At the end of my first semester as Vice President, I learned I had a duty I was not aware of. It turns out if students run out of appeals to return from academic suspension, their last chance is to reach out to me. I had roughly half a dozen students contact me in December and January desperately seeking to return to school. Our current college policy is you are on academic warning if your semester GPA is under 2.0. You are academically suspended a first time if you have two consecutive semesters under a 2.0 GPA, but that suspension can be appealed to a committee. The committee is full of great folks who look at the circumstances and work on a plan for a successful return if they can. Most appeals are granted, and the student returns with requirements they must meet. If they don't meet those requirements, the policy says they are suspended from school for a year with no opportunity to appeal. But there is a backdoor appeal (students are resourceful) and it involves reaching out to me. As I said, I had a few to review before spring term and I agonized over it. It brought up some memories, and more so it brought up concerns we weren't accomplishing what we meant to.
The memory is a story I had not thought about in a while. In 1991, I had transferred from UW-Madison to UW-LaCrosse. My Madison experience is a long story, but I left there with extraordinarily mixed results. I was academically eligible, but there were giant GPA swings, and switching between part-time and full-time status, and I had never spoken to an advisor or had anyone reach out to me about my odd record. But that is another story, and in 1991 I had transferred in search of a fresh start. I signed up for a full-time schedule, had a full-time job, and wanted to get my life in order, sincerely. But my demons resurfaced. I didn't have a name for it back then, but mostly I was struggling with a pretty serious anxiety disorder. Unfortunately, in those days, I thought I was just a procrastinator and lazy. Whatever it was, after about 6 weeks I stopped attending classes and went into avoidance and hiding, which was not a new behavior for me. Unsurprisingly, I got a 0.0 GPA for the term and over the Christmas break I got a letter. It said due to my academic performance, I was suspended from the college for the next 2 semesters... I'm guessing the letter said other things, but I don't remember them and that is the point. All I knew was I had failed, and I was in trouble. I'm guessing the letter probably had an appeal process, but I was never going to do that. I was ashamed, and I would have done anything to hide the truth from people I loved. This means there were probably wonderful staff at the college just waiting for me to come in so they could help me get on track, and I'm sure the policy was intended to do just that. Realistically, I was never going to come in. Instead let me explain how that first brush with policy started a series of events that defined most of the decade for me.
With my new suspension, I knew I needed to have a cover story. So, I quickly told my family I was unsure of my future and I needed to take "time off" from school to get my plan straight. It was plausible and felt like it might buy me time. But you don't know what you don't know. I had student loans, and apparently you must start paying those six months after you drop out; who knew? I didn't have any money (I worked 3rd shift at a fast food restaurant), so I needed another plan. Being broke sometimes steals your ability to make decisions which make sense to others. It's part of the context of being in crisis. My decision was to quickly enroll at a school up the road which was on a quarter system and could take me in March, staving off the student loan problem. Of course, I was still broke, and it would add miles to my commute, but between anxiety and financial difficulty the short-term decision was the one I made. I enrolled at the last minute, with no real financial plan and unsure how my suspension in one state impacted enrollment in another (this was pre-internet, I'm old), and this was obviously a recipe for failure. My term did not go well, but the policy at my new college said I was just on a warning. That meant a letter I could ignore. I felt like I'd dodged a bullet and enrolled for fall. And still in three colleges, no one had reached out to me except with a letter. I'm sure the letter had all kinds of resources in it, but shame makes it easier to throw those things away and hope for a fresh start on Monday (like dieting).
To make the story shorter, and since it isn't fun to remember, the next term didn't go well, and I received a one quarter suspension. I remember the letter said you could appeal or just sit out, so I sat out. And when I returned, I didn't make the standard again, and this time the letter said you sit out a year. I vaguely recall some language about an appeal, but c'mon, was I really going to do that? After all my failures, now I would go ask for mercy? I was an intelligent guy, I had all the test scores to prove it, and here I was. I also grew up poor, and it made me defensive about asking for help. We blame poor people for being poor, and we celebrate "boot strap" stories about overcoming obstacles life has put in the way. The combination of those two things made it seem like seeking help was a weakness, and it was my job to fix issues caused by my deficits. My year suspension turned into three years before I returned. In between was default on student loans and the destruction of my credit. So, in 1997, the bright, talented 18-year-old from the fall of 1988 returned to his third campus as an emotionally beat down 27-year-old. And that 27-year-old told himself when he was scared he would seek help, and sometimes I did, but even though my grades were good, it was still a struggle financially. I was certainly past believing anyone thought I might "deserve" extra help. And in the spring of my 2nd year back, I was out of money, and it was over. Maybe it was desperation, or maturity, or maybe my confidence had returned a little bit in the prior year, but for the first time I looked on campus for assistance. I went into the financial aid office and asked to speak to someone. It's hard to explain how ashamed and anxious I was. I still remember his name. It was Greg and he had a beard, that's all I remember. But he asked what I needed, and I said I was out of money and didn't know what to do. I'm getting teary eyed writing this, but he didn't judge me for a second, and he told me about unsubsidized loans, and suddenly I had a lifeline. I didn't have to work 40 hours a week, I didn't have to quit. I didn't have to fail. I never told Greg, but he changed my life. I'm where I am today in large part because he was kind and solutions oriented. I was a former loan defaulter, and I was 11 years from when I started college. I don't know what the policy said I deserved, but Greg saw me and gave me hope.
So, what's the point? The point is policy has impact, and it doesn't always match the intent. My colleges had policies of letters with wonderful information in them. And if I'd had the courage to read them, maybe I'd have shortened my journey back in 1991. I wonder how many students read those letters, no matter how well done they are. How could I know most appeals are granted? Who knows there is an appeal to the Vice President not really spelled out in policy, but just in practice for those who navigate the system? When I think about the half dozen students who came to me, I wonder how many didn't. Our policies are supposed to help, not punish. I don't think we design punitive policy on purpose, but I think being poverty-informed means we need to look at what we are doing very carefully. My own behavior plus some policy impacts kept me in difficulty for much of my 20's and wasted a lot of college resources too. Although I was not well off, my parents are college educated, and I suspect the reason I kept returning is because they had made it through on their crooked path. I can't help but think of everyone who didn't have an example to follow. It would have been very easy to just go away and stay away, so I guarantee people make that choice every term. How many could be pulled back with a personal touch like I got from Greg? How do we build resources and policy to make that happen?
So, in the meantime, we have to agonize over policy, and I needed to suffer with the students who came to me. I didn't let all of them back into school immediately. I did speak to each of them in person or by phone, and if my decision was to delay their enrollment, I asked them to meet with me personally to make a plan. I'm not saying I did anything magic or even the right thing. I'm saying a poverty-informed college doesn't hide behind policy, we wrestle and agonize with these decisions because being a professional requires it. I'm not anti-policy, on the contrary, I'm advocating for understanding the power and implications of policy choices. I'm advocating for transparency and for policy with a student success focus at every turn. And more than anything, I'm advocating for human connection in policy to normalize help and remove stigma from struggle. We all want better outcomes, and careful policy making and application can give us those.
