Speaking Truth to Power (44 page)

When I first made the decision to start public speaking, I was driven by frustration and anger at the tone the hearing took. Later I continued to speak out of fear. I feared that if I gave up my voice this time, it would be lost forever. I would never retrieve it again. My critics accused me of having a “political agenda.” Pure politics, in my experience, is ephemeral at best. I had witnessed that people change their politics to suit their
own personal goals. I have even been accused of doing the same. I have not been so concerned about politics as I have issues. In retrospect, I admit that that position left me with a limited vision of larger areas of concern. It allowed me to ignore some of the faults of the Reagan administration political agenda and to work for some positive changes on specific, yet relatively minor issues. That experience caused me to distrust politics altogether. Thus, I had no overt political agenda, but I now admit that politics was an inevitable by-product of what was happening with women. I am convinced that the political awakening was not one of pure politics, but of politics driven by issues of common concern to women.

Whatever the manner women and men chose to become more politically active after the hearing, many pointed to the hearing as the precipitating factor for their activity. Nineteen ninety-two gave them a slate of women candidates from which to choose. A variety of factors contributed to the increase in women’s participation in the elections: the anti-incumbency mood, the problem of gridlock, the House bank scandal, and concerns about the economy and other domestic policies. Women and men had been shaking their heads and throwing up their hands in the face of these problems. Until the hearing and the reaction to it sparked involvement in the political process, many had chosen to devote their time to their families and jobs. Family issues, work issues—these were things that they understood and had to confront daily. Before the hearing, most people were unaware that there were only two women in the Senate. For the first time, due to the coverage of the hearing, many people realized that only one or two senators were members of ethnic minority groups. For the first time, after reviewing the bungled handling of the hearing, many people realized the gap between representation and our basic concerns.

Through the magnifying glass of the hearing, we saw the face and some of the heart of the senatorial representation. We did not like what we saw. As a result, many women and men vowed to change the face of government.

I was delighted with the tone of women’s political activity following the hearing. Women in grassroots efforts indicated that they had something at stake. Still, the labeling of women candidates as “one issue” candidates infuriated me. I knew that what provoked most of these women was the perceived lack of representation in the federal government—not, as was suggested, the specific issue of sexual harassment alone. This bit of manipulation of political rhetoric was nothing more than an attempt to limit the relevance of the women against whom it was directed. The labeling in the campaigns recognized the threat of their broad-based support and attempted to neutralize that support by narrowing their field of focus. Once the label convinced voters of the candidate’s limitation, her opponent had convinced the voter that she had little potential for effectiveness on other issues. The “single-issue candidate” label can be likened to the old saw “A woman’s place is in the home.” If you can convince people of that, then you can exclude women from workplaces. Similarly, if you can convince voters that a candidate is interested in only one issue, you can convince them that they would not take care of the other issues of concern to the voter.

Interestingly, I have never heard the term used to attack a man. It lends itself more readily to women candidates probably because it plays to the perception that women are not effective leaders. For example, I have never heard of a campaign against a male member of a minority group which dubbed him a one-issue candidate. I have not heard attempts to limit effectiveness of minority candidates by similar insinuations that they are only concerned about minority people. There are two reasons for that. One is that the fear of broad-based support for men of color does not exist as it did for women who ran in 1992. A second is that the gap between the social perceptions of leadership abilities of men and women is larger than that of white men and minority men. Yet the condescending attitude toward women candidates persists despite women’s proven leadership, and their detractors continue to persuade voters in that manner. Finally, as a society we have become better adept at deciphering veiled racist terms than we have at deciphering veiled sexist terms.

Despite my enthusiasm for the candidates, I declined all invitations to campaign. As a practical matter, I did not have time. My full-time teaching and administrative responsibilities in the spring of 1992, coupled with speaking on sexual harassment, left no time for political campaigning. But there was another reason I avoided politics, though I liked many of the political candidates. I dislike and distrust politics. I dislike what I see as its game playing and empty rhetoric. And despite the fact that the women running and their platforms addressed the shortcomings of current representation, I knew that they were necessarily a part of a political system.

I dislike rallies and political speeches. Thus, when Ron Brown, chairman of the Democratic National Committee, asked me to speak at the Democratic National Convention, I declined. I had always been a registered Democrat and I preferred the Democratic Party over the Republican Party. Nevertheless, the party had done little to show any real concern about the issue of sexual harassment. George Mitchell, the Democratic leader of the Senate, did little to assist me before and nothing since the hearing. Moreover, there was no clear statement from leadership denouncing the alleged behavior of one of its former members, Brock Adams, who resigned his Senate seat following allegations by an aide, Kari Tupper, of sexual assault. A bold statement of zero tolerance of the kind of behavior alleged would have gone a long way to express the commitment to ending sexual abuse in the Senate. George Mitchell never issued such a statement. The silver lining behind Adams’ dark cloud is that Patti Murray ran for and won that vacated seat in 1992. When approached by Brown, I was too disillusioned with politics to participate in organized political efforts. My participation in the process would only inflame the people who had attacked me during the hearing. Among their supporters, my presence would be a rallying cry. Thus, anything I might contribute to a candidate could disappear and in fact backfire against the candidate. This was particularly so for Lynn Yeakel, who was running for Arlen Specter’s seat in the Senate.

Finally, I did not campaign because I knew I would be no good at it. I
am not a rousing speaker. I do not respond to the thrill of the crowd by elevating my rhetoric. I am slow, methodical, and lack charisma. My message is about changing our way of thinking about women and abuses of power, a message not easily conveyed in a rally—where people are often urged to act, not think. Though I was intent on being heard, especially during the period immediately prior to the election, I could not bring myself to campaign. Only a few campaign workers took offense at my decision, but by that time I had learned to say no with far less regret. Brown himself was quite gracious when I declined his request.

