Post by krazykev on Feb 25, 2007 9:49:20 GMT -5
BALTIMORE — Identical in looks and dress, Stewart and Stanley Battle were inseparable growing up.
To hear their mother tell it, each twin picked up the passions of the other. Stanley fed on football, so Stewart played. Stewart loved music, so Stanley sa ng along.
It was when teachers in school separated the boys that the problems began. Assigned to different classrooms, Stewart shined, Stanley struggled.
Then teachers found new ways to tell them apart: Stewart became the smart twin; Stanley, the stupid one. One was lavished with attention; the other was relegated to a corner .
"My mother raised hell because Stewart was getting one thing and I wasn't getting it," said Stanley Battle, 55. "She said, 'There are no issues with Stanley. You need to pay attention to him.' Because of her and community support, I didn't end up on the blocks somewhere just thrown away."
Five decades and four academic degrees later, N.C. A&T's chancellor-elect has committed his life to making sure other students aren't either.
• • •
Take Philip Morales.
If wild behavior could get you summoned to the president's office at Eastern Connecticut State University, Morales proved he had what it took in the fall of 1993. For a student flunking out of school and selling drugs on campus, a trip to the president's office didn't warrant a blink.
"I didn't pay him no mind until he banged his hand on the table. It scared the hell out of me," Morales remembered. "He said, 'I'm going to introduce you to somebody, and he's going to be your mentor.' My attitude was yeah, all right, whatever."
That changed when he met Stanley Battle, Eastern Connecticut's associate vice president for academic affairs. In Battle , Morales found a teacher, a friend, a taskmaster.
"He was an individual that cared. He wanted to listen to me," Morales said. "I'd walk in his office without an appointment and he'd drop what he was doing and listen to me."
The pair talked about school, classes, what it meant to be a man.
"I didn't have a father figure in my life," Morales said. "Dr. B took that role."
They kept in touch, and when Morales returned to college years later, Battle made him a promise: Graduate and he could move in with Battle's family in the Midwest, where Battle worked at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.
When Morales graduated, Battle kept his promise, giving his wife about a week's notice before the arrival of their new house guest.
"He essentially came home and said, 'Philip is going to live with us,' " said Judith Rozie-Battle, his wife of 32 years. "Some people thought, 'Why did you say yes?' I didn't think twice about it. I trusted his judgment."
Morales enrolled at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater and earned a master's degree in curriculum and instruction, posting a 3.6 grade point average along the way. He's started working toward a doctoral degree.
"A lot of people ... thought I didn't have the intelligence to do the school work," Morales said. "He believed in me. ... He lit the light bulb under me and I breezed through all my classes."
Almost 14 years later, the pair still talk like father and son.
"He turned my life around," Morales said. "He's tough. He doesn't like slackers. He doesn't want to hear excuses or people saying 'I can't.' He ain't got time to do that. ...
"His thing is education, education, education. He eats and breathes it. For all students."
• • •
Battle rose through the ranks of academia at a pace that matches his fast stride. He started as an assistant professor at the University of Minnesota in 1980. Just seven years later, he became a full professor at the University of Connecticut.
"I became a full professor rather quickly," Battle said, "because I'm very impatient."
He soon grew bored and switched to senior administration work, a move that put him on track for a college presidency. Though he had spent his entire career at primarily white institutions, Battle felt a pull toward historically black colleges.
"I wanted to work in an environment where I could touch students who were primarily first generation, students of color," he said. "Students who were essentially all in the same category: didn't have a lot of money, had promise, had potential, but needed a kick."
His chance came in 2002, when he was named the fourth president of Coppin State College, a mid size historically black institution in northwest Baltimore.
He took the job — and a pay cut.
• • •
Coppin was a school in need of a champion.
Located in a section of Baltimore lined with vacant lots and row houses with busted windows, the campus is an oasis, dedicated to educating urban students. But over the years, the college had suffered from chronic under-funding.
"Funding was just abysmal, operating and capital," Battle said.
Cracks marred the brick facade of an administration building. The student government office hadn't been renovated since 1964. The condition of the campus auditorium moved him to tears.
"It got to a point, I went beyond anger, I just got real frustrated," Battle said. "I said, "How can you do this to a historically black institution in this neighborhood?"'
Coppin had become the punch line of local jokes. Some employees even asked Battle why he wanted the job, listing all the things the campus lacked.
There were times when he wanted to bail, especially during the first year. "It was overwhelming," he said. "Worse than a pressure cooker."
His stubbornness made him stay. His tenacity helped him make inroads.
"My second day on the job I was at the state legislature," he said.
