Monday, December 29, 2008

 

The unduly narrow path to professorhood


[cross-posted from Law School Innovation]

In a previous post over at LSI, I reflected a bit on Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers and the formation of law professors. Having finished the book, I have a few more thoughts, which suggest that the way we select law professors is to the disadvantage of those who may provide the most innovation.

Most law professors (myself included) have the following things in common: (1) They did well as children at standardized tests; (2) Because of their prowess at standardized tests, they did well on the SAT and LSAT tests; (3) Their strong LSAT scores led to their admission at an elite law school; and (4) They then succeeded in law school, and were qualified to begin pursuing academic jobs.

If you doubt that attending one of the most elite law schools makes a difference in hiring, consider the finding that among untenured but tenure-track professors at the top 50 schools, 92 went to Yale Law while only 2 went to Cornell (which is an excellent school). Similarly, there can be little doubt that a very high LSAT score is the primary qualification to get into one of the most elite schools.

Thus, we are for the most part narrowing our pool of professors to those who did extremely well on the LSAT. However, as Gladwell points out, multiple-choice tests like the LSAT (and the SAT) are convergence tests-- that is, those in which the test-taker considers a limited number of possible answers and then converges her attention on the right one. Convergence tests are good at determining the presence of a certain talent: the ability to eliminate wrong answers to arrive at a correct answer.

While this ability to converge on the right answer is useful at times, it is rarely a major part of innovative legal scholarship (or teaching, for that matter). That's because the best scholarship is doing something more than eliminating choices from an already-established list. Rather, the best work offers up a new way of looking at things, advocating for why one solution is right, or proposing an answer that thus far has not been dreamed up. That is, the best work, the most innovative work, very often goes beyond simply criticizing the proposals or work of others (legislators, academics, or judges).

However, at the primary sorting phase on the road to becoming a professor (admission into an elite school), we emphasize almost exclusively this talent of convergence. The LSAT does not test the skill of divergence-- that is, the ability to come up with possibilities from a given reality. For example (Gladwell's), one might ask "what uses are there for a brick?" There are no set answers, but there will be good, creative ones and poor, limited ones. If we cared about divergence somewhere on the path to professorhood, we would be much farther along on the task of fostering innovation in our fields.

In short, the way we pick professors rewards most a skill which has nearly nothing to do with innovative scholarship and teaching. Perhaps it should not be surprising that our journals are full of criticism, but resound too rarely with ideas that can change viewpoints, transform society, create justice broadly, or stir the souls of students and scholars.

Comments:
A recent study (I think it was in California) found an inverse correlation between scores on the LSAT and year-end rankings of individual students at various law schools (I heard this on NPR about a year ago, so the details are fuzzy.)
What I do remember was that the students with the highest LSAT scores hand only a 17 percent chance of finishing at the top of their classes.
I would suspect that if a quantifiable study were made on ACT, SAT, MCAT and the other standardized tests, we'd find a similar outcome.
As Mark has so expertly pointed out, these tests only measure one very narrow window of ability.
In my own case, because I am The Master of Trivia in ALL fields, I test really, really well (including the Civil Service Exam, where I was awarded wonderful, high-paying jobs over literally tens of thousands of better-qualified people), but I was a middlin' student at best.
RFDIII
 
Interesting . . . I just bought Gladwell's "Outliers" 2 days ago and can't wait to read it!

Well, before that I have a couple of points to make.

First, it seems to me that hiring law-school professors should be based much less on WHERE you went to law school. I suppose, as Osler says, the assumption is that, if you got into Harvard or Yale or Stanford law school, you had terrific LSAT scores and you were "the best," whatever that means, so automatically the outcome (i.e. the lawyer at the end of the three years) should be the best; you've gotten the best jobs, and you would make the best professor.

That theory seems incredibly narrow to me. Surely it matters how you can write, how wide your interests are, how great your expertise in the required legal area is . . . I mean, in most other professions, once you get past your first or second job, where you went to college or grad school matters a lot less than what you've DONE in your previous jobs. (Unless you are George Bush . . .)

Second point: regarding SATs, LSATs, and the like: Although my college-counselor colleagues would howl at me to hear me say it, looking at it from a college's point of view there is a modicum of predictive validity to standardized tests, in that you need some minimal degree of knowledge of English usage and mathematics in order to get a respectable score. There is usually a difference (either in knowledge or ability or, at the very least, ability to understand the English language) between someone who scores 350/800 and 750/800, assuming the test-taker doesn't have a serious learning disability like dyslexia which makes test-taking difficult.

In an education system which is not standardized across the US--where there is no national curriculum-- I can understand why colleges and grad schools require them.

HOWEVER: It's also possible, if you drill them long enough and get years of coaching, to ace the SAT and still not be able to write a good English sentence, or be particularly good at math. Kids in Korea and Singapore study every night for five or six years to get perfect SAT and TOEFL scores. Sometimes it correlates with being a very bright student, with interesting ideas; sometimes not.

My problem is placing undue emphasis on test scores, in admission to undergrad school or law school. Many colleges are beginning to drop SAT requirements and not finding any decrease in quality of their students. Canada doesn't require the SAT at all . . . but they have standardized curricula in each province.

That's my college-counselor two cents . . . I agree with you both. But, assuming no law schools are going to drop their LSAT requirement any time soon , I would say that law schools who are hiring should take the first step and widen their pool of applicants to focus less on the law school attended and more on the individual.

Is that realistic?
 
When I entered law school, I was told by professors that my LSAT score was in no way predictive of what kind of law student I would be.

When I was interviewing for law jobs because of my good grades, I was told by interviewers that my grades were in no way predictive of what kind of lawyer I would be.

Can someone explain this to me? I'm just not smart enough (even though the SAT, ACT, LSAT and various GPAs say otherwise) to understand this.
 
I would also point out that law professor types beget future law professors of the same type. What I mean by that is that if you write a certain way, talk a certain way, and think a certain way, the students that "sound" like you, will get the A in your class.
I know this is somewhat of a generalization, but based on who made the A's in my law school classes it seems to be true. One can obviously learn to write like the prof or learn to see what the prof sees, but those that already sound like a law prof coming in seem to have an advantage.
Inevitably, they end up the law professors once out of law school.
 
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