I have a confession to make. In my daily life, talking to my friends, my professors, my coworkers, even my colleagues at the Grizzly, I am often, I’ll admit, critical of “the administration” of the college. “The administration” extended voluntary separation agreements to tenured faculty in Fall 2025. “The administration” ended the employment of over a dozen non-tenured faculty. “The administration” changed janitorial contractors. I hear it from other students, too; in the collective consciousness of Ursinus College students, there looms a hazy “them” – the out-group composed of unspecified “administrators.” And I stand around and talk about “the administration,” and then I go to Corson Hall to pick up my paycheck, where I walk past Interim Provost Kelly Sorensen. I wave at him, and I remember how much he’s helped me advocate for myself during my time here. I don’t remember that he is an administrator. (That is, part of his job as Provost is to be responsible for some portion of the college.) Or I head back to my dorm room, where I write an article and quote Vice President Lauren Sciocchetti by name from a press release. It’s an excellent quote. She’s an administrator. Or, maybe, I go to Upper Wismer for some food, and see Interim President Gundolf Graml sitting, usually in the little back area, by the windows. Sometimes it’s a Saturday or a Sunday, and I wonder what has him in on a weekend. An admissions event? A meeting? Is something bad happening? Something good? If we happen to make eye contact, I smile, because he is friendly, and it doesn’t occur to me that he, as the president, is the administrator of administrators – the face of the college. Then, I eat my food and go on with my day, and, probably, I receive an email about something frustrating, or my friend brings up the voluntary separation agreements, and I fume at “the administration” and “administrators.” Maybe I, plain and simple, need to be kinder. I’ve been called “suspicious of power,” and I don’t think that’s inaccurate; maybe I’m paranoid and jaded and spiteful and I need to take a chill pill and stop being so snarky all the time. And that’s probably true – my colleagues would probably say that it’s definitely true – but I also think it’s more than that. How do you ask “the administration” a question? As a journalist – no, as a student who cares about his community, I can’t email theentireadministration@ursinus. edu. This email does not exist. You will never see “the administration” at an event on campus. It’s a fool’s errand to try to ask “the administration” why “they” made a choice “they” did. And what do you do when “the administration” does something you don’t like? How do you tell “them,” those faceless, nameless, unspecified overlords? You don’t. You can’t talk to “the administration” – it’s a formless concept. It doesn’t exist. But you can talk to President Gundolf Graml. He’s just a person. He eats at Upper Wismer. “The administrators” are people we see every day, at Wismer, at the Cafe, in Olin Plaza. They’re people. I don’t point this out because I think we should all trust that the administration is making the best decisions, and we have to be soft and gentle with them, because they’re only human. President Graml’s salary hasn’t been publicized yet, but Ursinus’ nonprofit f inancial reports show that former president Robyn Hannigan made $507,000 in the fiscal year ending June 2024. Graml – this member of our community – is not a creature to pity. It’s his job to answer questions, listen to student concerns, and inform us, to the best of his ability, why he and his cabinet do the things they do. The only way he can do his job is if we clear away the haze, stop complaining about “the administration,” and start talking to him and the rest of “the administrators,” as people. Powerful people, yes, and capable of fault, but not cruel-hearted, looming, robed figures out of some terrible Hunger Games knockoff. They are, in their own ways, powerless at times; President Gundolf Graml does not control the fact that fewer high school seniors are interested in going to college. He and his cabinet can’t magically grow Ursinus’ endowment. I’ve never seen a reason to believe that there is any malice behind “administrative” choices like the recent faculty cuts or the recent cleaning staff changes, only good intent and human fallibility under very, very difficult circumstances. And so, we return to my confession. I do not confess to criticizing the decisions that President Graml and his cabinet have made – it’s not a confession. I don’t feel guilty. I’ve been annoyed at times when I try to ask about something that isn’t about APEX, and somehow we end up talking about APEX. I bemoan the poor communication about APEX to students, too, and, sometimes, as someone who’s not a first-year, I feel neglected. I worry about my professors and mentors, who sometimes mention being stressed or confused by what’s happening “behind the curtain.” I don’t understand the general enthusiasm for AI, and I’m frustrated to see its usage pop up across the school. (But, then again, have I asked, or did I just dismiss it as the decision of some nameless “administrator”?) I must confess to something much worse, something that inhibits me as a journalist when I shrug something off as “the administration,” something that makes me a less engaged member of the Ursinus community. I have to confess that sometimes I forget that Gundolf Graml is a person who eats in Wismer, and gets coffee at the Cafe, and who I run into at least twice a week. A lot of us do. And a lot of us have to do better. I have to do better.
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