Speaking Truth to Power

by Anita Hill

  Anita has imperiled her career and her peace of mind to do what she felt was right. We know we are powerless to shield her from those who will seek to hurt her out of ignorance, frustration, or expediency in the days ahead. But we will have failed ourselves if we did not at least raise our voices in her behalf. She has our unhesitating and unwavering support.

  The letter was dated October 10, 1991, the day before I testified. When I read it, my stomach quivers even today. It moves me so because it expresses a caring and concern of people with whom I spent three years and some of the most trying times in my life. Over ten years later they still cared. As timeless and comforting as poetry, it spoke to me as directly as it would had I read it in 1977 when we were together in school.

  The entire Yale Law School community was shaken by the hearing. Professor Elias Clark, who taught me and Clarence Thomas, wept in class the Monday following my testimony. The Yale Journal of Law and Feminism called for Thomas to resign from the Supreme Court the day following his confirmation. A Thomas supporter in the student group the Federalist Society countered with accusations that I was “delusional or acting out of spite.” Ernest Rubenstein, an alumnus in attendance at the annual reunion the weekend of the hearing, reported that no one of the faculty or former students with whom he spoke doubted my credibility.

  In the spring of 1992 Dean Guido Calabresi invited me to visit and to speak at Yale Law School. Carroll Stevens, an associate dean at the law school, arranged the trip. I anxiously awaited the trip to New Haven. I would see my friends Stephen Carter and Enola Aird and meet their two children. It was the first time since I graduated from the school in 1980 that I would return. It was the first, and only, time since I started speaking publicly that I was nearly overcome with stage fright. The experience at Yale had been the pivotal point in my educational and intellectual development. I had made many lifelong friends in law school. Nevertheless, as a woman from rural Oklahoma, I never felt “at home” at Yale.

  The day before my evening presentation, I met with students and faculty including a classmate, Roberta Romano. Even then we knew that Roberta was destined to teach. She was always insightful and thorough in ways that separated her from even the brightest of her very bright classmates. Of the other, older faculty who were teaching at Yale when I was a student, Burke Marshall was especially warm. Professor Marshall had been a high-ranking official in the Kennedy and Johnson administrations. His contributions to the Civil Rights Act enforcement of the 1970s was something we took for granted as students. When I went to Washington, I more fully appreciated his importance to the era. Dean Jim Thomas, one of the most outstanding individuals in law school administration and teaching, was a major influence on my decision to go to Yale. He was as hospitable in 1992 as he had been when I visited the campus in 1977. He invited me to meet the students at the college where he was a master.

  During the afternoon I had a chance to walk to my old neighborhood and visit the corner grocery and pizza parlor which I regularly visited. The owner of the grocery recognized me from the hearing. Over a slice of pizza, his treat, he told me that while he and his wife watched the hearing together he remembered me from my visits to his store. I could not imagine that of all the students he must have seen over the years that he could remember me but I was glad that he felt that he had. But none of this calmed my nervousness about the speech.

  That evening the dean introduced me to the crowd of about six hundred; Stephen helped me with questions; my friend Ivy McKinney had driven from her home in Stamford to be in the audience. The scene was set for my ease and comfort. As I stepped up to the podium, I looked out at the crowd in the law school auditorium. In the back of the room, I saw the faces of two of my former professors, Elias Clark and Joseph Goldstein. All at once, I was a nervous, insecure first-year law student again. I had more than the jitters. What befell me did not go away. I progressed through my prepared remarks, never so happy to finish a speech. My only consolation was that I was spared reliving that part of the law school experience where professors ask questions.

  I had learned so much at Yale. The intensity of the questioning and probing was such that I learned to expand my reasoning. The experience had given me a sense of certainty about my abilities as I faced the world. It no doubt contributed to my ability to address the Senate Judiciary Committee without being in awe of their prominence. Yet, amazingly, none of that confidence applied during my first time back inside the walls of the law school itself. The experience of being a student was so potent that twelve years later I saw myself in that role. That kind of intensity will certainly take more than one visit to undermine. Perhaps the intensity of the law school experience was what brought me close to many of my classmates, creating friendships that continue today.

  Some fellow Yale Law School graduates have been less than sympathetic. In an opinion piece written for the press, one graduate was downright condescending in his sympathy with my history of sexual harassment. He suggested that my history with sexual harassment would explain why I preferred that my students call me Professor Hill rather than Anita and why I objected when a new student upon meeting me for the first time put his arm around my shoulder. But he was wrong. I would have objected to such familiarity regardless of my experience with harassment. I didn’t see the student’s action as harassing. I saw it as disrespectful. I defy him to recall any situation where, as a student, he had occasion to drape his arm over the shoulder of a Yale Law School professor. Moreover, I doubt if he ever referred to any of them with the familiarity of a given name, at least not while in their presence.

  More important, the writer clearly failed to understand the difficulties encountered by all young women professors and particularly women of color in the classroom. More than one of my female colleagues have remarked that the male students are so uncomfortable with the idea of a woman in control of their academic destiny that they rebel and resist treating them with the deference and respect they accord male faculty. My experience at both Oral Roberts and Oklahoma universities bears this out.

