Jeffrey Alan Johnson of Utah Valley University is the most thoughtful and brilliant practitioner of institutional research I have read in years. This essay touches on issues of data and information that few people really think about. His discussion of the translation regime process of data systems is spot-on.

In this current essay he says:

Data scientists do not often think about our practices as political in nature. But all of the work required to represent some reality in a data system makes data inherently political. Especially as data-driven decisions become norms—even mandates—data scientists are creating the abstract world in which decisions taken place before being implemented in the real world.

The immediate sense in which data translation is political is that the choices made in translating data allocate political power in the real world, not just in the data set. Those who create the translation regime determine which groups do and do not exist, what concepts are available to pursue claims on institutions, which needs can be legitimized and which can be dismissed. The ability to make one’s self, one’s group, and one’s interests legible to the state, organizations, or other individuals is increasingly determined by where one stands in the data.

This is all absolutely true.

But there is another truth. The politics of information are such that those of us in government who oversee large data systems, as I do, often have to be mindful of the potential for misuse and abuse. We also try to focus on what the state (in my case) needs to know.

Over a decade ago, We made two decisions – allow “unknown/unreported/unspecified” as an option for gender reporting to us, and a second decision to go no further than that. We discussed a variety of other options at length and came to the conclusion that the state did not need to know. We felt, given some of the pressures we experienced in 2002 and even 2003, and the political climate, the time was not right to collect something by name and SSN that was not needed. We also kind of felt that it was really none of our business.

Virginia has very strong privacy laws, stronger than FERPA.  But laws can be changed. They do so all the time. I’ve written enough law to be oh-so-very aware of this. I can’t reveal what I don’t know, what I don’t collect, which means I can’t cause certain groups of people to be targeted.

For now, it is kind of a trade-off between the power of being noticed and the comfort of not being able to be targeted.

The power to define is tremendous. For about 20 years in the institutional research profession I have defined my role as “teaching people how to count to one.” This is the essence of the translation regime because the distance between zero and one philosophically orders of magnitude greater than the distance between one and two. Defining what you count, who you count, is everything.

Knowing when to change the definition of one is understanding the politics of information and expressing a readiness to deal with consequences. Every decision I make about defining how to count to one ripples down to nearly 80 institutions and often causes them to change policies. Each decision also begs the question, “Why? Why does the state need to know this and what are you going to do with the information?” Bernard Fryshman is a master of asking these questions of USED.

In my normal mode of obstructing bureaucratic wastes of my time, I challenged the state IT agency over and over again about some of the information they were requesting for the IT strategic plan.

“Why do you need this?”
“We need to know scope of things so we can manage it.”
“Are you going to use it to recommend more IT funding for my agency?”
“No, we don’t do that.”
“What does manage mean – are you going to cut my budget?”
“Why no, we just need to know so we can manage it, to control it.”
“If you aren’t going to add to my budget, or maintain the funding I need to provide the services you mandate, you can only cut my budget, right?”
“Uhhhh…”

The politics of information matter. A sensitivity to upstream demand and control is often needed. The decisions about who and what to count are a balancing act.

I remember standing on top of four feet (or more) of densely packed snow one night in northern Alaska. We were in a large circle under the stars and Northern Lights listening to our company commander explaining how to conduct ourselves during the next day’s inspection by the US Army Chief of Staff.

“Before we leave on the march out tomorrow, General Wickham will walk down the line. He may speak to you, ask you questions. These will not be hard questions. He is not going to ask you the square root of three….”

“1.732 , sir,” I said.

Needless to say, he was not amused. He rarely was ever amused by me. This seemed to be a pattern among Army officers. Well, all officers that I encountered.

In the generally misspent days of my youth, I often thought certain pieces of information would be of use later in life. The square root of the first five ordinal numbers, for example. The densities of certain materials such as gold and lead (1204 lbs and 708lbs per cubic foot, respectively).

This becomes an issue when I read a book, or watch a movie (and movies are generally worse), and gold gets involved. It’s bad enough that at the end of The Hobbit, Bilbo settles on a small chest of gold and another of silver, being as a much as pony would carry.  Small is relative term and ponies can carry a respectable load, of say a 150lbs, and so I can see that in my mind as reasonable. But in the third movie that is based on a story that is similar to that in The Hobbit, Bilbo is carrying what is allegedly a  chest of gold under his arm. Without much effort – and thus without much gold. And don’t even get me started on the gold-dipped dragon, there just ain’t that much magic in the world.

And yes, I start trying to estimate the surface area of Smaug and how much gold might be involved. I don’t get too far fortunately because it is just so silly.

