Why I Discovered My University’s Mission Falls Short: A Personal Reflection

As the chair of the philosophy department at the University of Utah, I’ve spent over three decades at this university, shaping students’ skills in reading, writing, and reasoning. I’ve always felt proud of the role I play in helping them grow. But this year, my pride has faded, replaced by a deep sense of grief and shame.

This was my first year as department chair, and it started with significant upheaval. In January 2024, the State Legislature passed an anti-DEI bill. This law banned any mention of diversity, equity, and inclusion on campus, leading to the closure of vital resources like the Women’s Resource Center and the Black Cultural Center. It felt like a devastating blow to our community.

Moreover, the state introduced a “bathroom bill,” mandating that transgender students use facilities that align with their sex assigned at birth. They also banned Pride flags in public spaces—including faculty offices—and required that syllabi be posted in a searchable database. The administration has interpreted these measures as a mandate limiting what we can discuss publicly.

This year’s changes didn’t stop there. The state reduced funding for universities by 10%, totaling about $60.5 million. Consequently, many programs fell victim to budget cuts, including our beloved History and Philosophy of Science major. This program was not just a course; it was a pathway for many students pursuing careers in STEM fields and healthcare. Stripping it away diminishes opportunities for our future leaders.

As if that weren’t enough, the upper administration rolled out numerous changes at a breakneck pace. They revamped our advising system and reorganized colleges under a new “shared services” model. Amid this chaos, my workload has expanded tremendously. Forget about reading philosophy; I barely have time to breathe.

While all this was happening, my youngest child, who identifies as queer, applied to the University of Utah. He got into the Honors College and received a scholarship, but how can I, as a parent, feel comfortable sending him to a place where he may face hostility or exclusion? This situation has forced me to consider out-of-state tuition, which adds to my stress.

Recently, the university president announced that returned missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints could earn up to 12 college credits for their service. This decision struck me as deeply hypocritical. While LGBTQ+ students lack safe spaces on campus, returned missionaries get a substantial academic nod. It reveals a troubling priority system at the university.

As I prepare to say goodbye to a valued colleague at a retirement party, I can’t help but feel a mix of emotions. My career hasn’t turned out as I envisioned. Although I’ve dedicated my life to teaching and mentoring students, it may be time for me to consider my own exit. Yet, with four years of out-of-state tuition looming, it’s not a feasible option.

In the evolving educational landscape of Utah, these challenges reflect a larger struggle in academia: finding balance between institutional goals and student well-being. Recent studies suggest that campuses fostering inclusion tend to see higher student satisfaction and success rates. As leaders push for quantifiable metrics, we must remember the human stories behind these numbers. The future of education depends on supporting all students, not just a select few.

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