by Susan Rice
This awareness is partly what inspired me to apply for the Rhodes Scholarship my senior year. As I told the selection committees, before attending law school my hope was to obtain a two-year master’s degree in international relations from Oxford, gaining a unique perspective on international policy from studying on foreign soil. As a NATO ally, European Union member, and former colonial power, the U.K. promised to be a fascinating vantage point from which to dissect global issues.
With strong support from Stanford, I navigated two rigorous rounds of Rhodes interviews, the first at the state level for D.C./Maryland, and at the regional level for the Mid-Atlantic. When it was over, I emerged as among the four Rhodes Scholars selected for the Class of 1986 from the Mid-Atlantic. Two of the other three men, Elliott Portnoy and Joe Torsella, became my roommates in Oxford and lasting friends.
Late in my senior year, knowing I would soon study international relations in Oxford, I throttled back academically, setting aside my honors thesis, and became more active politically by ramping up my involvement with the campus anti-apartheid movement. By then, white Zimbabwe had yielded to majority African rule (in 1980). The apartheid government’s crackdown on black dissidents in South Africa was in full force. President Reagan continued to resist the imposition of sanctions by Congress against the apartheid regime, when Archbishop Desmond Tutu delivered a galvanizing speech to a packed auditorium at Stanford. Tutu insisted that black South Africans “Don’t want their chains polished; we want them removed.” Incremental reforms were not enough; rather, the whole inhumane apartheid system must end. The college campus divestment movement was sweeping across the nation, but Stanford was engaged only tangentially and politely in the debate.
In 1986, Stanford boasted three of the thirty-two American Rhodes Scholars, an unusually high yield. Michael McFaul (political science and international relations major), Bill Handley (English major), and I were those selected. We became friends who shared an interest in the anti-apartheid struggle, even as the hypocrisy of accepting Cecil Rhodes’s money, stolen from black Southern Africans, was not lost on us. We were not righteous enough to renounce our Rhodes Scholarships, but together we devised a plan to increase pressure on the university to divest in a smart, but nonconfrontational way.
With a top law firm, we established a nonprofit alternative endowment fund for Stanford alumni who wished to donate to the university but did not want to do so while Stanford continued to hold stocks in companies that invested in apartheid South Africa. The funds held by our nonprofit were to be available to Stanford, once it divested or apartheid ended. If neither occurred within ten years of the fund’s establishment, the money would be donated to educational charities for black South Africans.
We launched the Free South Africa Fund at graduation in 1986—timed perfectly to ensure that Stanford president Donald Kennedy was mightily pissed. Kennedy, a wiry, balding, bespectacled biologist, had been a relatively popular president among students. Yet I came to see another side of him when he hosted graduating seniors and their families at his residence for Class Day. As my parents and I greeted President Kennedy in the receiving line, which wound along his broad lawn, he paused to berate me and condemn our initiative as destructive to the university. Pleased and surprised that he was so impressed with the potential power of our fund, I was not in the least flustered. My parents gave me “atta-boys” after we got out of Kennedy’s earshot, proud that I was kicking up some righteous dust on my way out the door.
As it happened, the university never fully divested, but nine years later the Free South Africa Fund was dissolved in 1995, after apartheid had ended and Nelson Mandela had been elected president. The board of the Free South Africa Fund designated its remaining resources to a charity established in memory of a Stanford graduate and Fulbright Scholar who was murdered while doing research and volunteer work in South Africa. The Amy Biehl Foundation initially provided grants to Stanford students conducting scholarly research in South Africa. Looking back, the Free South Africa Fund was a potent political statement, though it never really threatened the university’s fundraising efforts.
Graduation weekend was also memorable because my family came to Stanford—Johnny, Dad, Mom, and Alfred—and they all behaved civilly as they celebrated my achievement. After the commencement ceremony in the stadium, I returned with them to the History Department for my diploma ceremony. There, I was surprised to be granted my diploma not only “with distinction” as expected, but also with “Departmental Honors.” This was strange, I thought, because I never completed my honors thesis. After the event ended, I intercepted a senior member of the History faculty to inquire, “I assume that a mistake has been made. My diploma says ‘with honors,’ but I didn’t complete my thesis.” She replied, “We know, but we thought that the body of your work in the major still warranted honors.” I’ve always felt a little guilty about that.
My four years at Stanford really were a liberating, broadening experience—a time of intellectual stimulation, fun, and personal growth. Unburdened by the stresses of home life, I learned the extraordinary self-discipline that can only come from studying outside on the grass in beautiful weather while muscled, shirtless men play Ultimate Frisbee all around you. With Ian, I forged a mature relationship and gained confidence in my appeal to men, finally shedding much of the baggage of my mother’s critiques of my appearance. Stanford was as close to heaven as I have ever come, and I often fantasize about going back to do another four years as an undergraduate.
6 Busting Out
On Election Day 2008, Ian and I rose early to get to the polls well before school started. Like many voters that morning, we took our children, Jake and Maris, then ages eleven and five, because we wanted them to experience the excitement of the moment and learn the importance of voting.
