Those who teach political science are likely to hold strong, even passionate political opinions. They must confront the question of the role these views ought to play in the classroom. Two common but opposite approaches might be characterized as “partisan” and “neutral.” The former involves a clear presentation of the teacher's views (“I'm a Marxist, and I'll tell you that right off”). The latter aspires to be fair to all beliefs; its practitioners may be proud that students are unaware of the teacher's own views. Most teachers probably fall somewhere in the middle, hoping to inject life into political instruction by drawing on their own opinions while trying to be fair to all sides. After a thorough analysis of both partisan and neutral approaches, Glenn (1979) concluded that only such “fair-mindedness” can be justified as a pedagogical style.

We agree that: (1) controversy is a central attraction of political education and (2) unrestrained teacher partisanship raises serious questions of ethics and educational technique. This article describes an experimental course that suggests another way of approaching the goal of utilizing controversy without unfair teacher input.

The vehicle was a course we designed and conducted, entitled Clashing Viewpoints, which featured teacher debate on highly controversial issues. We believed that by instituting checks and balances, we could have it both ways—teacher partisanship and fair-mindedness.

Student bashing has become all the rage. Allan Bloom has decried today's youth as “spiritually unclad, unconnected, isolated, and no inherited or unconditional connection with anything or anyone,” creating a storm of controversy. E. D. Hirsch has declared students to be culturally illiterate and the National Geographic Society now tells us they are geographically illiterate, as well.

Admittedly, statistics can be powerfully persuasive and the results of the recent National Geographic Society report should shake us up. One in seven Americans surveyed could not find the United States on a world map, let alone name the country in which “apartheid” is official government policy. Obviously, something larger than map skills is at stake here. As the survey demonstrated, a huge number of Americans know virtually nothing about world affairs. In a country whose influence is global, millions of people display indifference to, and ignorance of events, beyond our borders.

Surveys deocumenting the educational shortcomings of U.S. students indeed have become a dime a dozen. Yet whether or not we agree with these assessments, we have been undeniably offered a grim evaluation of both our students and the job we have done with them. I question, however, whether Bloom's “back to basics” prescription or the acquisition of Hirsch's data base of 5,000 key facts will really make our students smarter, more aware of the complex world they live in. Can “great books” alone (and who will choose them?) or arbitrary concepts devoid of context prepare our students for an interdependent world in which nothing—including the role of the United States— is really certain? Nonetheless, we are compelled to take a good, hard look at ourselves, to reexamine and clarify our role as educators, and to reaffirm education as a potential and potent vehicle for change.

There seems to be little question that the ethical conduct of public servants is important to our form of government. However, transmitting this to students in public administration programs is quite another matter. Designing and teaching an ethics course is difficult, but not for the reasons that one might expect.

Courses in American Government, including those which focus specifically on the presidency, rarely grant much attention to the period of transition that follows the election of a new president. That is unfortunate, for the transition period reveals in acute detail some of the enduring difficulties presidents encounter in trying to impose their influence on the structure and performance of the executive branch. Transitions especially highlight the awkwardness of the in-and-outer system of leadership selection in the United States and should be regarded, therefore, as highly valuable sources of instruction.

This brief essay looks at the principal problems confronted by new administrations in staffing the executive branch. It identifies the contours and complexities of those problems and then suggests some options for coping with them. These options, and others which students might propose, should invite vigorous debate and discussion.

A modern president-elect who has not prepared in advance for staffing an administration will suffer serious and harmful delays in launching a new presidency. It is critically important that personnel identification begin before the election. Careful planning should afford opportunities for the new President to anticipate the normal problems of transition personnel selection and to prepare to cope with them.

The effective nomination of presidential candidates has moved from the national conventions themselves into the process of delegate selection. While much has been written on the political causes and effects of this development, less attention has been paid to describing the underlying mechanics of the methods by which political parties in the states now choose their delegations. What follows is a typology, stripped of political considerations, of the methods used in 1988.

In 1987 we surveyed a number of teachers of African politics in order to examine the topics, theoretical frameworks and textbooks/readings treated in those courses. The information presented below was derived from responses to 42 questionnaires and from analysis of 35 syllabi. Reference is also made to a similar 1978 study.

About three-fourths of the courses reported were defined as “comparative politics” with international relations treated secondarily; the remaining courses combined comparative and international politics. Sixty-five percent of the courses were offered exclusively to undergraduates. Sixty-seven percent concentrated on sub-Saharan Africa, 14% the entire continent, and 19% southern Africa.

