Atlas Shrugged. Me Too.

How Ayn Rand represents part of the problem in higher ed.

From Rachel Toor

For two weeks, I read not a word of fiction, a record for someone who weekly gobbles handfuls of books.

But just before I left for Algiers (not easy but fascinating) and then Italy (beautiful and delicious), I read a novel I was certain I wouldn’t like.

I tend not to have violent emotional reactions to books. If I’m bored or unimpressed, I stop reading without guilt. For me, characters don’t have to be likable, merely interesting, and I can read over bad prose if it’s in service of a page-turning plot. I know how hard it is to write a book and refuse to review those I didn’t like.

A few years ago, when everyone was raving about a Dickensian novel by a writer I much admire, I skipped it. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be to my taste. Eventually I gave in, just in case I was wrong. I wasn’t. The work, finely crafted and beautifully written, was a triumph in many ways—just not my cup of flat diet A&W root beer. De gustibus, baby.

When I worked in admissions at Duke, I read one zillion essays about books that had changed the lives of teenagers. I was familiar with most of them. Except those by Ayn Rand.

Recently, after a conversation with a president who was interrogating (with the help of an AI agent) his early infatuation with Rand, I took the plunge and read The Fountainhead. Well, I listened to an abridged version during runs—and came home each time needing a shower. Not from sweating.

Did it surprise me that this silly, bloated book is much beloved by those too young to rent a car? Not at all. I was smitten with Nietzsche at that age and developed a mad crush on Milton’s Satan. You’re not the boss of me is the mantra of every precocious student. Eager readers like to think they’re getting big ideas, especially when wrapped up in a juicy plot, complete with creepy rape fantasies and Mr. Darcy–like heroes who never evolve into men readers would want to marry.

So, sure, it was easy to understand why The Fountainhead is so appealing to chest-thumping dudes. But given where we are today, who is in power, and what they seem to believe, the experience gave me the shivers.

There are a whole lot of Randy guys running the show who exalt the heroic individual above all else—the up-by-the-bootstraps striver, the very stable genius, the “I” unencumbered by the “we.” In Randland, compromise is weakness, collaboration is for the mediocre, and institutions exist mainly to be transcended.

But here’s why I’m writing about this now. I suspect we can find echoes of this creed all over higher ed, where faculty, craven power-hungry staff members, and presidents (who are not Sandbox readers) cling to personal agendas with the fervor of an Objectivist clutching a dog-eared paperback.

And so do institutions. Just as the president writing this week bemoans the me-me-me mindset of individuals, I keep thinking about how hard it is for organizations to let go of the tragic flaw of believing they’re all beautiful and unique snowflakes. Trouble is, in higher ed, the temperature’s rising—and a lot of those snowflakes are in danger of melting.

The writer is a current president.

One of the biggest challenges facing every institution is this: What do the people who work here truly believe in?

I’d love to survey folks across higher ed and ask, “Why did you choose this field as a career?” I suspect we’d hear a lot of “I wanted to do my own research,” or “I wanted to pursue the topics that interest me.” That’s fine—but it hints at what I see as one of higher ed’s persistent problems: Me-ism.

Another question worth asking: “Why did you choose the institution(s) where you’ve worked?” We know the honest answer for many would be It was the only job I got. Fair enough. But how many would say, sincerely, “I chose this place because its mission aligns with my values”?

When the chain of loyalty goes: personal agenda → discipline → students → institution, it’s going to be really hard to make change stick. Instead, we’ll hear, “Don’t cut my program,” “Don’t touch my budget,” and so on.

But change is necessary. Urgently.

A fortune cookie once instructed me that “Everyone wants progress, but no one wants change.” It’s true. The status quo feels familiar. It may even feel safe. But meaningful change will always make someone uncomfortable.

Back when I worked in ~~the real world~~ business, I learned this rule of thirds: In any change effort, one-third of people are open to it, one-third are resistant, and one-third are actively opposed. That last group? They’re a force to be reckoned with.

The real transformation began at my institution when we took seriously the writing of a mission statement. Yes, really. I used to be a cynic, too, about mission statements until we changed ours, and it changed the institution.

At some point in the past, previous well-meaning leaders had created a statement that attempted to capture everything significant that had ever been said by board members for decades. It was 50 words long and not a single person could tell you what it was if asked. Oh, they might get a few words right, but nobody could repeat it verbatim—especially students.

Our mission statement is now 15 words, and everyone knows it—especially our students. Oh, it was introduced with food and fanfare, but it has stuck. We refer to it often. It’s in every syllabus. It gets discussed in meetings regularly. It guides our decision-making. It represents how we come together as a community, not just a bunch of individuals.

The Sandbox

Not your typical weekly newsletter. This is a space where presidents and chancellors can say what they really think without fear. Everyone is welcome to read, but only those who have been in the top job can submit to us. The Sandbox, by Rachel Toor, is an exclusive benefit of our paid Insider membership program.

This resource is available only to Insider members

Atlas Shrugged. Me Too.

The Sandbox

If you want to get this newsletter, please become a member.

Sign up for a free account or log in.