As we drove to our polling station in our neighborhood recreational center in the Palisades area of Northwest D.C., I could not help reflecting on the hard work and tough decisions that brought me and all of America to the point where we had the opportunity to cast our presidential ballots for Barack Obama.
Standing in the long and exuberant line at the polls on that crisp November morning, I was struck by how distant the past summer’s foreign trip seemed as did all the hard work that preceded Election Day. None of it would matter unless Obama won. Although the polls were encouraging, I had learned from hard experience, most recently on the Kerry campaign, that polls are often wrong. In this case, I worried such surveys might be more wrong than usual, because no one could accurately assess how voters would truly feel about an African American candidate, once safely ensconced in the privacy of their own polling booths. It was white-knuckle time.
Ian, my Canadian-born husband, was not yet an American citizen, so he could not vote. That meant I had a crowd of three spectators looking intently over my shoulder as I marked my ballot, making sure I didn’t mess up. After we dropped the kids at school, Ian flew up to New York to help manage ABC News’s election night coverage, and I headed alone to Loudoun County, Virginia, to knock on doors and encourage likely Obama voters to get out to the polls. It was the most important work that could be done that day, but also a healthy return for me to grassroots politics, which I had done little of since the early days of the campaign.
After I knocked on the last door that time would allow, I drove hurriedly back to Washington. Satisfied. Proud. Hopeful. Resolute in the knowledge that, win or lose, I had given everything to a mission I believed in deeply, now like every American I could only wait for the ballots to be counted and the results revealed.
Multiple apprehensions loomed.
Having lived in Oxford for several months as a Stanford student, I understood that attending the university as an enrolled graduate student and a foreigner, outside the physical and psychic comfort of an all-American bubble, was sure to be a totally different experience—and not necessarily a good one. I was uncertain what would await me.
Leaving Ian to move across the Atlantic
for at least two years was a far more consequential choice than studying abroad for a few months. We were hopeful about our future, but not ready to subordinate career and educational opportunities to our relationship, despite recognizing the considerable risk that, over time, one of us might be tempted away.
Another concern before first meeting the thirty-two American and eleven Canadian Rhodes Scholars on October 6, 1986, in New York City, was that I would dislike them—that as the “chosen ones” they would act as such: arrogant, pretentious, competitive, self-impressed, and determined to get what they wanted at others’ expense.
The send-off luncheon hosted by the North American leadership of the Rhodes Trust only reinforced my fears. We gathered at the Harvard Club in New York the afternoon before we were to depart via British Airways for London-Heathrow. The setting was intensely formal. Men were required to wear business attire, and one of my new Rhodes colleagues, an unassuming young man from the Midwest, arrived without a coat or tie. Rather than offer him spare clothes, the doorman prevented him from joining our departure event.
Similarly, the parade of luncheon speakers assured us we were the cream of the elite. We should go forth and conquer, they said, acting as arrogantly as we wished—because we can and are worthy of it. It was breathtaking to witness, in the belly of the Harvard beast, how the most privileged actually perceive themselves—reminding me how glad I was to have selected Stanford.
Thankfully, my fellow Rhodes classmates far exceeded my expectations. Most were bright, humble, friendly, and self-effacing. Relieved, I wrote in an early letter to Johnny, “the asshole quotient” was blessedly low. Many of my colleagues came from modest backgrounds and over half were scientists, which suggested to me that they were unlikely to be ruthless, politically ambitious backstabbers. Over a third of my class were women, and four of the thirty-two Americans were African American, the highest total to date. As time affirmed, this was a good group among whom I made lasting friends.
Our flight over to Oxford was a boozy but abbreviated voyage, a far cry from the long passage of prior years when scholars sailed on the Queen Elizabeth 2. The bus from Heathrow to Oxford dumped us randomly on the curb in small groups. We were expected to find our own way to our respective colleges scattered throughout the city. This was indicative of the whole Oxford experience—sink or swim. No briefing, no orientation, no coddling. You were expected either to know what to do or to figure it out. Fortunately, I recalled my way to New College, one of the more than thirty residential colleges that comprise Oxford University, and could guide a few colleagues to their destinations as well.
New College was unwelcoming. When a small group of us arrived exhausted and disoriented, we were met by the college porters who handed us our keys and merely waved in the direction of our dorm. “Over there, mates,” was all the assistance we received. Wandering lost along the vague trajectory indicated, we eventually came upon the hideous Sacher Building, the residence for first-year graduate students. Most of our peers in other colleges were assigned to stately wood-paneled rooms in lovely old college entryways, while at New College we were consigned to a “modern,” 1960s-era three-story concrete block, the antithesis of a traditional Oxford building.
Despite its familiarity, the contrast between Oxford and Stanford was jarring. Oxford was cold, damp, and dark—not just physically but also psychically and emotionally. The beautiful gothic spires, pristinely manicured gardens, and glorious ancient churches stood in contrast to the dirty, trash-infested streets, coal-laced soot that lightly blanketed outdoor surfaces, and the drunken dregs that emerged from local pubs promptly at eleven at night.
