the people you serve, take the place of true friends.

Doing your best. Before becoming College of the Atlantic's third president, Lou Rabineau had been Connecticut's chancellor of higher education and senior vice president at the Academy for Educational Development. One of the enduring lessons he taught me in our nine years of working together was on the challenge of effective decision making: "You rarely have all the resources or information to achieve a perfect outcome," he said. "But as long as you know you've tried to do your very best, you can feel confident about your judgment or action." In more prosaic moments, he reduced this advice to "Think like a fire chief without enough hoses."

Wisdom in silence. In the summer of 1992, I enjoyed a month at Harvard's Institute for Educational Management with 90 other senior administrators from around the world. The program covered a range of topics in lively and provocative ways. But one anecdote became emblematic for all of us that year. The story went like this: One snowy evening, a farmer was driving his small herd of cows to the city. In the road ahead stood a small bird -- cold, shivering, and unable to fly. The farmer stopped to warm the bird with his hands, but realized that he had to leave it behind. To improve the bird's chances against the cold, he packed it firmly in warm dung from his cows and continued on his way. After a while, the bird began to feel better. In his improved mood, he even began to sing. Alas, a passing fox heard his chirping and -- wham! -- in an instant the bird was gone.

The interpretation offered by our teachers was roughly as follows: "It may not be your enemies who get you into it, or your friends who get you out -- but when you are in it, keep your head down and your mouth shut."

But the parable has a flip side: There are times when silence is the worst strategy.

Speak the truth. In the mid-1980s, I came across an interview with Bill Friday at the time of his retirement from the presidency of the University of North Carolina. He had served for 30 years -- at the time, longer than any other public-university president. In the interview he was asked about the secret of his longevity. His reply was terse and unvarnished. "Never lie," he said. His forthright remark has echoed in my mind ever since. When I began to write this essay, I looked for that interview but was unable to find it. So I called Bill -- he still has an office on the UNC campus -- thinking he might remember it. He answered the phone himself. He confirmed that he had indeed said "Never lie." "But I would probably say it a little differently now," he said. "Always speak the truth." To which he added, "It is the first rule of administration." After some thought, I saw the difference between his two statements. "Never lie" warns of the danger of misleading; "always speak the truth" evokes the courage to lead.

Trust versus rules. When life gets contentious or litigious, it is nice to be reminded of places where trust and open communication still survive. One such place appears to be in the corporate culture of Herman Miller Inc. The world-renowned manufacturer of quality furniture was a pioneer in participatory management, for which it has been recognized as one of Fortune magazine's 10 most admired companies. Much of that credit is due to the leadership of the former chief executive officer and chairman, Max DePree. The ingredients of DePree's philosophy are outlined in his books Leadership Is an Art and Leadership Jazz. One of my favorite observations is this: "The health of an organization is inversely proportional to the size of the personnel manual." In other words, we can approach conflict collaboratively, or we can make endless rules about it. Throughout my career I have consistently found that an organizational culture without trust is an unhappy and unhealthy place. And where openness and collegiality exist, even the hardest work can be a joy.

The art of good timing. Shortly before his death in 1996, the French Prime Minister François Mitterrand shared his meditations on living and dying in conversations with Franz-Olivier Giesbert in a short book, Dying Without God. About those who lack the courage to stick their necks out until it is too late, Mitterand put it this way: "When history becomes ineluctable and transcends us, wisdom dictates that those in power should at least pretend to be the instigators of change." Being an instigator of change refers not only to specific events but also to the art of good timing -- including the graceful ending of a career. The ultimate question is: When is it time to leave? Everyone has witnessed the fruitless maneuvers of a hanger-on. Each of us likewise has had our personal moments of doubt or private impulses to call it quits. Perhaps the most sobering judgment I ever encountered was "When the purpose of your job is to keep your job -- you don't have a job!"

Welcome home. John Silber was the first dean I ever knew -- when I was an undergraduate at the University of Texas at Austin. Later, during his presidency of Boston University, he wrote a critique of American society and education called Straight Shooting. In a chapter on the dean as educator, he observed that the dean/faculty relationship works two ways: "As soon as [deans] leave administration ... they are welcomed home," back to the faculty. It's true. We can go home again.

In sum, academe expects its leaders to perpetually remake its institutions in service to others. Our individual creativity and institutional effectiveness depend on the metaphors and images that guide our daily agendas. It is incumbent on us to continually gather new perspectives and to refresh our thinking. We are each other's teachers; our learning comes by sharing; and the cardinal points on our compass, many times, are the insights and counsel of others.

Richard J. Borden is a professor of psychology and human ecology at College of the Atlantic.