This post is the third of three adapted from Steven M. Cahn’s forthcoming book Professors as Teachers. In this work he suggests how departments and colleges can do more to emphasize the importance of success in the classroom. The material is used by permission of Wipf and Stock Publishers.
To consider how to balance the three traditional criteria for awarding tenure, I turn now to two cases that occurred many years ago.
The account of the first was authored by the late Paul J. Olscamp, a philosopher who served as president of Western Washington University (1975-1982), then of Bowling Green University (1982-1995). So far as I know, the narrative is factual, but I am not aware of who was involved or where the events occurred:
“Dr. Sally Morse (a fictitious name) found herself standing for tenure and promotion to associate professor…Her department was targeted by her university as a “niche” discipline—a discipline or set of disciplines in a single department that the university wished to develop into a major player in the state’s research environment. Expectations and rewards were higher for this department than for all others in the university. Morse submitted her application in her sixth year as a faculty member. Her teaching evaluations were excellent. She had few refereed publications, although the ones she had were in journals of high repute. Morse’s service record was barely adequate, but the department informed the collegiate-level tenure and promotion committee that this was because the department discouraged her service activities and encouraged research in its place.
Morse’s research and publication record was clearly good enough to have earned her tenure in almost all of the university departments not designated as “niche.” But it was average in comparison to the records of similar applicants from other “niche” programs. In a split vote within her department (6-4 with one abstention), she was recommended for tenure and promotion. Included in her file was a letter from the chair noting that Morse’s research protocol was proceeding on schedule, and that the majority of the published work from her project could not be expected until her work was complete. It was also noted that Morse had not attracted significant outside funding from either government or private sources.
On the basis of the department split vote, the collegiate-level tenure and promotion committee voted 5-4 to deny her tenure and promotion. The committee noted that this decision was particularly difficult for them because in most other departments her record would have qualified her for tenure and promotion. They also noted the systematic vagueness in the university’s standards of excellence with respect to the three evaluative criteria (teaching, research, and service).
The dean of the college recommended that Morse be given tenure but that promotion to associate professor be withheld pending further publication of her research. In his recommendation, the dean noted the split vote of the collegiate committee and their comments on the vagueness of the evaluative criteria. He stated that if “niche” programs were to have higher standards, then the departmental policies should say that and define them. The university-level tenure and promotion committee overturned the dean’s recommendation, agreeing with the collegiate committee, but once again by a split vote, and with the same reservations expressed by the dean.”
Olscamp now turns from factual description to an attempted justification of the ultimate decision:
“It was clear that the expectations of Morse were much higher than the average for tenure and promotion applicants for the university as a whole. It was also clear that the higher criteria she had to meet were nowhere clearly defined in university policy. Given her record to date, it was reasonably foreseeable that Morse would continue to develop in her research, as well as in other professional categories.
Morse was a superstar teacher, and even in a niche department the school could not afford to lose such a fine instructor without violating its promises to students and their parents.”
Olscamp concludes by sharing the outcome:
“Dr. Sally Morse was given tenure and promoted….The policies and procedures manuals were and are being revised to correct the deficiencies noted by the committees. The work is still in progress, having proven much more difficult than was anticipated.”
The most noticeable feature of this case was Morse’s weak support from her colleagues. In the absence of personal animosity, most departmental members are reluctant to deny tenure to colleagues with whom they have worked closely for years. In this case, however, only six out of eleven supported Morse. The college-level tenure and promotion committee voted against tenure, as is uncommon, and the Dean clearly had doubts, recommending tenure but not promotion, an unusual procedure because the two usually go together. The university-level tenure and promotion committee also voted against tenure, thereby overturning the dean’s recommendation, a rare occurrence.
As for Morse’s research, although she was informed at the outset that it should be her first priority, she had few publications and did not attract outside funding, an important criterion for success in most science and some social science departments. That her record was good enough compared to members of other departments is irrelevant because those faculty were not provided with the support she had received.
