Rogers gave a brief introduction, then sat down as his address, taped early last week at the University of Nevada, Reno, played on two theater-sized screens in a Four Seasons conference room. Part of his speech was a glass-half-full assessment, noting historic collaborations among all eight state institutions, cross-pollination between higher ed and secondary ed (dual-credit courses, university professors teaching in high schools, building a lab school at Nevada State College) and increasing admissions standards.
"The state of the system is good," Rogers said. He then proceeded to paint a picture of a system not as good as it's cracked up to be.
To wit: "We have a road map to get there [world-class education], but much of the way is uphill." "No state legislature has ever built a great university." "The ball is solely in the hands of the wealthy to put us on a level with the best in the world." Rogers' road map seemed to be conflating areas that are being shored up with strengths. That newfound we're-all-in-this-together-ness of the college presidents will get tested come the legislative session, when lawmakers dole out funding. And to lay the job of building a world-class educational infrastructure solely at the feet of the wealthy is to mistakenly assume that money can solve all problems. More money means increased research funding, more scholarships and more workforce development programs to give people real-world experience—good things, all. But Rogers' address missed this vital point: money doesn't mean transformed mind-sets. It doesn't mean that kids in the rurals and those in urban areas will now view college as the passport to better lives. (So long as there are mines and casinos, a college degree won't be a necessity.) Parents must be convinced of higher education's merits. Lawmakers and business folks, too. The public must see higher education as a part of the culture, the university as a vital community cog.
Bookended by lame jokes at the beginning and philosophizing about changing the "character of people" at the end, Rulffes' address might've played better had it been taped. Not that it was bad. Rulffes isn't a closet curmudgeon like Rogers, who, by dint of his wealth, power and philanthropy can shoot from the hip and emerge relatively unscathed. But he's less stentorian, his arguments less persuasive.
When he recited the numbers that comprise the Clark County School District—more than 300,000 students from 138 countries who speak 92 languages; classes filled with students who are of ethnic minorities, poor, behaviorally challenged, learning-disabled or struggle with English—it landed with a thud. You wanted him tell us something we didn't know. Even when he did—176 schools met federal adequate yearly improvement guidelines, up from 115, and the number of high-achieving schools rose from 19 to 31; Nevada students earned $101 million in scholarships last year; schools are incorporating collegiate-level curricula in math and science—the information wasn't as revelatory as one might have hoped.
Rulffes missed a golden opportunity to offer context to the school district's plight. Along with an attitude shift on the importance of public schools, there needs to be a radical rethinking on how public education is delivered. There's no guarantee that Education First, which mandates funding schools before other parts of government, will work as intended. As Washoe County grows, it's going to be a natural competitor with the Clark County School District, which has more than 70 percent of the state's student population. Growth hasn't paid for growth, which means unless lawmakers decide to get overly generous (don't bet on it) or businesses pony up more (doubtful) that something radical—like districts getting their own taxation authority—has to happen. If it doesn't, public education will remain trapped in a perpetual struggle to remain average, the proverbial hamster on the spinning wheel ...
... Maybe I should've given the speeches.