WHENEVER someone has asked me what is the most surprising (or annoying) thing about being a university president, I've had a quick response: parents.
Although we try to treat our students like adults, to give them responsibility, to hold them accountable for their actions, to allow them the freedom to chart the course of their own education, I regularly find that parents think they are still running the lives of their children. Some are quick to say, "Well, we're paying the bills," as if their monetary support is justification for imposing immaturity on their talented and accomplished offspring.
Others intervene with more reluctance, advocating on behalf of their children only to ensure that they are getting the most out of the university's services.
Helicopter parents, we know, hover annoyingly above the less-than-independent progeny, perpetuating dependency and childish behavior (like calling home about a grade rather than talking to the professor).
When I speak to parents, I emphasize that their students are not children anymore, and that university faculty and administrators are not acting in locus parentis. College-age students should be treated like adults in order to encourage them to act with greater maturity.
I felt confident in this stance until a few weeks ago when I received word of a shooting a few blocks from the Wesleyan campus. We were heartbroken that one of our students was killed at the café where she worked, and were put on high alert when the shooter got away. His diaries made their way into the press, and they contained vicious anti-Semitism and indicated a willingness to attack other students.
Suddenly the idea of in locus parentis felt relevant to me. We ensured that our students stayed indoors, and then we figured out how to get food to them. Our emergency plans worked well, and our normally frisky undergraduates were attentive to instructions and suddenly serious about their safety. Prudence, not panic, I urged, and we arranged for additional police protection and other safety measures. Every couple of hours we sent mass e-mails, text messages, and voice mails to keep families and alumni informed. I was on campus day and night, and I wanted parents to know that I was hovering.
As I weighed my choices about how to keep students safe while also bringing the campus back to some semblance of its normal rhythms, I felt responsible for each and every student. When we distributed box lunches to residence halls, I made the rounds (as did other administrators) to chat with students and show them we could keep calm and safe. Opening the dining hall for a meal in the evening provided undergraduates a chance to see friends, have hot food, and realize we were going to be OK.
My wife and I ate dinner with students, and as we hopped from table to table, we could feel an easing of tension. Things weren't "back to normal," but the feeling of relative peace and security was growing. Later that night, the alleged gunman turned himself in; the immediate crisis was over, but grief settled in.
In the week after the shooting, I received hundreds of messages thanking me for taking care of our students, and for communicating regularly with families far from campus. I was grateful for communication from parents, and eager to write back.
Our students may be adults, but during a crisis they turned to older adults to give them signals about how to stay safe, and how to deal with strong emotions like grief and fear.
I'm sure that next year I'll still wonder why some parents think it appropriate to be concerned about the size of the portions their students receive at the dining hall, or about the length of the homework assignment from the chemistry professor. But I'll also understand better the attention and care they consistently provide their adult children. And I'll respect their expectation that I provide the same when the circumstances demand it.
Michael S. Roth is president of Wesleyan University in Middletown, Conn. 
