MOOCs are all the rage

 MOOCs (Massive Open Online Courses) are all the rage. Tom Friedman (NYT, Jan 27), the perennially uncritical purveyor of modernity, loves it.  Coursera loves the free publicity. And we old-school professors are supposed to be worried about something that has the potential to take our lunch. Should we be worried?

One thing MOOCs are likely to do is sort out the difference between "certification" and "learning". There is a misconception that learning consists of the transmission and absorption of facts, but like certification this particular function of universities is sort of trivial, and can easily be taken over by an online conglomerate. How are MOOCs different from giving somebody a reading list, testing them on what they've read and handing them a piece of paper as a result? What can anyone do with that? Also, MOOCs perpetuate (and profit from) the myths of the "star professor" and the "prestigious university" as critical factors in learning. They're not; the critical factor is the mind doing the learning. Learning is primarily participatory.

Teaching (beyond mere certification for an entry-level job) includes instilling in someone the ability and desire to form original connections, to go further, to question foundations. This is partly innate, but can be fostered by socialization, by hanging out (physically) with others in the same frame of mind. It requires long-term immersion in a subject, to the point of developing a sort of love for it, and a social environment (including exchanging ideas beyond the confines of the subject itself.) I guess MOOCs are OK for mass learning (and to broaden access to current developments), but they're a long way from being able to recreate, say, the atmosphere of a mathematics research institute.

Tirfurcation

For a brief moment, three futures are possible.  I stare into the fog of the next few months, and wonder which one it will be.

I could go on being an academic—research, teaching, same-old, same-old; just somewhere else. Somewhere where colleagues are a little more sociable, a little less academically conservative. Hopefully in a more reasonable town, not this place, which is pleasant enough except for the people. This future probably involves international relocation; exciting in a way, but a big transition to make.

Or I could do administration; set teaching and most research aside, maybe temporarily.  I can do that, I don’t think it’s hard. I have ideas, integrity, fairness, compassion; I’d be an awesome department chair. Dealing with deans, other chairs, disgruntled faculty…what’s that like? I’d probably have to control an occasional wish to punch a hole on the wall, or say something highly inappropriate. Dress nicely, be social. It would be different, but that’s good.

Then there’s the government option. That's kind of bureaucratic: write glowing reports, go to staff meetings, be political. I can do that, too. The challenge would be doing a little research on the side, not letting the brain congeal before its time.  It’s decent money (for an academic),  you live somewhere reasonable and never, ever have to deal with students. Lots to be said for this option.

All three are possible right now. I have no control, I’ve done what was needed and all I can do is sit and wait for the call. It’s driving me crazy.

And maybe no call will come. The fog will lift, and instead of three paths I’ll see an impenetrable thicket, to be hacked into with a lot of effort, networking and maybe some pleading. I’ll be stuck in this place for another year, at least.

It’s hard to do anything that deserves being called research with this level of uncertainty, with the question `what for?' so clearly in the background. For the moment all I can do is think about easy expository things, teach my classes, and wait. 

The full sweep of a career

I hadn't been to one of the giant national meetings since back when I was a postdoc and on the job market, many years ago. Which is one of two reasons why people go to these things, the other being  you have some sort of `chair' position (of a committee, maybe).  And then there's `general schmoozing and networking' (my reason); but that has limited reach, since it's not a research meeting, and hardly anyone from my area is here.

So I'm free to observe the full sweep of a career path, from high-school students and undergraduates to eminent people in retirement age; and also alternative histories: editors, government and industry people, faculty at small schools, mathematical artists and writers. In common just love of the enterprise, expressed in many different ways. And that makes its special, since out there `the enterprise' inspires fear, awe or contempt, but rarely love.

First stop: the employment center. It's a strange setup, reminiscent of a Civil War field hospital: white curtains separate small interview areas. Young men and women sit nervously in the waiting area, in business wear they're clearly not accustomed to, until an employer (wearing `casual academic') calls their name. These aren't the people getting high-powered research postdocs; on the other hand, they're fairly lucky ones, having nailed a preliminary interview. I sit there for a while, thinking that unlikely as it may seem to them, they'll never have as much `power' (to write their life histories) as at this very point. Half-embarrassed at lurking among kids, I don't linger.

The best place to hang out and meet people is the exhibit area, which for me amounts to a giant, mouthwatering math bookstore. Mathematicians love math books, but I take that to extremes...so many interesting, beautiful things I absolutely must learn more about. It's dangerous, but each time I go there I run into somebody I know, and chat for a while. At one point I spot, standing by himself, a man who ten years ago held a tremendous amount of power in the profession. Even back then he was a gentle, approachable guy with a broad vision of things. We start talking, and he says to me: `when one is old, one becomes invisible; it is very interesting'. He believes the economics of higher education in America is close to a breaking point, and a phase transition will soon happen.

