Extraordinary, Ordinary People

by Condoleezza Rice

  While serving in the White House, I’d made this point to President George W. Bush when the administration decided to join the plaintiffs in two cases against the University of Michigan’s affirmative action program in 2003. Michigan had established what amounted to a quota system for minority students in undergraduate admissions—a practice to which I objected. Yet the principle that race could be taken into consideration in admissions decisions was worth defending. The President asked for my views. I told him that even if the administration decided to side with the plaintiffs, he should not call for overturning the historic 1978 decision in Regents of the University of California v. Bakke—the decision by the Supreme Court that permitted race to be used as a factor in college admissions. Ultimately, the administration did not support overturning Bakke, but when someone within the White House leaked, erroneously, that I had urged the President to do so, I was furious. I went to the President and told him that I had to issue a correction. For the first and only time in our eight years together, I drew attention publicly to a key difference between us. I made it clear that I was willing to go further than the President was in supporting race as a factor in admissions. I had no choice. I had advocated for affirmative action as Stanford’s provost and still believed that it was the right course.

  The key to affirmative action, I believe, is not to lower standards but to look for good prospects where you would not ordinarily find them. Yet there are pitfalls with the whole concept of affirmative action. There is the stigma that is easily attached to minorities simply because there is a widespread belief that affirmative action figured heavily in every case. This leads to what President Bush called (in the context of K–12 education) the “soft bigotry of low expectations.” Having grown up in a community where being “twice as good” was the mantra, I found it appalling that anyone could be so patronizing as to hold lower expectations of minority students.

  Many times, well-meaning faculty would say that they were taking extra time with their “remedial students” to help them catch up. A little investigation would typically reveal that these professors equated “remedial” with “minority.” When I attended my first Phi Beta Kappa ceremony in 1994, I was surprised to see only two black inductees. I suspected that minority students were internalizing the message of inferiority and living down to the expectations that were being set for them.

  I decided to start a program for freshmen called Partners in Academic Excellence. Minority faculty and graduate students agreed to take fifteen or so minority freshmen to dinner once a week. The graduate students also mentored the freshmen—for instance, reading their class papers. My suspicions were confirmed when the black graduate students reported that the freshmen were being given “courtesy” grades, higher than warranted so as not to affect their self-esteem. The problem, of course, was that easier grading early on left the students unprepared for the tougher subject matter that was coming.

  Gerhard supported the program but worried that I was setting up a little “segregated” academic system within Stanford. Ironically, that was exactly what I was doing—trying to reproduce elements of my segregated childhood, when teachers did not worry about being called racists for their high expectations and “no victims” approach.

  In time, we reworked the program to broaden its participation. We learned that student athletes suffered from the same prejudices, as did women students in math and the sciences. I was reminded again how difficult it is to overcome preconceptions and stereotypes—particularly for people who want so desperately to do the right thing for “those poor minorities and women.”

  Similarly, there’s often misplaced noblesse oblige in dealing with junior minority faculty. The university seemed to accept the canard that life was much tougher for them because it was so difficult to balance the many obligations of minority identity with teaching and research demands. Unfortunately, such coddling encouraged special pleading by junior minority faculty regarding latent racism among colleagues, thereby retarding their growth.

  The fact is, life is just not easy for any junior faculty member. As provost, I thought it important not to single out women or minority faculty but rather to deal with their quite real challenges through a more generalized approach. Appointing Bob Weisberg as vice provost for faculty development proved to be very sound. A professor of law with the patience of Job, Bob was able to improve the lives of young faculty immensely and served as a shoulder for them to cry on when things got tough.

  Still, all of these efforts didn’t convince some that I was sufficiently committed to minority affairs. A decision I made to deny tenure to a woman in the History Department, overruling her dean, sealed the judgment. I made the right decision, but I allowed myself to be baited into a statement that I regretted almost as soon as I said it: “Race and gender should not be considered at the time of tenure.” I really meant that they should not be dispositive, turning a failed case into a successful one. I didn’t know that my predecessors had actually allowed race and gender to do precisely that—give the “benefit of the doubt” to women and minorities.

  The opponents of my policies used the statement to claim that Stanford was in violation of equal opportunity statutes, and the Department of Education launched an investigation. Stanford was eventually found to be in compliance with the statutes well after I had left the provost’s office.

  THESE TENSIONS aside, the provost’s job suited me. My friendship and partnership with Gerhard made the hard work rewarding and—on most days—fun. We undertook efforts to reform undergraduate education, starting and funding freshman and sophomore seminars so that Stanford students would have small-group experiences with faculty members early in their careers. It’s all too common in research universities that underclassmen sit through large introductory classes until they declare a major. By that time, many have lost their intellectual curiosity and edge. This program gave students an early introduction to small-group interaction.