Kelly’s Heroes is one of my favorite World War II movies. I still get amused at the idea of stealing 14,000 gold bars. Since the standard gold bar weighs 12.4 kg or 27.3 lbs, the total haul weighs in at about 190 tons. Any idea how many Deuce-and-a-halfs (2.5 tons) trucks would have been needed to haul all that gold away?

Just one, if it makes 77 trips.

And by the way, if stored perfectly efficiently as cubic foot blocks of gold with no space between blocks, we are looking at a stack of 317 blocks, say a stack of 10 on each side, three complete layers high with a fourth started. When stored in wooden crates at a weight that a single man could lift – six bars to a box – we need over 2300 boxes that take up a lot more room.

This is why I prefer to watch movies at home – I bother fewer people when I share my loss of suspension of disbelief.

What’s worse is visiting an art museum with me. Unless you like laughing inappropriately in public.

A musical. In seven one-year acts.

The show opens in the middle of a university hiring committee review of applications. The formidable designee of the Provost, a tin-pot departmental dictator (chair) with delusions of grandeur of Napoleonic proportions, Zach and his assistant chair Larry put the applicants through their paces. Every new PhD is desperate for work (“I Hope I Get It“) {God, I hope I get it, God, I need this job]. After the three rounds of cuts, 17 applicants remain. Zach tells them he is looking for a strong research chorus of eight researchers that occasionally teach. He wants to learn more about them, and asks each prospect to introduce themselves. With reluctance, these new graduates reveal their pasts. The stories generally progress chronologically from early life experiences through adulthood to the end of a career.

The first candidate, Mike, explains that he is the youngest of 12 children. He recalls his first experience with research, watching his sister’s book report when he was a pre-schooler (“I Can Do That“). Mike took her place one day when she refused to go to class—and he stayed. Bobby tries to hide the unhappiness of his childhood by making jokes. As he speaks, the other candidate have misgivings about this strange audition process and debate what they should reveal to Zach (“And …”), but since they all need the job, the session continues.

Zach is angered when he feels that the streetwise Sheila is not taking the audition seriously. Opening up, she reveals that her mother married at a young age and her father neither loved nor cared for them. When she was six, she realized that academics provided relief from her unhappy family life (“At the Library“), as did Bebe and Maggie. The scatter-brained Kristine is tone-deaf to nuance, and her lament that she could never “Get it!” is interrupted by her husband Al finishing her phrases in syncopated rhythm.

Mark, the youngest of the candidates, a sociologist, relates his first experiences with pictures of the female anatomy and his first wet dream, while the other dancers share memories of adolescence (“Hello Twelve, Hello Thirteen, Hello Love“). The 4’10” Connie laments the problems of being short, and Diana recollects her horrible high school chemistry class (“Nothing“). Don remembers his first job at a nightclub and Judy reflects on her problematic childhood while some of the applicant stalk about their opinion of their parents (“Mother“). Then, Greg speaks about his discovery of his homosexuality and Richie recounts how he nearly became a kindergarten teacher (“Gimme the Ball“). Finally, the newly buxom Val explains that talent alone doesn’t count for everything with thesis directors, and silicone and plastic surgery can really help (“Research: Ten; Looks: Three [Tits and Ass]“).

The candidates go downstairs to develop three-minute presentations for the next section of the audition, but Cassie stays onstage to talk to Zach. She is a veteran adjunct instructor who has had some notable successes as a students. They have a history together: Zach had hired her as an adjunct previously, and they had lived together for several years. Zach tells Cassie that she is too good for the the positions he has and shouldn’t be with this group. But she hasn’t been able to find a tenure-track job and is willing to “come home” to the department where she can at least express her passion for research (“The Music and the Coffee“). Zach sends her downstairs to prepare a presentation.

Zach calls Paul on stage, and he emotionally relives his childhood and high school experience, his early career in a drag act, coming to terms with his manhood and his homosexuality, and his parents’ ultimate reaction to finding out about his lifestyle. Paul breaks down and is comforted by Zach who usually has no heart for anything except the latest grant recipient.

During a tap sequence, Paul falls off-stage and injures his knee that recently underwent surgery. After Paul is carried off to the hospital, all the candidates stand in disbelief, realizing that their careers can also end in an instant and spent as a roaming adjunct. Zach asks the remaining dancers what they will do when they can no longer do research. Led by Diana, they reply that whatever happens, they will be free of regret (“What I Did for Love“). The final eight assistant professors are selected: Mike, Cassie, Bobby, Judy, Richie, Val, Mark, and Diana.

At the end of the show, three of the positions are cut from the budget, two offers are withdrawn because of outrage generated on social media for comments made as graduate students. The three remaining new hires had nice little careers and always encouraged the adjuncts they met to work harder and the dream would happen for them, too.

If anyone would like to produce this for stage, please know that most of the music I hear in my head for this driven by open-back banjo and an electric bass.

