Diversity Regimes: Why Talk Is Not Enough to Fix Racial Inequality at Universities 9781978800458

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DIVERSITY REGIMES

The American Campus Founded by Harold S. Wechsler The books in the American Campus series explore recent developments and public policy issues in higher education in the United States. Topics of interest include access to college, and college affordability; college retention, tenure and academic freedom; campus ­labor; the expansion and evolution of administrative posts and salaries; the crisis in the humanities and the arts; the corporate university and for-­ profit colleges; online education; controversy in sport programs; and gender, ethnic, racial, religious, and class dynamics and diversity. Books feature scholarship from a variety of disciplines in the humanities and social sciences. Vicki L. Baker, Laura Gail Lunsford, and Meghan J. Pifer, Developing Faculty in Liberal Arts Colleges: Aligning Individual Needs and Orga­nizational Goals Derrick R. Brooms, Jelisa Clark, and Matthew Smith, Empowering Men of Color on Campus: Building Student Community in Higher Education W. Carson Byrd, Poison in the Ivy: Race Relations and the Reproduction of In­equality on Elite College Campuses Nolan L. Cabrera, White Guys on Campus: Racism, White Immunity, and the Myth of “Post-­R acial” Higher Education Jillian M. Duquaine-­Watson, Mothering by Degrees: Single M ­ others and the Pursuit of Postsecondary Education Scott Frickel, Mathieu Albert, and Barbara Prainsack, eds., Investigating Interdisciplinary Collaboration: Theory and Practice across Disciplines Gordon Hutner and Feisal G. Mohamed, eds., A New Deal for the Humanities: Liberal Arts and the ­Future of Public Higher Education Adrianna Kezar and Daniel Maxey, eds., Envisioning the Faculty for the Twenty-­First ­Century: Moving to a Mission-­O riented and Learner-­Centered Model Ryan King-­W hite, ed., Sport and the Neoliberal University: Profit, Politics, and Pedagogy Dana M. Malone, From Single to Serious: Relationships, Gender, and Sexuality on American Evangelical Campuses A. Fiona Pearson, Back in School: How Student Parents Are Transforming College and ­Family Barrett J. Taylor and Brendan Cantwell, Unequal Higher Education: Wealth, Status, and Student Opportunity James M. Thomas, Diversity Regimes: Why Talk Is Not Enough to Fix Racial In­equality at Universities

DIVERSITY REGIMES Why Talk Is Not Enough to Fix Racial In­equality at Universities Ja mes M. Thom as

Rutgers University Pr ess New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey, and London

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Thomas, James M., 1982– author. Title: Diversity regimes : why talk is not enough to fix racial   inequality at universities / James M. Thomas. Description: New Brunswick : Rutgers University Press, [2020] |   Series: The American campus | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019034244 | ISBN 9781978800410 (paperback) |   ISBN 9781978800427 (cloth) | ISBN 9781978800434 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Discrimination in higher education—United States. |   Educational equalization—United States. Classification: LCC LC212.42 .T46 2020 | DDC 378.1/982—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034244 A British Cataloging-­i n-­P ublication rec­ord for this book is available from the British Library. Copyright © 2020 by James M. Thomas All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992. www​.­r utgersuniversitypress​.­org Manufactured in the United States of Amer­i­ca

 For ­those who seek justice, in love and strug­gle

Contents 1 Introduction  —  1 2 ­Under the Live, Old Oak Trees  —  18 3 Condensation and the Alchemy of Diversity  —  43 4 Go Your Own Way: The Orga­n izational Structure of Diversity  —  79 5 Staging Difference, Performing Diversity  —  115 6 Diversity Regimes and the Reproduction of Racial In­equality  —  143 Appendix: Studying Inequality, in Situ  —  183 Acknowl­edgments  —  191 Notes  —  195 Bibliography  —  217 Index  —  231 About the Author  —  245

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1 Introduction Election Night, 2012 My wife and I stayed up late November  6, 2012, to watch the election results live on tele­v i­sion. As it became more certain Barack Obama would be elected to a second term, we reflected on Obama’s first four years as our nation’s president—­t he nation’s first African American president. We discussed the social significance, if t­ here was any, to Obama’s reelection. Obama’s first four years had not delivered the hope he had campaigned on—­t he hope we thought we ­were promised. The year Barack Obama took office—2008—­the unemployment rate for African Americans steadily increased from less than 9 ­percent to over 12 ­percent. The night of his reelection in 2012, it was just over 13  ­percent.1 In both instances, the rate of unemployment for African Americans remained double that of white Americans, a trend that preceded Obama’s presidency but would not be corrected during e­ ither of his terms. Despite ­l ittle, if any, change in the socioeconomic conditions for ­people of color, Obama’s election and reelection did offer a symbolic repre­sen­ta­tion of the potential for shifting racial power. That symbolism is fraught with contradictions, of course,2 yet, the image remains compelling for many African Americans and other racial and ethnic minorities, as well as centrist and liberal-­leaning whites. This is so not for what it suggests Amer­ i­ca is, but for what it suggests Amer­i­ca could be. That night, I lay awake in bed thinking about Oxford, Mississippi, where I live and work. I i­ magined what must be g­ oing through the minds of other residents of this small, Southern town. I had a feeling, l­ater confirmed, that most of ­t hose in my community had voted for Mitt Romney, the Republican nominee.3 I ­imagined their disappointment but thought

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it similar to the disappointment they feel when their university’s football team loses to a conference rival. I could not have been more wrong. I awoke around five o ­ ’clock the next morning and put on my sweatshirt and sweatpants. I walked downstairs, poured a glass of choco­late milk, grabbed my car keys, and headed out the front door. I turned my car radio to MSNBC, where the pundits for Morning Joe ­were rehashing the results from the night before. Following my workout, I arrived in my office to find an email the chancellor had sent just a few hours prior. My eyes grew wide as I learned what had tran­spired while I slept. Around the same time the Associated Press called the election for Obama, several white students at the University of Mississippi had posted a series of racist tweets: “Black girls crying on TV ­because ­t hey’re so happy they STILL ­don’t have to get jobs and government get to be their baby d­ addy.” “History ­w ill repeat itself. The Confederacy ­w ill be back, bitch.” “If the South had won 147  years ago, then we ­wouldn’t have this prob­lem.” “The South ­w ill rise again!”

Around 11:15 p.m., some students at the university reported loud noises coming from a dormitory on the northwest side of campus.4 Some students used social media to report gunfire, though it was ­later determined that they heard firecrackers. By about 11:30 p.m., between forty and fifty students had gathered in the Grove, the large green space in the heart of campus. In less than thirty minutes, the crowd had swelled to approximately four hundred students, mostly white. Sometime a­ fter midnight, this crowd became hostile. They began shouting racial epithets and taunting African American bystanders. Cars and trucks parked on the surrounding driveway of the Grove blasted “­Dixie,” while cries of “The South s­ hall rise again” rang through the night. Reporters with the campus news station captured video of a truck driving past black students, its

Introduction

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white driver yelling, “Niggers!” It was not u ­ ntil just past one ­o’clock in the morning that campus police w ­ ere able to disperse the crowd. One par­t ic­u ­lar sentence in the chancellor’s email held my attention: “Parents are being notified that it’s a normal day on campus and that one of Amer­i­ca’s safest campuses is safe again this morning.”5 Safe again? What does that even mean in this context, I remember thinking. As a sociologist, I am drawn to questions about social structure: the external conditions that shape and direct collective be­hav­ior. I could not help but won­der what under­lying conditions might have ­shaped and directed the election night fiasco, and ­later, the university’s responses to it. In the weeks that followed, the University of Mississippi’s public relations engine worked overtime to minimize the events of election night, portraying them as an anomaly and nothing more. Despite the massive gathering, the eyewitness accounts of objects being thrown at African American bystanders, the video recording of white protestors shouting racial slurs, and the infamous photo­g raph of students lighting an Obama/ Biden campaign sign on fire, the university rejected any suggestion that what took place was a riot. Indeed, a report by the university’s Incident Review Committee, an ad hoc group of faculty, staff, and administrators, declared such claims a myth. Merriam-­Webster’s Dictionary defines a riot as

a:  ​public vio­lence, tumult, or disorder b:  ​a violent public disorder; specifically: a tumultuous disturbance of the public peace by three or more persons assembled together and acting with a common intent