  We also started Sophomore College. So many students would come to Stanford declaring engineering or pre-med majors, take organic chemistry or multivariable calculus, get their first D’s, and suddenly realize they weren’t good enough to pursue the career they had chosen. Remembering my disorienting experience of realizing I’d never be a top pianist, I wanted to do something for these kids. We established Sophomore College, a three-week program that allowed selected sophomores to study something topical, in small groups, several hours a day with a faculty member. I taught a seminar on U.S.-Russian relations. The students who applied were usually the ones who were searching, the ones who were trying to find an academic passion and, more important, a faculty mentor.

  As the years passed, the hard budget work was done, and thanks to the improved financial situation and prodigious fund-raising, we were able to repair the earthquake damage and build an entirely new Science Quad, with buildings named for Bill Gates, Paul Allen, and Gordon Moore. David Packard and Bill Hewlett gave the lead gift. We launched other large-scale academic initiatives, such as reinvigorating the Humanities Center and rebuilding the Music Department, even coaxing a first-class string quartet, the St. Lawrence, into taking up residency at Stanford.

  And we reformed the much maligned Culture, Ideas and Values. While there was no chance of returning to Western Civilization and the study of dead white men, we did depoliticize the curriculum. I led a two-year committee (things take a while in universities) to create a new humanities requirement. The turning point was when I asked if the assignment of a book by a woman of color could include my book on German unification. It had never occurred to most faculty members that there was no automatic link between a scholar’s color and gender and her subject matter. The reform went through the Faculty Senate without a single dissenting vote.

  In short, I loved my years as provost. Blessedly, I didn’t travel much, since the provost is really the “inside” presence, paying attention to the daily affairs of the university. This allowed me to take up piano seriously for the first time in t
wo decades. Paul Brest, the Law School dean, had asked me to join a session of his chamber music group one evening. I did so, and began accompanying Paul to a festival in Utah (and later Montana) sponsored by the Muir String Quartet, a fine professional quartet from Boston University. I loved it so much that I decided to study piano again. George Barth, the head of the Piano Department, later told me that when my secretary called to schedule lessons for me, he and others thought there must be some ulterior motive. He couldn’t believe that I really just wanted to take lessons.

  But I did just want lessons, and every Wednesday afternoon I’d work with George for ninety minutes. My assistant, Marilyn Stanley, knew that only in a really serious crisis should she interrupt. I began performing again, once with the university chorus, and also gave a concert with Yu Ying, a fine professional pianist who had graduated from Stanford, for the fiftieth anniversary of the Music Department. My greatest triumph, though, was playing the incredibly difficult Brahms Piano Quintet in F Minor with the Muir in a house concert in 1994. I worked as hard as I ever had to learn the challenging piece. That night as we began to play, I was suddenly alarmed. Something had gone wrong. It didn’t sound right. Then I realized what had happened: the Muir was playing “Happy Birthday,” in celebration of my fortieth.

  Most important, I loved the regular rhythm of the job, which gave me time to spend with Daddy. We continued to work together on the Center for a New Generation and saw it grow and prosper. I visited him at least twice a week, always going over after church on Sunday to watch sports, as we’d done so many years before. He and Clara and I went to Stanford football and basketball games together, including three Bowl games. Daddy loved my friends and became close to Chip, Louis, and Randy. One day, standing on the practice field while watching spring football together, he turned to me and said, “I’m so glad I came here. Palo Alto is such a nice village. And it is awfully nice to be the father of one of the most important people in the village.”

  I realized at that moment that Daddy was finally enjoying the comforts of the retirement he deserved. His life had turned around since those dark days in Denver when his professional life crashed around him. It had been hard work rebuilding his life after Mother’s death. But he had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.

  Despite struggling with congestive heart failure and arthritic knees, Daddy was active in the community, and I was delighted to see him recognized on several occasions. For close to thirty years, Daddy had been a member of Phi Delta Kappa, the leading professional organization for educators. Then in 1994, for his work on behalf of minority communities in Denver and East Palo Alto, the National Alliance of Black School Educators presented him with their Living Legend award.

  Daddy served on the Board of Governors of the California Community Colleges, and in that capacity he became a tireless advocate for accountability and a powerful voice for diversity. In recognition of his contributions, the Community College system still awards John W. Rice Jr. diversity fellowships every year. He’d emerged as a leading citizen in the area. In 1998, the City of Palo Alto honored him with a lifetime achievement award, a fitting capstone to his career. Daddy had blossomed in Palo Alto, and I felt that I had helped. I was sad that I hadn’t had time to do the same for my mother and that they couldn’t have enjoyed retirement together.

  As good as life was for us in the village, I knew that my time as provost had to come to an end. Gerhard had been president for seven years and was starting to think about his successor. During my tenure I’d been asked by many university search committees to consider various university presidencies. I’d always turned them down, saying that the time wasn’t right. I began to realize after a while that the time would never be right. I loved being provost but didn’t want to be president, even of Stanford, with its emphasis on conducting the external affairs of the university—alumni and government relations and fund-raising. Gerhard needed a new provost who could be groomed to succeed him.