Instructors vary widely in their course introduction. The most popular method is historical, but nine spend one to two weeks “setting the scene” of contemporary Africa before the historical overview. Twenty-two percent explicitly address approaches to the study of African politics. Some treat competing approaches to “development” or approaches to the causes and cures of poverty in Africa. This roughly compares to the percent of respondents who indicated a desire to expose students to competing paradigms. Although the low percentage of direct treatment of competing approaches is surprising, the syllabi indicate that many teachers integrate the issue throughout the course.

The transition and the president's first year in office is the most important period for establishing the tone and character of the White House's relationship with Congress. It is the time of closest scrutiny and the greatest vulnerability to making major mistakes. Taking the right steps early and avoiding errors can lay in the foundation for a productive working relationship. Actions taken in this period create lasting impressions. According to Max Friedersdorf, the “enemies and mistakes made in the first week will dog a President throughout his term in office.” Stuart Eizenstat adds, “I don't think Carter's image ever recovered from some of those early mistakes.”

This essay examines George Bush's relations with Congress early in his term. First I focus on the context in which the new president is operating to explore the opportunities and constraints present in his environment. Then I assess the primary components of his legislative strategy.

When George Bush took the oath of office on January 20, 1989, he was already fighting an uphill battle in his relations with Congress. He began his tenure with one of the worst strategic positions of any newly-elected president in our history. There are two dimensions of his strategic position that bear examination: his leadership resources and his leeway in taking policy initiatives.

New presidents traditionally claim a mandate from the people, because the most effective means of setting the terms of debate and overcoming opposition is the perception of an electoral mandate, an impression that the voters want to see the winner's programs implemented. Indeed, major changes in policy, as in 1933, 1965, and 1981, virtually never occur in the absence of such perceptions.

There can be no doubt about the increased attention focused on international relations. There is a need for, and interest in, undergraduate programs of instruction in the subject. Such initiatives are important to enable the U.S. to compete in the increasingly interdependent world of the 21st century. In the last few years, there have been a number of reports by various educational associations, task forces, panels and commissions all underscoring the need to do more in international studies and foreign language instruction. A number of colleges and universities have responded by changing curricula, starting new programs, and expanding existing ones. All this is admirable.

Yet, it is possible to graduate from most colleges and universities in the country and know nothing about international relations. Students are woefully ignorant of world geography, recent world history, the importance of international economics in our daily lives, the circumstances in which the rest of the world lives, and how to communicate in another language. This situation is compounded by their lack of knowledge about different political systems and how they operate as well as the significance of many important political issues in the world today. We are in our education, if not our circumstances as a nation, essentially uninformed and isolationist towards other nations. Certainly this is a challenge to American undergraduate education.

Most of the literature in the field of international security studies does not focus on the details of battlefield operations or the use of weapons in combat. The American military is usually left alone to devise effective tank tactics or solutions to the problems encountered as pilots attempt to place bombs on a target. Scholars increasingly realize, however, that theoretical work must reflect the reality of the battlefield and likely operational constraints. For example, recent explorations of the intricacies of nuclear operations have influenced the way analysts view the problem of deterrence. To be useful, theories and policy prescriptions must respond to the prevailing conditions on the battlefield.

When it becomes necessary to integrate operational considerations into theoretical work, scholars often turn to members of the military to determine if highly touted weapons perform “as advertised,” or to discover the potential limitations of tactics described in current manuals. Within the constraints created by issues of secrecy, officers and enlisted personnel usually are flattered by the interest taken in their profession and are forthcoming in supplying detailed answers to operational questions. Orgahized tours of military facilities also provide an opportunity to examine military hardware at close range and often lead to a fruitful exchange of ideas, especially after the conclusion of the formal presentations. Still, the information gathered from contacts with soldiers and sailors is largely anecdotal and limited to the general experiences of the individuals questioned.

For the past 12 years, I have regularly taught an upper-division course titled American Political Thought. This course typically enrolls between 30 and 40 students and provides the single opportunity for political science majors to focus intensively on the political thought of the Revolutionary and Constitutional eras. Like most courses on American political thought, this one includes a section on the Federalist Papers and a good deal of reading and discussion of the speeches and writings of the anti-federalists. And, like most instructors, I have often felt frustration in trying to get students excited about these “classics.”

This year, inspired by the fanfare surrounding the Bicentennial of the writing of the Constitution, I developed a constitutional ratifying convention simulation as a major component of the course. Rather than simply reading and discussing the writings of federalists and anti-federalists, the students would have to roleplay particular writers and act-out the arguments that are found in anti-federalist documents and The Federalist Papers. The class was divided into two equal-sized teams of federalists and anti-federalists, and they were given nine topical areas with corresponding readings which would form the substance of the convention debates. The students were encouraged to play the role of particular characters, for example, Madison, Hamilton and Jay on the federalist side and Richard Henry Lee, Patrick Henry, and Melancton Smith on the anti-federalist side. To get students fully involved in their subject matter and to make the simulation fun, I made it clear that high sounding rhetoric, period costumes, and appropriate decor in the convention room would be most welcome.

