I have always thought it would be appropriate, when a person is dying, to have the funeral in advance of the actual event that normally kicks off a funeral.  That way, the guest of honor would have a chance to hear all the nice things people traditionally say about the deceased, or even to rebut points made, or add nuance and context to the discussion.

So, I’m glad we have had some time for mourning the passing of the NACAC Exchange and in doing so, remembering the demise of its ancestors: The list-serv, the E-list, and perhaps some other names I have forgotten that are long lost to history.

Let’s save the nice stuff for the end: Social media sites and their cousins (and I count The Lists as an early form of social media) often end up very differently than first configured, and The Lists are no exception. The very fact that we have lists instead of a list is testament to that. NACAC once attempted to kill one version of the list, and in response to the outrage, brought it back in the poorly designed clone we see today.

I don’t know what caused it to be born in the first place (maybe in 1996, or so?) but the downward spiral took hold fairly early. Some people didn’t seem to get the idea that you are replying to thousands of people when you hit the little arrow. Others sent things accidentally that they intended for others, and a few replied to a thousand people with a snarky comment when they thought they were forwarding to a colleague.

But those are minor inconveniences. The problems were bigger than that, and they shone a spotlight on some bigger issues in the profession: Hungry recruiters who jump on every opportunity to generate an application; people who would rather ask a question and wait ten minutes for the answer than Google it and learn right away; people whose knowledge base is so shallow they should not be taking a paycheck for the advice they give; and the people who have an opinion about everything and feel compelled to chime in (in case you thought I lacked self-awareness.)

The Lists also pointed out our desire for clarity and certainty, even when it’s obvious that neither is to be found. “How do colleges….” and “What do colleges think about…” were my favorite unfavorites. Colleges, of course, are not monolithic, and we all do things in our own particular way. Even readers are different, as are members of the admission committee on any given day. You might think or feel differently at 10:30 am on a Monday than 4:30 pm on a Friday. But thanks for asking.

Much to my chagrin, The Lists were very operational, transactional, and focused on a very narrow slice of our profession: Looking for the best college for a dyslexic, left-handed fiddle player with red hair who wants to study marine biology in Kansas, for instance. Or the “which company makes the best table banners for college fairs” query that seemed to make an annual appearance in your inbox. On the one hand, these queries pointed out and reinforced our profession’s desire to be of service, and to help others. I remember a plea for help from a young, inexperienced counselor in the Midwest who was thrust into college counseling because of the death of a colleague. The outpouring of advice and guidance and the offers to help one-on-one were gratifying. Our business is filled with kind, generous, and compassionate people.

On the other hand, there was a reluctance to engage on topics at a macro level: Affordability, racism, and unfair admissions practices only got attention when they affected one student, or a small group of students. Discussions about the highly rejectives often got private replies, but people were too frightened to attach their name to an opinion in public. This worked both ways: High school counselors afraid to criticize a college, and college admissions people afraid to call out high school or independent counselors when the situation warranted it. This desire to always smooth things over, sweep them under the rug, or pretend we can’t do anything about it because it might cost us something in the short term is one thing that has always, and continues, to bother me about the professional world we inhabit.

About the only thing that seemed to unite people is a dislike of College Board; that may be, of course, because the supporters are afraid to say anything for fear of being shouted down. Oh, and the colleges who send missing document letters too early. No one likes that, even though colleges still appear to do it.

On the third hand (this is the internet, and you can invent phrases as you see fit), The Lists gave me a voice that a first-generation high school student (not a typo) who was never a good student might not have otherwise had. Back in the old days–I’m talking the 80’s, kids–the way one networked and socialized was at conferences or being on committees or working at one of the moderately rejectives (there were no highly rejectives back in those days). I hate conferences, being perhaps one of the most introverted people in a profession of extreme extroverts. And committees have always been the bane of my existence. The nuns at Nativity School would have told you I didn’t always play well with others.

I could write things, expressing an opinion about a topic I felt important about. That led to meeting people (Sue Biemeret and Melanie Coffman were the first people I ever beamed a business card to on a Palm Pilot), being asked to be on panels; more writing opportunities in CHE, Washington Post, Academic Impressions, and Volt; and exposure from journalists in books and newspapers. People at conferences would get on an elevator with me at a conference and say, “Oh, you’re Jon!” when they’d see my name badge. Or sometimes, they’d see my name badge and quickly divert their eyes. Having people love or hate your writing is a sign that it’s memorable, I guess.

For those opportunities, I’ll be forever grateful, especially for the chance to meet so many esteemed and wonderful colleagues. As I begin to think about retiring a few years after The Exchange goes away, it will be the thing I remember the most.

So farewell, Exchange, E-list, List-serv. In the balance, you were great, and provided a valuable service to that kid who wanted marine biology in Kansas. You’ve been replaced by “The Hive Mind” (the name of which I won’t be commenting on, but I’m guessing if you’ve read this far, you can probably figure out what I’d say about it.)

See you at the Retirement Home.