With Battle at the helm, the institution attained university status in 2004 and launched Coppin Academy, an early college, on-campus high school. The campus started the Presidential Scholars/Leadership Program, a full scholarship program for high school leaders and community servants.
Upgrades — from fixing the facade of the administration building to updating campus utilities and security systems — have helped modernize the campus. Coppin has also emerged as a technology leader during Battle's tenure, becoming the first in the University System of Maryland to be completely wireless.
He's quick to share the credit: "I didn't do that," he said. "That's a 'we' effort."
Coppin was always in Battle's thoughts. He'd wake up at 2 a.m. pondering a university project.
"He's just so insanely driven and insanely focused on what he has to do," said his daughter, 22-year-old Ashley Battle, a graduate student at Columbia University's School of Journalism.
For a brief period, both daughter and dad worked at the university and shared a morning commute. "I used to laugh because on the drive to work he'd just start talking about Coppin, 'This needs to be done, that needs to be done,' " said the only child, mimicking her father. "That focus is why just about everything he touches turns to gold."
Battle has gained the respect of his colleagues and the students, who say he's driven and competitive, caring and personable, straight-forward and fair.
"He's visionary. He's looking at where Coppin can be, not on a day-to-day basis where we are today," said Sadie Gregory, Coppin's provost. "He's thinking much, much further than today."
Battle also empowers his employees, but it is a privilege that must be earned. "He trusts that you're doing your work. He doesn't tell you what to do and what not to do," said Ahmed El-Haggan , Coppin's chief information officer. "For those who don't do a good job, they will see more of him."
If there's a complaint about Battle's leadership, it's that his fast pace can leave some behind.
"He wants things to happen yesterday," El-Haggan said. "Patience is not in his dictionary. When he says he needs this, he expects it done. If he tells you he needs it in two days, he wants it in two hours.
"He thinks about something, gets it done, starts thinking about something else. That can be a bit exhausting for people around him."
• • •
That's Battle's way — intense, unflinching, disciplined. It harkens back to his undergraduate days as an offensive tackle on Springfield College's football team.
He adapted the gridiron tactics to his graduate work, even while getting to know his future wife. The pair met while working toward master's degrees in social work at the University of Connecticut.
"He made me more disciplined," said Rozie-Battle, an attorney and the executive director of Maryland's Child Care Administration. "I took a class with him. He was totally obnoxious at times. That was the best semester I had because we started everything early."
Despite his workaholic tendencies, Battle remains a devoted family man who calls to check on his 80-year-old mother every day.
"Out of every single major event that I've had in my life, he's only missed one," said Ashley Battle. That was a school concert during which she performed a number of solos. But it was an error of the calendar, not the heart — her father had marked the wrong day in his datebook.
When it comes time to unwind, Battle enjoys comedy and music. He's a connoisseur of old cartoons: Rocky and Bullwinkle, Popeye, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.
Most Sundays he's in church, his faith an integral part of his life since his boyhood days in Massachusetts. "He reads his Bible every night,'' his daughter said. "He'll get down on his knees and he'll pray."
When Battle arrives at A&T July 1, he'll inherit a university with its own problems . State auditors are investigating allegations of grant mismanagement, possible fraud and other issues at A&T.
Battle, who has been regularly briefed on developments in Greensboro, appears to be undeterred by the challenge.
"Institutions, whether historically black or traditionally white, they all have problems," he said. "North Carolina A&T is no different from any other institution. It's how you deal with it."
Since his introduction as A&T's next leader — a job that will pay $255,000 a year — his mind has swirled with ideas for the campus. He's working on a 60-day plan to interact with the university's major constituencies — students, faculty, staff and alumni, as well as the community and state at large.
"My excitement about coming has not diminished one iota," Battle said recently. "In fact, I'm more excited than ever."
Contact Lanita Withers at 373-7071 or lwithers@news-record.com
About Stanley Battle
Born: June 12, 1951, in Springfield, Mass.
Family: Married to Judith Lynn Rozie-Battle, one daughter
Education:
• Ph.D. in Social Welfare Policy from the University of Pittsburgh, 1980
• Master's in Public Health from the University of Pittsburgh, 1979
• Master's in Social Work from the University of Connecticut, 1975
• Bachelor's in Sociology from Springfield College, 1973
Professional Experience:
• Coppin State University president, 2003-present
• University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, vice chancellor of student and multicultural affairs, 2000-03
• Eastern Connecticut State University, associate vice president for academic affairs, 1993-98
• University of Connecticut, School of Social Work, associate dean for research and development, 1991-93
• Taught at University of Connecticut, in the School of Social Work and the School of Medicine, 1987-93
• Associate professor, Boston University School of Social Work, 1984-87
• Assistant professor, University of Minnesota School of Social Work, 1980-84
To hear their mother tell it, each twin picked up the passions of the other. Stanley fed on football, so Stewart played. Stewart loved music, so Stanley sa ng along.
