Speaking Truth to Power (2 page)

In the quiet of my office, after classes were over and most of the staff had left, I tried to read at least forty letters a day. Many, especially those from harassment victims, were heart-wrenching. Because of their intensity and my fatigue, reading my assigned number of the letters at the end of a workday often proved impossible. I would become despondent and unable to continue, or angered by my own helplessness to change things. I changed my routine, setting aside time to read the mail first thing in the morning. But this was a mistake because after reading of all the embarrassment, anger, grief, I could not focus on my work. This letter speaking of abuse or that letter describing disillusionment stayed with me all day.

Not all of the letters caused me dismay. I laughed at humorous characterizations of my senatorial detractors. A letter from proud parents of an infant brought a smile to my face, and still does. “If this photo brings you half the joy she brings us, we will be pleased,” they wrote.

Though there were the threatening, vulgar, and just plain cruel messages, they were few, and I thank God for that. So as not to delude myself into believing that everyone saw my testimony in a positive light, I read those as well. The outrage I felt over the abusive experiences described in some of the letters numbed me to any cruelty my detractors could dish out. In the face of so much pain, their hostility seemed trivial.

The people who took time to write, even those who expressed anger at me, seemed to want to make sense out of the hearing. They wanted to understand for themselves and in some cases for me. I cannot overstate the importance of these letters, notes, and other messages. They were crucial to my endurance and ultimately to my recovery. I had been deeply wounded by the allegations about me during and after the hearing, but I had had no place to heal. The scrutiny of critics and curious onlookers, from the tabloid press to people on the street, seemed constant. Certainly, talking about the experience with my family and friends was a great relief. And prayer sustained me daily. Yet it was knowing that people I had never met shared my concerns that lifted me spiritually when I was alone in my office with their letters. If the hearing had left me feeling isolated and out of touch with the world, the correspondence afterward helped me to reconnect with it.

T
he event known as the Hill-Thomas hearing has been described variously as a watershed in American politics, a turning point in the awareness of sexual harassment, and a wake-up call for women. For me it was a bane which I have worked hard to transform into a blessing for myself and for others. And because it brought to bear for the average public issues of sexual harassment, issues of race, gender, and politics, the hearing and all of the events that surrounded it deserve honest assessment.

But I am no longer content to leave the assessment to others, for they cannot know what I experienced—what I felt, saw, heard, and thought. Whatever others may say, I must address these questions for myself. I have not lived one day since the hearing without feeling its significance or the immeasurable weight of responsibility it has left with me. During her testimony before the Judiciary Committee, Judge Susan Hoerchner commented that I did not choose the issue of sexual harassment; rather, it chose me. Having been chosen, I have come to believe that it is up to me to try to give meaning to it all.

During his inquiry Senator Heflin suggested “other motivations” for my testimony. “Are you interested in writing a book?”

“No, I’m not interested in writing a book,” I replied.

The transcript of the confirmation hearing recorded the chuckles and snickers that went through the room as “laughter.” The suggestion that all of this might have been motivated by aspirations to write a book must have seemed preposterous to anyone. In any case, the exchange provided one of the few moments of comic relief during the hearing.

This book is not intended as a detached or dispassionate chronicle. I am objective enough only to realize that I cannot write such a book. Instead, I write to offer my own perspective. I do this not simply to survive the tragedy but to transcend it. I do not undertake this endeavor lightly. I have never had much interest in writing anything beyond legal articles and essays. The very idea of writing a book of personal reflection is counter to my nature. I do not eagerly share with strangers the personal aspects of my life. Sometimes I fear that my writing will not communicate the power of my experience effectively. Sometimes I fear that it might, thus provoking further attacks on me. But it is as important today as it was in 1991 that I feel free to speak. If I let my fears silence me now, I will have betrayed all of those who supported me in 1991 and those who have come forward since. More than anything else, the Hill-Thomas hearing of October 1991 was about finding our voices and breaking the silence forever.

And so, despite my reply to Senator Heflin, I begin.

P
ART
O
NE

S
enator Joseph Biden, Democrat of Delaware, is a man who chooses his words carefully and speaks them clearly in a mildly nasal voice. He has thinning brown hair, a pleasant face, and a rather remarkable smile—a grin that spreads from ear to ear in an instant, disclosing perfectly straight teeth.

In September 1991, as he chaired the first round of the Senate Judiciary Committee hearing on Clarence Thomas’ nomination, Biden’s smile flashed frequently, but by October 11 it was appearing less and less often. As I gave my statement that morning, his face looked sober.

About 8:00 the previous evening, Senator Biden’s staff had informed my lawyers that Judge Thomas would be the first witness to address the committee. I had expected to give my statement first. On October 8, when Senator Biden called me to say that the committee would hold a second round of hearings on my allegations, he told me that I had the “option to testify whenever I wished,… first and last,” as I chose. What I did not know was that between that phone call and the eve of the hearings, he had given the same assurances to Judge Thomas. Nor had anyone informed me how long Judge Thomas might testify or when I could expect to be called.

Because of this eleventh-hour change in procedure, I was in my room at the Capitol Hill Hotel when the hearing opened shortly after ten o’clock and Thomas gave his statement. From my window I could see
the Library of Congress, a building I had frequented as a young government lawyer, while across the street the bells of St. George’s rang from its Gothic spires throughout my stay. Just outside was a huge oak tree, its leaves a brilliant red-orange. And while no amount of autumn sunshine could have made it cheerful under the circumstances, I tried to look upon the tree as a reminder that seasons change and this, too, would pass.

