Speaking Truth to Power (46 page)

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 response 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.

I
n 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.

T
he 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.

T
hough 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.

S
ullivan’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.

When the university announced that it had received the amount in the fund that would allow them to request state matching funds under a five-year-old program, Sullivan responded by attacking the group in
Minnesota. Segal and Far icy were well on their way to raising the $125,000 needed in order to receive state matching funds for endowment of the professorship, when tragedy struck Gloria Segal. She was diagnosed with a brain tumor which would later take her life.

The death of Gloria Segal and the attacks on her and Faricy took away much of the energy and enthusiasm I had for the fund. The fund moved forward with the help of Dean Swank, who treated it as he had other professorships he guided through during his tenure. The fund came before the regents of the university in a highly contentious atmosphere in the early summer of 1993, when they debated whether to accept the funds. This debate, too, was unprecedented in fact and in tone. Never had the university ever questioned whether it would accept $125,000 in private donations for any reason, let alone for a reason unrelated to the area of study. Moreover, the nature of the debate focused not on the nature of the research proposed under the professorship, but rather on the person after whom it would be named. This, too, was unprecedented. The university regents had approved seventy-four previous professorships without debate.

This was also the first time that the board was asked to approve a professorship named after an African American. The irony of such a debate seemed to be lost on most of the participants until Melvin Hall, one of the board’s two black members and a graduate of the law school, reminded the regents of a debate that occurred in the 1940s when it decided to exclude aspiring law student Ada Lois Sipuel Fisher from admission into the university because of her race. Mrs. Fisher, a friend and supporter, sat on the Board of Regents when they debated the Hill professorship. But instead of recognizing the irony, the board allowed Million to turn the discussion into an opportunity to air complaints about me, my qualifications, my teaching, and my research. Like the letters sent to Washington in 1991, the new attacks came from individuals whom I did not know, and from Oklahoma students I had never taught. Those in support of the professorship included one current and one former provost, retired faculty, and Dean Swank. Finally, when Regent C. S. “Budge” Lewis moved to pass the item, he stated the
importance of judging the professorship on “the effect it would have on education at the college.”