Meanwhile, the sociologist Gary Marx defines a riot as an expression of “relatively spontaneous illegitimate group vio­lence contrary to traditional norms.”6 The unrest on the University of Mississippi’s campus on election night was unquestionably a riot. It is not surprising that the university rejects that label. The year of the election night riot also marked

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the fiftieth anniversary of “The ­Battle of Oxford,” a violent encounter between U.S. marshals and a mob of white students and local residents who sought to prevent James Meredith, an African American and U.S. Army veteran, from enrolling in (and thus integrating) the university.7 The university had planned a full academic year’s worth of programming to commemorate its integration. This programming framed the fifty years since as a period in which the university shifted from a “closed society” to one that embraced diversity and inclusion in “all of its forms.” To label the event from election night a riot would undermine this g­ rand narrative. Yet less than ten weeks into the fall term, the University of Mississippi was again the staging ground for a major drama on American racism. New to Oxford, to Mississippi, and the American South, I wondered how a college campus with such a public commitment to diversity and inclusion could be the scene of such public racial conflict. I learned from colleagues and students that a similar event occurred in 2008 following Obama’s victory over Senator John McCain. Indeed, the day of the 2012 election, the campus police chief instructed officers to “remain diligent,” acknowledging that the night’s events ­were a possibility, even if just a remote one. Many of my colleagues used the election night riot as a bridge to voice their frustrations with other issues they saw rooted in the same soil: a lack of institutional support for minority faculty and staff, failed efforts to recruit and retain minority faculty and students, and poor institutional oversight and responsiveness to a hostile racial climate. ­These colleagues had grown weary from fighting the same ­battles with ­little acknowl­edgment from campus leadership that a prob­lem even existed. The election night riot and its aftermath serve as the initial context for writing this book. The University of Mississippi is not unique, and in fact, other college campuses experienced similar unrest that night.8 Like many American colleges and universities, the University of Mississippi has embraced a wide-­reaching diversity initiative yet strug­gles to reconcile this public commitment with the realities of everyday racism on its cam-

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pus. To date, how it and other campuses negotiate this strug­g le has received l­ittle scholarly attention. I intend to shed light upon this strug­ gle between public commitments to racial harmony and the lived realities of racial in­equality, so that we can better understand how and why racial in­equality persists in an era other­w ise saturated with public affirmations of multiculturalism. This book begins with election night of 2012 at the University of Mississippi, but this is not a book about election night or the University of Mississippi. This is a book about any number of American colleges and universities where the race ­toward diversity and inclusion is a race run in circles, with far too l­ ittle to show for the efforts. The Prob­lem Defined This book analyzes the creation, organ­ization, and implementation of diversity initiatives on college campuses, centering what sociologist Everett Hughes calls the “­going concerns” of diversity in American higher education: the dynamic and often contested set of interactions between an active core of p­ eople and the social definition of how and when they act.9 Research on diversity overwhelmingly mea­sures its intended and unintended consequences: increases or decreases in repre­ sen­ta­tion, hiring and promotion, or other agreed-­upon metrics. I find that by focusing on diversity’s outcomes, we take for granted diversity’s pro­cesses: the discursive, structural, and interactive mechanisms that shape ­t hose outcomes. Fi­nally, this book challenges assumptions about diversity’s role in creating a more just and equal campus. I argue that how diversity is or­g a­n ized and practiced on most college campuses maintains and reproduces, rather than contests, racial in­equality.10 The title of my book, Diversity Regimes, captures how this maintenance and reproduction occurs. Despite significant changes in their funding, curriculum, and staffing, colleges and universities remain impor­tant agents of socialization and social mobility. Higher education proponents recognize the university as a site that promotes core values including democracy, equality,

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in­de­pen­dence, and civic responsibility.11 Pundits and scholars alike stress how impor­tant a college degree was for creating a more level playing field for w ­ omen, racial and ethnic minorities, and the working class in the latter half of the twentieth ­century.12 In his speech to the Inter-­ American Development Bank in December 2012, Secretary of Education Arne Duncan declared that a college education is “the surest path out of poverty,” arguing that the American system of higher education is “the ­g reat equalizer, the one force that empowers ­people to overcome differences in power and privilege.”13 ­T here are, of course, serious criticisms of American colleges and ­u niversities. Since the 1980s, austerity mea­sures at the federal and state levels have resulted in significant disinvestment in public higher education. Tuition and associated fees have skyrocketed, making college unaffordable for all but the most affluent and greatly reducing opportunities for poor and near-­poor students.14 Despite sweeping legislation during the civil rights era, research finds that opportunities for higher education remain greater for white students than for nonwhite students, and as a result maintain rather than reduce or eliminate intergenerational racial in­equality.15 For many working class students and students of color, a university education remains a pipe dream, as does the promise of social mobility said to come from a college degree.16 Nevertheless, Americans consistently perceive higher education as a social equalizer. Indeed, racial and ethnic minorities hold this belief most strongly. A recent nationally representative survey finds, for example, that while just 47 ­percent of whites view college education as necessary for success; this attitude prevails among 70  ­percent of Hispanics, 61 ­percent of Asian Americans, and 55 ­percent of African Americans.17 A separate survey finds that 76 ­percent of African Americans and 84 ­percent of Hispanics agree that a college degree is essential for “living the good life,” compared to just 64 ­percent of whites.18 What accounts for racial and ethnic minorities’ greater faith in American higher education, especially since their access to colleges and uni-

Introduction

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versities remains unequal? Civil rights legislation in the 1960s and 1970s made discrimination based on gender, race, or ethnicity in American institutions, including higher education, unlawful. This helped open the door to college admissions for ­women, African Americans, Hispanics, and other minority groups. Yet it was a 1978 Supreme Court case that fundamentally altered the landscape of higher education. In Regents of California v. Bakke, Justice Lewis Powell authored an opinion that college admissions ­ought to consider diversity, so long as race or ethnicity is not the only ele­ment considered. Diversity, wrote Powell, could include exceptional personal talents, unique work or ser­v ice experience, leadership potential, maturity, demonstrated compassion, a history of overcoming disadvantage, ability to communicate with the poor, or other qualifications deemed impor­tant. In short, an admissions program operated in this way is flexible enough to consider all pertinent ele­ments of diversity in light of the par­t ic­u ­lar qualifications of each applicant, and to place them on the same footing for consideration, although not necessarily according them the same weight [emphasis mine].19

Powell’s opinion that diversity improves the educational experience for every­one provided ­legal justification for colleges and universities to consider race and ethnicity in their admissions pro­cesses. Powell’s opinion also provided some ­legal cover for colleges and universities to create new policies for the recruitment of minority students. As a consequence, American colleges and universities have seen enormous gains in minority student enrollment. Between 1976 and 2015, the number African American college enrollments increased by nearly 160 ­percent, Hispanic enrollments by more than 750 ­percent, and Asian/Pacific Islander enrollments by almost 550  ­percent. In 1976, white students accounted for nearly 83  ­percent of all college enrollments in degree-­g ranting postsecondary institutions. By 2015, that figure was less than 55 ­percent.20 ­These shifts are accompanied by significant investment in what we might call diversity’s

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infrastructure: campus multicultural centers and missions; new academic and student-­focused divisions centered on multicultural awareness; and curriculum, degree programs, and even entire departments centered on race and ethnicity in con­temporary society.21 ­T hese demographic and institutional shifts affect Americans’ attitudes ­toward higher education, even as colleges and universities remain transmitters of in­equality and privilege.22 The demographic and institutional changes within American colleges and universities lead some to conclude that the post-­Bakke race to diversity has been successful.23 Research, however, shows a more complex outcome. Racially diverse campuses may produce long-­term psychological and social gains for their students, but research suggests ­these gains are greatest for white students and weakest for racial and ethnic minorities.24 Meanwhile, university commitments to diversity have not proven effective in reducing minority students’ experiences of isolation, alienation, and daily microaggressions—­part of what we might call everyday racism.25 Minority faculty’s experiences with everyday racism mirror ­those of students. Minority faculty report encounters with students who challenge their competence, knowledge, and authority.26 As a w ­ hole, minority faculty remain woefully underrepresented at ­every faculty rank.27 In addition to everyday racism, minority students and faculty confront increasingly explicit and violent forms of racism on their college campuses. A 2001 report from the Department of Justice, Hate Crimes on Campus, noted more than 220 self-­reported hate crime incidents in that year alone; 57 ­percent ­were racially motivated, with another 18 ­percent motivated by antisemitism.28 In 2013, the FBI reported more than 780 hate crimes on college campuses, and in 2014 college campuses w ­ ere the third most common site for hate crimes, accounting for 9 ­percent of all reported incidents.29 When taken into consideration with the recent wave of campus protests against racism, ­these findings suggest that diversity’s success is incomplete or deficient at best.30 More numerically

