Speaking Truth to Power (47 page)

The 5–2 vote to accept the professorship was a moral victory. But that victory was undermined by a directive issued by President Van Horn that no university personnel could be involved in any way in raising funds for the professorship. Once again the Hill Professorship was singled out. Fund-raising for professorships had been conducted by the deans of the various colleges in conjunction with the development office since their introduction into the university.

Sullivan raised two baseless claims in order to kill the professorship. First, he attacked Segal’s desire to have me serve in the professorship as illegal. Second, he threatened to bring charges with the state attorney general’s office against the veteran fund-raiser Faricy. To reduce the “political heat,” one spokesperson for the president’s office asked me to issue a public statement declaring that I would not apply for the professorship. I was angered and offended by the request and effort, once again, to treat me differently than other faculty. I declined. President Van Horn backed down from the written assurances made to Faricy and Segal by the development office.

The threat of the lawsuit and the prohibition against university officials helping in the effort effectively stalled fund-raising. In order to maintain the integrity of the promises made to Segal and to the implicit promises made to the donors by the administration, including the regents, I began the task that I had rejected early in the process. Despite Van Horn’s directive, I committed myself to completing the private donations portion of the professorship. I had no fund-raising experience; I hated to ask people for money; I felt some conflict of interest in asking for support for a fund in which I might benefit. Nevertheless, the greater principle prevailed and I started an effort to raise the $125,000 needed to complete the project.

The donations for the professorship continued to come in a steady but slow stream. I had returned from my sabbatical tired but nevertheless reinvigorated. Yet the demands of fund-raising, acting as spokesperson against issues of gender and race bias, and teaching a full load began to
weigh heavily. Moreover, I was still receiving calls from individuals who were victims of harassment at various stages of their claims. Many were in search of legal counsel; others were simply worn down by the process of pursuing their basic right to a work environment free of sex discrimination. I would start the day invigorated in anticipation of the Race and the Law course that I taught at 8:00, but by the end of the day after the calls and letters and requests, I was worn-out. I was without the administrative support to handle the load, even the mail and telephone calls I received. The five members of the secretarial staff at the law school were stretched to cover the thirty full-time faculty members.

Despite the fact that none of my work was political and all was related to the legal and social issues of discrimination, I became cautious about asking for help from the staff. Fearing that I would be accused of misappropriating state money by Million or Sullivan, who were monitoring my correspondence through Open Records Act requests, I hesitated to use the law school facilities for matters related to the issue of sexual harassment. Rose Martinez-Elugardo, who had been at the law school as a secretary during the time of the hearings, decided to leave the school in February 1994. We had become friends as well as colleagues. She knew the demands on my life and understood them as well as anyone. I was delighted when she agreed to assist me with my workload on a contract basis. She more than earned her pay. With her part-time assistance and through the help of others, most of whom volunteered their time, we managed to conduct the classes, speaking, referrals, and other assistance without a professional staff. Yet, without professional assistance or more of my attention, I knew that the fund-raising for the professorship was not going to be completed by the two-year period required under the rules governing state matching funds.

By the end of 1993 I began to feel decidedly overworked and underappreciated. David Swank had been replaced as dean under circumstances which my detractors were claiming as a victory over me. When he applied for university recognition which his years of service to the institution, including one year as interim president, more than qualified him for, he was denied. The reasons most often cited were that he had been
too visible in his support for me and in dismissing the football coach, Barry Switzer. The Switzer dismissal was the culmination of a year in which a player was indicted for selling drugs to undercover agents, one player was arrested for brandishing a semiautomatic rifle in the athletic dormitory, and three other players were arraigned and later convicted for raping a woman in the athletic dormitory. Though he maintained his position as a tenured member of the faculty of the College of Law, Swank suffered at the hands of his enemies, football fans and conservative politicians. They assured him that he would not receive the recognition that others with similar service and accomplishments would have been awarded.

The administration continued to suggest that I make a public announcement that I would not apply for the Hill Professorship. David Swank’s replacement, Peter Goplerud, though sympathetic to the issue of harassment, seemed not to appreciate the pressures placed on me for raising funds and from outside agitators. While assuring me he would help with fund-raising but for the no doubt well-founded fear that he would lose his job if he did, he informed me that he hoped that the professorship would attract another scholar, giving the school the benefit of the expertise of two qualified professors. In the same conversation he told me that he longed for the day when, upon being introduced as the dean of the Oklahoma University College of Law, people did not inquire about Anita Hill.

Rumors that Richard Van Horn, for his failure to take action against me, was soon to be dismissed by the Board of Regents spread. In 1994 Van Horn resigned and Sullivan claimed the victory. Eventually, the regents would replace Van Horn with Senator David Boren, one of the six Democrats to vote in favor of the Thomas confirmation. Later Boren would express regrets about the vote but make clear that his regrets had nothing to do with my testimony. Boren based his contrition on positions Justice Thomas took as a member of the Court with which Boren disagreed. Boren’s new position was almost as indefensible as his argument that Thomas deserved the benefit-of-innocence standard reserved for criminal trials. Information about Thomas’ position on issues was
available to all of the senators before their vote. Senators who reviewed the information in their role of advise and consent were aware that those positions espoused by Thomas as Supreme Court justice were the same as he espoused in various other public positions. Boren, former Rhodes scholar and viewed as one of the more intelligent members of the Senate, could claim no surprise.

News media around the country carried stories about the continued turmoil in the state caused by my presence. In a story that ran in
The New York Times
on April 19, 1993, I was described as Oklahoma’s “open wound.” As poignant as some of the stories were, the conflict was most often portrayed as political, failing to capture the racist and sexist elements of the continued campaign against me. I decided to write about the episode myself, knowing that I would not be satisfied with anyone else’s portrayal.