The need to recognize institutional limits on presidents' abilities to translate their campaign promises into concrete public policy is a central theme characterizing much of the presidency literature during the past decade (Barger, 1984; Cronin, 1980; Hinckley, 1985; Light, 1983). Scholars have argued that the so-called “text-book presidency” (Cronin, 1980) paints an unrealistic picture of presidential power within the confines of a Madisonian framework of separated powers and checks and balances. Others have said that this unrealistic vision has contributed to the “cult of the presidency” (Hinckley, 1985), which is reinforced by the political socialization process and the media, thus leading to the “no-win” (Light, 1983) or “impossible” (Barger, 1984) presidencies. The notion of a plural executive, whose powers are fragmented throughout our Madisonian system has grown in popularity (King and Ragsdale, 1988). As a part of their recommendations for reform, virtually all of these authors emphasize correctly the potential role to be played by educators in imparting a more realistic understanding of the limitations of presidential power and outlining the potential consequences of hero worshipping for the occupant of the Oval Office. This article suggests an approach to teaching the presidency that rejects the notion that the president is the most important actor in the American political system. Instead, I will argue that we need to ask our students to consider the President as one actor in a highly fragmented political system, and to develop a more realistic view of both the sources and uses of presidential power within the broader context of democratic accountability and the development of citizenship.

It should not be surprising that freshmen students in an introductory political science course know little about the threat of nuclear war. Like a great percentage of the general public, they are unfamiliar with strategic options, weapons systems, technology, or even some of the ethical issues raised by the presence and possible use of such weapons. Some of these students tell me that they deliberately try to not think about such things because the realities are too horrible to contemplate. Others simply prefer to leave such matters to our leaders and “the experts” or, for whatever reason, are overwhelmed by the ennui which is a threat to any lecture session on any topic.

One way around the pitfall of routine boredom which can affect any college course is to vary the menu of activities; and one of the best learning devices to supplement lecture and written materials, I have found, is simulation. Simulation brings some aspects of reality—decision-making, interactions, the perspective of sitting in a seat of power, and others—into the classroom without claiming that this supposed “slice of life” can replicate the real world in every detail. Some of the processes and institutions of government—Congress, juries, city councils, mediation of labor disputes, and others—lend themselves well to the simulation and gaming format.

Task Force is a small group seminar required of all seniors in the Henry M. Jackson School's International Studies Program at the University of Washington. Five or more seminars are offered in the winter quarter, and each focuses on a current policy issue. In recent years, Task Forces have dealt with such topics as strategic arms control, apartheid, United States policy towards Central America, the future of NATO, and United States trade with Japan. The following is an abridged version of the handbook which serves as a general guide for Task Force students, instructors, and evaluators.

The International Studies Program at the Jackson School introduces undergraduate students to world affairs through traditional and multidisciplinary coursework. Its curriculum draws on economics, geography, history, political science, sociology, languages and literature, religious studies, and many other disciplines. The program also recognizes that the study of international affairs is rooted in policy issues and processes. It is this notion which underlies the concept of Task Force.

The organization and operation of Task Force were inspired by the Policy Conference of Princeton University's Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs. The Policy Conference, which was initiated in 1930, consists of 25-30 people and operates much like a Presidential Commission or other investigative group. Its members explore a policy problem through research and discussions with experts; they debate the merits of policy proposals and arrive at a set of policy recommendations.

Students of the judiciary have long been concerned with the factors that contribute to decision-making at the individual and institutional levels. In particular, analysts have focused a great deal of attention on the Supreme Court and the behavior of its members. Despite this attention, analysts have differed as to the relative influence of the factors justices rely upon when making their decisions. Even the courses taught in a standard political science undergraduate curriculum send mixed signals about these factors to students. Basic constitutional law courses tend to overestimate the role of doctrinal interpretation and precedent and underestimate the impact of the values and attitudes of the Court's members. Courses on the judicial process and politics err in the opposite direction.

When the decision-making literature is viewed as a whole, five basic determinants of judicial decisions emerge: the background of the justice (Tate 1981), the justice's attitudes and values (Rohde and Spaeth 1976), the dynamics inherent in small-groups (Murphy 1964; Woodward and Armstrong 1979), the member's conception of the role of the Court (Howard 1977), and the impact of external stimuli (Casper and Posner 1974). Some of these variables can be measured, but some are very difficult to gauge. As a consequence, analysts cannot accurately assess the relative impact of these five factors upon the individual's decision.

