I vividly recall the first time I ever interacted with a professional accreditation system. I was in graduate school studying for my Ph.D., and my program was being visited by members of the professional association that accredited my discipline. All students were expected to be on campus to meet with the site visitors in subgroups according to our cohort. Naturally, we were anxious about this interview. We didn’t know what questions to expect, how our answers would be interpreted, or what information the team might share with our faculty or administrators.
The site visitor asked about quality of instruction and advising, and then came the question that is cemented in my memory: “How does your program address lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer issues?” Suddenly I felt trapped. How should I respond? I debated with myself: “Do I answer that question honestly, or do I paint an overly positive picture?” For students at most other institutions, this wouldn’t have been a dilemma. But my doctoral program was embedded in a religious university, one explicitly mandating that students, staff, and faculty affirm only heterosexual relationships and identities as acceptable. It was common knowledge that violations could lead to dismissal.
To answer honestly, I would have had to reveal that while many of my professors were wonderful and completely respectful of LGBTQ people, not everyone else on campus was. I’d have to tell the site visitor that the university had hosted chapel talks featuring “ex-gay” speakers who explained that they identified as heterosexual Christians and implied that this was the one true path for all queer persons. I’d need to report that I frequently heard disparaging remarks about LGBTQ people from fellow students and that I kept my own sexuality as a questioning gay man private out of fear of being ostracized or dismissed. I also worried that answering the question honestly and fully would be tantamount to outing myself to my peers.
So I took the easy way out — I shared only positive experiences. I left everything else unsaid. Given the enormous uncertainties and risks associated with answering it truthfully, I do not regret that decision. But neither can I forget it.
Nearly 15 years later, I found myself in an eerily similar situation at a different institution, but this time as a faculty member. It was our program’s professional accreditation review, which meant that faculty members would be meeting in small groups with the accrediting association’s site visitors. Most of what the site visitors asked was run of the mill, but then came an astute question from one visitor: “Why is your faculty and staff turnover rate so high?” I sat and listened as each of my colleagues responded in a way that, at best, substantially downplayed problems or, at worst, altered the facts about why so many people had left or been fired.
I couldn’t blame my colleagues — I understood the fear associated with speaking truthfully, especially in an institution without a tenure system. We’d all watched our most outspoken colleagues lose their jobs or be called in for “supervisory meetings.” We knew what happened to faculty members who didn’t always agree with the administration.
Then it came my turn to answer. Again, I was confronted with the same question I’d encountered as a graduate student: “Do I answer truthfully or gloss over the problems?” This time I decided to tell the whole truth. I explained that faculty and staff were constantly afraid of retaliation for speaking out about social injustice on our own campus, that criticizing the administration or department leadership was likely to be used against you, and that faculty and staff were expected to do more each year with diminishing resources.
I spoke my truth. It was freeing but also frightening. I knew my report would probably be leaked, linked directly to me, and have consequences. And all those things happened. Still, I do not regret my decision.
I have discovered over the years that I am not alone in my misgivings about accreditation reviews. Many students, staff, and faculty feel paralyzed when asked crucial questions by accreditation site visitors, almost always in front of their peers and with the knowledge that their responses will very likely be ascribed to them. This state of affairs creates an untenable situation in which the only way to provide honest and negative information to site visitors is to risk such consequences as criticism for not being a “team player,” ostracism by peers, or even loss of one’s position or program dismissal.
To this day, my professional accrediting association (along with many others) does not allow students, faculty, or staff to provide feedback that is anonymous or confidential. The system purportedly relies on honesty, but actually it rewards institutions that discourage or even punish honest reporting and puts students, staff, and faculty who openly share negative information at risk for retaliation.
Individuals from marginalized backgrounds are especially vulnerable in these situations. Imagine a transgender student being asked to speak about gender-based discrimination in front of cisgender peers — or a faculty member from a racial-minority group being asked about experiences of racism on campus in front of mostly white peers, some of whom may not be supportive. Understandably, most students, faculty, and staff would rather not share this type of feedback in front of peers — or even privately if they believed their reports would be ascribed to them. They simply wouldn’t feel safe.
An accreditation system in which people don’t feel comfortable being honest with site visitors and accreditors severely undermines the entire accreditation enterprise. How is it possible for an accreditor to make an informed decision when it has only a partial picture of the program or university, and when the information it does have may be slanted in a favorable light?
This problem could be remedied if accreditors took some practical steps. First, allow students and staff to submit anonymous complaints. Some accreditors (for example, the Western Association of Schools and Colleges) already have such a system in place. Next, during site visits and annual accreditation surveys, allow students and staff to submit their responses online, directly to the accreditor (rather than to their program), via web-based surveys in which the data can be aggregated but not identified with any individual. Direct responses would also prevent data manipulation by programs, since the accreditor, not the program, would be the one analyzing the responses. Finally, accreditors need to establish clear whistle-blower protections that are visible to all and easily enforceable.
Programs, students, faculty and staff members, and accreditors will all benefit when individuals feel safe enough to honestly report issues and concerns. Only then can accreditors and programs have an opportunity to address shortcomings and ensure the highest-quality educational experience.
Joshua Wolff is a clinical psychologist in the Family Institute at Northwestern University.