Regarding her teaching, she received excellent student evaluations, but why did those qualify her as a “superstar” teacher? Apparently, no peer evaluations were used. Furthermore, how many teachers received equally strong evaluations? Would someone else teaching her classes significantly reduce quality of instruction? If not, she could be replaced by someone who would at least match her as a teacher while surpassing her in scholarly output. Remember that for every opening hundreds of applications are received, and retaining her was preventing numerous others from being considered.
In addition, her service was described as “barely adequate,” but that failure was excused because she was supposed to focus on research. Yet service can take various forms, many of which are not especially time-consuming, and her not finding some way to help her colleagues was a mark against her.
Olscamp presents the case for awarding her tenure, but to my mind his arguments fall short. He claims that her research would develop and might in the long run yield publications, but who knows? If those being considered for tenure do not publish when the pressure to do so is greatest, why assume they will do so when the strongest incentive has been removed?
He also stresses that criteria for tenure in niche departments were not given with specificity, but he does not say that the situation differed in other departments. In fact, whenever experts assess quality, no simple formula can replace human judgment. Whether a pianist deserves a prize at a music competition or a movie is worthy of an award at a film festival is a decision that goes beyond mere numbers, and the same is the case for granting tenure. No wonder that, as Olscamp relates, the attempt to revise the policies and procedures manual proved much more difficult than anticipated. I doubt the work was ever completed.
The strangest feature of the case is that Morse was ultimately awarded tenure not because of any scholarly contribution but because of her supposed status as a “superstar” teacher. Her performance in the classroom may have fit that description, but Olscamp offers no evidence beyond excellent student evaluations. Were her colleagues impressed by observing her teaching or at least hearing her present lectures? Was registration in all her courses consistently massive? Did she win any teaching awards? If the case for her tenure depended on her supposedly offering superb instruction, why wasn’t more done to assess it?
Extraordinary performance as a teacher can justify the awarding of tenure, but the case has to be overwhelming. In my view Morse’s was not. Here’s one that was.
Beginning in the 1960s, Robert Gurland taught philosophy at New York University (NYU). He published little, and while at the request of administrators he spoke to many university and outside groups, he was not active on departmental or school-wide committees. Yet while his colleagues would teach ten or twenty students in a course, he would, no matter the subject, always teach over two hundred. On the first day of registration, his classes filled, and the demand invariably far exceeded the number of available seats. Students, regardless of their gender, race, ethnicity, or level of sophistication, flocked to his classes. He reciprocated the students’ passion by knowing the name of everyone in every class, learning something about each, and personally grading, with numerous detailed comments, every one of the hundreds of papers.
He welcomed colleagues to observe his classes even without giving him prior notice, and, in light of the skepticism of some about the source of his popularity, he invited anyone who wished to review the exams he gave, the answer booklets his students submitted, and the grades he awarded (which were not especially generous). All who watched him teach and scrutinized the written record came away impressed. He taught virtually every course in the curriculum, from epistemology to ethics, from symbolic logic to medieval philosophy, from existentialism to the philosophy of sport. No area of the subject was outside his purview, and occasionally he created courses when a new area of the subject developed.
Admittedly, he had a most engaging personality, a wonderful sense of humor, and an unusual background that included stints as a minor league baseball player and a professional trumpeter in leading jazz bands, as well as having had extensive experience teaching mathematics and science in elementary school, junior high school, and high school.
On one occasion when I asked him to explain his remarkable success, he opened his battered briefcase and held up stacks of yellow pads filled with writing. He explained that these were his lectures, and although he never looked at them during his classes, he knew exactly what material he was going to cover and how it would be presented. Even his vivid examples were written down. In short, his seemingly freewheeling style was carefully planned.
He won teaching awards at a variety of levels and institutions, but such honors meant far less to him than the enthusiastic response of his students. They included many of the school’s best undergraduates, a number of whom, influenced by him, became highly successful philosophy professors.
On several occasions he taught courses at West Point. There he was such a hit with the cadets that he was offered a permanent position but turned it down to remain at NYU.
