One of the implications of the shift of pressure against free speech from left-wing faculty and administrators to undergraduates is that the ideological framework of liberal bias doesn’t quite apply. Yes, we have language of “racism” and “sexism,” along with demands that relics of US history that fail the PC test be torn down. But the political thrust doesn’t gibe with talk about safe spaces and microaggressions. That’s an idiom of therapy, not politics (even while it is used as a tool of power).
One prominent critic of higher education discerned the difference at work way back in May 1992 in a commentary in TLS. The title was “The Nursery-School Campus,” and the author was Camille Paglia. Here is the relevant passage:
By the early 1970s, American universities had become top-heavy with full-time administrators who took to speaking of the campus as a “community,” which faculty soon discovered was governed by invisible codes of acceptable speech, opinions, and behavior. . . . Many of the students, neglected by their prosperous, professional parents, are pathetically grateful for these attentions. Such coddling has led, in my view, to the outrageous speech codes, which are designed to shield students from the realities of life. The campus is now not an arena of ideas but a nursery school where adulthood can be postponed. Faculty who are committed to the great principle of free speech are therefore at war with paternalistic administrators in league with misguided parents.
Paglia gets right at what stands out in the protests today: not the political content, but the childish demands. Grownups listen to them march, chant and think that it all looks more like a tantrum than a revolution.
This is not a trivial point, or a dismissive one. We should take the brattiness seriously, but see it as a result we have created, not a starting point to which we should respond. Paglia locates the evolution in the hiring back in the 1970s of higher-Ed administrators who had no teaching duties and no academic research background—in other words, bureaucrats. They were hired to manage the swelling population of Baby Boomers flooding the colleges and requiring more and more investment in the overall college experience (and less focus on coursework).
Hence the emphasis on “community.” It’s a word nearly all my colleagues, even the most liberal ones, wouldn’t use to describe their classrooms. But administrators loved it, especially those most invested in attracting and keeping female and minority students. The term sounds warm and welcoming, especially, the administrators assumed, to youths whose parents never went to college and who might feel out of place. The message was simple: “We shall take care of you—we care about you.”
But the old story of paternalistic dreams played out once again. To create utopia, the social engineers had to order and regulate the conduct of the inhabitants. The “codes” arrived, the underside of community organizing. I’ve seen it happen repeatedly. The people most fired with goodness and concern are the first to act—and overreact—against disrupters. It’s not enough to maintain liberal principles of free speech and freedom of association and rights of conscience. Those are formal rules that don’t have any positive content. They don’t tell people what the True and the Good are. They allow people the space to form their own conceptions of the True and the Good. With that freedom, unless everyone arrives at the same ones, the community foundations crack and tumble.
When the campus engineers say, “We need to build a stronger sense of community,” then, what they really mean is, “We need to suppress the dissenters in the room, across the campus, throughout the discipline.” People who oppose affirmative action, revere the classics, vote Republican, oppose abortion . . . they spoil the local culture. They make others feel bad. How smooth and positive might our school and our department be if they were gone.
You see how the bureaucracy prospers in this set-up, whether it fails in its aims or achieves them. To create a community in academia, you need a lot more than professors. You also need a legion of counselors, diversity officers, and various “campus life” personnel. And when the inevitable frictions arise, such as disputes over admissions policies and student-faculty relations, you need more administrators, including lawyers to draft new speech and conduct codes. And when THOSE cause more collisions between a student religious group and anti-discrimination policies, then you need more officers to handle infractions and . . . . That’s how bureaucracy works: the more it stumbles, the bigger it gets. And it justifies itself in the right and proper name of “community,” which is to say, student well-being.
As long as those efforts were confined to administrators, “community-building” practices were usually contained to passive-aggressive forms of advocacy and policing. Officials generally knew not to step over the line into outright censorship or harassment. They knew that bad publicity and upright alumni and donors wouldn’t like it.
But now that the safe-and-secure, racism-free, sexism-free, homophobia-free community-building vision has been adopted by the undergraduates, those constraints are gone. Sophomores don’t care about bad press. They don’t listen to donors and alumni. They can demand and occupy and march all they want, and nobody will tell them “Stop!” They have lots of time on their hands—after all, they study only 14 hours a week—and they have solid peer pressure backing them up, which means a lot more to them than the authority of the faculty and president and deans. We are, indeed, in the nursery-school campus. The difference is that the day-care providers don’t know how to say “No.”