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9

diverse than ever, and with nearly ubiquitous commitments to diversity and inclusion, colleges and universities remain sites where racial conflict and in­equality persist. This book provides insight into why. Scholars who study diversity find that among ordinary actors, it has multiple and contested meanings. For many, diversity is enriching. The idea of ­people from dif­fer­ent backgrounds coming together through shared values and working ­toward shared goals fits well with the ethos of Amer­i­ca as a melting pot.31 Sociologists Douglas Hartmann and Joyce Bell aptly coined the term “happy talk” to describe this par­t ic­u ­lar set of meanings.32 Yet happy talk—­even among ­those “considered both well-­ informed and articulate about diversity”—­often fails to capture the ­continued prob­lems of race and in­equality.33 Instead, happy talk treats diversity as something to be tolerated, or even celebrated, without considering ­whether and how power shapes ­people’s interactions with ­others dif­fer­ent from themselves. As a result, happy talk obfuscates social prob­ lems associated with race and ethnicity and dismisses the continued significance of race in maintaining social inequalities.34 Scholars studying organ­izations and management find that happy talk is central to diversity policies and outcomes. Sociologist Lauren Edelman and her colleagues, for example, examined professional management lit­er­a­t ure to better understand how for-­profit companies position diversity as a positive social value.35 Their research demonstrates that happy talk within managerial discourse disassociates diversity from civil rights law and collapses legally protected categories of difference—­ race, ethnicity, sex, and religion—­w ith ele­ments of diversity not protected by civil rights law. Managerial discourse on diversity often assigns equal, positive social value to all ele­ments of difference, effectively ignoring how certain kinds of difference ­matter for reproducing the power structure of the organ­ization. In a complementary analy­sis of diversity discourse at the University of Michigan, sociologist Ellen Berrey found that diversity policies emphasized occupational and cultural competencies alongside racial and ethnic differences. This effectively collapsed

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socially and po­liti­cally meaningful differences between race, attitudes, and work styles, resulting in a diversity-­i s-­everyone/everyone-­i s-­d iversity mantra that did ­little to challenge the status quo.36 Elsewhere, sociologist David Embrick has found that in the most egregious cases, orga­n izational diversity policy excludes race and gender equality altogether.37 Fi­nally, sociologist Frank Dobbin examines what effects, if any, diversity policies have on orga­n izational outcomes. He and his colleagues find that organ­i zations with token minority repre­sen­ta­t ion are less likely to adopt diversity programs than organ­izations that lack even token repre­sen­ta­tion. For organ­izations that create and implement diversity programs, it does not appear to m ­ atter ­whether ­t hose programs actually increase minority repre­sen­ta­tion. Instead, what ­matters is that organ­ izations can point to t­hese programs as reflecting positively on their orga­n izational image. Perhaps most tellingly of organ­izations’ intentions ­behind diversity policies and programs, Dobbin and his colleagues find that the programs most successful in recruiting, retaining, and advancing w ­ omen and racial and ethnic minorities in the professional ranks are the least commonly ­adopted. Meanwhile, programs that are least successful in recruiting, retaining, and advancing ­women and racial and ethnic minorities are the most prevalent.38 ­T hese findings suggest that what m ­ atters most for organ­i zations is that they show a commitment to diversity in the abstract, not that they produce meaningful change in how power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­making are distributed. Most of this orga­n izational research on diversity centers on for-­profit companies; however, some studies look at educational institutions, including higher education. Observing diversity’s architecture at a major public university, ­legal scholar Susan Sturm shows that how and where diversity initiatives are h ­ oused on campus marginalizes t­hose efforts. For example, Sturm finds that diversity management is typically segregated from the executive office and therefore kept out of key decision-­making pro­cesses. Meanwhile, the professionalizing and compartmentalizing of

Introduction

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orga­n izational goals relegates diversity management as a special division within ­human resources. Consequently, departments and divisions across campus have l­ ittle awareness of what kinds of diversity efforts are taking place elsewhere. Relatedly, Sturm finds that the individuals most typically responsible for ­doing diversity work—­select professors and staff in student affairs—­frequently have ­little contact or coordination with the campus chief diversity officer.39 Ellen Berrey’s aforementioned research at the University of Michigan reveals how diversity rhe­toric ­t here redefines race from a ­matter of ­legal redress for previous exclusion to one of cultural identity. This leads to  the promotion of racial tolerance and difference but comes at the expense of addressing structural barriers to opportunity and resources.40 Elsewhere, sociologists Amir Marvasti and Karyn McKinney surveyed ­students, faculty, and staff at a small liberal arts college to reveal the pervasiveness of happy talk and diversity’s lack of universal meaning. Their survey results indicate that diversity and the orga­n izational policies and programs associated with it are disassociated with existing inequalities on campus.41 Fi­nally, in interviews and classroom observations with elementary school teachers, sociologist Antonia Randolph finds that as a ­matter of practice, diversity eschews the harder conversations on race, power, and in­equality in ­favor of benign cele­brations of difference.42 Much of the aforementioned research on diversity reveals a ­g reat deal of scholarly attention ­toward the material and symbolic consequences of happy talk. Yet relatively ­little attention is paid ­toward the pro­cesses through which happy talk, or what we might think of as “hollow diversity,” is produced, or­g a­n ized, and deployed. To date, we have a ­limited so­c io­log­i­cal understanding of the pro­cess through which diversity’s hollow meaning arises, what conflicts and contingencies are involved in this pro­cess, and how the social actors involved think about diversity when they put it into practice. The plurality and ambiguity of diversity’s meaning indicates diversity’s status as a “­going concern,” where social actors strug­g le over how to define diversity and what it should look like in

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orga ­n izational practice.43 We know from the research already mentioned that ordinary social actors assign complex and often contradictory meanings to diversity. But what do they then do with ­those meanings? How do they actively make sense of diversity? Put differently, we know ­l ittle about how, as a ­going concern, diversity unfolds within the orga­n izational setting. Focusing on diversity’s articulation—­the conditions and actions that forge the connection between diversity’s meaning and practice—­can help us better understand how in an era saturated with symbolic commitments to diversity and multiculturalism, racial in­equality persists.44 Scholars and laypersons alike recognize higher education as a vehicle for producing, circulating, and distributing cultural norms, values, and beliefs.45 They are also sites of dif­fer­ent degrees of consciousness, interests, and needs, where strug­g le, negotiation, and change occur.46 While colleges and universities certainly help shape progressive social norms, as organ­i zations they are responsive (and often beholden) to social, economic, and po­liti­cal forces: public disinvestment, rising tuition costs, pressure to adopt corporate management strategies, and pressure from the publics they serve to demonstrate their “return on investment,” which is itself indicative of a corporate shift in higher education.47 ­T hese larger forces penetrate and transform the orga­n izational structure of American colleges and universities, including how they think about the importance of diversity and how they implement diversity-­centric practices. The 1978 Bakke ruling catalyzed efforts among higher education officials to ensure that admissions policy justifications meshed with Powell’s opinion. Research examining law and medical school admissions, for example, found that officials w ­ ere committed to complying with the Bakke ruling even though they lacked a comprehensive understanding. Even so, officials acted upon their own interpretations of the Bakke ruling, thus enhancing their beliefs that they w ­ ere in compliance.48 A significant effect of the Bakke ruling, then, was that while it legitimized a set of interpretative practices around diversity that included a method of incorporating racial preferences, it also allowed for considering other

