Faculty Senate Fiasco: A Political Primer

Before I ran for Faculty Senate at my university, I was a political naif, a greenhorn, a rube, a babe in the woods, a fish in a barrel, an easy mark, fresh meat, a political joke. You get the picture. Yes, I was a Mr. Smith in a small-scale, low-stakes metaphorical Washington, D.C. And I should have known better. I had heard my father, who once ran and lost a statewide campaign, repeatedly satirize campaign promises by saying, “If I am elected, my troubles will be over, but yours will go on as before.”

As soon as I announced my candidacy, a more-knowing colleague asked, “Why would you even want that job?” But I was seduced by the imagined sound of “Senator Spencer.” I would get respect, power, and prestige. I would be able to do good. I would think even more highly of myself than ever before. But I didn’t get what I expected. What I did get was an education, a doctoral degree if you will, in petty politics. And, believe me, all politics is petty.

After a year of service, I lost my first bid (by humbling self-nomination) to be Vice-President but later won the position in a special election. And I didn’t even have to self-nominate the second time because my wife, an alternate Senator filling in, nominated me. I had been in politics only a year and was already exploiting the corrupt benefits of nepotism. Thank you, Sweetheart.

I also learned a lot about a Senator’s ability to do good. At my university—hereinafter referred to as FU—as at many universities, the Faculty Senate’s actions are not binding. All we could do was make recommendations to university administration, which could then reject our suggestions without even giving a reason. But, first, motions had to win Faculty Senate approval.

The first motion I made as a new Senator was that FU adopt an Honor Code, the result of an hour-long meeting of the Senate’s academic subcommittee, which I chaired. I was sure that our lack of an Honor Code was a mere oversight. Who would oppose a code of ethical behavior, a pledge and a reminder to avoid cheating and corruption? But after I made the motion to the full Senate, it was torpedoed by a member of my own subcommittee who had missed our meeting. So I—as well as FU—was still without honor.

A second motion I made was that FU add plus grades as final grade options. I wanted to be able to reward students performing at the higher end of a grade category. When I proposed that this issue be added to the next meeting’s agenda, a Senator right behind me said, “That’s a bad idea. We have to hand calculate the GPA of all teacher education students.” I whipped around in my seat, gave her a “you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look” and instantly quashed this illogical opposition with a knockout retort: “Don’t you have a calculator?” It felt good to so quickly destroy such an absurd objection, and I was proud of my political reflexes—until the next meeting when this same Senator distributed a handout of “10 Reasons to Be Against Plus Grades.” “Wow! Ten reasons. That’s a lot,” I thought. “Ten! I should probably vote against this motion.” And, indeed, a majority did vote against it.

My worthy opponent was from the education department, and she had taken me to school, had taught me a lesson in political campaigning. She had taken me to the woodshed. She had beaten me like timpani drums, and I would have to live with the re-percussions. You get the picture. Maybe I should have been more polite to the education Senator, it occurred to me. Maybe I should have been more—what’s the word?—politic.

Both of these motions and many others failed to receive even Faculty Senate endorsement. My fellow Senators seemed to think all change was bad. Though I was raised in a Republican household and regarded myself as a conservative, I realized with horror one day that in the context of our Faculty Senate, I wasn’t just a liberal; I was a radical. I saw myself as a stately Walter Cronkite while my peers saw me as a shocking Howard Stern. I wasn’t Ronald Reagan; I was Ralph Nader. I wasn’t Booker T. Washington; I was Malcolm X.

As Senate Vice-President, I was sent to Washington D.C. to a national Faculty Senates conference entitled “Power and Influence.” Here I was told something I already knew—that Faculty Senates have no power or influence—and something I didn’t know—that these lacks are by design. Senates are deliberative bodies, constructed to be cautious, slow-moving, and immersed in procedure. What an epiphany! Legislative bodies are designed to be frustrating, exhausting time-wasters without power or influence. That way the rate of change is ensured to be a snail’s pace, turtle-like, glacial, as slow as molasses, as slow even as the U.S. post office. You get the picture. This way no one gets too uncomfortable or scared.

Actually, it’s not entirely true that elected representatives have no power. While they can’t put their ideas into effect, they do have the power to kill others’ ideas. And there’s a particular joy, a delicious schadenfreude in that. This means that in politics those who do not have any ideas are just as powerful as those who do.

So what did I get out of my two years as a politician? I got a firsthand education in political cynicism and an all-expense-paid vacation junket to Washington, D.C. And that ain’t bad.

(Photo credit: Andrew Bossi. Obtained from Wikimedia.)