Winfield, Kansas, is not a big city. No large skyscrapers, no late-night venues, no big city lights to make it glow like promise. And yet, here I am, sitting in the office of Dr. Tamara J. McEwen, Dean of Faculty at Southwestern College, wondering why students think they need the big cities and universities to ever feel alive.
She tells me her favorite color is green. “All shades of green,” she insists, leaning back in her chair like she owns my attention. “Peridot is my birthstone,” McEwen says, “It’s a lovely shade of green.”
She’s an August birthday. August 13th. Friday the 13th, naturally. “Friday the 13th has always been my lucky day,” she says, gesturing toward a wall sign gifted by her high school best friend. She wouldn’t let me read the back inscription. “She was not surprised that I got a job at a school with a black cat as its mascot.” McEwen jokes.
I try to picture Jinx, wandering around the hallways of Southwestern College’s many buildings. Some domestic chaos with a touch of charm. Somehow, it feels like a metaphor for McEwen herself. Slightly mysterious, fiercely independent, yet quietly lucky.
When asked about a dinner with anyone, McEwen responded with her grandmother. “I’m cooking,” she says without hesitation.
“She always liked to go out to dinner. Kind of old-fashioned places. I would probably cook chicken enchiladas with Spanish rice.”
There is no hesitation in Tammy McEwen. She is decisively herself in a way that makes the rest of us wonder why we can’t be half as certain about anything. Our careers, our plans for dinner, our outfits in the morning.
Builders and the Last Crumb
Dr. McEwen tells me that a true Builder at Southwestern College is a servant leader, someone who helps others, builds better, shares the last crumb. There is no room here for hoarding, for ego, for the kind of quiet, slow poison that seeps into too many professional lives. This is the small-town version of a corporate vision statement, only less polished and far more human.
Do you rehearse for meetings? I asked, followed by a slight chuckle from McEwen. Her answer, “Sometimes.” Mostly, she improvises, which makes perfect sense because she is the kind of person who thrives on challenges, or, as her husband Jim diagnosed her, “co-dependent on challenges.” Shadowing her predecessor, Dr. J.K. Campbell, before his retirement was a challenge. While chairing a division, teaching classes, and still being able to sit down at meetings, McEwen admits it was exhausting. But she survived and thrived.
She is also surprisingly relatable. Lunch for Tammy could be anywhere from a soup at College Hill Coffee, salad from the Southwestern College cafeteria to hummus and Triscuits in her office. She is quiet and unapologetically herself.
Purple, Black, and Honesty
Dr. McEwen describes herself as a Builder in three ways. She doesn’t ask anyone to do something she wouldn’t do herself; she loves purple and truly does enjoy a black cat. It is a manifesto in wardrobe choices and pet allegiances.
Her core values? Honesty, reciprocity, and kindness. She would rather know the truth than live in pretense. She is sixty years old, though I would’ve guessed forty-eight, and she tells me she started her PhD at forty. Fear is something that she treats like a minor inconvenience.
Tammy McEwen wears Hats
Tammy’s favorite campus spot is the top of the 77, looking down on the world she helps shape daily. Southwestern College’s motto is Lux Esto, “Be Light.” She translated it for the rest of us in her own words. “Being an inspiration and letting your light fall on others and bringing them into your hemisphere.”
Dr. Tamara J. McEwen’s light is green. It is purple. It is mischievous, grounded, and unapologetically her own. She is, in every sense, the Dean of Faculty. Perhaps, in a small, unexpected Kansas college, she’s a little bit of the big city too.
So, as I walked down the stairwell of Christy Administration Building here at Southwestern College, I realized something. You don’t need a skyline to feel seen. Sometimes all you need is a black cat, a wall sign, and a Dean who knows exactly how to share the last crumb.