It was when teachers in school separated the boys that the problems began. Assigned to different classrooms, Stewart shined, Stanley struggled.
Then teachers found new ways to tell them apart: Stewart became the smart twin; Stanley, the stupid one. One was lavished with attention; the other was relegated to a corner .
"My mother raised hell because Stewart was getting one thing and I wasn't getting it," said Stanley Battle, 55. "She said, 'There are no issues with Stanley. You need to pay attention to him.' Because of her and community support, I didn't end up on the blocks somewhere just thrown away."
Five decades and four academic degrees later, N.C. A&T's chancellor-elect has committed his life to making sure other students aren't either.
• • •
Take Philip Morales.
If wild behavior could get you summoned to the president's office at Eastern Connecticut State University, Morales proved he had what it took in the fall of 1993. For a student flunking out of school and selling drugs on campus, a trip to the president's office didn't warrant a blink.
"I didn't pay him no mind until he banged his hand on the table. It scared the hell out of me," Morales remembered. "He said, 'I'm going to introduce you to somebody, and he's going to be your mentor.' My attitude was yeah, all right, whatever."
That changed when he met Stanley Battle, Eastern Connecticut's associate vice president for academic affairs. In Battle , Morales found a teacher, a friend, a taskmaster.
"He was an individual that cared. He wanted to listen to me," Morales said. "I'd walk in his office without an appointment and he'd drop what he was doing and listen to me."
The pair talked about school, classes, what it meant to be a man.
"I didn't have a father figure in my life," Morales said. "Dr. B took that role."
They kept in touch, and when Morales returned to college years later, Battle made him a promise: Graduate and he could move in with Battle's family in the Midwest, where Battle worked at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.
When Morales graduated, Battle kept his promise, giving his wife about a week's notice before the arrival of their new house guest.
"He essentially came home and said, 'Philip is going to live with us,' " said Judith Rozie-Battle, his wife of 32 years. "Some people thought, 'Why did you say yes?' I didn't think twice about it. I trusted his judgment."
Morales enrolled at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater and earned a master's degree in curriculum and instruction, posting a 3.6 grade point average along the way. He's started working toward a doctoral degree.
"A lot of people ... thought I didn't have the intelligence to do the school work," Morales said. "He believed in me. ... He lit the light bulb under me and I breezed through all my classes."
Almost 14 years later, the pair still talk like father and son.
"He turned my life around," Morales said. "He's tough. He doesn't like slackers. He doesn't want to hear excuses or people saying 'I can't.' He ain't got time to do that. ...
"His thing is education, education, education. He eats and breathes it. For all students."
• • •
Battle rose through the ranks of academia at a pace that matches his fast stride. He started as an assistant professor at the University of Minnesota in 1980. Just seven years later, he became a full professor at the University of Connecticut.
"I became a full professor rather quickly," Battle said, "because I'm very impatient."
He soon grew bored and switched to senior administration work, a move that put him on track for a college presidency. Though he had spent his entire career at primarily white institutions, Battle felt a pull toward historically black colleges.
"I wanted to work in an environment where I could touch students who were primarily first generation, students of color," he said. "Students who were essentially all in the same category: didn't have a lot of money, had promise, had potential, but needed a kick."
His chance came in 2002, when he was named the fourth president of Coppin State College, a mid size historically black institution in northwest Baltimore.
He took the job — and a pay cut.
• • •
Coppin was a school in need of a champion.
Located in a section of Baltimore lined with vacant lots and row houses with busted windows, the campus is an oasis, dedicated to educating urban students. But over the years, the college had suffered from chronic under-funding.
"Funding was just abysmal, operating and capital," Battle said.
Cracks marred the brick facade of an administration building. The student government office hadn't been renovated since 1964. The condition of the campus auditorium moved him to tears.
"It got to a point, I went beyond anger, I just got real frustrated," Battle said. "I said, "How can you do this to a historically black institution in this neighborhood?"'
Coppin had become the punch line of local jokes. Some employees even asked Battle why he wanted the job, listing all the things the campus lacked.
There were times when he wanted to bail, especially during the first year. "It was overwhelming," he said. "Worse than a pressure cooker."
His stubbornness made him stay. His tenacity helped him make inroads.
"My second day on the job I was at the state legislature," he said.
With Battle at the helm, the institution attained university status in 2004 and launched Coppin Academy, an early college, on-campus high school. The campus started the Presidential Scholars/Leadership Program, a full scholarship program for high school leaders and community servants.
