Les Perelman, expert in writing assessment and champion of writing education, dies at 77

Leslie “Les” Perelman, an influential figure in college writing assessment; a champion of writing instruction across all subject matters for over three decades at MIT; and a former MIT associate dean for undergraduate education, died on Nov. 12, 2025, at home in Lexington, Massachusetts. He was 77.

A Los Angeles native, Perelman attended the University of California at Berkeley, joining in its lively activist years, and in 1980 received his PhD in English from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. After stints at the University of Southern California and Tulane University, he returned to Massachusetts — to MIT — in 1987, and stayed for the next 35 years.

Perelman became best known for his dogged critique of autograding systems and writing assessments that didn’t assess actual college writing. The Boston Globe dubbed him “The man who killed the SAT essay.” He told NPR that colleges “spend the first year deprogramming [students] from the five-paragraph essay.” 

His widow, MIT Professor Emerita Elizabeth Garrels, says that while attending a conference, Perelman — who was practically blind without his glasses — arranged to stand at one end of a room in order to “grade” essays held up for him on the other side. “He would call out the grade that each essay would likely receive on standardized scoring,” Garrels says. “And he was consistently right.” Perelman was doing what automatic scorers were: He was, he said in the NPR interview, “mirroring how automated or formulaic grading systems often reward form over substance.” 

Perelman also “ruffled a lot of feathers” in industry, says Garrels, with his 2020 paper documenting his BABEL (“Basic Automatic B.S. Essay Language”) Generator, which output nonsense that commercial autograders nevertheless gave top marks. He saved some of his most systematic criticism for autograders’ defenders in academia, at one point calling out peers at the University of Akron for the methodology in their widely-touted paper claiming autograders performed just as well as human graders. 

At least one service, though, E.T.S., partly welcomed Perelman’s critique by making its autograder available to him for testing. (Others, like Pearson and Vantage Learning, declined.) He discovered he could ace the tests, even when his essay included non-factual gibberish and typographical errors:

Teaching assistants are paid an excessive amount of money. The average teaching assistant makes six times as much money as college presidents. In addition, they often receive a plethora of extra benefits such as private jets, vacations in the south seas, a staring roles in motion pictures. Moreover, in the Dickens novel Great Expectation, Pip makes his fortune by being a teaching assistant. It doesn’t matter what the subject is, since there are three parts to everything you can think of.

MIT career

Within MIT, Perelman’s legacy was his push to embed writing instruction into the whole of MIT’s curriculum, not as standalone expository writing subjects, let alone as merely a writing exam that incoming students could use to pass out of writing subjects altogether. Supported by a $325,000 National Science Foundation grant, he convinced MIT to hire writing instructors who were also subject matter experts, often with STEM PhDs. They were tasked with collaborating with departments to plant writing instruction into both existing curricula and new subjects. That effort eventually became the Writing Across the Curriculum program (today named Writing, Rhetoric, and Professional Communication) with a staff of more than 30 instructors.

Building out the infrastructure wasn’t quick, however. Perelman’s successor, Suzanne Lane ’85, says it took him almost 15 years. It started with proving to others just how uneven writing instruction at MIT actually was. “A whole cohort of students who took a lot of writing classes or got communication instruction in various places would make great progress,” Lane says. “But it was definitely possible to get through all of MIT without doing much writing at all.” 

To bolster his case, Perelman turned to alumni surveys. “The surveys asked how well MIT prepared you for your career,” says Lane. “The technical skills scored really high, but — what is horribly termed, sometimes, as ‘soft skills’ — communication skills, collaboration, etc., these scored really high on importance to career, but really low on how well MIT had prepared them.”

In other words, MIT alumni knew their stuff but were bad at communicating it, at a cost to their careers.

This led Perelman and others to push for a new undergraduate communication requirement. That NSF grant supported a 1997 pilot, designing experiments for courses that would be communication-intensive. It was a huge success. Every department participated. It involved 24 subjects and roughly 300 students. MIT faculty, following “lively” discussion at an April 1999 faculty meeting, approved the proposal of the creation of a report on the communication requirement’s implementation, followed a year later by its formal passage, effective fall 2001.

From that initial pilot of 24, there are now nearly 300 subjects that count toward the requirement, from ​​class 1.013 (Senior Civil and Environmental Engineering Design) to 24.918 (Workshop in Linguistic Research).

Connections beyond MIT

Early in his career, Perelman worked with Vincent DiMarco, a literature scholar at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, to publish “The Middle English Letter of Alexander to Aristotle” (Brill, 1978). With Wang Computers as publisher, he was a technical writer and project leader on the “DOS Release 3.30 User’s Reference Guide.” He edited a book and chapter on writing studies and assessment with New Jersey Institute of Technology professor Norbert Elliot. And in a project he was particularly proud of, he worked with the New South Wales Teachers Federation in 2018 to convince Australia to reject the adoption of an automated essay grading regime. 

“Les was brilliant, with a Talmudic way of asking questions and entering academic debates,” says Nancy Sommers, whose work on undergraduate writing assessment at Harvard University paralleled Perelman’s. “I loved the way his eyes sparkled when he was ready to rip an adversary or a colleague who wasn’t up to his quick mind and vast, encyclopedic knowledge.” 

Openness to rhetorical combat didn’t keep Perelman from being a wonderful friend, Sommers says, saying he once waited for her at the airline gate with a sandwich and a smile after a canceled flight. “That was Les, so gracious, generous, anticipating the needs of friends, always there to offer sustenance and friendship.”

