The first time I walked into the Richardson Hall boardroom, also known as the Peter Lougheed room, my eyes jolted wide open to the stunning portraits of twelve Chancellors past. Being the Fine Art grad I am, I felt a brief sense of calm in the familiarity of oil paintbrush strokes on an oversized canvas. Yet, quickly the sense of calmness seemed to only last about five seconds—I ed I’m here for conversations and decisions that will guide the direction of this institution and affect students’ lives.
This column, now one-year-old, is all about speaking to parts of Queen’s that aren’t well understood, which frankly could be anything. But the Board of Trustees might just be the murkiest mystery of them all. I didn’t want to write about it right away, because honestly, I didn’t understand it yet. I’m still learning. But I’ve settled into a rhythm—a solid routine and framework for my thinking, questioning, and voting.
For the nuts and bolts, the Student Trustees made a three-part video series to provide a general overview, explain committee functions, and ways to get involved. Start there and then come back.
Now, here is how the Board actually looks and feels for me as an individual.
First, my family, friends, and team know not to ask or expect anything of me the week leading up to Board. Once the 48-hour marathon begins, I’m sucked into the time warp and won’t return to reality until Sunday after a long sleep.
Here is how it unfolds:
In the weeks leading up to Board, I start pulling threads. The quirk of this role is that I wear many hats as Rector, including frequent meetings with the istration. I ask them what to expect—an operating budget, a changed policy, or new capital planning. This preview helps me get a feel for what might matter most for students.
The agenda drops on a Friday, one week out. I do a first- skim, flag big-ticket items, and then let my brain mull it over the weekend.
Starting Monday, I work myself through the packages, which are hundreds of pages. I keep notes and send off emails for clarifying questions.
By Wednesday, I am actively thinking about my remarks for the open session—but I won’t finish it until moments before it’s time to speak. It’s a privilege for me to deliver a report to my fellow Trustees. But the speech, or anything I say in meetings, isn’t about me. If it becomes about me, I’m missing the point. Therefore, I remove pieces of myself when I show up at the table. I say things that I either haven’t experienced or frankly don’t agree with, because I am here to convey student voices.
The Chair and I meet with a group of elected student leaders on the evening before Board. Our standing invitation opens a frank dialogue and mutual understanding of one another’s world.
Then, before I know it, it’s Friday morning and my day is packed with back-to-back committee meetings. People often ask what I do in these closed sessions when the doors are shut.
What I can say is this: I observe the expressions and tone of the room (this tells me a lot). I listen. Sometimes I stay still because not everything needs a reaction from me. When I raise my hand and speak, I offer a student lens that would otherwise be missing. And I’ve learned that one well-placed question can shift the energy of the room.
Now, what’s not part of this quarterly routine is the relationships. I do that all year long. I know that for me to be heard, more than just on a superficial level, I must earn trust and credibility from the Trustees, who have decades more of life experience and high-level careers. So, I do my homework before showing up. That is, reading those long reports, keeping up with local, national, and global affairs in higher education, and most importantly, I speak with students.
While I may not always agree with the Board, I do believe in the value of sitting on it.
At your service,
Niki
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