  Some of my classmates have been more than insensitive to my situation; some have been hostile. One in particular, a man with whom I was close in law school and since, has not returned several telephone calls made since the hearing. The insensitivity represents a slight of little significance. I would not have noticed it except that the writer mentioned in the essay that he, too, was a graduate of Yale. The hostility is hurtful. I have always worked to maintain relationships with friends and family and even acquaintances. Losing one without the benefit of explanation cuts me to the very heart of who I am. This lost friendship is one of only a few which I have suffered because of the hearing. But for me a few is too many.

  On college campuses around the country, in Canada, France, Italy, and Japan, I have spoken about the problem of sexual harassment to receptive audiences. On each campus I visit, I am told of a problem of the recent past or the present with sexual harassment in that academic institution. Oklahoma State University recognized me with its distinguished alumna award in 1992. Present at the ceremony were faculty members who had taught me there years prior. But as if to prove that universities are places of diverse opinions and perspectives, someone always questions why I have been invited to campus to speak and questions the amount I am being paid. Unfortunately, these questions, rather than the issues surrounding harassment, get much of the attention of the campus and local press. Campus authorities and I mutually agreed to cancel a presentation at Old Dominion University in Virginia because some protested the fee payment at a time that tuition was being raised. Even though the payment for the speech was not coming out of tuition and I suspect that the objection was as much over the anticipated content of my speech, I agreed to the cancellation. (I was happy to learn that Susan Faludi spoke on the campus the following year and was well received.) One questioner on a college campus asked the question bluntly: “What qualifies you to earn nearly $30,000 from a two-hour appearance?”

  My only respo
nse is that the combination of my experience, background, and preparation qualifies me to speak about the subject. But whether I am paid or unpaid there will be those who object to what I have to say. Despite the questions raised on college campuses, as long as diverse perspectives are valued I feel more comfortable in the academic community than any other. When valid academic perspectives are stifled for political reasons, existing in the academic community can be a nearly unbearable experience. I have learned painfully that when the academic community fails to protect the rights of faculty to state unpopular perspective, the entire community is at risk.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In the spring of 1995, on one of about ten days in the season of clear fresh air perfect for walking, I rounded the corner to Shirley’s modern brick home as I’d done many times. This time I was startled, or at least taken aback. The source of my surprise was the For Sale sign on her lawn. Plastered over it like a badge of pride was the word “SOLD.” I’d known that Shirley was selling her home; I’d even known that she would, no doubt, be leaving the university and moving away from Oklahoma. But the realization of those facts only hit me as I saw the sign. I could not help feeling remorse mixed with guilt that it was so. Directly and indirectly, Shirley had borne the brunt of much of the local political animosity aimed at me and had decided that she would no longer stand for it. In the fall she would return to her native Wisconsin and continue her teaching career there. As I got to her home, I realized how much I would miss her presence, though I respected and even admired her decision to leave.

  The attacks started as soon as we returned to Oklahoma from Washington, D.C. The most adamant and vocal of my detractors was Leonard Sullivan, a state politician. He began his campaign in an open letter demanding that the university buy out my contract. In his letter, which ran unedited in the student paper, the Oklahoma Daily, he called me a “lier” (sic) and likened my presence on campus to the presence of the Black Panthers. Another individual who can only be described as a local character, E. Z. Million, whose now deceased father was once a colleague on the law faculty, joined Sullivan in his campaign against me. Million even called for the resignation of Dean David Swank and Associate Dean Teree Foster. Sullivan and Million expanded their attack to include Shirley Wiegand. Through the state Open Records Act, Million succeeded in getting all the correspondence of Professor Wiegand before and after the hearing. He first sought to prove that Shirley had traveled to Washington in my support at the taxpayers’ expense. When this proved to be baseless, he accused her of neglecting her duties to her students in order to go to Washington. This proved untrue as well, yet Million continued to make the claim.

  To my surprise and appreciation, two state legislators, Ed Crocker, a Democrat, and Bruce Niemi, a Republican, disagreed publicly with Sullivan. In a letter to the University of Oklahoma president, Richard Van Horn, the two pointed out that the state’s constitution protects educators from opposition by politicians. They expressed incredulity at the claims of political extremism raised by Sullivan. The regents at the university refused to take any action and that should have been the end of it. However, a public statement by President Van Horn gave Sullivan and Million the best opening to continue their crusade. In comments issued on Wednesday, October 16, the day following the confirmation vote, the university president announced that action against faculty could only be taken on issues that “relate directly and substantially to his or her professional capabilities or performance.” Sullivan appeared to take the comments as an invitation and almost immediately began to challenge my competence to teach at the university, suggesting that I was hired only because of affirmative action, even claiming that the procedure whereby I was granted tenure had been flawed.