Introduction

13

forms of difference.49 ­Today, efforts to signal compliance, including writing diversity statements and creating chief diversity officer positions, allow colleges and universities to claim they are committed to the princi­ ples of diversity and multiculturalism without actually having to alter their existing infrastructure.50 ­T hese commitments are nearly universal among institutions of higher education, but they fail as a ­whole to remedy existing racial inequalities. Indeed, as I ­w ill show, how ­these commitments arise and are or­g a­n ized further entrenches racial inequalities within the college and university setting. Aim and Purpose ­T here is a glaring contradiction between the ideals of diversity and how it is ultimately given meaning through practice. Despite the proliferation of commitments to diversity and inclusion, rec­ord enrollment of minority students, and rec­ord growth in diversity infrastructure, colleges and universities remain ripe with racial conflict and in­equality. This suggests we are asking the wrong kinds of questions about diversity. Instead of asking about diversity’s outcomes—­how many more minority faculty or students, or how much more money invested in diversity programming—we ­ought to ask about the pro­cess ­behind ­t hose outcomes. How is diversity defined, or­g a­n ized, and then put into practice? How do t­ hese ­things lead to the formation and maintenance of diversity regimes—­t he orga­n izational meanings and practices that institutionalize a commitment to diversity—­a nd in ­doing so obscure, entrench, and even intensify racial in­equality?51 To answer ­t hese questions, I draw upon more than two years of ethnographic fieldwork at Diversity University (DU), a public flagship university in the American South. My fieldwork entailed attending dozens of events, programs, meetings, and workshops across campus. I observed and participated in countless conversations with university students, faculty, staff, and administrators on the importance of diversity to the university’s mission and on the ongoing concerns about its effectiveness in

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combatting racial conflict and in­equality on campus. In addition to my observations and informal conversations, I also conducted twenty-­six formal interviews with diversity workers at DU—­t he students, faculty, and staff who help create, or­g a­n ize, and put into practice DU’s diversity efforts. Fi­nally, to complement my fieldwork and interviews, I dug into DU’s institutional discourse on diversity—­its policies, pamphlets, promotional materials, and other documents that help give diversity its meaning and importance to the university. Most of us recognize when diversity is “­going poorly”: when minority repre­sen­ta­t ion borders on tokenism; when racial and gendered wage gaps persist; when decision-­making remains concentrated within the hands of a relatively few elite, white men; and, in its most dramatic form, when we see increased vio­lence and racism directed ­toward men and ­women of color.52 Yet the “­going” aspect of “­going poorly” receives ­l ittle attention in scholarship on diversity. If we want to understand better how and why racial in­equality persists in an era saturated with positive messages on multiculturalism and diversity, we need to do more than document poor results. We need to attend to the pro­cesses that produce them. Throughout my research, I made an effort to do just that. In writing this book, I hope to shed new light on the under­lying pro­cesses of diversity initiatives in higher education so that scholars, higher education administrators, and other professionals can understand better how and why diversity initiatives often fail to do the ­t hings many of us hope they ­w ill do: better redistribute power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­making into the hands of historically underrepresented groups of ­people. Structure of the Book This book is the product of more than two years of intensive fieldwork and roughly five years of writing and reflection. Despite my time and efforts, this book w ­ ill not tell you every­thing you want it to tell you. ­T hose of us who write books make choices—­c hoices about what we

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include and what we leave out. I chose to tell a story about the pro­cesses ­behind an ongoing diversity initiative at DU so that I could tell a story about how and why diversity initiatives in higher education fail to remedy existing racial in­equality. Telling the story in this way helps dispel the widely held idea that simply making a commitment to diversity is enough to change the status quo. The chapters in this book are arranged with the intent to tell this story. Chapter 2 attempts to accomplish two ­t hings. As is standard practice for writing ethnographies, it describes the setting in which my research took place. Second, it uses a description of the setting, DU, as a way to illuminate the campus and its history as a key site of contestation that informs how DU and the social actors within it think about the importance and significance of diversity. Diversity is a big part of DU’s institutional narrative of pro­g ress. DU’s historical relationship to the American system of slavery, and l­ater Jim Crow segregation, is paramount in how the university frames its diversity initiative. For DU, diversity is a way for it to distance itself from its legacy of white supremacy. The juxtaposition between what DU was, what DU says it is becoming, and what DU remains for many of its students, faculty, staff, and alumni undergirds my description of DU as the setting for my fieldwork. Chapter  3 begins my analy­sis of the under­lying pro­cesses of DU’s diversity initiative that ultimately led to the formation and maintenance of a diversity regime. The first of t­ hese pro­cesses, and the focus of this chapter, I term condensation. Condensation is the pro­cess whereby a variety of seemingly unrelated phenomena, or signifiers, are condensed ­u nder the sign “diversity.” The continued association of unrelated signifiers to diversity provides the concept with some coherence, but it does so vis-­à-­ vis new meanings disassociated from race consciousness.53 I define race consciousness as a shared meaning of diversity that centers the need to redistribute power, resources, and decision-­making among historically underrepresented groups. The condensation of diversity, achieved through the language of DU’s diversity documents, ensures that departments and

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divisions have dif­fer­ent sets of interpretative practices for achieving diversity. Chapter 4 centers the organ­ization of diversity work at DU and the second under­lying pro­cess that ultimately leads to the formation and maintenance of a diversity regime: decentralization. Decentralization refers to the absence of institutional oversight over diversity activities, a lack of coordination across divisions and departments, and the resulting frustration among DU’s diversity workers. Condensation prevents a clear meaning and centralized strategy for d­ oing diversity. As a result, diversity workers across campus create their own means for promoting diversity and inclusion. ­Because condensation allows for any number of criteria to represent diversity, decentralization creates a condition in which departments and divisions can never fail to do diversity. Paradoxically, ­because any number of criteria can represent diversity, t­here is ­little change in how power, resources, or decision-­making is allocated at DU. Chapter 5 centers the third pro­cess through which a diversity regime is produced and maintained: staging difference. H ­ ere I turn my attention toward diversity workers and the challenges and frustrations they ­ encounter in putting a poorly defined term into practice with l­ ittle institutional guidance or oversight. I use the term staging difference to capture the per­for­mance culture of diversity as described by ­t hose on the ground ­doing the work. ­T hose I spoke with expressed frustration and cynicism ­toward DU and its diversity initiative while at the same time showing deep personal investment in their work to make the campus more equitable and inclusive. They recognize how racial and ethnic minorities are strategically used by DU’s leadership to make claims about its commitment to diversity and inclusion. Chapter  6 attempts to make sense of t­hese dynamics and provide readers with an explanatory framework to better understand how racial in­equality persists despite public commitments to the contrary. ­Here I offer a way to think through the relationships between the under­lying pro­cesses in the previous three chapters. I also use this chapter to think

Introduction

17

through what solutions, if any, exist. Is it pos­si­ble to have a diversity regime dif­fer­ent from that at DU? Can a diversity regime ever become an equity regime? If so, how? By addressing t­ hese questions, I shift away from simply considering DU as a single case, and t­oward thinking about the larger trends taking place in American higher education that shape not only DU but many other public colleges and universities just like it. Fi­nally, I include an appendix that describes in greater detail my methodology and what ­others in feminist and critical race studies refer to as my standpoint, or positionality, as a researcher in the field. I hope readers w ­ ill find this helpful in understanding how and why I am able to make the claims I make in this book. For students, professionals, and other scholars, I hope my methodological description proves useful for understanding what kind of knowledge the social sciences can produce about social life, as well as the limits of that knowledge. As much as I attempt to answer questions about how diversity is defined, or­g a­n ized, and put into practice, I recognize the answers to t­ hese questions are, by the very nature of social scientific research, incomplete. I hope this entire book inspires students and scholars alike to explore the questions that remain unanswered by its conclusion.