In the spring of 1994 I applied for an unpaid leave of absence for the following school year. I would write my memoirs and finish another collection of essays based on the 1992 conference on race and gender issues. In addition, the leave would give me the time to finish the fund-raising for the professorship. Leaves of absence without pay are routinely granted at the university if the applicant’s college approves. Outside faculty are often hired to fill the vacancies left by leaves on a visiting basis, or the salary of the faculty member on leave may be used for other purposes of the college. Unpaid leaves are viewed by departments as a way of infusing new ideas into a campus without the full financial commitment of a permanent hire or to support a onetime project. The time away from teaching allows the faculty member to pursue interests at her or his own financial expense and still maintain an affiliation with the university. Where the granting college values the contribution of the faculty member on leave, he or she is welcomed back at the end of the period. Though some faculty have been granted leaves for two years running without discussion or debate by the regents, my request for a one-year leave without pay sparked contention.

Oddly enough, the very people who claimed that my presence on campus was an embarrassment sought to block my leave. The alternative,
they argued to the regents, was that I be fired. The regents, once again, allowed my detractors to infuse politics into what should have been a routine academic matter. Sullivan stepped forward to demand that I be fired rather than granted a leave, and Million took the floor at the regents meeting to argue Sullivan’s case. The following day the headline of the student paper read, “Hill Keeps Her Job, Gets Leave of Absence.” Consistent with the stated academic policy, the regents voted to grant the leave. Nevertheless, Regent Don Halverstadt, who voted to deny it, suggested that I should “vacate the position” and called for a review of the entire university’s leave policy. And again, I was castigated for exercising a right that countless others had exercised over the forty-year life of the leave policy. And once again, the regents allowed the political agenda of a few to dictate the academic policy of the entire institution.

Despite the support of many of my colleagues and students, I was beginning to wonder myself why I did not “just leave” the University of Oklahoma. Stubbornly, I was determined not to give in to the political pressures of a handful of very vocal antagonists and a few others who were simply insensitive. More important, I was determined to see the Hill Professorship through. Had I left the university, it would have died from neglect, as had been encouraged by President Van Horn’s memorandum, and the research would have never been accomplished in Oklahoma. The insensitivity and the willingness to single me out for different treatment made it apparent that the University of Oklahoma badly needed the very kind of research the professorship anticipated.

Through the efforts of friends like Tania Norris who organized individual campaigns and Ellen Gilbert, a new friend, who along with Barbra Streisand agreed to host a lunch for the Professorship Fund, the donations mounted.

“Who is Junetta Davis?” Eric asked me one day in late 1991. Her letters began to appear in response to the attacks by Sullivan and Million almost immediately upon our return from Washington. It was not until November 1992 that I got to know Davis. The sixty-something retired journalism professor with the distinct Oklahoma drawl described herself as one of the few advocates for women’s rights on the Oklahoma campus
during her tenure. With an area of specialty in political journalism and quick mind she was perfectly suited to comment on the matters surrounding the hearing and the university’s subsequent reaction. In addition to making contributions from her retirement salary, she became an advocate and spokesperson for the fund at the regents’ meetings. Rather than pelt the board with sharp-tongued attacks, she forcefully drove home her point in deliberate, though piercing language, made all the more memorable by her slow delivery. For my part, I traded my public appearances for donations to the fund.

One such engagement with the Business and Professional Women’s Association proved surprisingly fruitful. When Wanda Hill (no relation) of Shawnee, Oklahoma, asked me to speak to the group’s annual convention, I agreed to do so in exchange for a donation to the fund. I had had a former association with the group, and despite the fact that my schedule was overdrawn, I agreed to their request. I had no idea of what the donation would be. After my speech in Reno, Nevada, to an exuberant group of two thousand women, BPW officers “passed the hat” (actually they passed red bags) for the fund. The collection netted over $11,000 for the professorship, and donations continued to come in from the organization’s members over the next few months. A reception hosted by three of my former students, Teresa Bingman, Tammy Kemp, and Sherry Wilson, and supported by my closest colleagues at the law school put the fund over the $250,000 needed for state matching funds. These students had always been a source of my pride, three talented young black women who had grown and struggled as students as I had grown and struggled my first years of teaching at the University of Oklahoma. But once again the victory of completing the fund was soured by university administration.

In anticipation of the decision by the Higher Education Regents whether to match the fund pursuant to the state matching fund program, Nancy Mergler, acting provost, suggested that I change the name of the professorship to make it more politically acceptable to that body. In a supreme act of emotional and political manipulation, Mergler suggested that the professorship be named for Ada Lois Sipuel Fisher, the first black
person to be admitted to the School of Law. “The donors would agree if you suggested it.” “Though I have tremendous respect for Dr. Fisher, I could not suggest this to the donors,” I responded, concerned that I might sound too egotistical. The dishonesty of collecting money in one name and only after the completion changing the name was lost on her. Try as I did, I could not persuade her of the lack of integrity and wisdom inherent in such a move. Interestingly, Mergler did not suggest that the university begin its own initiative to endow a professorship in Fisher’s name. The administration’s refrain played once again in a willingness to compromise academic matters in order to bow to political pressure.

Raising the $250,000 in private funding was a triumph of will. Yet one more hurdle had to be met. State funding for the professorship had not been granted. The Higher Education Regents had changed their policy in December 1994 in an effort which many viewed as an attempt to avoid the issue. Prior to 1994, the Higher Education Regents reviewed applications for matching funds once the funds reached $125,000. After passing over the application for matching funds for the Hill Professorship for over a year, the board changed the amount needed to seek matching to $250,000. Once we met that goal, the university had to reapply for state matching funds.