His situation might be summarized as follows: publications weak, service limited, and teaching on the highest possible level. Had he been replaced, the department could no doubt have found a stronger researcher who would have offered more consistent service on committees, but the quality of his teaching could not have been matched or even approached. Had he been replaced, overall student registration in the department would have plummeted, because he taught a massive percentage of all the students taking philosophy courses.
To no one’s surprise, he received tenure. Generations of students were the beneficiary of that wise decision.
As an outstanding researcher may be awarded tenure even with a weak performance in the classroom, so tenure should also be available to an outstanding teacher with a thin record of research. Granted, the ideal candidate excels as both researcher and teacher, but just as an occasional exception is made so as not to lose a researcher of national stature, an occasional exception should also be made so as not to lose a teacher of extraordinary accomplishment.
Few teachers can attain such a level of excellence; after all, taking the lead in developing a new multidisciplinary program, teaching a single course that invariably has a high enrollment, offering extra help to struggling students, or attracting crowds to office hours does not by itself overcome a thin record of research. Nevertheless, a faculty member with a superlative record of teaching, unlikely to be matched by any possible replacement, should be considered a strong candidate for a tenured appointment.
Note that a corollary of serious evaluation of teaching is the willingness to differentiate among levels of effectiveness. We recognize the difference between research that is weak, mediocre, strong, or superb; the same distinctions apply to teaching. Not every accomplished researcher is a serious candidate for a Nobel Prize or its equivalent; neither is every sound teacher a serious candidate for the Teaching Hall of Fame.
Describing all teachers as “good” or “not so good” is a sign that teaching is not taken seriously. An individual may be said to be a good teacher, but “how good?” is a key question.
In sum, if the case for tenure relies heavily on meeting only one of the three criteria, that category needs to be filled in spectacular fashion. If the case depends heavily on only two of the criteria, then they should both be filled with unquestionable excellence. If the case depends, as most do, on meeting each of the three criteria, then they should all be filled with high quality. Anything less or even borderline and the department should begin a new appointment process.
Finally, let me mention an alternative approach to granting tenure that some find appealing. I refer to the proposal to create two sorts of professorships: one in research and one in teaching. Then the criteria for tenure in the two cases would be vastly different.
I do not favor this idea. The motto “publish or perish” may not appeal to some, but few who oppose it would object to the demand that faculty “think or perish”; yet to publish is to make available to all the results of one’s best thinking. Professors who fail to do so should be expected to seek alternative ways of providing substantial evidence of their intellectual vigor. If they are unable to shoulder the burden of proof, others are justified in doubting the quality of their thinking and hence their teaching.
As for those who excel in scholarship, they should be encouraged to communicate their insights in a classroom. A professor, as the word’s medieval Latin origin “professare” suggests, is one who makes open declarations. Taking the time to motivate, organize, and clarify one’s thinking so as to share it with others never harmed anyone and can help students, who, after all, contribute to supporting the professor’s way of life.
Instituting two classes of instructors would not enhance but diminish the importance of teaching, suggesting that it is not an activity worth the time and effort of prestigious professors. That message is surely the wrong one.
In conclusion, imagine a campus where graduate students are taught to fulfill their responsibilities as teachers, where quality of teaching plays an important role in deciding faculty appointments, where teaching skills are evaluated primarily by peer review, and where teaching is considered as important as any other criterion in making tenure decisions. There teaching would not be overshadowed by research but would be illuminated for all to appreciate.
Steven M. Cahn
Steven M Cahn is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at the City University of New York Graduate Center. Among the recent books he has authored are Teaching Philosophy: A Guide (Routledge, 2018); Inside Academia: Professors, Politics, and Policies (Rutgers, 2019); Navigating Academic Life: How the System Works (Routledge, 2021); Professors as Teachers (Wipf and Stock, 2022), and, most recently, From Student to Scholar: A Candid Guide to Becoming a Professor, Second Edition (Wipf and Stock, 2024).