2

Under the Live, Old Oak Trees DU is committed to being a leader and paving the way for diversity and inclusion for our university, our state, and the nation. The university’s history regarding race provides not only a larger responsibility for providing leadership on race issues, but also a larger opportunity; we have a unique responsibility to learn from the past to lead into the ­f uture. —­Executive Summary, Diversity Action Plan, 2016

As indicated in the above statement, as well as from my conversations with faculty, students, staff, and administrators, DU’s diversity initiative represents pro­g ress—or at least an attempt at pro­g ress. How the university and its campus publics think about diversity is tethered to how they think about the legacy of white supremacy on their campus, and vice versa. I found over the course of my fieldwork that the official discourse of diversity at DU used the university’s commitment to diversity as evidence of its pro­g ress away from that legacy of white supremacy. Meanwhile, my fieldwork and interviews with diversity workers on the ground told a more complex story that makes DU’s narrative of pro­g ress ripe for critical analy­sis. In this chapter, I have two aims: first, to provide a “thick description” of DU as the setting within which my fieldwork took place; second, to provide a counternarrative of DU’s pro­g ress narrative, grounded in data from my fieldwork and interviews. In the American tradition of

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19

critical race theory, counternarratives aim to enhance re­sis­tance to institutional racism by offering stories that are e­ ither marginalized or muted.1 The counternarrative I provide h ­ ere aims to reveal the conflicts and contingencies within the very idea of pro­g ress at an institution that actively maintains its relationship to vestiges of the very past it seeks to leave ­behind. DU’s history begins with Indian removal and American slavery. The land upon which the campus now sits was taken by force from indigenous p­ eople. Enslaved laborers, leased to the university from local plantations, built and maintained its first academic structures. Following the American Civil War and the end of l­egal slavery, the university maintained its status as a whites-­only institution for nearly a ­century. Even ­a fter federal troops, acting on behalf of an executive order, forced the university to integrate its campus, the ideological and material structures of white supremacy ­were maintained through constant re­sis­tance by DU’s students, faculty, and administrators. The campus is now nearly fifty years removed from its forced integration, yet remnants to white supremacy litter its grounds in the form of building names and monuments to enslavers and architects of Jim Crow segregation. DU’s institutional narrative ­u ntil recently evaded ­t hese events, focusing instead on its integration as a triumphant victory against white supremacy and ­those who wished to maintain it. Despite efforts to contextualize its pre–­civil rights history, DU’s institutional narrative maintains a sharp contrast between its first one hundred years as a segregated institution and its last fifty years as an integrated one. In a 2016 letter to the entire campus addressing DU’s efforts to contextualize its history, DU’s chancellor wrote, “We are involved in a profoundly impor­tant dialogue to fully understand and articulate our historical truths, while claiming our hard-­ earned pre­sent identity as a national flagship university. The university has long been committed to honest and open dialogue about its history and how to make our campuses more welcoming and inclusive.”

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The chancellor’s statement implies a sharp distinction between DU’s “historical truths” and its “hard-­earned pre­sent identity.” “Hard-­earned” suggests that DU’s efforts are both c­ ounter to its “historical truths” and that they have been successful. Further, the comments claim that DU’s commitment to confronting its historical truths is an enduring one. One gets the sense reading this statement and o ­ thers like it that DU’s institutional narrative of pro­g ress implies that its past no longer has a bearing on its pre­sent. Once lost, now found, DU’s institutional narrative suggests that a ­g reat reformation resulted from the moment its first black student entered its hallowed halls. As DU’s institutional narrative circulates by way of its official discourse, public statements, and communiqués from its leadership team, it minimizes or ignores enduring patterns of racial in­equality. As its se­n ior multicultural affairs officer, Richard, told me in an interview, DU is where “racism just happens.” It is no surprise, then, that DU has tethered its diversity initiative to its institutional legacy of racial discrimination. Beginning in the 1990s, DU began taking the first steps ­toward building its current diversity infrastructure. Richard, then a tenure-­track faculty member in a STEM field and an assistant dean in DU’s gradu­ate school, was asked by DU’s chancellor to direct its newly formed Office of Multicultural Affairs. An African American man now in his mid-­sixties, Richard has held the directorship for nearly twenty years. He is widely recognized across DU’s campus as its highest-­ranking diversity officer. In the early 2000s, about five years ­a fter the formation of an Office of Multicultural Affairs, the state governing board that oversees DU and the other public institutions of higher education in the Southern state to which DU belongs revised its official mission statement to include “a commitment to ethnic and gender diversity” among all of its institutions. The statement offered no specifics as to how this commitment would be put into practice, nor any formal goals or targets. It was simply a commitment. Three years ­later, the governing board ­adopted a diver-



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sity statement and set forth specific goals for “heightening participation and achievement of underrepresented individuals, as defined by each insti­ hese goals included increasing the enrollment tution” (emphasis mine). T and graduation rate of underrepresented students, increasing the employment of underrepresented persons in all faculty and staff positions, infusing the curriculum with a new emphasis on multicultural awareness, and increasing the use of underrepresented contractors and vendors. On the surface this appeared to be a marked shift from a ­simple commitment to a set of specific goals that would require real structural change to all of the public institutions in this Southern state, including DU. However, in leaving each institution to define “underrepresented individuals,” the governing board left the interpretive work of diversity to institutions with ­l ittle in the way of formal guidance. Indeed, the governing board’s diversity statement alludes to a number of unrelated phenomena that could potentially represent diversity: diversity in thought, cultural backgrounds, experience, and identity. Neither race nor ethnicity is mentioned in the 2005 diversity statement. The adoption of this diversity statement in 2005 meant that 2006 was the first year in which diversity became an orga­n izational mandate at DU. At first DU’s planning was slow, with l­ ittle in the way of material or symbolic investment in a long-­term strategy. However, several high-­ profile acts of racism between 2008 and 2012 accelerated DU’s efforts. In 2013, at the recommendation of two in­de­pen­dent outside con­sul­tants, DU began drafting its Diversity Action Plan (DAP). At nearly one hundred pages, the DAP includes institutional goals, targets, and timetables for reaching them. It is the primary mechanism through which DU communicates its diversity initiative to its campus publics. In 2016, DU launched a webpage to host the DAP, updates to the plan, and many other diversity-­related institutional documents. All of ­these activities have been narrated by the institution as pro­g ress ­toward diversity and inclusion and as steps taken to distance itself from its legacy of racial domination and segregation.

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In addition to recommendations for a concrete diversity action plan, one of the con­sul­tants also recommended that DU reinterpret its physical campus landscape, “putting the past into context, telling more of the story of [its] strug­g les with slavery, secession, segregation, and their aftermath.” While DU has taken significant steps to provide better context on the enslavers who helped charter DU, the institution continues to frame much of the story as a ­matter of the past, paying ­l ittle attention to how this past continues to reverberate across campus for multiple publics. Below, I share a detailed account of my shadowing of a campus tour for incoming students and their families. This account reveals how a first-­t ime visitor to DU might encounter its institutional narrative of pro­ gress through the staging of its history and landscape. On Hallowed Grounds The close of the spring semester at DU marks the transition between the frenetic pace of the academic year and its more casual summer counterpart. Final exams conclude in May, followed by a mass exodus of the nearly 21,000 students who attend DU during the academic year. A few thousand remain ­behind to work or take summer classes, joining the approximately 20,000 permanent town residents who breathe a sigh of relief as the town returns to a relatively slow pace. No longer log-­jammed, shops and restaurants keep a casual pace of business. Traffic is both less congested and more polite. And if you sit in one of the downtown coffee shops or eateries for a quick bite to eat, you are likely to hear residents giving thanks that “we have our town back.” A similar calm overtakes DU’s campus. The daily grind of meetings, coursework, events, and speaker series relaxes. Faculty who remain on campus during the summer ­either work on their own research or teach small, topic-­centered courses. Expectations for students in ­t hese classes appear tempered. Meanwhile, campus administrators and staff begin turning their attention to the incoming cohort of students, who ­w ill



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arrive with their families in small waves over the course of the summer for orientation and registration. Beginning in June, dozens of new students arrive each week with their parents for a two-­d ay orientation that includes academic advising, course enrollment, and walking tours of the campus. Incoming students and their parents are split into small groups and assigned a student-­ orientation leader who helps guide them to vari­ous resources around campus. As part of my efforts to better understand the campus and its culture, I shadowed one of ­t hese cohorts as they ­were led across campus on a warm summer morning. Shadowing this group gave me insights into how ­t hese new students might feel when they encounter the campus and its institutional narrative, as told by student-­orientation leaders. I learned how the institution thinks about its physical space and the relationship between that physical space and its campus history. What information the tour guides provide, and what they do not provide, proves instructive for examining DU’s institutional history through a critical lens. The late postcolonial scholar Edward Said used the term “imaginative geography” to explain how discourses of power and empire imbue physical landscapes with values reflective of the desires and imagination of dominant groups.2 The production and maintenance of ­these landscapes function as a form of authoritative knowledge, locating “us,” “them,” and the differences between. Said’s critique draws our attention ­toward the idea of space and place as effects, or conditions, of power. The “story” of a given space is often written as a means of shaping observers’ perceptions in ways that reinforce existing power relations.3 In their Invention of Tradition, historians Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger issue a complementary critique. Hobsbawn and Ranger note how authorities create traditions and objects, imbuing them with meaning, in order to create a new sense of identity for both the ruler and their subjects.4 In British colonial Africa, for example, the invention of traditions and customs functioned as instruments of rule that unified previously diverse

