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21— The Education of a Chancellor
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21—
The Education of a Chancellor

"President Saxon, Governor Brown is on the phone."

The nine chancellors of the UC campuses form the council of chancellors. We met at least once a month (and, frequently, more often) with the president and vice-presidents of the university, to discuss subjects of common interest such as budgetary matters, affirmative action, legal concerns, and policies affecting faculty, staff, or students. As my "spring training," I was invited to attend the council of chancellors meeting in June 1977 prior to my actually assuming the chancellorial position at Santa Cruz.

I was surprised and disconcerted by this meeting. The discussion was very much "nuts and bolts"—concerned with quite specific details of management rather than with broad issues of educational or administrative policies. (I had thought chancellors were to be concerned with educational policy.) And here was the president of the university engaged in an hour's discussion with the governor of the state over (as I learned) specifics of the university budget, which was then on the governor's desk. I had thought the UC was insulated from the political scene through the mediation of the board of regents; I quickly learned that this was seldom true. This meeting was a foretaste of the direct vulnerability of the university to the fiscal conditions, political personalities, and shifting policies of the state that I would later encounter in abundance.


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The bright sunlight slanted through the tops of the surrounding redwoods into the old quarry, now converted into a natural amphitheater.

"I, David Saxon, president of the University of California, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the regents of the university, do hereby inaugurate you, Robert L. Sinsheimer, as chancellor of the University of California at Santa Cruz."

The assembled crowd of students, faculty, staff, other chancellors, and university officials burst into applause. It was a moment to savor—and to ponder. How had a boy raised in a lower-middle-class family in Chicago, whose forebears had never attended college, become the chancellor of the newest, most beautiful campus of the University of California? And how would he—this scientist and scholar, this somewhat reclusive academic—succeed as a chancellor?


"And, what college are you from?"

"Cowell College, but I live in town."

"I thought all freshmen lived in the college."

"They do, but I'm a senior."

"If you are a senior, why are you at the freshman reception?"

"Oh, I like to come every year to meet the new chancellor."

At Santa Cruz, the chancellor holds a reception each fall at University House for the new freshmen students. This was my first such occasion. It was a warm, clear evening and the students had spread out on the lawn before University House, munching on snacks, sipping soft drinks, chatting, and enjoying the moonlight reflected off Monterey Bay. I was drifting from group to group, making acquaintance and noting the enthusiasm and high spirits among the new students as they began a great adventure. (How quickly this wears off after classes begin and as the older students begin to transfer their cynicism and disillusion.)

The upperclassman—actually she was a fifth-year student (not many finish in four years at public universities)—set me back for a moment. She was nearly correct. In the fall of 1973, she would have met Dean McHenry, the founding chancellor, who resigned the next year. In 1974, it would have been Mark Christiansen, who resigned after eighteen months. In 1976, she would have met Angus Taylor, who served as interim chancellor. And here was I. Her remark brought home the administrative turmoil the campus had experienced in recent years and the powerful need for a period of stability. Yet the basic problems underlying the turmoil had to be resolved.


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Soon after the fall quarter began, I became aware of a student rally that was being held in a small court near my office. The "cause," it soon appeared, was the denial of tenure, late the previous spring, to a popular assistant professor who was gay. The protestors were convinced that the denial was the consequence of his sexual orientation. This was a foretaste of how issue after issue would be soured and distorted by the claim of discrimination. The protestors presented me with a "demand" to reverse this decision. Although the case had been decided definitively by the previous chancellor, I agreed to review the file to assure myself the issue had been handled fairly. I did so and in the end fully agreed with the prior decision.

This announcement provoked another outburst, which ended with a sit-in of protestors in the chancellor's office. How should I deal with sit-ins, of which this would surely be only the first? Legally speaking, after 5 P.M. when the office closed, they were trespassing and I could have them arrested. Such action, however, elicited sympathy among other, less-involved students, hardened anti-administration feelings, and was practically ineffective. The previous chancellor had had several hundred students arrested the previous spring for a sit-in (against "institutional racism") over Memorial Day weekend. However, the local district attorney declined to prosecute any of them. The students had the right to demand individual trials. The community regarded the whole matter as student high jinks and was not about to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on such trials, which would tie up the local courts for months. As I was repeatedly to learn, chancellors have little real power.

This sit-in was clearly a test of the new chancellor. I decided to wait the students out. As long as they did not actually interfere with the work of the office, they could symbolically sit in for as long as they pleased. I expected they would become bored, once the first enthusiasm waned; besides, Christmas vacation was coming. After I brought in some leftover goodies from our Christmas staff party at University House, the sit-in dissolved. Actually, they were nice kids just acting out.