I find the time and energy to go to a few plenary talks, and they are all interesting in their fallibility. The applied mathematician, whose work sounds original and useful, but perhaps not very deep. The combinatorialist who started by singing a song and knows how to structure a plenary talk, but finally couldn't help getting technical. The `rising star' probabilist, who got so technical so fast that in the end was talking to a nearly empty auditorium. The young dynamicist who explained an interesting connection understandably, but gave no idea of the broader interest of her line of work. The best was the Fields medalist, who didn't get technical, described lots of deep connections and even a little fact I'll have fun explaining to my partner (whether she'll `get' how wonderful it is, I don't know).

I skip the topologist's talk to visit the `math in industry' panel, standing room only. Filled with eager new PhDs, who've seen the writing on the wall and are pondering a jump while they can. The compensation difference is lopsided, as the consulting guy eloquently describes, his arms mimicking a scale. The panelists were well chosen: men in consulting, government and finance, women from the automotive, information and software industries. They give good practical advice, by turns encouraging or skeptical; there are a few of us mid-career people in the room, and we get the message: you're too old, too set in your ways; do you want to have people half your age as peers? But for young, generalist problem-solvers, doing this makes sense, though most of them are not yet in a position to understand why. (You'll work on their problems, but it's non-trivial, motivated, and with lots of room for creative input and expansion.)

And then there are the math Oscars, including a well-deserved career achievement award. In the category `achievement in undergraduate teaching', three faculty from selective liberal-arts schools. The citation gives no idea of what's special about them, especially given their student population; so I decide to go to their talks, in the hope of maybe learning something useful about teaching. That's also standing-room only. There are only two talks, and I do hear something useful. One guy talks about `grace', and I have to force myself to get past the religious overtones to understand his surprising observation: `grace', gifts not justified by merit, does play a role in an academia. I think it's hard to recognize because it's so rare; nobody expects miracles in a mathematical career, and indeed they don't happen.

Post-Tenure Review and Me

The envelope from the provost's office has an ominous confidential stamp, so I just set it down on my desk and go about my business, avoiding the distraction of dealing with its contents. When I do open it, it's the expected: the provost concurs with the head that my performance `needs improvement', so I'm facing `post-tenure review'. And by the way, your sabbatical is canceled until you're again a faculty member in good standing.

Post-tenure review arose in academia in the 1990s; in the USA first, where tenured faculty have no class consciousness, and you can change any rule of engagement as long as it only affects new people. It is part a result of `business values' worship in American culture, part resentment at the only profession with essentially guaranteed long-term employment, in a country where most employees are treated as serfs with no job security. It was harder to do in Europe, but gradually introduced there too, through the back door of `America worship' by euro-academic bureaucrats.

PTR was sold as a way to get rid of tenured `dead wood', or of people who spend all their time on outside consulting. So it still carries an imputation of `serious misdeed', incompetence even. Sorry, that's not me, not by a long stretch. My research `exceeds expectations', my lectures are clear, my class interaction with students completely normal, graduate students ask me to guide their work.  And yet, it can be done. The mechanism is there, and all it takes is a committed department head.

For these reviews have become something entirely different: a mechanism for the expression of power, one of the few in unhierarchical tenure-track academia. You might think it means your colleagues don't like you, but really all it takes is a couple of determined people with a grudge, and access to the head's ear. Or a head with an agenda, who feels a sense of mission in `doing something about people who can't adapt to where they are'. Or a naive head, an insecure newbie struggling with the job, believing this kind of action will make his faculty take him seriously. Then it moves to the dean, and the provost. To them it's all about sending a message  to the faculty: `yes, as a matter of fact we can use this mechanism to enforce our current policy priorities, even if you're doing your job just fine'.

So this spring term, in addition to my regular teaching and advising and (hopefully) research, I'll have to deal with this nonsense. The head tries to pass the process as `advisory', when in reality it's adversarial and very personal, a wasteful game involving a few men in their early fifties who should have more useful things to do with their time: the head, the dean, the provost and myself. At some point a mea culpa, an act of contrition will be expected from me. If at all possible, I want to deny them that pleasure, to leave in the written record, as clearly as possible, the many reasons why they're wrong. (Or to make sure they know it's given grudgingly; just what it takes to keep the job and no more). This will take some willingness from colleagues who don't know me to stick their necks out and support my position, which at the moment seems like a tall order; why should they?