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tribal groups for the purposes of population management.5 In­ven­ted traditions and imaginative geographies, then, are impor­tant methods for producing a selective collective memory that reinforces existing power relations. T ­ hese tools help to manipulate certain bits of a national past, suppress o ­ thers, and elevate still ­others in an entirely functional way. Physical landscapes, including the stories we tell about them, are rarely, if ever, au­t hen­t ic. Instead, they are useful, purposeful, and even manipulative. I find t­ hese critiques helpful for thinking through how the physical landscape of DU’s campus, including the stories the institution tells about it, helps to reproduce certain forms of power by what it reveals and by what it ignores. Stretching across more than one thousand acres, DU’s campus is visually stunning. Nearly e­ very year, its campus is named one of the most beautiful in the nation by national news outlets. Mature oaks, magnolias, and pine trees intermingle with antebellum and Greek revival architecture. Sprinkled across large swaths of green space are luxurious and well-­maintained beds of daffodils, tulips, and hydrangeas. In the spring and summer, the smell of magnolias in bloom wafts across the grounds. In the fall, the changing colors of the leaves on the trees blend into the flower beds below, creating a cascade of reds, oranges, yellows, and browns. Each spring, campus landscaping crews re-­sod the green spaces and rotate the flower beds. By summer, the campus resembles a botanical garden. The morning of my shadowing exercise is warm but not humid. A college-­aged white ­woman, Molly, leads the orientation group I am following. She is wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt with the DU emblem embroidered on its front. Her attitude is upbeat and chipper. To become an orientation leader, she endured a competitive application pro­cess that included a mandatory group interview and then a separate interview with several members of DU’s Office of Student Affairs. Among the se­lection criteria used for orientation leaders are the demonstration of a positive commitment to DU, strong interpersonal skills, and a solid academic rec­



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25

ord. For incoming students and their families, the orientation leader represents the first meaningful encounter they have with DU. It is not only impor­tant but expected that incoming students and their families leave their orientation with a positive impression of the campus. As Molly leads our group around the campus, she frequently stops in front of buildings, campus landmarks, and other markers. She gives general information about the kinds of classes that take place inside the academic buildings we pass, the kinds of activities that take place in the larger public space between buildings (e.g., tabling, Greek skits, and student body electoral campaigns), and some general history about certain structures and places we pass. DU has recently undertaken a campuswide effort to provide greater context to some of its historical infrastructure. To date, this has resulted in a number of buildings and markers on campus accompanied by large plaques that give passersby an overview of their significance to campus history. Some buildings, for example, provide passersby with a biography of the person for which they are named. Other sites narrate certain historic events and the significance of the site to ­t hose events, such as the Civil War or the forced integration of DU’s campus. As we pass a more con­temporary academic building, Molly points to the plaque in front of it to tell us that the original building h ­ ere served as a morgue for Confederate and Union troops during the American Civil War. Molly’s telling of the campus history does not veer much, if at all, from the written language on the plaques and markers we pass. In my field notes, I write, “It appears as if she has memorized the language. Perhaps this was part of her training.” Molly’s ability to retell the institutional narrative almost verbatim serves an impor­t ant function for DU. In tandem with her position as a student leader, her retelling helps lend authority and credibility to the story DU wants to tell its publics about itself. Recalling Edward Said from above, Molly’s retelling of DU’s “story” helps shape her group’s perceptions of the campus in a way that reinforces the dominant narrative.6 The vari­ous plaques and markers

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that provide “context” to DU’s campus also imbue ­t hose sites and structures with par­tic­u ­lar meanings that create a new institutional identity for both DU and its campus publics.7 DU is the flagship university in the state to which it belongs, as well as its oldest. The names that adorn many of its buildings and structures belong to key historical figures: former chancellors, professors, congressmen, governors, and Supreme Court justices. As our tour unfolds, Molly provides us with the many accomplishments of t­ hese historical figures—­ all white men. We are told of their love for the university and some of the key ways they helped to shape the university into what it is t­ oday. Indeed, part of the subtext to this tour is that, in helping to shape DU into “a leading public university” and providing “a lifetime of ser­v ice,” t­hese men helped shape the state, the American South, and Amer­i­ca as a ­whole for the better. The achievements of ­t hese white men whose names adorn its hallowed grounds are propped up; meanwhile, their sins remain hidden. Molly’s retelling of the campus history is as impor­tant for what it tells us as for what it omits. DU’s narrative of pro­g ress depends upon this omission. We are told that DU’s past guides its f­ uture, but we are given ­l ittle in the way of the details of that past. We are told that DU has, since its founding, striven ­toward excellence. The students and their families are told that by enrolling at DU, they are taking on the responsibility for ensuring excellence. They are becoming a part of the institution’s narrative arc ­toward pro­g ress and excellency. The events surrounding DU’s violent integration are retold by Molly, but in such a way that the violent encounter between federal marshals and university students appears as an anomaly, or at least a phenomenon apart from the institution itself. ­Toward the m ­ iddle of our tour, Molly leads us t­oward the heart of campus. ­T here sits a large, circular green space shaded by dozens of magnolia and oak trees. In its center is a large flagpole. Along the outer edge of the green space are eight academic buildings, several of which Molly explains are part of the original academic structures from the mid-­ nineteenth ­century. Among them is a massive Greek Revival–­style struc-



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ture fronted by towering white columns. The building, erected by enslaved ­labor in the mid-­n ineteenth ­century, is DU’s original academic building. Presently it h ­ ouses DU’s se­n ior administrative offices, including the office of the chancellor, the provost, and several of the vice chancellors. Molly informs our group of its original purpose as an academic building, complete with classrooms, and of its pre­sent function as the administrative core of campus life. I listen carefully as she talks, hoping to hear her mention the enslaved workers who built this structure. She does not. She does highlight the marks on the front columns of the building where, during DU’s violent protest against its integration, bullets struck. She does not, however, mention the wings of the building that ­were added well a­ fter emancipation. A physical line, still vis­i­ble to passersby, distinguishes the bricks laid by the hands of enslaved workers from ­t hose laid by paid contractors. The relationship of slavery to the very foundation of the school remains cloaked in mystery, as it does at many other colleges and universities.8 We continue to walk around the green space, and Molly tells us about the other buildings that encircle it. She mentions the men for whom the buildings are named. Nearly all ­were former chancellors or university professors, mostly from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. A few, prior to the Civil War, w ­ ere enslavers. Following the Civil War, many ­were staunch segregationists. Molly does not include ­these details, however, in the institutional narrative she delivers to our group. Instead she tells us of their deep and unwavering commitment to the university and to the state it serves. We make our way to the edge of the green space parallel to the administrative building. This marks the main entrance to DU’s campus. Stretching out in front of it, a long, two-­lane road continues from the entrance of campus for roughly four miles to the far edge of town before it breaks off onto the highway that leads out of the city. H ­ ere, at the entrance of DU’s campus, a large white monument towers over us. Molly informs the group that when the Civil War began, the entire student body left

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the university to join the Confederate Army. Nearly all of ­t hose students died over the course of the war. This monument, she tells us, is in remembrance of ­those students. Commissioned and funded by the United ­Daughters of the Confederacy in the early twentieth ­century, the construction of the monument was part of a larger effort across the American South “to create a more acceptable version of the region’s past.”9 A recent report from the Southern Poverty Law Center notes that the timing of the construction of monuments like the one on DU’s campus reveal the racist motives ­behind them. Two distinct periods—­from roughly 1900 to 1920 and then from the mid-1950s u ­ ntil the end of the 1960s—­saw significant spikes in the dedication of Confederate monuments and other iconography. The first spike is concurrent with the enacting of Jim Crow laws throughout many Southern states and the revival of the Ku Klux Klan. The second spike is concurrent with the modern civil rights movement. Both spikes, then, suggest they w ­ ere part of a larger response among white Southerners to reclaim power and control over an African American population that was no longer bound to the system of slavery.10 Molly’s narrative does not include any of this historical context. She leaves her remarks on the students who left the ­u niversity to fight and die for the cause of the Confederacy to stand on their own. The monument itself is a sight to behold. Carved from marble, it mea­sures nearly thirty-­five feet tall. A Confederate soldier stands atop its large base, saluting with a r­ ifle by his side. Two cavalry swords crossing one another are e­ tched into the base. A Confederate flag adorns one side of the base upon which the soldier stands. An elegiac couplet by the Greek poet Simonides is ­etched into the other. Translated, it reads, “Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by, that h ­ ere, obedient to Spartan law, we lie.”11 The couplet is identical to that which is engraved on the monument to the Spartans who died at the B ­ attle of Thermopylae, as dictated through Herodotus’s The Histories.12 It was common in Greek epitaphs to employ the term “stranger” to make appeals to passersby as a means of



