One tension I feel acutely as a head
of school is the constant need to balance my idealism and practicality. I know many
other heads who feel the same. To be more specific, educational leaders
maintain strong beliefs in what education can and should be as what many call
one of the noblest professions. That last word, however, suggests the other
side of the issue: that an independent school, while mission driven and
non-profit, is a business. That is not to say a business cannot operate in
high-minded fashion; indeed, I believe most independent schools do, and I know most
people not in the upper administrative levels of education don’t think much
about this part of their world. It is, though, a reality we must consider.
The truly excellent and brave letter
John Allman, head of Trinity School in Manhattan, sent to his community this
summer resurrected this struggle for me. It was cited recently by the New York Times in an article on private
schools and social justice. The letter reaches much further than that. I’d say
it has much more to do with the commoditization of private education. One of
John’s key points focuses on the loss which occurs when the relationship
becomes more contract that covenant. When it does, we emphasize the
transactions that occur, the products at the end, rather than the more ethereal
aspects of the process. I’m oversimplifying John’s epistle, and I encourage you
to read
the entire piece. I imagine most school heads were nodding their heads
vigorously while reading, wishing they had composed it. It sings with the
voices of our highest angels.
While this problem is not new, it
has been exacerbated over the past couple of decades as our culture has become
increasingly consumerist. Perhaps it is the emergence of the iCulture, with the
ability to tailor more and more to our individual needs and satisfaction, the
belief more and more should be personalized. Maybe it’s a heightened sense of
competition. I’m not sure. But I know it’s pervasive.
At the same time, I hope we in the independent school world also
have looked at our role in the relationship. Complicity may be the right word. With our staggering annual
tuition levels—in some markets well over $40,000—how could we not expect people
to want a clear return on investment? What signal do the cathedral-like
facilities send? What about bloated programs? It’s no wonder a hot topic right
now is our economic sustainability
Thus, so many of us have engaged in marketed campaigns
designed to differentiate us, to show the value-added.* For several years,
first as a curriculum director and then as a head, I embarked on what I termed
the quest for the golden metric(s). We all feel that pressure to prove our
worth, to validate the cost. We take quite seriously that parents, as a friend
of mine use to say, trust us with their two most precious possessions—their cash
and their kids.
To accomplish that understandable goal, we do things such as
publish matriculation and acceptance lists. We crow about high test scores and
award winners. On a more micro level, we post honor rolls and confer all sorts
of prizes. We use grades as carrots. We—and I readily admit my guilt as both
school leader and teacher—do this because we feel we have to, like it or not.
We do so for very practical reasons. They are sometimes harsh
realities. After all, we have to put food in our bellies. But what about
nourishing our souls? The tension brews consternation about where any
educator’s greatest idealism should aim: the impact on children. I worry that,
along with other societal pressures, we’re stripping some of the joy from
childhood.
*Whether
they have succeeded or not is another question, particularly as to
differentiation.
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