  I was also beginning to feel that I’d done all that I could do. My tenure had been somewhat controversial, but I don’t doubt that the trustees appreciated the six budget surpluses I’d produced, the renewal of undergraduate education that Gerhard and I had championed, and the repair of the physical campus. Even the students had come to like me. When I announced I was stepping down from the post, the Stanford Daily ran an editorial entitled “Farewell, Provost Rice,” which featured a line that I will always treasure: “Condi leaves a legacy as a powerful administrator who cares about students.” Even the minority communities—particularly the black community—showed their appreciation with a wonderful farewell event, complete with gospel versions of my favorite hymns.

  As for the faculty, I’m not so sure. I’d made a lot of tough decisions with directness and without showing much patience for the veto groups that populate a university faculty. Many colleagues, such as Lucius Barker, a black professor who had helped me diversify the faculty, called to say that they’d miss my clear and un-apologetic leadership. Nonetheless, I’m sure that many others were relieved when, in the announcement of my decision to step down, I made clear that I was done with university administration. The fact that I’d signed on to help Governor George W. Bush in his run for the Presidency of the United States convinced everyone that I meant what I’d said. But I was absolutely truthful when, at the event held to honor my service, I said that being provost of Stanford was the best job I’d ever had.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Governor’s Campaign

  THE EVENING after Stanford’s event in my honor, my father and I had dinner. He was a little pensive but jokingly said that maybe I’d have more time for dinner now that I was no longer going to be provost. Hearing that, I made a silent vow to see him more.

  “So, what are you going to do for an encore?” he asked. While I loved the university, I couldn’t quite imagine just going back to the faculty after having been provost. I explained that I liked management and the private sector and thought that I might try to combine the two. Daddy asked if I’d decided that foreign policy no longer interested me. That wasn’t the case but I did want to be involved in international affairs in a somewhat different way, perhaps through global finance. I’d been in some conversations with Goldman Sachs and J. P. Morgan and was considering investment banking.

  “Aren’t you going to help George W. Bush?” Daddy asked.

  “Yes, but that won’t be full-time,” I said.

  “Sure,” Daddy said incredulously—and presciently.

  My association with Governor Bush had begun in earnest in August 1998. President George H. W. Bush called to invite me to spend a little time with him and Mrs. Bush in Maine. They had hosted me several times before at their wonderful family home in Kennebunkport. The weathered, shingle-style house, done in calming pastel chintz, has an elegant yet understated decor, and a spectacular view of the ocean. I’m not all that fond of being in the water, but I love to look at it. There isn’t a prettier place to view the Atlantic than Walker’s Point. I loved going there and readily accepted.

  This time would be different. The elder Bush didn’t hide his desire to get me together with his son George, just so we could get to know each other better and talk a little about foreign policy.

  When the then-Texas governor told me that he’d likely make a run for the White House, his presidential bid struck me as having long odds for success. The Clinton years had been morally tarnished but peaceful and relatively prosperous. The governor was untested and would likely face a real pro in Vice President Al Gore. I was too polite to say these things, but I sure thought them.

  George W. Bush was still a few months from being reelected as Texas governor in a landslide victory, carrying 68 percent of the vote. He told me that he was confident of reelection and that if he won impressively (which he fully expected), he’d likely run for the Presidency. He wanted to start thinking about what to do in foreign policy if he got elected. Throughout the weekend, while fishing (he fished, I sat in the boa
t and watched) or exercising side by side in the small family gym on the compound, we talked about Russia, China, and Latin America. I soon realized that he knew our southern neighbors, particularly Mexico, far better than I did. I made a mental note to read a few articles about Mexico when I got back to California.

  But we also talked about other things. He was interested in my upbringing in segregated Birmingham. I was attracted to his passion for improving education for disadvantaged youth. We compared notes on the problems of college admission and affirmative action. I was more traditional in my support of race-based admission, but he’d tried to increase diversity at the University of Texas by other means. He proudly said that he would likely receive half of the Hispanic vote and more than a quarter of the African American vote.

  We emailed back and forth several times during the fall, and a couple of days after the election, I received a note from him. From that time on, we began to follow international events together. In March 1999 I received a call from Karl Rove asking if I’d come down to Austin to talk to the governor about the upcoming campaign. When my picture appeared on the front page of the New York Times as a member of the “exploratory committee” dedicated to electing George W. Bush President of the United States, my father was the first person I called.

  The campaign itself proved professionally fulfilling, but early on I realized that it would require my full-time focus. Foreign policy would be the governor’s Achilles’ heel against more seasoned candidates in the primaries and, eventually, in the general election. I knew that George Bush would look to me to help answer the inevitable questions about his readiness to assume the mantle of commander in chief.

  I was having fun. Anyone who’s interested in politics should do a campaign from the ground floor at least once. Early on we got stuck in traffic jams and carried our own bags. Crowds were enthusiastic but, in some places, kind of small. The music track that introduced the governor at campaign rallies included Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.” I never understood why that song was chosen, but to this day I can’t listen to it without vivid memories of stadiums, auditoriums, and cowboy bars full of early believers in George W. Bush.