Fun With Words

Is it appropriate to expect our students to have the courage to be themselves when our schools do not always display that same courage?

Schools often talk about supporting students as they build an identity, develop the skills to think independently, and gain the confidence to express themselves authentically.

Yet schools tend to use the same handful of words, ad nauseam, in the same tone, even when they have wildly different operational models and philosophies. "CASE stands for Copy And Steal Everything," as many of my colleagues have said to me, only half-jokingly.

The English language is delightfully strange and full of possibilities. With such a powerful and charmingly chaotic tool at our disposal, it is a shame that we often choose to sound just like every other school.

There are a finite number of ways to describe a school, of course, and the similarities among many schools’ mission statements are evidence that we are converging on a proven, well-understood way to educate our students. But the homogeneity of language is impossible to ignore, and the Claude-ification of my LinkedIn feed suggests this phenomenon may be getting worse.

Tuition costs outpacing inflation, increased competition, and a market growing more skeptical of the independent school model all require a critical look at whether our language is helping us stand out or highlighting an unintended hypocrisy of being unwilling to do what we ask our students to do.

Listen for the Quiet Voices

The first time I joined a school's administrative team, I was so much younger than the rest of the group that an outsider walking past our meetings could have reasonably surmised it was "bring your son to work day."

Like any young professional battling imposter syndrome, I didn't do much talking at first. I always appreciated, though, when someone asked for my view, and I would try to rise to the occasion and offer something useful in those moments.

A few years ago, during a professional development day at a different school, I was asked to facilitate a small working group in the early stages of a curricular review. One of the teachers assigned to my group asked with affectionate skepticism, "Wait, you're leading this?"

A valid question! Happily, my distinct lack of content knowledge was complemented by a plan: we'll get to the good stuff if I just keep asking questions.

The plan worked. Asking "Can you tell me more about why you see it that way?" and other supportive-but-probing questions moved the group to a deeper conversation quickly.

One teacher was listening intently but not contributing. I didn't want to fully call him out, but I was eager for his participation, so I simply said his name and added, "Your thoughts?"

With that invitation, he began to articulate a viewpoint that shifted the entire group's thinking for the better. As he put forth his perspective, the group honored his skepticism and began thinking harder about what we were creating. All it took was asking him, and he rose to the occasion.

School communities are well-practiced at responding to the loudest voices, usually for good reason! With Red Pen Strategy, I am interested in finding the deep, valuable insights that can be unlocked by asking the quieter voices something as simple as, "Your thoughts?"

Committing to Communicating

Somewhere around 2015, the existential terror of hearing a colleague enthusiastically announce, “I want to start a blog,” gave way to the similarly bone-chilling, “I’d like to start a social media account.” I suspect that AI may take this phenomenon into new flop-sweat-inducing frontiers.

Creating a new channel for an individual or a program can follow a familiar trajectory that too often ends with an abandoned account. You know the kind: the one that bears the school’s name and logo but has login credentials lost to history.

It is laudable when a school acts on the instinct to assert its story and proactively shapes a narrative to lead the conversation. That instinct, though, should always be paired with a sober examination of the sheer effort required to create and sustain something of value for your audience.

I worked with a few heads of school who wrote weekly blurbs that were incredibly effective. They beautifully wove personal stories with deep insights about the school, the state of education, and the world outside of the school. Every constituency read the blurbs for a glimpse into how the school’s leader saw the community, and for reassurance that the school was in steady hands.

One of these heads told me now and again that writing the blurbs was an albatross. In an attempt to be helpful, I offered alternatives such as ghostwriting them myself or recruiting a rotating cast of authors to make the task more manageable. These offers were always politely declined because this head understood how the community benefited from the missives, even if they were a burdensome undertaking.

That kind of focused, audience-first perspective can be elusive in the excitement of starting something new. But “new” and “meaningful” are not always synonymous. Put more directly, we have to work hard to make sure that new platforms are launched with sustainable plans. Otherwise, we risk drawing eyes to a pending, conspicuous silence.

Should we?

"Yes, we can do that. But should we?" is a response I became fond of using during my school communications career.

I don’t necessarily recommend that approach. My colleagues were, understandably, less fond of this rhetorical device because it implied that I didn’t really value their priorities.

Like a gas, marketing and communications work expands to fill whatever space it’s given. (There are other ways in which school communications is gas-like, but that’s not what we’re talking about today.) Identifying the vital work and gently setting aside the rest becomes just as important, if not more so, than the communicating itself. 