Constant change, unpredictable human behavior, and a complexity that defies mastery by any single student make international relations a field no one—least of all a beginner—can cope with by simply memorizing facts. One key to understanding international relations—whether for the college freshman or a professional researcher—is knowing how to ask the right questions. Constructing and using expert systems can be a highly instructional pedagogical tool in this regard.

Expert systems are programs that reach conclusions based on a set of rules that examine evidence derived either from a database or from responses entered by the user to a series of canned questions. To design a truly “expert” system—one that reaches conclusions as reliable as those of a human expert—is an extremely time-consuming task requiring not only, obviously, the participation of an expert to formulate the rules but also a topic that can be reduced to rules. Such an endeavor is not the goal here.

Instead, the goal here is the preliminary step of training students to ask the proper questions, an arena in which expert systems running on PCs can be set up to provide very pointed demonstrations. Indeed, this is easy enough so that students can easily be assigned the design of such a system themselves (see box).

The first day of class is always a challenge (Vile 1985). An instructor has several objectives: to convey a sense of what the course will entail, to begin convincing students that what they are about to study is important, and to leave the impression that the class will be a stimulating experience. I remember my first class during my initial semester of teaching, a section of introductory American government. Fresh from graduate school, I lectured on how the study of politics could be scientific and dazzled the students with a tour through social science terminology—norms, roles, institutions, and so on. The response was, to be charitable, restrained.

Fortunately for my students, I've moved on to other approaches. One that has been particularly successful in basic American government classes is to place the students in a you-be-the-judge situation through consideration of a Supreme Court case that raises issues of substantive importance to which introductory students can readily relate. The case must have resulted in a non-unanimous decision that is not widely known among undergraduates. (There is no problem in meeting these criteria.) The legal background and facts of the case are presented, as are highlights from the majority and dissenting opinions, but without indicating which is which. The students are then given the opportunity to put their thoughts about the case on paper and to discuss their opinions with their colleagues, first in small groups and then with the whole class.

For the past two years as part of the Writing Center's writing-across-the-curriculum project at Montana State University, we have been experimenting with writing assignments in an introductory American government class with an enrollment of 130-150 students per quarter. We think we have developed a way to assign and teach persuasive writing in large introductory political science classes that helps students argue effectively but does not create a grading nightmare for the professor.

In the Spring 1988 issue of The Political Science Teacher, Richard A. Brumback notes that students are entering graduate school without the ability to write effectively. Brumback calls for instruction in writing, particularly persuasive writing, in public administration curricula. “The science of public administration can only take us as far as systematizing our search for information. Effective evaluation and interpretation of that information rests in the ability to use it persuasively.” Professor Brumback's argument should be extended to undergraduate education in political science. English departments alone cannot do the job of teaching students to write well in all disciplines, especially when they have students for just one or two writing courses. Students need to write often in a variety of disciplines if they are going to write well when they graduate.

There are other reasons, besides helping students develop writing skills, for assigning writing in undergraduate courses. Writing about course content makes students think. It gives them a chance to apply the concepts and methods of the discipline and to interpret and evaluate information. It also helps them see themselves more as active learners, less as passive receptors whose job it is to absorb information, memorize it, and repeat it on tests.

As the computer more and more becomes a tool to further quantitative political science research, the data analysis function threatens to overshadow the use of computers as information processors. Among the many functions of contemporary computer software is the ability to move text from user to user. These packages, available on almost any mainframe system, generally take the form of “electronic mail” systems and have proven invaluable for academics in communicating with each other around the world, making information thousands of miles distant seem located just around the corner.

Mail systems do not diminish in utility even when used just around the corner. Users recognize the benefit of distant information acting as if of local origin, but should not miss the converse. Information local in nature, in using mail systems, can appear to originate from sources far away if the users choose to view the information in that fashion. In essence, mail systems provide the means to model a framework simulating interaction among international political actors.

Thus the computer provides an ideal instrument to model diplomacy in the classroom and can aid instruction on the concept of diplomacy. When taken in the abstract, it seems difficult to teach diplomacy. Several questions arise concerning the concept's place in academia. First, why teach it? The answer lies in the state system. Nations behave as to achieve goals. War presents the starkest and most violent means to attain them, but nations often can eschew war and pursue goals by peaceful meansn—diplomacy. To creditably teach the behavior of nations requires investigation of diplomacy.