I followed this policy of waiting out sit-ins throughout my tenure as chancellor. Although on one or two occasions it became quite tedious, ultimately it always worked and left better feelings and mutual respect. The important principle, it seemed to me, was the ability to carry on the work of the university, even if subject to minor inconvenience. On only one occasion did I ever have students arrested, when they block-aded the road entrance to the university. I had reformed the group that


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I could not allow them to bar other students, faculty, staff, or visitors from the campus. But they wanted to be arrested, and were. And, as could be expected, they were not prosecuted.

I had weekly meetings of the chancellor's immediate staff—vice-chancellors, personal assistants, a secretary, and other staff invited to discuss specific problems. At such a meeting, soon after I assumed office, the assistant chancellor for planning brought up a "very important" matter. What enrollment should we project for UC Santa Cruz for the fall of 1978? Having just begun the fall quarter of 1977, the topic seemed surprising. However, I learned that the president's office needed this number to prepare the proposed university budget for 1978–79, which would go to the board of regents in November for its approval. After that, it went to the governor's office and, one hoped, would be included without too much change in the budget he presented to the legislature in January, 1978.

The "problem" was that any honest projection indicated that the expected enrollment in the fall of 1978 would be less than it was in the fall of 1977. It was then that I was acquainted with the deplorable slide in freshman applications to Santa Cruz that had begun in 1971 and continued each year since. By the use of varied tactics and alternatives, the campus enrollment had, however, actually been increased each year, until now. The "bag of tricks" was now empty. How much lower would the enrollment be in the fall of 1978? About one hundred students less than the current enrollment of fifty-seven hundred.

At Caltech, which had always rigidly limited its freshman class size, enrollment had never been an issue. Although I was strongly advised to the contrary, I found it hard to believe that an enrollment decline of less than 2 percent at Santa Cruz would be perceived as a serious problem. I was quite wrong. Indeed, this "problem" foreshadowed conceptual clashes between the tolerant flexibility of academia and the intolerant rigidities of the state accountants.

I opted for an honest estimate, which was included in the president's operating budget. The capital portion of the budget included some construction at Santa Cruz that had been put over from previous years and that was needed to adequately accommodate our present enrollment. Normally, on receipt of the proposed university capital budget, the governor's office and the office of the legislative analyst send a joint team to each campus to assess the need for the proposed construction and its scope relative to the need. These visits are usually rather challenging, and the campus is required to justify the request in detail. This


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year, however, the usual visit was abruptly cancelled. Clearly, they said, there was no need for new construction at a campus that was declining in enrollment. Period. The Santa Cruz construction was simply omitted from the governor's proposed state budget.

I had not been aware that the turmoil at the campus, combined with the marked fall-off from its early popularity, had given rise to rumors that the campus might well be closed by UC. Without the growth that had been predicted in the older demographic projections, the UC system did not really need eight general campuses at this time. The anticipated decline in enrollment for 1978 now revived these rumors in full force.

As might be expected, such an atmosphere made raising funds for the campus difficult. Indeed, such rumors have all the attributes of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Who wants to donate to a campus that might cease to exist? A specific consequence soon developed. The National Science Foundation wanted to establish an ongoing institute for the study of theoretical physics and was soliciting proposals from universities that would like to host this institute. The physicists at Santa Cruz were eager for this opportunity and the campus submitted a proposal. We identified space to house the proposed institute and agreed to provide some financial support and an academic position for the director. We talked with some distinguished physicists about their possible interest in becoming director should the institute come to Santa Cruz.

We were then disconcerted to learn that while many features of our proposal were favorably regarded at NSF, they had heard the rumors and were naturally concerned. They would not want to locate such an institute at a campus about to be closed. I contacted President Saxon, who reassured me that there was no substance to these rumors and agreed to write a letter to NSF to that effect. He did so, but we learned that NSF was not fully convinced. In the end, the institute went to a rival proposal from UC Santa Barbara. Other factors surely entered into this decision, but the taint our proposal suffered from this circumstance was undoubtedly fatal.

All of this convinced me that the enrollment problem had to be addressed promptly, and that to address it would require a major change in the image of the campus throughout the state. To improve the image, I had also to improve the substance. This required the cooperation of the faculty and even, in many cases, a reorientation of their personal goals.

The faculty hold a remarkable degree of authority in the UC system.


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Control over the curriculum and educational policy and over admissions criteria are delegated by the board of regents to the faculty. While the administration—the chancellor—retains fiscal authority and ultimate promotion approval, it is accountable to the faculty for specific decisions. If there is not a meeting of minds, an agreement on a common set of values, the stage is set for continuing rancor and academic stalemate. In this pattern of "shared governance" the chancellor can propose but, except in rare instances, cannot implement without the active consent of the faculty.

