Lessons From a President's Sabbatical

By Kathryn Mohrman

Do college presidents have sabbaticals in their contracts? Many negotiate such arrangements. Do presidents actually take sabbaticals? Very few.

As president of Colorado College, I am one of the lucky ones who did seize time away from campus. During the fall semester last year, I was a visiting professor of American studies at Sichuan Union University, in the provincial capital city of Chengdu. In my five months in China I taught wonderfully eager students in the College of Foreign Languages, traveled from Tibet to the Three Gorges to Beijing, studied the toughest language I've ever tackled, and took private lessons in Chinese brush painting. In other words, I immersed myself in Chinese culture.

When I negotiated a sabbatical in my initial contract, I thought that presidents needed renewal and refreshment just as faculty members do. So I asked for a leave on the same terms as our professors -- after seven years of service, I became entitled to a semester off at full pay. The expectation was that I do something productive with my leave, and not just sleep late and eat bonbons.

Eight years later, I was very grateful to the trustees who approved the idea originally and, more importantly, made it work when the time actually came for me to be away for a semester (more on the logistics later).

The benefits were many -- from a slower daily pace to enough mental distance, as well as physical distance, to see my job with new perspective. I was back in the classroom, developing relationships with students that have continued by e-mail since I returned home. In China, I was a student at a beginning level, a humbling reminder of what our own undergraduates face every semester when they confront new disciplines. I made friends among the faculty members and other Chinese I met serendipitously. I came home rested, excited about study-abroad experiences, eager to be back at Colorado College, but thinking ahead about other opportunities to explore new cultures.

Some of the challenges I faced there were obvious: eating with chopsticks, bargaining in the market, dealing with unheated classroom buildings at Sichuan University. But the most interesting challenges were more subtle.

One example was my openly stated goal of teaching my American-studies courses as much as possible like a seminar here would be taught, with readings, discussions, and papers comparable to those I would give American students. But, what standard should an instructor use for essays not written in the students' first language? Even after distributing a written handout on appropriate attribution of others' ideas, how do you deal with what at home would be plagiarism, but in China could be seen as honoring distinguished scholars? Or, when feeling frustrated by students who would not clearly state a position and defend it, how do you acknowledge that the "Chinese way" is to find compromise between extremes rather than boldly staking out one end of the argument?

My students learned a lot about American academic practices, but I learned just as much about the complexities of teaching students with fundamental values and assumptions different from my own. These insights are equally useful today when dealing with a diverse student population in the United States.

I also tried to be a thoughtful observer of life around me. I became fascinated by walls -- real and symbolic -- in China. A wall surrounds every school, from kindergarten to university. When I described a location at Sichuan Union University, the first thing I told the listener was whether it was inside or outside a wall. There were even walls within the university, including one surrounding the Foreign Experts Building where I lived. I was never quite sure if that wall was for our protection or to keep Chinese colleagues out.

The language wall was another significant challenge, but even more difficult was the information wall. I could buy the International Herald Tribune if I rode my bicycle to one of the major hotels downtown, but otherwise the only English-language newspaper was China Daily, published by the government. No CNN on television. I could connect to Yahoo.com or ABCnews.com, but never The New York Times Web site. My sabbatical encompassed the 2000 presidential election, so the lack of information was a blessing in some ways!

These reflections will be no surprise to Fulbright scholars or others who have lived abroad. While I have traveled a great deal, I had never before temporarily entered another society. I had dreamed of going to China for an extended period ever since I took an undergraduate course in Asian history in the 1960s; I seriously considered doing my Ph.D. in Chinese history before opting for a doctorate in public policy.

How did I make the sabbatical work? First, I had terrific support from the Board of Trustees. Although the timing was inconvenient for a lot of reasons -- a capital campaign being foremost -- the chairman of the board reiterated that I had earned this sabbatical. (Perhaps he was a bit envious as well?)

There was a lot of good-natured joking on campus that it took two men to replace me. The dean of the faculty (our academic vice president) served as acting president for internal affairs. And a former dean of the faculty, who is currently a distinguished professor of political science, served as acting president for external affairs, including fund raising. I am eternally grateful to both of them for taking on these additional responsibilities. The board chairman also spent more time on college business than he normally would. All worked together to keep the institution's affairs running smoothly.

My parting request was this: "Send me e-mail only with good news -- a large grant, a new baby, a Rhodes scholar. Otherwise, take care of it!" It would not have been good for the college, or for me, to try to manage things from the other side of the globe. And, in fact, I only received five or six items of college business -- one because I held the institutional memory on a promise, one because the U.S. Department of Education would not accept any signature other than mine on a document. We were successful on both ends in maintaining an appropriate separation.

My return home was not as big a culture shock as I had expected, perhaps because Chengdu is a city of three million people in which one can purchase almost any Western product.

But I had to re-enter the campus in more subtle ways. I needed to reassert myself as president without being too obvious about it; I think that went well. People were delighted to have me back (especially the two acting presidents!), but in my absence many colleagues had learned how to do many things without me. During the spring semester I found less reliance on me, fewer questions about routine business -- a positive outcome. And there had been a few unforeseen bumps on campus while I was away -- for example, the budget process had been more trying than anticipated. I got the sense that some people came to realize I did more behind the scenes to keep the college moving forward than they had imagined -- also a positive outcome.

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. Would I recommend that other presidents take the sabbaticals to which they are entitled? Absolutely. But some of the factors that made my time in China so successful may not be present on other campuses. There were no major disasters looming as I departed, so I wasn't leaving a crisis behind. The board and senior administrators all worked in cooperation, perhaps more than even I realized, to accommodate my absence. Not every institution is blessed with such collaborative spirit.

And I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity open to me. Before I left, I had wondered a bit if I would be disappointed because I had invested so much emotional energy in anticipation. Thanks to the wonderful people I met in China, and the great support I received at home, my sabbatical far exceeded my hopes.

Your sabbatical could do the same for you, but you'll never know if you don't take one.