There were two televisions in my room, each perched precariously on stands shaky from use. Both of them were on as I watched Thomas’ testimony intently. It never occurred to me not to watch it. In my heart I was sure that he would acknowledge the immorality of his behavior, however obliquely, and offer an explanation, if not an apology. And though I was shocked by his “categorical denial,” it did not change what I had to do. After listening to Thomas, I left the hotel with my attorney Charles Ogletree and my friend-turned-legal-adviser Sonia Jarvis, and we made our way to the Russell Building in the northeast quadrant of Capitol Hill, where the hearing was being held.

Rushed from the car into the Rules Committee room, I had no time to prepare for what I learned would be a full day of testimony. Someone informed the Judiciary Committee of my arrival. By then Thomas had left the hearing room, and the committee had assembled in a room adjacent to the caucus room. Chairman Biden insisted that my testimony begin immediately. The Capitol policemen escorted me out of the Rules Committee room, instructing me to stand immediately behind them as they led me and my advisers down the corridor to the caucus room for my testimony.

We walked swiftly through a gauntlet of reporters and camera operators filling the hallways. Every one of our steps echoed down the long corridor of the Russell Building, with its fifteen-foot ceiling. Senate staffers stepped out of their offices to watch the parade. As I walked down that corridor, I was certain that every journalist in the country was there. I was wrong. There were far more in the caucus room—reporters, photographers, camera operators, crew members—all waiting to capture the story.

The scene inside the hearing room startled me momentarily. The
focal point of the large room was a long table draped in a bright green cloth. At the center of the table sat a single microphone, a glass of water, and a name card: “Professor Anita Hill.” I sat down in the lone chair at the table. Immediately to my right and left were throngs of photographers; behind me were my advisers, more journalists, staffers, and other nameless observers. In front of me, facing me and the bank of journalists, was the Senate Judiciary Committee—fourteen white men dressed in dark gray suits. I questioned my decision to wear bright blue linen, though it hadn’t really been a decision; that suit was the only appropriate and clean suit in my closet when I hastily packed for Washington two days before. In any case, it offered a fitting contrast.

Senator Biden called the hearing to order, explained the procedure the committee would follow, and swore me in. After I finished reading my statement, he gave me that smile and said, “Professor, before I begin my questioning, I notice that there are a number of people sitting behind you. Are any of them your family members you would like to introduce?”

“Well, actually my family members have not arrived yet,” I said with regret and anxiety. Sue Ross, one of my attorneys, whispered that my family was waiting in the hallway. “Yes, they have,” I corrected myself. “They are outside the door. They were not here for my statement.”

“We will make room for your family to be able to sit,” said the chairman.

“It is a very large family, Senator.”

A
short time later, my relatives began filing into the hearing room. Each took a turn greeting me. My mother, who would be eighty in five days, embraced me as cameras flash-froze the moment for posterity. Chairs were shifted around and brought in from adjacent rooms.

“We will try to get a few more chairs, if possible, but we should get this under way.” Senator Biden was beginning to sound a bit impatient.

By now, the entire first row had been cleared, but we needed more room still. The press corps made up the next layer of spectators. Most
journalists were not about to give up their seats, and Senator Biden did not request them to.

“Fine, we can put them in the back as well,” Biden said.

But my family did not travel across the country to sit in the back of the hearing room. And they paid little heed to Biden’s suggestion.

“Now, there are two chairs on the end here, folks. We must get this hearing moving. There are two chairs on the end here. We will find everyone a seat but we must begin.” The instant smile had completely vanished.

“Now, Professor Hill, at the risk of everyone behind you standing up, would you be kind enough to introduce your primary family members to us.”

“I would like to introduce, first of all, my father, Albert Hill.”

“Mr. Hill, welcome,” the chairman said.

“My mother, Erma Hill.”

“Mrs. Hill.”

Four of my sisters were there—the eldest, Elreatha, and JoAnn, Carlene, and Joyce. I introduced them too.

“I welcome you all. I am sorry?”

“My brother, Ray Hill,” I interrupted, limiting my introductions to my “primary” family members, as the senator had requested. I forgot my sister Doris and deliberately omitted my nieces and nephew, Anita LaShelle, Lila, and Eric.

I had simply said that I needed their support. Some I had expected; others I was surprised to see. With less than forty-eight hours notice, twelve of them had come to Washington, D.C., to be present on Friday morning at the opening of the hearing. My parents had arrived from Tulsa with my sisters Elreatha and JoAnn. My sisters Doris, Joyce, and Carlene and my niece Anita LaShelle had flown in from California. My niece Lila had come from New York. When I first told my family of the hearings, I did not know who would be able to make the trip to Washington on such short notice. They all had jobs and would have to take vacation time to attend.

My family was as relieved as I had been when they were allowed into
the hearing room. Like me, my family had watched Thomas’ opening statement from a hotel room. And like me, they had little information about when I would appear. As soon as they were notified, they had hailed three taxis for the trip to the Russell Building. As I greeted each of them, I felt despair and humiliation that we should be brought together under such painful and public circumstances. Even at the age of thirty-five I wanted my family to be proud of me. At the same time, I wanted to protect them—especially my parents, who were both approaching eighty at the time of the hearing. This event placed them squarely in harm’s way, and I could neither help feeling responsible nor shield them from what was happening.