I watched the Democratic National Convention on television. Alone at my home in Norman, I listened to Barbara Mikulski declare that “never again will a woman coming forward to tell her story” be treated as I was. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I faced the fact again of the involvement of elected officials in what had happened to me. I cried out of my own sadness and my own hope. In August 1992, as Senator Mikulski spoke and introduced the female candidates for the Senate, for the first time in months I believed that change was possible—that no other woman would have to face the public spectacle I underwent. Part of me wanted to be there and knew if Senator Mikulski had asked I probably would have gone.

My name was invoked several times over the course of the convention. One occasion made me swell with pride and at the same time made me laugh out loud. During the roll call, Governor Walters of Oklahoma introduced his state as the home of Will Rogers and Anita Hill. Say what you will about the state and its politics, I had always been proud of being an Oklahoman and this recognition added to that. Moreover, at the convention it served Oklahoma’s delegation well, as the crowd responded loudly. Back home in Oklahoma, Walters took a good deal of heat for the declaration but did not back down from it.

Part of me, a larger part, was glad that I was not there. Part of me knows that my specter was just as effective as my physical presence would have been. I have no regrets about being a part of the energy that got people involved. I was pleased that the party no longer ran away from me
as it had during the hearing, but I was aware that, for some of the partisans, the party’s embrace was just as political as its earlier abandonment had been.

After the election, I admitted to myself that I would have been afraid to live in the country if George Bush had been reelected. Any vote for him indicated to me that the White House role in the hearing and the denigration of a private citizen were proper. Moreover, I did not feel safe against further efforts to come up with false information to discredit me. I feared the FBI might again be improperly enlisted in that role. In August 1992 I addressed the Canadian Bar Association at their meeting in Nova Scotia. There some individuals spoke with me about taking a possible position with a Canadian law school. I liked the community and the people and seriously considered it as an alternative, depending on the outcome of the election. I never really pursued it and am glad that I never had to make the choice to become an expatriate. I was disappointed that the majority of the electorate in Oklahoma voted for George Bush. Yet I was thrilled that my home county of Okmulgee voted Democrat. It was a small victory but affirmed my belief in the people there.

My primary concern was the involvement of women in the defeat of George Bush. Still, Bill Clinton’s election was a victory in itself. I watched the election returns at the home of a Republican friend who was voting Democratic for the first time in his life. His further contribution to George Bush’s defeat was to convince his mother to vote for Bill Clinton and his father to stay at home. The election of four women to the Senate and nineteen women to the House (seven of whom are women of color and one the first Puerto Rican woman elected to national representation) showed that progress had been made. Two women senators in California represented a historic event as well. But my personal pride soared at the election of Carol Moseley Braun to take the seat of an incumbent Democrat who voted to confirm Clarence Thomas. Ms. Braun, the first African American woman to be elected to the Senate, ran after being pressed by women indignant at my treatment. This was an overdue event but one that I never thought I would see. The day
after the election I talked to my mother about Carol Moseley Braun’s victory. “At eighty-one,” she said with pride, “I never thought I would live to see the day that a black woman would be elected to the United States Senate.”

Lynn Yeakel’s defeat in her challenge against Arlen Specter was a personal blow that differed from the other losses. Ms. Yeakel had made it clear that she was encouraged to run because of the lack of representation apparent from the hearing. This had energized many women in her state but had been used against her. Her community experience and leadership ability were trivialized as Senator Specter painted her as a one-issue candidate. He raised twice as much money as she did and his incumbency and past pro-choice stance carried him a long way. From a philosophical standpoint, the very narrow margin by which Yeakel was defeated represented a victory, especially given the discrepancy in campaign spending. Yet the loss was for many women around the country a marked disappointment. I telephoned her to offer my support. She was gracious in her defeat—satisfied that she had made progress and won a moral victory.

Shortly after the election, Ellen Malcolm, director of Emily’s List, invited me to attend a celebration for the newly elected women senators. For the first time, I met Carol Moseley Braun and Barbara Mikulski, the two women who might restore my belief in politics if I allowed it. I had not prepared but was invited to speak. As I did, I told the story about my mother’s response to Carol Moseley Braun’s election. When I looked at the crowd, I noticed that Senator Mikulski had tears on her cheeks. It was only fair that we trade tears. I assumed that she was crying because I had survived the hearing and in a way prevailed by having a part in the election of the women who were being celebrated. Most observers never questioned Senator Mikulski’s commitment to the equality of women. Yet even her doubters would have been convinced on that day as she welcomed her new colleagues and me to Washington. I can only imagine the loneliness she experienced with no other Democratic female colleagues in the partisan and sexist world of Washington, D.C.

Though six women in the Senate far exceeded pre-1992 predictions,
that figure is not high enough. Neither are one African American and one Native American enough to demonstrate the diversity of representation of ideas and experiences of the people in the country. Much more needs to be done in politics and society in general if those numbers are to be raised significantly. Yet I still view my role outside of the political fray. Though I am often asked if I will run for public office, my thinking has never wavered. The answer is always no.

T
he three-story brick building housing the College of Law at the University of Oklahoma, constructed in 1975, is a tribute to the flow of money resulting from one of the oil boom eras. As I cross the second floor of the nameless building, I glance up at the skylight ceiling of the two-story atrium and around at its brick interior walls—it is horribly noisy and energy-inefficient. A student, Tom March, gets my attention from across the way. “Professor Hill, have you seen the
Oklahoma Daily
today?” he asks referring to the campus student paper. As he points out the coverage, I hold my breath.