The second sentence of Michael Mikota’s bio takes 54 words to explain that he is responsible for creating the mascot at Spartanburg Community College.
Mikota, Spartanburg’s president since July 2020, “conceptualized and spearheaded the launch of the college’s first mascot, Chaser the Border Collie — the ‘Smartest Dog in the World,’” according to his bio, “and has championed the inspirational legendary tale of unlocking a new understanding of the power of learning through a commitment to the college’s new motto to ‘Dream It, Chase It, and Live It.’”
Gene C. Crume Jr., who has been president of Judson University since 2013, is something of an expert on mascots. That passion was sparked when he put on his high school’s panther costume to pump up the fans, and fueled when he worked as an intern at Disney World, telling jokes to guests waiting to ride Davy Crockett’s “canoes.”
But you won’t find that information in Crume’s bio, a modest 472 words total, explaining in muted prose that he has led the college through a strategic planning process, listing his board memberships and academic background, and divulging the names and careers of his adult children. A form of the word “service” appears six times.
Does it really matter whether a college president’s bio is a little over the top or barely whispers? Maybe not. Still, at a time when campus leaders can so quickly come under scrutiny, many are thinking hard about how to present themselves to alumni and board members and donors, to faculty and staff and students, and to people unaffiliated with the college who are watching closely from the sidelines.
Current and former presidents and communications professionals spoke to The Chronicle about how campus leaders are, or should be, depicting themselves, and if there is a risk or a reward for humanizing the college president.
The nature of the job is representing the institution first, and you second.
Mikota’s bio, for example, is well-meaning but would have benefited from some editing, said Michael Ares, a communications consultant who works with faculty and college leaders.
To hear the bio tell it, Mikota’s accomplishments have been innovative, invaluable, groundbreaking, and transformative. The only standard attribute that’s missing is “visionary,” though that word appeared in his previous bio. (Mikota was not available for an interview, according to a college spokesman.)
“Clearly, no one read that before it was published,” Ares said. “Why would you do that to your president?”
Whether bland or fulsome, said Teresa Valerio Parrot, a communications consultant, the point of a bio is to assure readers that the college is being run by a competent human being. But the official bio, she said, often ignores the “human” part.
“It starts to seem impersonal and creates a disconnect between the president and the campus community,” Parrot said. “The president has shifted from being a person with a title, to just the title.”
Crume, who wrote his doctoral thesis on what defines a visionary leader, doesn’t describe himself as one. But he explained why his own bio is so restrained.
“The nature of the job is representing the institution first,” Crume said, “and you second.”
If a picture is worth a thousand words, Natalie Harder’s official bio, at 87 words, is little more than a rough sketch.
Harder, the president of Coker University, in Hartsville, S.C., tells readers the names of the two colleges she has led, including Coker, the degrees she’s earned, her husband’s name (Cian), and that they have two sons and two dogs.
The bio doesn’t explain that she has a professional background in economic development and fundraising. It doesn’t tell you her dogs’ names are Bella, age 14, and Eve, age 6, or that she can never pass up a used bookstore — let alone about the kind of leader she is.
Harder, who started her position in the midst of the pandemic, said the work of putting out a more extensive bio would have distracted from the effort to put out more crucial information for students and parents.
Even now, she said, she has no plans to expand her biographical information. The current biography “reflects that I’m more of an action person and a first-generation college grad,” Harder said. “I didn’t ever read the bios of the presidents where I went to college.”
Harder isn’t the only president who thinks the bio has limited value.
“You can get a little bit about whether there’s a consistent career trajectory, and their investment in higher education,” said Bethami Dobkin, president of Westminster University, in Salt Lake City. “But you can’t get a sense of the person.”
The presidency consumes vast amounts of your time and your mental space.
Dobkin has taken a different approach. The president’s web page emphasizes her values, includes a one-minute YouTube video in which she explains why she wanted to become president of Westminster, and links to a 2,300-word profile in the university’s alumni magazine. The article describes her academic background and is full of details about her youth and educational journey, including an early ambition to be a writer for National Geographic and her love of horses.
In an interview, Dobkin said the article gives her a chance to show how her values are congruent with the mission of the institution.
But that presents risks, too, Dobkin added, including that providing so much personal information could play into a gender stereotype about women leaders and diminish her academic and professional accomplishments.
Mary B. Marcy, president emerita of Dominican University, said she eschewed a lot of personal information in her bio, in part to protect her from detractors and provide a bit of a buffer between her work life and personal life.
“The presidency consumes vast amounts of your time and your mental space,” Marcy said, “and I wanted to have a little bit of a boundary.”
Despite the boundaries, the presidential bio is often meant to appeal to a key audience: governing boards — the one that hired the president and perhaps others who may be considering that person for a different job.
Roderick J. McDavis, president emeritus of Ohio University who now heads a search firm, said the impetus for bold — sometimes, excessive — statements in presidential bios comes in part from the demands of governing boards, who often include words like “visionary” in the job description.
So, what does a bio look like for someone who is often referred to by other higher-education leaders as a “visionary”?
Michael M. Crow, president of Arizona State University, has three bios on the institution’s website, in varying lengths for different uses and audiences. They mostly describe changes at the university since Crow became president in 2002. The only personal notes are where he earned his doctoral degree, where he was born, and who’s in his immediate family.
The focus on developments at ASU is largely because Crow and the university are “so much one and the same at this point,” said Jay Thorne, associate vice president for media relations and strategic communications at the university.
There is more personal information about Crow on his Instagram and Facebook pages, Thorne said, though the communications staff has had mixed results encouraging him to post on social media.
“He is truly one of those people whose idea of having a good time is watching a documentary while reading a book,” Thorne said.
That’s something else you won’t learn from his bio.
