Remarks to the Urbana-Champaign Academic Senate

August 31, 2009

It was the Summer of Clout.

Unless you’ve been in a cave under the Sea of Tranquility, you already know that.

You also know that I candidly told the Mikva commission that I had made mistakes in how I handled inquiries from influential people. I admitted that these mistakes were “not my finest hour.”

But those acknowledgements do not tell my whole story.

Every day during the last few months, as headlines shouted accusations and the Mikva commission repeatedly took me and others to task, I thought about how my actions had tarnished the reputation of this university I love. And, today, after months of turmoil, I ask your indulgence as I speak to you from the heart.

Although I was the leader of this giant campus, a man who oversaw a 1.5-billion-dollar-a-year budget, who negotiated multi-million dollar contracts with foreign governments, who traveled the world promoting the University, who met in the Oval Office with the President as a member of his science advisory council, who was responsible for the lives and fortunes of 42,000 students and 12,000 faculty and  staff, I believed that I did not have the power to end a system that had been long in the making and was engrained in our state’s political culture.

I believed that the best I could do was shield others at the university from these behind-the-scenes maneuverings. I truly believed that I was serving the greater good of the university by doing something that, in retrospect, was sometimes not so good. I still believe that for all the hundreds of inquiries from well-connected people over many years, only a small percentage ended up being mishandled.

But even one case is too many.

Truthfully, at first, I thought the Chicago Tribune and the News-Gazette were blowing the matter out of proportion. I told myself that few applicants had gotten into Illinois because I worried about alienating powerful people who might retaliate against the university. I told myself that many students were still denied admission despite the determined efforts of influential people.
I told myself that students are evaluated on many variables—are they poor, a minority, an athlete, a student from a rural high school, a musician? If their math ACT scores are low, do they have high verbal scores? Do they have a disability they have overcome? I slipped into thinking that getting a good word about an applicant from a friend of the university was simply one more variable to be considered.

I was mistaken.

As I read and heard the outraged and anguished comments from citizens, students and parents across the state, I realized that people were in genuine pain and that my actions played into a deep and profound repository of meaning about America. People saw in the “clout” stories only more evidence that our nation, our state, our values are not what we claim them to be.

My actions had given more substance to the insidious, cynical belief that it is not what you know in America but who you know that matters. The stories about “clout” at Illinois outraged people because our universities mean so much to us: They embody all the hopes and dreams and ambitions that we have for our children. They are our nation’s vehicle for upward mobility, achievement, accomplishment, status, and financial security. They are our most powerful symbol of the national ideal that everybody – no matter their rank or wealth or family background – has a fair chance to be … somebody.

I have spent my life in pursuit of that very American dream. A working class kid from the Bronx, raised with an immigrant grandfather who worked as a tailor, a scholarship to college, good grades, hard work, eventually, a doctorate in mathematics. I made my way in the world because the university system was – like ideal justice – blind to all except my accomplishments.

In the last few months, I have often thought of Leonardo da Vinci’s insight: “It’s easier to resist at the beginning than at the end.” A small compromise here, a little more compromise there, and I eventually found myself in deep and troubling waters without realizing it.

I went off course with good intentions but, still, I went off course.

No other way to put it: I let you down.

I let my grandfather down.

I let myself down.

This is why I did apologize earlier and do so again here today. 

Yet I don’t seek absolution.

What I seek is the opportunity to help resolve the crisis my actions and those of others helped create, which is exactly what we are now doing in response to the recommendations of the Mikva commission report. We are building the highest and strongest firewall in the nation to protect future university officials and future students from ever fearing that they must pander to the expectations of powerful people.

It will be done.

At least that good will come of it.

I know there have been calls for my resignation, and I seriously considered it. A few weeks ago, I sat down one night in an armchair in my home, after my wife Susan had gone to bed, and I made a list of my accomplishments while serving as Chancellor and Provost versus my failings as revealed this summer.

More programs that promote racial and gender diversity among students and faculty; more money for ethnic studies scholars; thousands more students being educated every year; 100 faculty excellence professors hired; a doubling of private sector research money in just a few years; the Center for the Study of Democracy in a Multiracial Society, the Institute for Genomic Biology; the $500 million BP project; the globalization of our campus; outreach to the local public schools to make them better for all our children.

To name only a few.

And – what I am most proud of – The Illinois Promise program, which I launched my first year as Chancellor despite strong opposition because of its potential cost. As of this year, The Illinois Promise program has brought 700 students from poverty-stricken families to the University of Illinois with the promise that they will graduate debt-free. So far, the students entering under that promise are graduating at a rate higher than the university average.

Sitting in my living room that night, it pained me to realize that I will likely be as much remembered for having helped the offspring of the privileged few as for having put hundreds of poor children through college.

I went to bed that night determined to fight doggedly for the chance to stay at my work as long as the newly constituted Board of Trustees believes my contributions to the university are valuable. It is tempting to resign in order to avoid more public scorn. Yet to do so, I believe, would leave the university adrift in what are very difficult times. Our national, state and university budgets are in a state of uncertainty with no relief in sight, and crucial university initiatives are in critical stages.

The Mikva commission recommended the Trustees evaluate my future and the future of President White, and that assessment will take place soon. Yet new leadership – whenever it comes – should come after serious consultation with a wide spectrum of faculty members and then in a planned, orderly, and constructive manner for the good of the university.  We do not want to lose the great momentum we have achieved in recent years.

It is my hope that, on balance, I have done enough good as Chancellor and Provost that this esteemed body and the faculty at large, staff, students, the people of Champaign-Urbana, the people of Illinois, and the new Board of Trustees believe that - despite my mistakes – I should continue to serve until any change in leadership is complete.

But, it is not about me. It is about what is best for our university.

I have appreciated the support that has come from many faculty colleagues who believe I was a victim of political forces beyond my control. I have appreciated the public letter of support from some of our most distinguished faculty and the letter from local community leaders I worked so hard to make part of our university community.  But, I have also seen disappointment in the eyes of people whom I know respect me – and seeing it has, at times, almost brought me to tears.  

Yet, my energy and commitment to this place that I love have been made only deeper through this crisis. The old saying goes: “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” I am stronger. I am wiser. And I am determined to give the last of myself to assure that our great university stays on its mission to be even greater.  

It has been an honor to serve you. It will be an honor to continue to serve you – for months, days, or even a moment longer.

Thank you.