Hathaway Made UALR Metropolitan College

When Charles Hathaway took the top spot at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock in 1993, he inherited more than a mahogany desk and leather-backed chair.

Trustees handed him a school with a balance sheet full of negative numbers, students and faculty who were disgruntled and a curriculum that bore little relationship to real-world needs.

In less than a decade as chancellor, Hathaway eliminated more than $7 million in debt, steered the school into a major technological presence in central Arkansas and ushered in numerous community-based programs.

Now he is leaving his post.

“As the country-western song goes, ‘you have to know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em,’ and I’m folding my hand at the end of the year,” he said.

During his tenure with the 11,000-student university, Hathaway helped design programs he believed would meet the needs of a growing technological society. He held meetings with the business community and civic leaders. What emerged was a picture of an Arkansas work force that was ill-equipped to command professional-level salaries in technology jobs.

Hathaway then set to work on creating the Donaghey College of Information Science and Systems Engineering, or what is affectionately known as the CyberCollege. Opened in 1999, the college focuses on workplace technology and includes highly technical programs as well as courses for mid-career students who need to retool their IT skills.

Hathaway coordinated other efforts to bring the university into play with central Arkansas needs. Leading UALR in studies on the future of Little Rock’s public schools and the creation of a regional water plan were among Hathaway’s achievements.

But he is adamant about where the credit should go. “The chancellor of a university is not someone who does things,” he said. “I was a catalyst. I merely enabled a lot of bright and talented people to get things done.”

Hathaway took the job at an age when some educators are contemplating retirement. Today nearing age 67, he says he doesn’t have the stamina he needs. “I don’t have the same energy and creativity that I once had to handle the stress. And the job has a lot of stress.” In fact, he said he had planned to retire from administration at age 65 and teach, but stayed on almost two extra years.

The Road to Little Rock

Born in Laredo, Texas, Hathaway was the older of two sons in a family with a modest income. His father worked for the local utility company while his mother took care of the home and the boys. Hathaway is proud that he is the first in his family to earn a college degree.

As a young man, Hathaway was trained as a physicist, first with a B.S. in physics from Texas A&M University, then with real-world experience as a civilian scientist working on missile optics at the China Lake Naval Weapons Center in California during the height of the Cold War.

After graduating from Texas A&M in 1958, while working at China Lake, he postponed a Woodrow Wilson scholarship in order to climb the Sierra Nevadas Mountains.

Hathaway was even willing to give up the scholarship for the experience and wrote to the head of the program asking for an extension.

He said he was sticking with his dream of scaling the Sierras even if it meant losing the scholarship. “I received a telegram back saying, ‘Climb mountains (stop). Find soul (stop). Scholarship awaits.'”

After tiring of mountain climbing, Hathaway settled down at Kansas State University, where he earned a Ph.D. in physics in 1965 and stayed for the next 16 years, 10 of which he spent as department head.

But Hathaway was feeling isolated in academia. A sense of being disconnected from the problems of society was eating at him.

“Around this time I realized that as a country we were headed for trouble because we weren’t resolving many of the social issues facing our cities,” he said. “Physics is about systems, so it was natural for me to think about the symbiotic relationship between a university and the region surrounding it.”

In 1981 he took a deanship at the College of Science and Engineering at the University of Texas at San Antonio. While there, he struck up a friendship with then mayor and assistant professor Henry Cisneros, who was destined to become Secretary of Housing and Urban Development under President Bill Clinton.

“Henry believed that the university must be a living resource for the community,” he said. Hathaway worked with Cisneros to extend the scope of the university into metropolitan San Antonio. “Unfortunately, at that time the university did not share our vision,” he said, and Hathaway was soon looking for another job.

Hathaway realized his dream of working at a metropolitan university when in 1986 he became vice president for academic affairs at Wright State University in Dayton, Ohio. There he worked with his friend, mentor and university president, Paige Mulhollan.

“The metropolitan university was born at Wright State University — big time,” he said. (In his seven years there, Hathaway helped develop links with the business and military communities and participated in urban and regional planning.) “We started this movement in Dayton, and now about 175 universities subscribe to it.”

Meanwhile in 1992, UALR’s chancellor James H. Young had resigned abruptly. UALR trustees installed Joel E. Anderson as acting chancellor and began the search for a new leader.

B. Alan Sugg, president of the University of Arkansas system, had heard good things about Hathaway from colleagues at Wright State. Sugg’s interest was piqued.

“I was told that Chuck was the best academic officer in the country at an urban university, so I called him to see if he would be interested in applying. The rest is history,” Sugg said.

Hathaway knew coming in the budget was bad. But he didn’t know just how bad. “I knew the state Legislature was not going to increase funding that year, and I thought, ‘O.K. I can live through that,'” he said. “Then I got a call from Alan [Sugg] who said, ‘Chuck, you need to know we’re having a serious financing problem here. I’ll understand if you want to change your mind about taking the position.'”

Hathaway didn’t change his mind. But the closer he looked, the worse it got. “The patient was dying,” he said. “A big part of the debt structure — $4.5 million — was systemic. It was going to keep building year after year unless a serious restructuring took place.”

The previous administration had tapped restricted funds earmarked for other purposes, losing another $3 million to one-time expenditures.

“No one did this on purpose — it was the same as someone going too long without balancing their checkbook,” he said. “But you can do a lot of damage to a company (or institution) if you don’t run it responsibly.”

Making the cuts

Hathaway spent the next two and a half years putting in place austerity measures that at times were unpopular with staff and faculty.

“A lot of people left of their own accord, but yes, I had to fire people. It was emotionally wracking for me — a terrible time.”

In the first year, he delayed repairs and renovations. He cut positions and froze hiring and salaries — including his own. “I had to get a line of credit from the banks to make payroll.”

Easing up a bit in 1994, Hathaway gave employees a 2 percent raise and switched to merit bonuses in 1995 to keep base salaries down. Then he held university budget increases for 1996 until officials learned enrollment figures.

Some faculty members were unhappy with the cuts, believing administrators were receiving pay raises while faculty wasn’t. Also, many already had prepared program budgets that had to be cut back or eliminated.

“It was a very painful time,” said Tom Teeter, a professor emeritus who retired in June after 30 years with UALR. “Many faculty had special accounts for certain projects, and most of those were eliminated. The money just wasn’t there.”

Although some faculty grumbled about budget cuts, Teeter says most employees admired Hathaway’s forthrightness in communicating with faculty and staff about the gravity of the problem.

“We knew he inherited a terrible financial situation that was utterly unknown to him at the time he took the job,” he said. “Up until then, we employees thought everything was just fine. Then Chuck came along, and we discovered we were in the ditch.

“It wasn’t happy news, but the thing about Chuck is that he had the vision to carry us past it and move on to leading the university into a true metropolitan university.”

Last month, Hathaway delivered more bad news to staff and faculty. State revenue shortfalls resulting in a $2.3 million reduction in the university’s budget forced him again to impose a hiring freeze and eliminate the Department of Excellence Award program. “This new budget cut puts the future of the CyberCollege in jeopardy,” Hathaway said.

After retiring from administration at UALR, Hathaway intends to stay on and teach in the CyberCollege or with the Friday Sturgis Fellows Leadership Program, which he established to encourage students to learn about and serve their communities.

Hathaway’s last day as UALR’s chancellor will be New Year’s Eve.