Letters From Jail

By Rob Jenkins

"Dear Dean Jenkins,

"How are you? I was told you were the person I needed to talk to about getting a hardship withdrawal. I am currently in the Gwinnett County jail. ..."

If you think I made up that letter, you've obviously never been an administrator at at a two-year college. Otherwise you would believe me when I say that not only is that an actual letter but one of several I've received along the same lines. The students who write such letters are seeking to withdraw from classes to avoid getting F's on their transcripts, although F's may be the least of their problems.

I don't mention those letters to disparage community-college students, who are, on the whole, a wonderfully diverse and determined group. I just don't think it makes sense to ignore the reality of who they are and where they come from -- and sometimes, where they wind up. I know as an administrator I haven't been able to ignore those realities.

And so as I prepare to leave office after a year as an interim academic dean at a large suburban two-year college, I want to pass on some of what I've learned about dealing with community-college students and their issues. I hope my advice will be useful to others who may one day be receiving their own letters from the county jail.

Try to be a human being, not a soulless institutional drone. That isn't always easy; after all, you represent the institution, which is, of course, soulless.

But if all you do is spout policy and toe the institutional line in every case regardless of the circumstances, what good are you to students -- or to the institution, for that matter? The college can program a computer to do that. And the students can just as easily read the policy manual themselves as have you recite it to them.

(Which reminds me of a sign I saw a few years ago posted on a faculty bulletin board: "Computers will never replace teachers, but they could very easily replace administrators.)

Part of the problem is that it's always easier to quote policy than to actually make a decision. I sometimes joke with other administrators -- those who have a sense of humor, which narrows it down -- that you really only need to memorize three phrases in order to be an academic dean:

• "I'm sorry, [insert name of software here] isn't programmed to do that."

• "I'm sorry, that's not my area -- you'll have to see the student dean."

• "I'm sorry, that's a [college/state/governing board] policy. There's nothing I can do about it."

Obviously those phrases have their uses. Many times they're true, and sometimes they're all you can really say. But when we routinely use such programmed responses as crutches, or as a means of getting students out of our offices and out of our hair, we're not really doing our jobs.

Students come to you expecting human interaction. Give it to them.

Take time to listen. One of the best ways to appear human -- not to mention humane -- is actually to listen. Students come equipped with an awe-inspiring variety of stories about car accidents, drunken-driving arrests, deaths in the family, altered work schedules, drive-by shootings (I'm not kidding), unexpected pregnancies, expected pregnancies, instructor misconduct -- the list goes on. Some of them will be in tears.

(That reminds me, I almost forgot the most important tip for new administrators: Always keep an open box of Kleenex on your desk, with several more in reserve.)

A surprising number of those students simply want someone to listen to them. Often, by the time they get to me they've already been to several other offices and have yet to fully tell their story. People keep cutting them off as soon as it becomes apparent they can't help -- which I understand, on one level. People in some offices hear a lot of stories, and out of self-preservation they're forced to engage in some sort of triage. Many times the snap diagnosis is, "You'll have to talk to the dean."

This year, that's been me. A large part of my job is simply sitting there and listening while students talk. Sometimes that's all they want. Mostly it's not.

Mostly they want something from me, and many times I have had to say no. But I rarely have a student leave my office who doesn't feel a little better just for having said what was on his or her mind.

Temper mercy with wisdom. The problem with listening to students' heart-wrenching stories is that, at the end, you naturally want to help. And it may well be within your power as dean or department chair to help -- to allow a student to enroll in a full section or to register late or to withdraw after the deadline. In some cases those actions might be justified. But most of the time, I've found (soulless institutional drone that I am), it's better to stick to the policy.

After all, those policies exist not to make students' lives miserable, as they often suspect, but to promote the greater good -- at least in theory.

If you find that that's not the case with a particular policy, then work within the system to change it. But most of the time policies exist because they make the processes of enrollment, registration, grading, and so forth run smoother for everyone.

How do you know when to stick to policy and when to make an exception? To answer that, I always ask myself two questions:

1. What are the long-term ramifications of the decision for the student, for my colleagues, and for the institution?

2. Is this decision fair not only to this student but to other students?

Many times what seems to the student like the answer to all his or her problems in actuality only creates more problems.

For example, say you allow a student to enroll in a difficult course 10 days late because he or she was involved in a complicated family situation and unable to register on time. The truth is, that student may well be so far behind that catching up is next to impossible; and the student, who seemed so relieved when you made the exception, may later come to regret his or her decision -- and yours.

Then there's the impact of your decision on the faculty member and the other students in the class. Is the instructor expected to take time out of his or her already tight schedule to bring the latecomer up to speed? Must the other students sit idly while the class backtracks for two or three days? And how about the issue of fairness? Is it fair to the student to subject him or her to that kind of pressure? Is it fair to other students who wanted to register late but were simply out of luck? (Perhaps you even told a few of them no yourself.)

In the end, listening to students and responding humanely to their issues doesn't mean that you have to be a pushover. Sometimes, when it's in the best interests of the student and doesn't harm the institution, and when it's within your power to do so, you may choose, out of compassion, to make an exception to policy.

Other times, the truly compassionate choice -- the one that best serves everyone's interests -- will be to deny the student's request, as gently as possible.

Students might not always like your decisions. OK, they rarely will. But they are more likely to accept them if they know you've actually listened and made your decision based on what you believe is best for everyone involved. One day, some of those students might even come to appreciate what you did.

And if nothing else, you can always visit them on Sunday afternoons.

Rob Jenkins is an associate professor of English and interim dean of academic services at the Lawrenceville campus of Georgia Perimeter College. He writes occasionally for our community-college column.