Juliet (Romeo’s love) spaketh thus: ‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name!  What’s in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, And for that name which is no part of thee take all myself.

one day I was listening to a college president drone on.

that, in and of itself, is not unusual. I spend lots of time with college presidents, probably more than I would like.

he began talking about the role of a college education. “Sure, for some students it is about a job or career. But traditionally, college is really about preparing citizens.”

Oh, shit.

maybe it was because the night before I had let Starship Troopers run in the background and the discussion of the difference between citizens and civilians.

and then thinking about the traditions of college education that seemed to exclude an awful lot of non-white, non-male people

and I started thinking about the really, super privileged background from which he spoke

and I wasn’t happy. he thought he was making good, classical argument about the value of higher education.

I started thinking about Henry Gibson in the Blues Brothers.

I was laughing in sorrow. and anger. I’ve been fortunate. I am fortunate. and I know it.

not sure I would have done as well myself coming from a less-privileged background.

The long saga that began (kinda) in February is done (it actually began a year ago with the first temporary ramp, and then replaced with the huge sprawling ramp). All the bathrooms in the house are fully accessible by my wife. That’s not to say they are all wheelchair accessible as that would have been major reconstruction of the house to make the master bath wheelchair accessible. We could have taken the door to 36″ instead of a mere 32″, but since the bedroom door is only 32″ and widening it is simply not feasible, we simply made sure that any of her three walkers could get through the door. Making the first floor bath accessible meant giving up the closet in the entryway and the utility closet under the stairs. It also meant re-positioning the door to the front of the house instead of from the kitchen (which is an improvement). This bathroom is wheelchair accessible. Technically the shared bathroom upstairs is wheelchair accessible…as long as the wheelchair is already upstairs.

Remember those horrid water lines made of Flowguard Gold cpvc that would break without effort? All replaced. All throughout the house. One less thing to worry about for awhile.

The stair-lift is also installed. A day late…actually a week late. After a series of errors for which no one seemed willing to take ownership, the lift was installed the day AFTER my wife was sent home from the nursing home after two weeks of rehab and very minimal care following her first total knee replacement. Somehow she found the strength within herself to make it up the stairs to the bedroom. Of course, three weeks in hospital and nursing home can inspire a tremendous will to sleep in one’s own bed. I know this from my own experience.

But the dust is settling and her recovery from surgery continues.  I still worry about making the backyard more easily accessible, but that can wait. It is simply a longish way around. That unfortunately is the nature of accessibility. Sometimes I wonder how much the ADA as it is currently written, really helps. Frequently the ramps at movie theaters and restaurants seem to be designed as an afterthought. Worse yet, they seem designed only to meet the requirement of one inch of rise per linear foot. Little thought goes into the fact that these long, gradual paths, that tend to be traversed slowly by the people they are intended to accommodate are fully exposed to the weather. Just as importantly, it is worth remembering that not all those with disabilities needing this pathways are in wheelchairs and not all wheels are large. Take a look at some of the mobility devices people are using these days, with both permanent and temporary disabilities.

Think also about your home. Is it accessible in case you or a family member has a surgery affecting mobility? Can your home be visited by anyone or only the able?

I see our home in a whole new light these days. (Truth to tell, I have also replaced most of those.) There are design choices that should never have been made. They simply represent trying to combine function with lowest cost to meet code requirements. Probably this is not a good way to build.

How long does it take to change directions? If you push towards a given goal for 22 months, against a lot of expert advice, what exactly does it take to switch directions?

This week, USED announced that #PIRS would have no ratings. (Might note that they did not say there wouldn’t be rankings.)  Instead:

Taking into account that feedback, and to advance the overarching goals set by the President, later this summer we plan to release new, easy-to-use tools that will provide students with more data than ever before to compare college costs and outcomes. This college ratings tool will take a more consumer-driven approach than some have expected, providing information to help students to reach their own conclusions about a college’s value. And as part of this release, we will also provide open data to researchers, institutions and the higher education community to help others benchmark institutional performance.

This is probably a smart move. I never thought the ratings idea itself was a good idea. Government does not belong in the ratings business, other than in ways that are very much program-specific. You can read about my thoughts here and a bunch of places on this blog. One of things I have suggested is that my cynical nature causes me to wonder if “PIRS is simply a way to justify GE for all programs as a reasonable compromise.” With that in the back of my mind, and while linking to this article I noticed the posting date- June 24, 2015 – 3:00 am.

This is what we learned from used today. PIRS will be rating system without ratings. This is probably a good thing as I have never felt the original proposal was a proper role for government. I do think it is appropriate to rate colleges based on Title IV participation. This would be quite simple to do as it already exists and merely needs tweaking.