While the chancellor has very limited real or immediate power, he does have a platform from which to advocate policies and standards. At the right moment, this can provide a critical leverage. And on the administrative side, he can over time, by well-chosen structural and personnel changes, strengthen and improve the implementation of his policies and standards to benefit the entire campus.

The interminable and continuing college-board conflict had not only sapped the energies of the faculty but, by confounding the criteria for performance, had pulled down the standards for faculty advancement and promotion. The most important advancement step is the award of tenure; once awarded, it can only be revoked by the board of regents for exceptional cause. Tenure had never been revoked in the 120-odd-year history of UC. (This is not to say that, in extreme cases, faculty members had not been persuaded to resign.) In the UC system, tenure must be awarded after eight years of service or reappointment denied, though it can be awarded earlier if merited. Since nonrenewal of appointment requires a year's prior notice, a decision as to tenure must be made before the end of the seventh year. This judgment requires an extensive review process, accompanied by a complex system of procedural safeguards to ensure fairness, absence of discrimination, opportunity for rebuttal, and so on.

As chancellor, I personally reviewed all tenure cases as they came up from the board of study (and, initially, also the college), and through the screen of the Academic Senate Committee on Academic Personnel (CAP). With frequently conflicting board and college recommendations and divided CAP recommendations, many cases required careful analysis to sort out the bases for each view. Most often, of course, tenure decisions had to be made in fields in which I had no particular expertise. I had available to me the file containing the candidate's record and work, external and internal evaluations, and the recommendations of the various levels of review. Starting with all of this background, I would


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still seek to form an independent opinion—especially if confronted with divided recommendations—by perusing the candidate's work directly.

My background as a scientist and especially as an editor served me well. In most cases, I felt that I could analyze the logic—or the gaps and flaws therein—of the arguments presented in the candidate's work, evaluate the cogency and organization of the presentation, and ascertain if the candidate sought to relate his or her contribution to the precedents and larger issues in the field. (Of course, in some fields such as advanced mathematics and artistic creation, I was largely reduced to secondary judgments of the strengths and weaknesses reflected in the evaluations of others.) While clearly the Caltech criterion of national distinction would not be appropriate here, I felt that some clear evidence of competent scholarly performance with indication of continuing achievement—and not just "promise" or expectation—was a minimal requirement. This might be relaxed in the case of a truly exceptional teacher, but such cases could be expected to be rare.

This standard, which seemed reasonable if not generous to me and essential to the future of the campus, was clearly higher than that to which the campus had been accustomed. In my first year I overrode, negatively, four tenure recommendations from CAP and several other advancements. In each case, I documented my reasoning. These actions produced some consternation and grumbling, but they had the desired effect. In subsequent years, the standards of the CAP improved and the number of conflicting judgments diminished to almost nil.

I inherited a cadre of administrators—vice-chancellors, assistant chancellors, provosts of colleges, registrar—of varying ability and (worse) varying philosophy as to the mission of the campus. The college-board conflict even permeated the staff.

Because UC is such a large and distinctive system, it breeds its own form of professionalism. The administrative personnel at various levels, from the several campuses, periodically get together to discuss their common problems. Thus, the academic vice-chancellors meet, the financial planning vice-chancellors meet, the vice-chancellors for student affairs meet, the registrars meet, the student health directors meet, the financial aid officers meet, the affirmative action officers meet, and so on. While the exchange of information, ideas, and procedures is often valuable, these meetings tend to consolidate a sense of professional identity. I had to repeatedly point out to the administrative cadre that the business of the university was education and research, not administration, and that the administration was there to further the primary


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goals and not vice versa. This principle sounds so obvious, but to enforce it requires continuous attention.

My inherited staff was most helpful in initiating me in the often baroque ways of the UC system, but in some cases unfortunate individual divergences of working pattern and style became evident. A few could simply not alter the specific working patterns they had developed under my predecessors. Alternative positions were found for some; others chose to resign.

The vice-chancellor for academic affairs (AVC) is the second most important administrative position on the campus. The several deans report to the AVC and he or she must adjudicate among their many and varying requests in the allocation of always limited resources. The AVC also interacts closely with various senate committees. The AVC I inherited was a fine person and scholar but was uncomfortable with the difficult decisions the office entailed. I needed to find a replacement. This led to a painful situation.

