When we developed our case for a name change last fall, I thought one of the most compelling arguments -- at least from a PR and marketing standpoint -- had to do with how the national news media so often confuse us with the University of Missouri-Columbia, or just "University of Missouri," which in the minds of many, means the campus in Columbia.
"The UMR name," we wrote back then, "is well known in our geographic region and among the research agencies and corporate recruiters aware of our areas of expertise. However, beyond those areas, the name and reputation are either confused with MU or unknown by uninformed students, corporate partners and opinion leaders." We also pointed out that "Alumni, faculty and staff report the campus confusion, as they are often referred to as being associated with the 'University of Missouri' in edited biographies, introductions and news media reports."
It's that association that really sticks in my craw as a PR guy.
Case in point: The latest edition of Wired magazine carries a nice article about last spring's Regolith Excavation Challenge, a program put on by NASA that is "aimed at applying outsider ingenuity to space colonization." One of the teams was from this campus. (We blogged all about it before, during and after the competition, and got some pretty nice media coverage about our Lunar Miners team and their excavation craft. We even got a mention on the Wired Science blog.)
But in the September 2007 edition of Wired, our team is known merely as "11 University of Missouri students." Here's the context, from the story's opening paragraphs:
Four couch-sized contraptions, all clearly homebuilt, sit inside a cavernous building at the Santa Maria, California, fairgrounds. One, made of unfinished wood, has denim conveyor belts running over purple and orange plastic beads. It's the brainchild of a boiler engineer from Michigan, whose girlfriend sewed the belts. Another, cobbled together by a systems analyst from nearby Arroyo Grande, features a set of steel trays attached to a long bicycle chain. A team of Los Angeles engineers used precisely machined aluminum and incorporated a toothed rotor that spins like a waterwheel. The tallest of the bunch, standing about 5 feet high, is a clattering assemblage of aluminum scoops mounted on a red conveyor. It represents a year and a half of work by 11 University of Missouri students, two of whom drove 30 hours to get the thing here. They're still scrambling to apply the finishing touches, slapping masking tape on the cups and adjusting bungee cords to keep it upright.
That really sticks in my craw. But perhaps it will drive home at least one of the points we made in the rationale for the name change.