Donations in Perelman’s name can be made to UNICEF’s work supporting children in Ukraine, the Lexington Refugee Assistance Program, Doctors Without Borders, and the Ash Grove Movie Finishing Fund.

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Coping with catastrophe

Each April in Japan, people participate in a tradition called “hanami,” or cherry-blossom viewing, where they picnic under the blooming trees. The tradition has a second purpose: The presence of people at these gatherings, often by water, helps solidify riverbanks and protect them from spring floods. The celebration has a dual purpose, by addressing, however incrementally, the threat of natural disaster.

The practice of creating things that also protect against disasters can be seen all over Japan, where many new or renovated school buildings have design features unfamiliar to students elsewhere. In Tokyo, one elementary school has a roof swimming pool that stores water and is used to help the building’s toilets flush, plus an additional rainwater catchment tank and exterior stairs leading to a large balcony that wraps around one side of the building.

Why? Well, Japan is prone to natural disasters, such as tsunamis, earthquakes, and flooding. The country’s schools often double as evacuation sites for local residents, and design practices increasingly reflect this. In normal times, the roof pool is where students learn to swim and helps keep the school cool, and the large balcony is used by spectators watching the adjacent school athletics field. In emergencies, water storage is crucial and exterior stairs help people ascend quickly to the gymnasium, built on the second floor — to keep evacuees safer during flooding.

Meanwhile, in one Tokyo district, rooftop solar power is now common. Some schools feature skylights and courtyards to bring in natural light. Again, these architectural features serve dual purposes. Solar power, for one, lowers annual operating costs, and it provides electricity even in case of grid troubles.

These are examples of what MIT scholar Miho Mazereeuw has termed “anticipatory design,” in which structures and spaces are built with dual uses, for daily living and for when crisis strikes.

“The idea is to have these proactive measures in place rather than being reactionary and jumping into action only after something has happened,” says Mazereeuw, an associate professor in MIT’s Department of Architecture and a leading expert on resilient design.

Now Mazereeuw has a new book on the subject, “Design Before Disaster: Japan’s Culture of Preparedness,” published by the University of Virginia Press. Based on many years of research, with extensive illustrations, Mazereeuw examines scores of successful design examples from Japan, both in terms of architectural features and the civic process that created them.

“I’m hoping there can be a culture shift,” Mazereeuw says. “Wherever you can invent design outcomes to help society be more resilient beforehand, it is not at exorbitant cost. You can design for exceptional everyday spaces but embed other infrastructure and flexibility in there, so when there is a flood event or earthquake, those buildings have more capability.”

Bosai and barbecue

Mazereeuw, who is also the head of MIT’s Urban Risk Lab, has been studying disaster preparedness for over 30 years. As part of the Climate Project at MIT, she is also one of the mission directors and has worked with communities around the world on resiliency planning.

Japan has a particularly well-established culture of preparedness, often referred to through the Japanese word “bosai.” Mazereeuw has been studying the country’s practices carefully since the 1990s. In researching the book, she has visited hundreds of sites in the country and talked to many officials, designers, and citizens along the way.

Indeed, Mazereeuw emphasizes, “A major theme in the book is connecting the top-down and bottom-up.” Some good design ideas come from planners and architects. Other have come from community groups and local residents. All these sources are important.

“The Japanese government does invest a lot in disaster research and recovery,” Mazereeuw says. “But I would hate for people in other countries to think this isn’t possible elsewhere. It’s the opposite. There are a lot of examples in here that don’t cost extra, because of careful design through community participation.”

As one example, Mazereeuw devotes a chapter of the book to public parks, which are often primary evacuation spaces for residents in case of emergency. Some have outdoor cooking facilities, which in normal times are used for, say, a weekend barbecue or local community events but are also there in case of emergency. Some parks also have water storage, or restroom facilities designed to expand if needed, and many serve as flood reservoirs, protecting the surrounding neighborhood.

“The barbecue facilities are a great example of dual use, connecting the everyday with disaster preparedness,” Mazereeuw says. “You can bring food into this beautiful park, so you’re used to using this space for cooking already. The idea is that your cognitive map of where you should go is connected to fun things you have done in the past.”

Some of the parks Mazereeuw surveys in the book are tiny pocket parks, which are also filled with useful resilience tools.

“Anticipatory design does not have to be monumental,” Mazereeuw writes in the book.

Negotiating through design

To be sure, some disaster mitigation measures are difficult to enact. In the Naiwan district of Kesennuma, as Mazereeuw outlines in the book, much of the local port area was destroyed in the 2011 tsunami, and the government wanted to build a seawall as part of the reconstruction plan. Some local residents and fishermen were unenthusiastic; a seawall could limit ocean access. Finally, after extended negotiations, designers created a seawall integrated into a new commercial district with cafes and stores, as well as new areas of public water access.

“This project used the power of design to negotiate between prefectural and local regulations, structural integrity and aesthetics, ocean access and safety,” Mazereeuw says.

Ultimately, working to build a coalition in support of resilience measures can help create more interesting and useful designs.

Other scholars have praised “Design Before Disaster.” Daniel P. Aldrich, a professor at Northeastern University, has called the book a “well-researched, clearly written investigation” into Japanese disaster-management practices, adding that any officials or citizens around the world “who seek to keep residents and communities safe from shocks of all kinds will learn something important from this book. It sets a high bar for future scholarship in the field.”

For her part, Mazereeuw emphasizes, “We can learn from the Japanese example, but it’s not a copy-paste thing. The book is so people can understand the essence of it and then create their own disaster preparedness culture and approach. This should be an all-hands process. Emergency management is not about relying on managers. It’s figuring out how we all play a part.”

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