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gaining sympathy for t­hose fallen. In this par­tic­u ­lar epitaph, the passerby, or “stranger,” is compelled to make a personal journey to Sparta to break news of its soldiers’ defeat. Importantly, the couplet compels the stranger to stress that the Spartans died fulfilling their mission. Their death is made honorable, a symbol of obedience to a higher calling. The location of DU’s Confederate monument at the front entrance to its campus is a power­f ul symbol for visitors. Looking out ­toward the main street and the downtown district, the statue stands guard, ready to defend the “Lost Cause” for which the student body fought and died more than one hundred and fifty years prior. Several months ­a fter our guided tour, DU’s chancellor would approve a plaque to be added in front of the monument. The plaque’s original wording noted the construction of monuments like this one all across the South during the post-­Reconstruction period as a response to Confederate veterans passing from the scene in increasing numbers. It also noted the monument’s significance during the civil rights era, when it served as the rally point for segregationists attempting to prevent DU’s integration. The original wording closes by stating that the monument is a reminder of both the university’s past and its pre­sent commitment to becoming a more diverse and inclusive campus. The addition of the plaque as context for the monument met with mixed responses. Defenders of the Lost Cause argued the plaque was an attempt to “revise history” and that it diminished the significance of the lives given for the preservation of values and beliefs that, while no longer acceptable, ­were the products of that time. ­Others, however, took a more critical approach. They argued that the plaque failed to acknowledge the true cause of the Confederacy as the preservation of slavery. The language of the plaque, they claimed, co-­opted the strug­g le for integration as if it was something for which DU had fought. As a ­matter of historical rec­ord, integration at DU was the result of direct federal intervention. ­A fter several weeks of protests, letters, and appeals, the committee tasked with crafting the wording of the plaque submitted a revision that was ultimately accepted

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by DU’s chancellor. The revised wording noted that monuments like the one at DU ­were constructed to promote the ideology of the Lost Cause and to minimize the significance of slavery in the formation and sustainment of the Confederacy. This revised wording was met with similar praise and admonishment. While many saw the revision as much improved, ­others viewed it as further diminishing the sacrifice of more than one hundred former students. Still ­others claimed that the very presence of the monument, with or without a plaque that contextualizes its place, functions as tacit support for a legacy of racial domination. Confederate iconography of any kind, they argue, has no place on twenty-­ first-­century American college campus. From the monument, Molly and our group circled back to the administrative building and then b­ ehind it. Across from the administrative building’s rear entrance, approximately forty yards away, is the front entrance of the campus library. A narrow walkway surrounded by vari­ ous flower beds rests between the two buildings. Adjacent to this walkway and between the library and administrative building is a second monument. This monument was built in the late 1990s and commemorates DU’s first African American student. The monument is made from bronze and depicts a life-­sized version of the African American student striding ­toward a limestone portal. Inscribed into the top of the portal’s sides are the words courage, opportunity, knowledge, and perseverance. When it was first proposed, some students, faculty, and alumni—­ many of whom ­were African American—­advocated placing the monument in the front of the administrative building where the student was first escorted into the university by federal marshals, ending more than one hundred years of racial segregation at DU. The university’s chancellor at the time, however, de­c ided against this. He instead had the monument built b­ ehind the administrative building. Critics heavi­ly scrutinized this decision, arguing that the placement evoked a time when African Americans ­were relegated to spaces ­behind the “big ­house” during chattel slavery. The placement of the statue, they argued, also recalled Jim Crow–­era



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restrictions on African Americans’ access to public spaces.13 Ironically, the student for whom the monument was dedicated publicly rejected its construction. Though he accepted an invitation to attend the monument’s dedication, he refused to speak at the event. In an interview with a national newspaper prior to the dedication ceremony, the student stated that attending DU was an embarrassment, and he did not wish to be remembered or celebrated for having integrated the university. Molly’s narrative of the monument, of course, is far dif­fer­ent from what I describe above. Molly tells our group of the individual courage it took for this student to walk onto campus. Though she spoke ­earlier on our tour of the violent encounter that took place over the integration of the campus, she does not tell our group much about the student’s experience once on campus—­t hat he had to sit outside of the classrooms and listen to lectures with the door open ­because white students did not want to share the classroom space with him, that he required a police escort when walking across campus, or that ten years ­later, African American student enrollment remained less than a fraction of 1 ­percent of the total student body. To be fair, Molly likely lacks this information. Despite photographic archival evidence of the student sitting at a desk outside of a classroom, attentively taking notes while the professor lectures to white students inside the room, official communiqués make no mention of the conflicts following the student’s enrollment. Instead, institutional documents concerning the dedication of the statue and its current relationship to the campus frame the statue as proof of how far DU has come from its legacy of institutionalized racism. For the fiftieth anniversary of its integration, DU launched a webpage where visitors could browse the planned programming and read about the university’s pro­g ress ­toward diversity and inclusion since its forced integration. On the webpage, the monument to DU’s first African American student is described as evidence of “how far ­we’ve come as a nation, a state, and a university.” Visitors to the webpage can also view a timeline of events following DU’s integration, including the first black ­woman to enroll as a student, the

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formation of DU’s African American studies program, the formation of its Black Student Union, the first African American athletes for several of its major sports teams, and the first African American ­woman elected as president of DU’s student body association. From integration to the pre­ sent day, the timeline of events pre­sents one success ­a fter the other, as if conflict and turmoil ended when integration began. Molly complements this institutional narrative by making mention of DU’s African American enrollment t­ oday—­a mong the highest of any flagship university in the nation. She mentions the newly founded Center for Diversity and the university’s goal to hire a chief diversity officer in the year to come. For our group, the message seems clear: DU is a university committed to diversity and inclusion, and ­these ­things—­its minority enrollment, its investment in infrastructure, its symbolism—­ prove that commitment. The Pastoral Scene and the Paradox of Pro­g ress Shadowing Molly’s tour of incoming students and their families, I grew increasingly aware of the contradictions between DU’s narrative of institutional pro­g ress and the backdrop of DU’s pastoral landscape. For visitors, especially new students and their families, the perfectly manicured lawns, mature trees, and grandiose antebellum architecture of the campus produce a sense of excitement and wonderment. It is at the same time both spectacle and a familiar scene. Part of the two-­d ay orientation for new students entails the framing of their time on campus as a “homecoming,” and orientation leaders—­both students and full-­time staff—­ place heavy emphasis on ­t hese students and their families becoming part of the “DU ­family.” Indeed, I learned over time that “­family” is a consistent theme for all new arrivals on DU’s campus, including new faculty and staff. For example, the university encourages new hires to attend a “Welcome Home” orientation that centers DU’s mission, vision, and “DU’s ‘It’ ­factor.” Even in official communiqués, DU’s administration refers to its campus publics as “­family” and to DU as “home.”



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The campus landscape, and how that landscape is narrated through DU’s institutional discourse, reinforces ­t hese themes of ­family and home. For example, a poem penned by a DU alum in the 1970s encourages readers to recognize and embrace the differences between DU the university and DU the symbol. Over the past several de­cades, the poem has become incorporated into university discourse. It is featured on cardstock and posters and is mounted on a plaque hanging from the wall of the main stairway in the DU Student Union. DU the university, the poem tells us, is found in the buildings, trees, and p­ eople. But DU the symbol is much more—it is a mood, an emotion, and the personality of DU’s publics. DU, the poem declares, is both physical and spiritual. While the physical space is to be respected, the spiritual DU is to be loved. The final and most well-­k nown verse of the poem declares that while the university grants degrees and terminates employment, “one never gradu­ates from DU.” The pastoral scene of DU—­reinforced through its campus tours, brochures, and other institutional discourse—is a familiar trope of the American South. This trope, common in Southern lit­er­a­ture, pre­sents the American South as something permanent, virtuous, au­t hen­t ic, and familial.14 This pre­sen­ta­t ion, however, requires minimizing or ignoring altogether the contested and harsh realities of Southern spaces for ­women, nonwhites, and the working class.15 As an “­imagined geography,” the history of the pastoral South not only erases the history of often violent strug­g les over space and place, but it also ignores how ­those strug­g les continue to shape Southern spaces in the pre­sent. The physical and symbolic repre­sen­ta­tion of DU as something permanent, virtuous, and au­t hen­t ic embodies this trope of Southern spaces where the harsh real­ity of their history is washed over in ­favor of a highly manufactured and imaginative one. More than just a whitewashing of history, however, the physical and symbolic repre­sen­ta­t ion of DU and its history suggest that this ­imagined past intends to also forget, or evade, the issues of our pre­sent day. In a critical essay on Southern spaces in Southern lit­er­a­t ure, En­g lish professor Lucinda MacKethan writes,