The choice of AVC is made by the chancellor because the two must work closely together. The complexity and distinctive character of UC personnel and budgetary processes almost necessitated that the AVC have had prior UC experience. As I became acquainted with various campus personalities, I kept the AVC position in mind. By early spring, I had decided that the chair of the academic senate, Professor Paul N., would be a good fit. He was a straightforward, thoughtful person and a social scientist (I did not want both top officers to be natural scientists). By virtue of his position as chair of the senate, he was acquainted with almost all of the campus issues. I informally offered Paul the position and he accepted.

To my astonishment, a furor erupted. I was visited by several delegations of faculty. It developed that Paul's scholarship was poorly regarded on the campus. And, above all, it was felt that the AVC had to have high personal standards of scholarship. But Paul had been elected chair of the senate, I said. Oh well, they countered, the senate is unimportant. The AVC position is.

It became clear that Paul's appointment would provoke a violent and derogatory discussion in the senate, and that, lacking the respect of a major contingent of the faculty, he could never adequately fill the position. I had to ask him to withdraw his candidacy. It was a lesson to me of the need to consult more broadly and, as well, of the (lack of) repute of the academic senate.

Fortunately, Professor John Marcum, another candidate whom I had


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considered favorably, but who had told me he was unavailable because of other commitments, became available. His appointment was widely accepted.

Having steadily increased the student-to-faculty ratio from its initial low value to the systemwide value, the campus could no longer afford the dissipation of faculty effort in soft, "Mickey Mouse" types of courses taught only to fulfill a college commitment. Provision of these courses of varied merit was vitiating the disciplinary curricula. The basic problem—foreseen by some, but blandly ignored by others—of the greater cost of a true collegiate system was weighing more and more heavily on the campus. I took my first year to become fully acquainted with the dimensions of this dilemma and to explore, conceptually, various options. I had about resolved to "cut the Gordian knot" when external events at the end of that year forced the issue.

In June 1978, the voters of California passed Proposition 13, which abruptly more than halved the revenue available to city and county governments from property taxes. The state government then had immediately to provide the difference, lest all governmental agencies collapse. While the state government had been running a mild surplus, this was quite inadequate; the budgets for all the normal state functions, including higher education, had to be cut immediately to make up the funding.

This episode was a dramatic lesson for me of the ways in which the fortunes and plans of those in a public university are grossly affected by events wholly beyond their control—by the ephemeral passions of the voters, by the state of the economy, by the inclinations of the governor or the legislature. There truly are "windows of opportunity" when all of the conditions are propitious and the signals are "go," but there are also times when the windows are firmly closed. One must make plans and be ready to implement them during the periods of opportunity. And one must be prudent, alert for a sudden change in wind.

But now the windows were closed, and were to remain so for four years. Adaptation of the state budget to Proposition 13 required several years. Governor Jerry Brown was basically unsympathetic to the university. And the state's economy fell into a serious recession in 1981–82. The budgetary, crisis of 1978–79 and the demoralizing decline in enrollment in the fall of 1978 forced me to propose in that fall the "campus reorganization" that I had conceived the previous spring.

Academic standards are the sine qua non of a major university. To maintain and improve the standards of the disciplines was a primary step


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in the recovery of the image of Santa Cruz. To accomplish this, the diversion of resources into second-rate college courses had to be stopped. The influence of the colleges had to be removed from personnel decisions so that the faculty had a clear set of academic goals. The vitiation of the intellectual life of the disciplines caused by the dispersion of faculty among all eight colleges had to be ended by establishing intellectually coherent groups of faculty in each discipline in at most two or three colleges.

At the same time, I wished to maintain the colleges as intellectual and cultural centers in the liberal arts tradition, as well as residence facilities. There would be several diverse groups of faculty in each college and a mix of students with varied interests. Each college would be required to provide a freshman "core" course on some broad topic of interest to its faculty—funds would be provided for this purpose. As available, funds might also be provided for other college-based endeavors that fell outside the scope of any discipline.

While I knew that this drastic proposal would provoke diehard resistance from those who would regard it as a betrayal of the Santa Cruz vision, the "dream," I believed that the majority of the faculty would welcome it. The proposal would provide a clear sense of direction and, finally, an end to the college-board wrangle. I hoped it would "jump start" the campus and release the energies of the faculty from its sterile internal strife. I checked that this would meet with the approval of the systemwide administration and then presented the proposal at a senate meeting just prior to my official inauguration in October 1978.

I had to have the senate's agreement. The debate continued through much of the academic year. I had appointed a faculty committee to work out the many details involved of faculty transfers between colleges, of course changes and curricular realignments, and so on. However, I found that I had to repeatedly take the initiative and propose solutions for seemingly thorny issues. In negotiating this thicket, plunging through inertia and sniping resistance, I had a psychological trump. My ego was not invested in the chancellorship. I was always prepared to resign and return to science if I could not lead the campus in a desirable direction. This sense of independence sustained me on several difficult occasions. In the end, when the academic senate voted in the spring, over 80 percent were in favor.