Title IV Eligible, No Conditions

Title IV Eligible, Conditional (USED management or Accreditor actions)

Title IV Ineligible, Failed to Maintain Standards

Title IV – Non-participant

I am pretty sure the ratings would have captured about the same concepts, perhaps adding an additional top category to try and distinguish most-favored from less-favored.

Pretty simple, huh?

The cloud hid the moon, and as Mowgli wondered what would come next he heard Bagheera’s light feet on the terrace. The Black Panther had raced up the slope almost without a sound, and was striking—he knew better than to waste time in biting—right and left among the monkeys, who were seated round Mowgli in circles fifty and sixty deep. There was a howl of fright and rage, and then as Bagheera tripped on the rolling, kicking bodies beneath him, a monkey shouted: “There is only one here! Kill him! Kill!” A scuffling mass of monkeys, biting, scratching, tearing, and pulling, closed over Bagheera, while five or six laid hold of Mowgli, dragged him up the wall of the summer-house, and pushed him through the hole of the broken dome. A man-trained boy would have been badly bruised, for the fall was a good ten feet, but Mowgli fell as Baloo had taught him to fall, and landed light.

“Stay there,” shouted the monkeys, “till we have killed thy friend. Later we will play with thee, if the Poison People leave thee alive.”

“We be of one blood, ye and I,” said Mowgli, quickly giving the Snake’s Call. He could hear rustling and hissing in the rubbish all round him, and gave the Call a second time to make sure.

“Down hoods all,” said half a dozen low voices. Every old ruin in India becomes sooner or later a dwelling-place of snakes, and the old summer-house was alive with cobras. “Stand still, Little Brother, lest thy feet do us harm.”

Mowgli stood as quietly as he could, peering through the openwork and listening to the furious din of the fight round the Black Panther—the yells and chatterings and scufflings, and Bagheera’s deep, hoarse cough as he backed and bucked and twisted and plunged under the heaps of his enemies. For the first time since he was born, Bagheera was fighting for his life.

…

“I am not sure that they have not pulled me into a hundred little bearlings,” said Baloo, gravely shaking one leg after the other. “Wow! I am sore. Kaa, we owe thee, I think, our lives—Bagheera and I.”

“No matter. Where is the manling?”

“Here, in a trap. I cannot climb out,” cried Mowgli. The curve of the broken dome was above his head.

“Take him away. He dances like Mao, the Peacock. He will crush our young,” said the cobras inside.

“Hah!” said Kaa, with a chuckle, “he has friends everywhere, this manling. Stand back, Manling; and hide you, O Poison People. I break down the wall.”

…

“So this is the manling,” said Kaa. “Very soft is his skin, and he is not so unlike the Bandar-log. Have a care, Manling, that I do not mistake thee for a monkey some twilight when I have newly changed my coat.”

“We be of one blood, thou and I,” Mowgli answered. “I take my life from thee, to-night. My kill shall be thy kill if ever thou art hungry, O Kaa.”

“All thanks, Little Brother,” said Kaa, though his eyes twinkled. “And what may so bold a hunter kill? I ask that I may follow when next he goes abroad.”

“I kill nothing,—I am too little,—but I drive goats toward such as can use them. When thou art empty come to me and see if I speak the truth. I have some skill in these [he held out his hands], and if ever thou art in a trap, I may pay the debt which I owe to thee, to Bagheera, and to Baloo, here. Good hunting to ye all, my masters.”

“Well said,” growled Baloo, for Mowgli had returned thanks very prettily. The python dropped his head lightly for a minute on Mowgli’s shoulder. “A brave heart and a courteous tongue,” said he. “They shall carry thee far through the jungle, Manling. But now go hence quickly with thy friends. Go and sleep, for the moon sets, and what follows it is not well that thou shouldst see.”

…

“True; it is true,” said Mowgli, sorrowfully. “I am an evil man-cub, and my stomach is sad in me.”

“Mf! What says the Law of the Jungle, Baloo?”

Baloo did not wish to bring Mowgli into any more trouble, but he could not tamper with the Law, so he mumbled, “Sorrow never stays punishment. But remember, Bagheera, he is very little.”

“I will remember; but he has done mischief; and blows must be dealt now. Mowgli, hast thou anything to say?”

“Nothing. I did wrong. Baloo and thou art wounded. It is just.”

Bagheera gave him half a dozen love-taps; from a panther’s point of view they would hardly have waked one of his own cubs, but for a seven year-old boy they amounted to as severe a beating as you could wish to avoid. When it was all over Mowgli sneezed, and picked himself up without a word.

“Now,” said Bagheera, “jump on my back, Little Brother, and we will go home.”

One of the beauties of Jungle Law is that punishment settles all scores. There is no nagging afterward.

-Rudyard Kipling, The First Jungle Book, “Kaa’s Hunting”