Until I made real friends, created comfort in my surroundings, and found my bearings academically, I felt fragile, even at times depressed. Much to my surprise, I discovered that among New College’s some five hundred students, I was the only black person. There were a few dozen sprinkled elsewhere around the university, but at one of the biggest colleges, I was alone.
This realization should not have hit me so hard. Yet it left me feeling lost and bereft, searching for other faces of color. Eventually, I did find a small but committed cadre of black Oxonians, drawn from my American cohort of about a dozen to fifteen, plus several from the Caribbean and Africa, though no British blacks. Among this larger group, there were enough of us to gather informally for meals and games, dubbing ourselves the BBT (black brain trust).
In time, I adjusted to Oxford’s gothic gloom: the biting, wet cold; the ancient buildings without central heating; and the stodgy, carbohydrate-laden, cooked-to-death food. The physical discomforts were minor inconveniences, which were counterbalanced by the considerable charms of the place—the historic libraries and Harry Potter–style dining rooms. The accessibility of the compact city, around which we biked everywhere even in the driving rain. The pubs; high tea with clotted cream and scones; sherry-, wine-, and port-laden dinners on “high table”; floating down Oxford’s scenic rivers in small flatboats called punts; eating at Oxford’s signature Jamaican, Indian, and Chinese restaurants (then the only consistently reliable cuisines); and frequent visits to London for the theater and better food.
Quickly, I made wonderful and soon-to-be-close friends, especially among the American and Canadian cohort of Rhodes and Marshall Scholars, and also with colleagues from Africa, the Caribbean, Australia, and New Zealand. Generally, however, British students had little time for us foreigners. Our collection of expatriates was close-knit, even though we were spread among various academic programs and colleges. Among my closest friends were three men—my housemates, Elliott and Joe, who cared for me like brothers, and Lance Bultena. Having traveled to Spain together, Lance and I bonded—over politics, philosophy, and a shared appreciation for poetry. A committed Republican from rural South Dakota, Lance is one of the smartest people I have ever met. We would stay up to all hours fiercely debating political philosophy and sharing stories of our disparate backgrounds. Everything in Oxford moved slowly by American standards and even more so by today’s, but that snail’s pace facilitated intimate conversations, leisurely walks, unhurried meals, and deep friendships.
The Oxford academic year consists of three terms from late September through June. My course of study was a two-year M.Phil (master’s) degree in international relations, requiring core courses in political theory, history, and economics. To earn the degree, one had to pass a qualifying exam after spring break the first year, submit a thesis, and pass final exams at the end of the second year. In the meantime, our cohort of roughly fifteen master’s students from all corners of the world attended weekly seminars, occasional lectures, and met one-on-one with our college tutors.
In both the seminars and tutorials, I was required to write and defend lengthy papers. The tutorial sessions were challenging, and I endured some pretty brutal criticism of my writing and analytical skills, something that temporarily shook my confidence, as I’d never felt academically inadequate in the U.S. It took me months to crack the code and write papers in the unique style that the Oxford faculty rewarded. I also struggled to be productive when I had so much free time. Though initially unimpressed by me, my New College tutor, Dr. Martin Ceadel, was patient and experienced with retraining Americans. He eventually managed to sort me out.
Despite Dr. Ceadal’s best efforts, I almost flunked out of Oxford. In order to remain in the master’s program, I had to pass the spring qualifying exam. Unlike at American universities where there is some compassion and flexibility, Oxford’s rules cannot be bent or broken. If the exam is on date X at time Y, you must be there. No excuses. Not for being sick, dead, or otherwise indisposed. You miss it, you fail.
I had come back to the U.S. over spring break to be a bridesmaid in the wedding of my close high school friend, Laura Richards. Following the Saturday night wedding, my exam was set for Monday afternoon. I had booked myself on one of the few daytime flights from the East Coast to London, so I could arrive Sunday evening, get a good night’s sleep, and be ready
for the exam on Monday. After the reception, I came home Saturday night around 11 to finish packing and get ready to leave.
When gathering my valuables, I couldn’t find my passport. Ian and I turned my mom’s house upside-down looking for it. No luck. At 1 a.m., we drove across town and tore up my dad’s house. No passport. Anywhere. I could not for the life of me imagine where the hell it could be. I only knew that we had to find it, or I would not make it back to Oxford in time. A passport could be obtained at the passport office Monday morning, but that would be too late for the exam. I panicked. This could be the end of my Oxford experience.
Just as freaked out, my mother kicked into high gear. At 3 a.m., she started going through her considerable Rolodex, calling various members of Congress to request their intervention to somehow get me a passport.
“Mom, please, stop. This is embarrassing and undignified. You can’t keep waking up people all over Washington,” I pleaded.
Undeterred, Mom then lit upon Mort Abramowitz, the assistant secretary of state for intelligence and research. Without any better idea, and seeing at least some hope of success, given that he was an actual family friend and worked at the right department, I relented and let her wake up the Abramowitzes. Mort was puzzled by the urgency but didn’t argue.
He called the State Department Operations Center and miraculously managed to get the D.C. passport office to open for me on Sunday morning. The next day, Mort told my mom that he had an overnight house guest whom we had also awakened. Knowing Oxford well, their guest corroborated that making this exam was indeed critical.