The Sister Presidents are Suffering

The writer is a current president

I'm writing this on an airplane, traveling home from a gathering of peers one week after the news that Dr. Claudine Gay stepped down from her role as president at Harvard, just weeks after the resignation of Dr. Liz Magill at Penn.  

The mood at the meeting was subdued; most people seemed weighed down by the news, a dramatic culmination of weeks of challenging conversations on campuses across the country and in the news media following Hamas' terror attack in Israel.

But some of us are feeling it more than others. Some of us celebrated with pride at Dr. Gay's inauguration in October and take this personally. Some of us share with Dr. Gay the experience of being a "first" or an "only" or in some way occupying an outsider status that makes our jobs harder, fraught with additional complexities. 

For women presidents, presidents of color, and—especially—for presidents who are women of color: this really hurts. 

It's not just the pain of watching one of our own, a "sister president," be eviscerated for political theater, like a modern-day gladiator in an arena. It's also anger, even rage, about the unfairness of the double standards, the cruelty and vulgarity of the criticisms, the visceral knowledge that her detractors would not be satisfied until they felt they had destroyed her. They did not just derail her presidency; they went after her as a person, impugning her character and questioning her legitimacy.

In addition to sadness and anger, I harbor a heightened sense of vulnerability verging on fear. Will I be next? Do I need to go back and review all my publications to prepare to defend my scholarly record? Would my board back me if a similar campaign of intimidation and discrediting were waged against me? Will the stress literally kill me (as it has a number of sister presidents this year)?

The concern is not unfounded. Each of us has dozens of stories about rude trolls, people who have questioned our credentials or suggested we did not merit the responsibility of the role, undermining and lack of support from members of our own campus communities, and even threats of violence. Death threats and wishes of bodily harm. 

I don't know a single woman of color serving as a college or university president who has not received a credible threat of violence. Not one.  

I wonder if our white and male colleagues understand what it means for us to do the job under these conditions. I wonder if our students, our faculty and staff employees, our alumni, our trustees, and members of the public understand how much harder it is to be a president while defending against unfair criticisms and the weight of other people's low expectations. Knowing any mistake or problem will be taken as evidence not only of our own unworthiness but also of the unworthiness of others like us.

Remarkably, those of us feeling especially vulnerable also—for the most part—are extraordinarily committed to persevere. We understand what is at stake. We are tenacious. We see that this is not just about one or two women leaders at elite universities; it's about progress in the struggle for social equality and it's about the intrinsic value of higher education. That's motivating. We soldier on because we believe.

Since spring of 2020, the job has gotten harder for all presidents. That is for sure. But, for some of us, it's even more challenging because our very embodiments are received as a challenge.

And I wonder: what potential future leaders will take these jobs knowing that it involves this degree of exposure and risk?  How many women and people of color in provost and dean and department chair roles will continue to aspire to the presidency—knowing the personal toll? 

Would I choose this again if I'd known how much pain would come with the rewards? 

I'd like to think so. 

But I worry we haven't yet seen the worst of what's coming. 

The writer is a current president

Our grandmothers prayed we would (have the opportunities they never did)

Our mothers told us that we could (dare to dream audacious dreams)

Our mentors encouraged that we should (go for it)

We dared to think we were good (enough)

You have arrived at last (they said)

Our high heels broke the glass (we read)

We gonna kick some ass (we led)

We’ve moved beyond the past (it’s dead)

And then the storms came for us (we should have known they would)

They raised a mighty chorus (we should have known they could)

Oh why do they abhor us (we tried to be so good)

Because these jobs were never for us (no matter how strong we've stood)

The writer is a current president

I was especially excited about the announcement of Claudine Gay as the next president of Harvard because it made it real that higher education and maybe even the broader society was ready for women of color like us to serve as president. 

When the beginning of rumblings of plagiarism started, I brushed them off. Her dissertation was reviewed at Harvard. I had a plagiarism check as part of the review before I was a finalist for my position, something I assumed was becoming a norm. 

I heard Dr. Gay speak about the Supreme Court decision with grace and dignity. And initially the controversy around the statements after the Hamas attack seemed par for the course. Whenever a president or the institution makes a statement in which it is perceived as taking sides, it is criticized.

And then the hearings happened, and then the plagiarism charges ramped up. I prayed every day for her strength. I was buoyed each time the Harvard Corporation made supportive comments. I cheered when the faculty stood to support her.

So, when she resigned, I was devastated. It was not unexpected, but in the way I felt hopeful when she was named, I tried to maintain the hope that she would survive this challenge. 

The devastation is real, and hard to deal with. I am reading as little as possible about it because I do not want to succumb to the emotions.  

Deepa Purushothaman, author of The First, the Few, the Only, has posted on the "inclusion delusion," which I am sure I have. But I cannot read it, even though I know it will help me to be seen, affirmed, and maybe possibly cope. 

I can't read it because I still have to lead as a Black woman and it will take all of the strength I have to try to do so.