Upgrades — from fixing the facade of the administration building to updating campus utilities and security systems — have helped modernize the campus. Coppin has also emerged as a technology leader during Battle's tenure, becoming the first in the University System of Maryland to be completely wireless.
He's quick to share the credit: "I didn't do that," he said. "That's a 'we' effort."
Coppin was always in Battle's thoughts. He'd wake up at 2 a.m. pondering a university project.
"He's just so insanely driven and insanely focused on what he has to do," said his daughter, 22-year-old Ashley Battle, a graduate student at Columbia University's School of Journalism.
For a brief period, both daughter and dad worked at the university and shared a morning commute. "I used to laugh because on the drive to work he'd just start talking about Coppin, 'This needs to be done, that needs to be done,' " said the only child, mimicking her father. "That focus is why just about everything he touches turns to gold."
Battle has gained the respect of his colleagues and the students, who say he's driven and competitive, caring and personable, straight-forward and fair.
"He's visionary. He's looking at where Coppin can be, not on a day-to-day basis where we are today," said Sadie Gregory, Coppin's provost. "He's thinking much, much further than today."
Battle also empowers his employees, but it is a privilege that must be earned. "He trusts that you're doing your work. He doesn't tell you what to do and what not to do," said Ahmed El-Haggan , Coppin's chief information officer. "For those who don't do a good job, they will see more of him."
If there's a complaint about Battle's leadership, it's that his fast pace can leave some behind.
"He wants things to happen yesterday," El-Haggan said. "Patience is not in his dictionary. When he says he needs this, he expects it done. If he tells you he needs it in two days, he wants it in two hours.
"He thinks about something, gets it done, starts thinking about something else. That can be a bit exhausting for people around him."
• • •
That's Battle's way — intense, unflinching, disciplined. It harkens back to his undergraduate days as an offensive tackle on Springfield College's football team.
He adapted the gridiron tactics to his graduate work, even while getting to know his future wife. The pair met while working toward master's degrees in social work at the University of Connecticut.
"He made me more disciplined," said Rozie-Battle, an attorney and the executive director of Maryland's Child Care Administration. "I took a class with him. He was totally obnoxious at times. That was the best semester I had because we started everything early."
Despite his workaholic tendencies, Battle remains a devoted family man who calls to check on his 80-year-old mother every day.
"Out of every single major event that I've had in my life, he's only missed one," said Ashley Battle. That was a school concert during which she performed a number of solos. But it was an error of the calendar, not the heart — her father had marked the wrong day in his datebook.
When it comes time to unwind, Battle enjoys comedy and music. He's a connoisseur of old cartoons: Rocky and Bullwinkle, Popeye, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.
Most Sundays he's in church, his faith an integral part of his life since his boyhood days in Massachusetts. "He reads his Bible every night,'' his daughter said. "He'll get down on his knees and he'll pray."
When Battle arrives at A&T July 1, he'll inherit a university with its own problems . State auditors are investigating allegations of grant mismanagement, possible fraud and other issues at A&T.
Battle, who has been regularly briefed on developments in Greensboro, appears to be undeterred by the challenge.
"Institutions, whether historically black or traditionally white, they all have problems," he said. "North Carolina A&T is no different from any other institution. It's how you deal with it."
Since his introduction as A&T's next leader — a job that will pay $255,000 a year — his mind has swirled with ideas for the campus. He's working on a 60-day plan to interact with the university's major constituencies — students, faculty, staff and alumni, as well as the community and state at large.
"My excitement about coming has not diminished one iota," Battle said recently. "In fact, I'm more excited than ever."
Contact Lanita Withers at 373-7071 or lwithers@news-record.com
About Stanley Battle
Born: June 12, 1951, in Springfield, Mass.
Family: Married to Judith Lynn Rozie-Battle, one daughter
Education:
• Ph.D. in Social Welfare Policy from the University of Pittsburgh, 1980
• Master's in Public Health from the University of Pittsburgh, 1979
• Master's in Social Work from the University of Connecticut, 1975
• Bachelor's in Sociology from Springfield College, 1973
Professional Experience:
• Coppin State University president, 2003-present
• University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, vice chancellor of student and multicultural affairs, 2000-03
• Eastern Connecticut State University, associate vice president for academic affairs, 1993-98
• University of Connecticut, School of Social Work, associate dean for research and development, 1991-93
• Taught at University of Connecticut, in the School of Social Work and the School of Medicine, 1987-93
• Associate professor, Boston University School of Social Work, 1984-87
• Assistant professor, University of Minnesota School of Social Work, 1980-84
