How Colleges Extend the Reach of Anti-DEI Laws

Across the country, colleges and universities continue to grapple with newly proposed or enacted laws and policies restricting diversity, equity and inclusion efforts. In fact, since 2023 more than 150 such bills have been introduced in states across the country.

Much of the public debate focuses on what these directives explicitly prohibit. But our research shows that some of the most far-reaching consequences are not written into these laws or policies at all. They are produced through the processes universities use to comply with them.

For the past two years, we have studied how institutions comply with anti-DEI laws in practice, focusing on the implementation of Texas’s Senate Bill 17 at the University of Texas at Austin. Drawing on nearly 100 interviews with administrators, faculty and student leaders, along with observations and document analysis, our study revealed a compliance process that extends the law’s reach beyond its text, restricting activities and programs that the law itself does not prohibit, like teaching, research and student organization activities.

We describe this process as suppressive compliance—a mode of institutional response in which efforts to comply with vague directives expand their reach, producing suppression not mandated by law but generated through risk-averse governance. While this analysis centers on Texas, the dynamics we document are likely to recur across campuses in states with similar laws and even in those without them, where federal directives represent similar political pressures.

As has been the case at many institutions in states with anti-DEI laws, in the lead-up to the Texas law’s effective date, administrators at UT Austin conducted extensive reviews of units, programs and job titles, closing, renaming and reorganizing many of them. Programs serving first-generation, undocumented or historically underserved students—many of them legally permissible—were eliminated. Faced with vague legal language, decision-making largely shifted to legal counsel, which, as our participants noted, led to risk-averse interpretations of what was “allowable.” In this process, references to race, equity and identity were removed from websites, not because they were clearly prohibited, but because they might be perceived by politically motivated actors as noncompliant.

A few months after Texas’s law took effect and administrators certified their compliance with the law, conservative media stings, legislative threats and public hearings sent a message to administrators that they were being watched (undercover stings have also been seen in other states like North Carolina). These messages intensified anxiety and led to more closures and the layoffs of around 60 employees. What was initially considered “allowed” was subsequently deemed prohibited, or not worth the risk.

As the university took these drastic steps, closures and firings were justified as routine decisions to address issues of “overlap” and “redundancies.” Within months, compliance became a moving target, and visibility of any initiative aimed at promoting student success became a liability. This is how suppressive compliance takes hold: Compliance ceases to be a fixed legal threshold and becomes an ever-narrowing set of assumptions about political risk.

Within a year, seemingly ordinary oversight processes became embedded in the university’s everyday operations through mandatory trainings, audits and yearly compliance certifications, amplifying fear and suppression. Legal reviews expanded into areas explicitly protected from the law, such as research grants and syllabi. Faculty were encouraged to preclear materials, avoid certain language or pursue “safer” research topics.

What began as routine processes to ensure compliance became a form of suppression that was harder to see or challenge. As a result, faculty members described holding back in teaching and research—not because activities were prohibited, but because they were concerned that their work might be misinterpreted, putting their scholarship and themselves at risk. Similarly, staff withdrew from mentoring and student support, concerned that sharing resources with students from minoritized backgrounds could be construed as “preferential treatment.”

Publicly, administrators often justified their actions in the language of neutrality and equal treatment. But in practice, our findings revealed that neutrality functioned as an exclusionary form of risk management, casting any consideration of race, gender or identity as potentially suspect. Inequity did not disappear; it was simply pushed out of sight. The result was a form of discrimination carried out in the name of compliance.

These dynamics should alarm leaders even in states without anti-DEI laws. Our study documents a broader shift in higher education governance. As fear, overcorrection and anticipatory appeasement drive compliance with anti-DEI laws and now federal directives, leaders cede authority over institutional missions. Power shifts to external political actors rather than processes of shared governance focused on educational missions.

But as recent actions at both the state and federal levels have shown, this appeasement offers no protection. Rather, it invites additional scrutiny. Take Columbia University’s experience for example. Once university leaders began to concede to political pressure—disciplining students, placing academic departments under administrative oversight, restructuring governance—it signaled vulnerability. This, in turn, invited escalating demands and deeper intervention, rather than resolving the conflict.

Resisting this pattern requires challenging anti-DEI laws directly and pushing back against maximal interpretations that extend the reach of already suppressive policies. Some recent efforts have shown promise, including successful litigation over federal actions like the now permanently invalidated Dear Colleague letter that tried to ban DEI activities across the country. This outcome suggests that harm can be mitigated when institutions and intermediary organizations act collectively to overcome fear and coordinate legal strategies.

Senior university leaders also have a responsibility to protect institutional missions. When George Mason University president Gregory Washington publicly defended the university’s diversity initiatives in response to an Office for Civil Rights complaint and subsequent investigation, he challenged the legitimacy of the investigation rather than pre-emptively scaling back. He has remained in his position, and the university has secured external legal counsel to communicate with the administration regarding the investigation rather than make immediate concessions. In contrast, we have seen other university presidents facing similar political pressures resign or be replaced, even after appeasing this administration.

Stronger collective support among university presidents and boards is essential. Without it, even well-intentioned leaders face these pressures alone and are more likely to overcorrect or capitulate out of fear. Building networks where leaders can share strategies, coordinate responses and draw on legal and policy expertise won’t be easy. But it’s critical work that will make more principled, effective resistance possible, ensuring that universities remain sites of independent inquiry and democratic ideals rather than instruments of political control.