There was really no alternative. But it was, in many ways, the most trying and exhausting period I have known. It was a period of crisis for the institution, which required leadership, determination, a clear vision,


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and at least the appearance of patience. I succeeded, but there was a small residue of faculty who were never reconciled. Despite the evidence, they could not accept that they had devoted years of effort to an impractical vision. That summer we moved the offices of more than half of the faculty in the colleges. By fall we were on the new path.

This tale illustrates the critical importance of a sound beginning, especially in academia, where experimentation is foreign to much of the faculty and the diffusion of authority defies change. In this light, the casual failure to have thought through the basic initial conception of Santa Cruz is all the more deplorable.

The retrenchments required by the budgetary stringency over the next several years were painful, but their effects were not all bad. They provided immediate justification for organizational changes that achieved greater efficiency and economy, and their pervasive nature brought administration and faculty into closer consultation than had been the custom, a practice that was subsequently continued.

The enrollment problem had to be addressed and soon. I recall dreary afternoons that fall spent in discussions of which dormitories we might have to close the next spring. And campus images in academia are not changed abruptly. While "recruiting" of students by UC campuses is officially frowned on, "outreach programs" to provide prospective students with information about the opportunities available on a campus are sanctioned and practiced. Regrettably, because Santa Cruz had been so popular in its early days, the campus had not bothered to develop an effective outreach staff and program. And during the years of decline in the early and mid-1970s, the campus had been too preoccupied with its internal crises.

I needed an outstanding dean of admissions and happily found Richard Moll. A Yale alumnus, Dick had been dean of admissions at Bowdoin where he reversed their enrollment decline. Then he managed the admissions program at Vassar during their complex transition from women's college to coeducational college. Dick was a vibrant, gregarious person fond of playing the piano and warbling old favorites. One of the most skilled and adroit admissions directors in the country, he was looking for a new challenge. Having worked only in private colleges, the problems of a distinctive, relatively small public university—a "public Ivy," as he called it—intrigued him.

Moll immediately invigorated our outreach program. With tasteful brochures and a comprehensive program of visits to likely high schools, public and private, throughout the state, through involvement of


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alumni, he spread the word about the potential and quality of the campus with its new directions. To change a public image takes time and requires some real accomplishments, but over the next three to five years, Dick's efforts paid off. By 1983, enrollment applications were rising and have accelerated ever since.

In part, these increases reflected the growing high school population in California. But when Santa Cruz applications exceeded those at Davis, we knew that Dick Moll's efforts had succeeded. Moll also mentored Joe Allen and groomed him to be his successor. His primary job done, Dick went on, but his legacy remained.

A Chinese blessing says, "May you live in interesting times." These were certainly "interesting" times and full of action, but often they were also times for introspection. The chancellor, I had soon realized, is the one person who is charged with the welfare of the entire campus. Everyone else has a more parochial interest. And at Santa Cruz, I had soon relearned the old lesson that in human affairs logic is not enough. Simple logic does not overcome passion, prejudice, or fear. One can use logic to divert passion, to play fear against fear, or even invert prejudice—in short, to play politics—but this is devious logic that does not come naturally to a scientist.

In contrast to the intellectually exciting but academically serene ambience of Caltech, I suddenly found myself in a world of student protests, enrollment and fiscal crises, and system politics. I was now at the head of a demoralized campus founded (and foundering) on an ill-conceived plan, woefully maladapted to the ethos of the larger university. My original academic goals were stymied behind an array of immediate problems, and especially lack of resources and lack of true educational authoriy.

I felt confident that I could redirect and revive this campus and restore its inherent potential, but it would be a task of many years and great effort with steadfast purpose. My MIT education, my scientist training, would be my resource. To be a problem solver requires an objectivity, a skepticism of preconceived ideological answers, and a committed integrity that eschews self-deception that clearly recognizes failure as well as success, that invents or improvises, bends or tacks, but always knows the goal.

I kept at it. Why? Was it stubbornness, an inability to admit a career error? I think not. Scientists understand failed experiments. Was it an altruistic impulse to use my talents to somehow save this campus? Was


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it a recognition of my being fifty-seven years old and wanting to make the best use of the next ten years? Was it simply the challenge to beat the odds, to do the nearly impossible, to leave an enduring achievement, to create something different and special? Possibly all of these and more. In some deep sense, what I was doing, while not always enjoyable, was right—for myself and for Santa Cruz.


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21— The Education of a Chancellor
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