  Million’s and Sullivan’s efforts to drive me from the campus would continue for years following my testimony. Their tactics included a series of burdensome requests for documents and files from the law faculty that referred to me—none of which contained any reference to the hearing. By spring of 1992 I was worn-out. According to university policy, I was eligible for a sabbatical. Though the regents granted my sabbatical request, they did so after a debate that was unprecedented and appeared to be directed at only my application. Sullivan called for the abolishment of the sabbatical leave program. The regents took it upon themselves to review the process for all faculty.

  One day a secretary discovered two clean-cut middle-aged white men dressed in dark suits and ties rummaging through the recycle bin in the basement of the administration building where I was working. They left abruptly as she approached, leaving behind several of the documents they had retrieved. Each of the documents contained a reference to me or something on which I had worked. Rumors spread that federal support for the institution was in jeopardy from the Bush administration if officials supported me in any way. Whether any official had issued a threat, I don’t know. I do know that the rumors about reduced private and public funding were enough to cause me worry and some of my peers on campus to turn against me. One colleague was adamant, suggesting to Shirley that everyone would be better off if I would “just leave.” I was tempted to accommodate her.

  Though he never complained to me, Eric was beginning to receive accusatory questions about me from his friends and coworkers. He was asked to explain a variety of matters well beyond his nineteen years of knowledge and experience: “Why did she wait until the last minute to bring it up?” “What is sexual harassment, anyway?” Moreover, the experience with the media had left him completely shaken. He described the experience in Washington as “mind-boggling” and “frustrating.” Reporters cared more about getting a story than anything. It was clear that “they had no respect for us. They were knocking us all about” and did “whatever it took to get closer to you.” That experience changed Eric’s dream of being a journalist. “The value of the truth has been replaced by the value of sensationalism,” he told me. “Maybe you could make a difference,” I tried to persuade him, though unconvinced myself.

  I recall how proud he was to be reading his first book at age five and the subsequent years in which he would read in bed with a flashlight after the lights were out and all of the standardized test scores which showed his language skills well above average. I understand the value of the academic setting, the role it plays in protecting young minds from experiencing the harshness of their real-world careers before they are able to understand them. Like me, Eric saw the ugly side of a professional life before he could put it into perspective. Like me, Eric changed the course of his career in response.

  Sullivan’s campaign escalated with the announcement of efforts to raise money for an endowed professorship in my name for the study of women in the workplace. Gloria Segal, a state representative from Minnesota, conceived of the idea of the Anita Faye Hill Professorship. We had first met on November 15, 1991, in Coronado, California, following the presentation to her and her colleagues at the Hotel Del Coronado. Segal appeared to me to be an individual deeply touched by the hearing, but I quickly got the idea that this was not the first issue involving women in which she had taken personal action. That evening, in addition to seeing the caring side of the middle-aged politician, I saw a savvy organizer who knew what it took to make such a project happen. She told me of her idea and how important she felt it would be to follow up the events of October with research about the problem of sexual harassment and other workplace issues. The professorship would be the first of its kind in the country. In essence it would act as a research supplement to a professor committed to doing research aimed at the elimination of workplace discrimination.

  The research professorship at Oklahoma could accomplish this, she reasoned, but she questioned, if I were to be awarded the professorship, what might happen if I left the University of Oklahoma. The funding would remain in Oklahoma, I advised her. After discussing the matter, my only concern was that I not have to do fund-raising for the professorship. Segal assured me that she would organize and conduct the fund-raising. I left her
hotel room certain of the sincerity of her intentions but less certain that anything would ever come of it. Her enthusiasm was contagious, but I was skeptical, not wanting to expect too much—to be disappointed.

  Segal persisted, contacting the University of Oklahoma development office and getting approval for official recognition of the fund. All of the paperwork was in order, including Segal’s express desire that I be named to the first professorship. David Swank, as dean of the College of Law, and I worked on the language for the charge of the recipient of the professorship. It included concerns about both gender and racial discrimination. President Van Horn and Development Director Bob Bennett both signed documents recognizing Segal’s preference. By October 1992 Gloria Segal and Carol Faricy, who had taken over operations of the campaign, had raised over $100,000. Faricy, an outspoken woman with a quick tongue and raspy voice, was a veteran fund-raiser, having raised money for the arts and political efforts.

  The response to the fund-raising was immediate, both nationally and locally. An herbalist in Choctaw, Jim Holder, pledged to send fifty dollars a month to the fund until it was completed. Harley and Marie Brown, a couple who were members of my church, wrote letters to the local newspaper urging “concerned Oklahomans” to “pitch in and help complete the fund.” A group of university faculty and staff, led by a retired journalism professor, Tom Sorey, took up a collection for a donation and to buy an ad for the local paper to show their support of the professorship. The ad listed the names of over four hundred contributors. Disturbingly, some supporters stated that they feared retribution for contributing. Donations came from women and men in nearly every state in the Union, some as large as ten thousand dollars, from alums and children of alums, but many more in amounts of five to fifty dollars. I started to believe more in the idea of the fund as the ultimate goal of the professorship.