When I was a communications office of one, I expected to always operate at full tilt. Later, I led a team of six and figured I’d have the opportunity to shift my focus to full-time, big, strategic thinking. Maybe while stroking my chin and looking out the window.

Those chin-stroking moments were very satisfying, but they were predictably fleeting. We were never more than a few minutes away from an unanticipated request needing prompt attention, a real or perceived crisis, or colleagues with opinions about what the communications function ought to be doing, all of which require what we’ll diplomatically call “expectation management.” 

Every department in a school operates in some version of this reality, which makes the case for prioritization even clearer, everywhere.

Much like schools fall short when trying to be everything to everyone, the communications function cannot properly address everything that comes its way. There’s probably a better way to say it, but “should we?” is a great strategic starting point for any communications discussion.

Embracing ‘brand’

Over the summer, I went to an outdoor lifestyle store to buy a new water bottle. The salesperson steered me gently toward a brand I had never heard of and explained it was made with the same materials and technology as the more fashionable, premium names. I don't need to pay more for a brand-name water bottle, so we had a deal.

Schools, of course, are a different proposition. Families are investing in the promise and potential of their children, so those who are able will often pay more for an established brand.

After decades of tuition increases that have outpaced inflation, asking families to pay that premium has, intentionally or otherwise, become the foundation of most independent schools’ business model. And that is okay! It simply means we need to justify that premium with strong brands.

Line up ten marketers and ask them what brand is, and you'll get ten beautifully articulated answers. In this context, my definition of a school's brand is: whatever any person who has interacted with the school says about it at a social gathering with no school personnel present.

We often emphasize messages, fonts, and colors when discussing branding in schools. And that is for good reason: the clarity and consistency with which we represent ourselves is vitally important.

That said, it is difficult to visualize someone who had a bad experience on an admissions tour or on the phone with an administrator sharing their negative impressions with friends but adding, “...that said, I just love their font!”

I suspect we sometimes gravitate to discussions about fonts, colors, and style guides when considering our brands because those elements are more easily identified and enforced than creating a consistent, audience-focused experience at every touchpoint.

A quick way to get into a substantive discussion about brand is for schools to ask themselves what they want that person at the dinner party to say about the institution, regardless of their affiliation with the school. With an answer in hand, we can purposefully shape the lived experience at our schools to yield that exact response.

Fonts, colors, and messages are important. The strongest school brands are the result of an institution-wide commitment lived out in the systems and the way people show up every day. In this environment, the opportunity lies in considering our brands more deeply so that the conversation at that social gathering is one that supports our schools.

What’s in a name?

Why the name Red Pen Strategy?

With respect to all my school teachers, it was the copy editors of my college newspaper who introduced me to the pain and pleasure of effective revision. (Shout-out to the Whittier College Quaker Campus.)

Each copy editor would use a different-colored pen to mark up the printed drafts we submitted to their inbox. I would sometimes watch them attempt to rein in my copy, their faces oscillating between delight and befuddlement. (I spent one semester trying to shoehorn the word “whilst” into every article I wrote. They crossed it out every time, which was probably the right call.)

Many of the edits hurt my writerly feelings, but almost all of them made me better at writing. The process was always effective, and I use it today on anything I write or review. I like to use a red pen, primarily because it’s easy to see.

The act of reading on paper, out of view of a computer screen, helps to see things with fresh eyes, catch errors, and more easily consider other perspectives. When I have a red pen in my hand, I am purposefully looking to make things sharper, more accessible, and of greater value. One person who worked with me told me they appreciated seeing the red marks because it implied a safety net of sorts: this has been carefully reviewed, and now it’s ready to go.

The “strategy” part of Red Pen Strategy applies to any work that we do together, written or otherwise. It's all about embracing the process of revision, applying healthy skepticism, and seeking to make things better, even if it hurts a little bit.

Introducing Red Pen Strategy

I am nervously excited to say that I have launched my own school communications practice! It’s called Red Pen Strategy. 

I have spent the vast majority of my career communicating in school communities. Public scandals, leadership transitions, ambitious enrollment and fundraising campaigns, head lice, changes to parking policies, and beyond: if it can happen in a school, I have probably communicated about it.

With a lengthy track record of propelling growth of all kinds, I am eager to bring my marketing, communications, and problem-solving chops to more schools. No project is too big or small.

I am looking forward to focusing on what I do best: asking good questions, listening carefully to their answers, and developing narratives that help schools reach their enrollment, revenue, and strategic goals.

If you lead a school and you're looking for support with your marketing communications, I'd love to talk.

P.S. This includes preschools! I have a specific offering to help Bay Area preschools put their best foot forward.