Presidential Ideas: Big, Bold, and Sometimes Dumb

The writer is a former president

As I was preparing to leave my long-time academic home for a presidency at another institution, a fellow dean—and former president—laughingly told me that “being president is fun, but doing president, not so much.” That made sense to me. Living in a nice house, having the power to make meaningful changes, and being paid a handsome salary sounded appealing. Confronting the highly public crises that seemed to afflict so many presidents, not so much. I plunged in, trading security for possibility.

I like being president well enough. As a gregarious person, the social aspects of the presidency were not hard for me. I enjoyed the public speaking and ceremonial events. I liked meeting friends of the university, old and new. The ceaseless travel introduced me to many people I would not meet otherwise. 

But doing presidential work was satisfying in a different way, for it involved collaborating with colleagues to perform the work behind the scenes to sustain the institution. I grew to respect and relish the work that each member of the president’s cabinet performed. I had come up through the ranks as a humanities faculty member and thus had little understanding of what business and finance involved. I had long been a sports fan but had no idea of the complexities the athletics director faced. I had prided myself on keeping up with the latest advances in computing but had not glimpsed what was involved in maintaining information technology for a complex institution. I had lived much of my career in libraries but did not comprehend the immense labor that went on behind the scenes. 

I had taught thousands of students but had not considered what it took to persuade them to choose our school from among hundreds of other opportunities. I had helped individual students through hard times but did not appreciate the skills demanded of those who dealt with students in times of crisis, far beyond the classroom or faculty office. I had not considered the courage required of a chaplain who confronted issues of loss and death on a daily basis. The range of legal issues faced by a general counsel was daunting, and so were the challenges of building and managing an endowment on which thousands of people depended.

I was never the expert in our cabinet meetings. There was always someone who knew more about any particular topic than I did. My job was to see the totality of the institution in ways that no one else could. In the course of a day, I would meet a 17-year-old prospective student in the morning and an 88-year-old alum in the afternoon. I would meet with architects with thrilling plans and then with faculty concerned that they would lose a space crucial to their work. I would speak to alumni groups and community members concerned about some new direction the university was considering. My job was to orchestrate these disparate activities into institutional progress. 

The work often held little glamour or visibility. A large part of each day involved listening to ideas good and bad, deflecting or advancing requests in polite ways that did not waste an opportunity nor insult people, that did not establish an unwise precedent or commit the university to an investment of money or good will that precluded better uses of each. The most consequential work was often seen by only a single person and had no immediate result. 

I discovered that a problem avoided was worth two problem solved, that a quiet conversation without obvious consequence might end up mattering more in the long run than a large public meeting. I found that the loudest people were not always the most influential, the most friendly not always the most sincere. Ending someone’s relationship to the university with courtesy but firmness was hard but necessary, as was resisting trustees accustomed to having their way.

The satisfactions proved to be the opposite of what I had imagined the presidency would involve. The successes came less from exerting bold authority than from using subtle influence. The advances often unfolded over years, long after my term had ended, rather than in exciting moments of triumph. Kindness and modesty proved more powerful than any overt exercise of power.

The attractions of being president were seductive. It was fun being the center of attention. It was tempting to believe that I was as witty, smart, or important as people pretended. But as one reception, speech, and ceremony followed another, the symbolic role of the job became less fulfilling. Even the most inspiring line grew dull with constant repetition. 

I decided to end my term not because I was tired of the long hours behind the scenes, of doing the work of president. Instead, it was being president, of living on a perpetual stage, that seemed to have run its course. A new person could bring fresh energy and inspiration. For my part, I was happy to cede the stage to the next temporary star, taking satisfaction in the work I had done with friends and colleagues.