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The pastoral is a genre that, standardized by Virgil in his Eclogues, served writers seeking to resolve the tension between memories of a simpler past, associated with nature and rural society, and experience in a more complex pre­sent world. Pastoral lit­er­a­ture historically has flourished in times of dramatic change. Writers undergoing a dislocation from a familiar home world turn to the conventions of the pastoral to envision that simpler locale from the vantage point of inevitable loss and removal. In pastoral, then, the past looms large, not so much as a par­t ic­u ­lar historical time and place as an idealized, mythologized lost realm (such as Virgil’s Arcadia). The past of pastoral is associated with the natu­r al world (imaged as the “good earth” or “the garden”) and with community (shepherd and flock, extended ­family, village, or homeland). . . . ​[The idea of the pastoral] grows out of a consciousness steeped in the effects of inevitable change and displacement.16

Like other Southern pastoral spaces, DU’s campus landscape is both a physical and symbolic critique of a rapidly urbanizing and complex world subject to historical and social forces and upheavals.17 As noted at the beginning of this chapter, DU is an institution steeped in racial conflict since its very founding. It was chartered during an era of institutionalized slavery, federal Indian removal, and white settler colonialism.18 ­T hese systems of racialized oppression conjoined in the establishment of the university and created enormous economic and po­l iti­cal power for DU’s found­ers, all of whom ­were enslavers. As a result, DU’s found­ers fashioned its charter in the interests of maintaining white supremacy and “the education of the white race.”19 The defeat of the Confederate Army by Union forces brought an end to the American Civil War, but it did ­l ittle to sway Southern institutions like DU from defending the Old South and its Lost Cause. DU faculty and alumni, many of whom w ­ ere enslavers prior to the war, served as key contributors to the intellectual and policy frameworks for Jim Crow segregation in the post-­



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Reconstruction era. Meanwhile, from the early to mid-­t wentieth ­century, DU’s campus became a physical and symbolic repre­sen­ta­t ion of nostalgia for a bucolic, “unspoiled” pastoral South. Its university sports teams ­adopted the symbolism of heroic Confederate soldiers and their leaders, while its yearbook selected a name meant to evoke “all the admiration and reverence accorded the womanhood of the Old South.”20 From the Reconstruction era through the early 1960s, Jim Crow law and the informal rules that accompanied it restricted participation in the public life of campus to whites only. Despite emancipation and the l­egal end to forced ­labor, large numbers of African American men and ­women continued to serve the all-­white student and faculty bodies as porters, cooks, waiters, h ­ ouse­keepers, maintenance staff, groundskeepers, and personal attendants. What w ­ ere once slave quarters in the on-­campus student housing ­were converted to “live-in residences” for African American staff. A quote from the 1918 student annual describes the continued employment of African American staff as “absolutely indispensable to the welfare of DU. . . . ​T hey clean out the halls of debris so that we may pass, they make up our beds to comfort us.” The subordinate role of African American workers in the early to mid-­twentieth c­ entury reflected continued support of a racial-­caste system that emancipation had promised to end. This student’s quote reflects a paternalism and affection for “campus Negroes” indicative of the pastoral genre.21 By the end of World War II, nostalgia for the Lost Cause at DU had reached a fever pitch. A wildly popu­lar film in the late 1930s that depicted the pastoral Southern scene had (unintentionally) gestured ­toward DU through the name of a minor character. The film’s themes of survival and confusion in the wake of significant social change deeply resonated with students, as evidenced in the student newspaper from the period. The 1948 Dixiecrat revolt against the Demo­c ratic Party and its civil rights platform fueled resentment t­ oward social change across the nation. In response, DU intensified its love affair with all ­t hings ­Dixie. Confederate iconography began to dominate its social spaces, from athletic events

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to everyday student life. At athletic home games, the university band played “­Dixie” with pride and performed in Confederate regalia. Cheerleaders distributed small Confederate ­battle flags by the thousands, and fans waved them back and forth in a wild frenzy during each contest. In 1950, DU’s student body inaugurated Confederate Cele­bration Week. This yearly programming featured a secession ceremony, a facial-­hair contest among the men in honor of General Robert E. Lee, and a Confederate gala in which ­women would wear nineteenth-­century hoop skirts and attendees w ­ ere served mint juleps. The week even included a mock slave auction in the heart of campus in which DU’s cheerleaders ­were sold off to the highest bidders. For the rest of the country, the 1950s and 1960s ­were a turbulent period but one marked by significant legislative gains for African Americans. At DU, ­t hese gains ­were met by indignation and entrenchment among faculty, administrators, and university board members. Despite the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education Supreme Court ruling that separate was not equal, Southern colleges and universities, including DU, found common ideological ground in their steadfast refusal to desegregate.22 This resulted in the maintenance for nearly two de­cades of a “closed society” throughout the American South. Within this insular and narrow world, White Citizens’ Councils often worked in tandem with state legislators to force professors from colleges and universities like DU who did not support the supposition of white supremacy.23 Indeed, as legislative gains for African Americans increased, so did DU’s saturation with white supremacy. This tension—­a dialectic strug­gle between the forces of white supremacy and its resistance—­defines DU’s institutional history from its founding to its pre­sent.24 This strug­gle eventually came to a violent head. In the early 1960s, the federal government ruled in ­favor of an African American student trying to enroll at DU. The decision would end more than one hundred years of racial segregation at the university. With expressed support from the governor of the state, a mob of angry whites descended



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upon DU’s main campus and joined an enraged white student body in rioting for several days. The rioters w ­ ere met with the full force of the federal government. Newspaper and firsthand accounts describe something akin to a ­battle scene, with smoke covering the campus grounds and gunfire ringing through the air. One rioter, a retired ranking military officer and World War II combat veteran, climbed upon the base of the Confederate monument at the entrance of the campus and, during the thick of the b­ attle, gave an impassioned speech to the white mob in which he advocated a willingness to die in order for their voices to be heard: like Spartans, they too should risk life and limb for the preservation of all they hold dear. And like the elegiac couplet on the base of the statue, a generation of “strangers” continues to retell their tale of valor. When the smoke and gunfire fi­nally settled, more than two hundred U.S. troops and federal marshals w ­ ere wounded. One person lay dead. DU was integrated. DU’s forced integration altered its foundation of racial rule, but it was more of a crack in the foundation rather than a dismantling of the entire system. From the period marking its integration to the pre­sent, white re­sis­tance has remained a common and constant theme. The dialectic strug­g le is reconstituted and played out with each effort to alter university policies and practices that reflect the system of white dominance. Efforts are met with denials, avoidance, or delays by university administrators who do not wish to “rock the boat.” In some cases, t­ hose efforts to dismantle the system of white dominance are met with vio­lence or threats of vio­lence. Only a few years a­ fter this harrowing strug­g le to integrate, African American students at DU chartered a Black Student Union to or­g a­n ize further efforts ­toward student equality. In a letter to the chancellor, members of the newly formed ­u nion objected to the open hostility they and other African American students experienced at the hands of their white peers. They described the practice among white students of carry­ ing small Confederate flags across campus to wave in their f­ aces and the

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attempts of white students to block African American students from passing them on campus sidewalks. The letter listed a series of demands for institutional change, including a demand to hire African American faculty, of which ­t here ­were none at the time. With their demands subsequently ignored, members of the ­u nion interrupted a schoolwide play, taking the stage and reading aloud a written statement with their demands. Members gave a Black Power salute—­ fists clenched and raised in the air. ­Later they held protests in front of the administrative building. DU administration responded quickly and harshly, arresting and jailing nearly ninety protestors. Many ­ were released on bail the next day. DU placed forty-­five of the protestors on academic probation immediately following their release. It suspended eight of the protestors—­the identified leaders of the union—­for the remainder of the academic year. The students appealed their suspension; the chancellor denied their appeal. Seven of the eight leaders left DU. In the spirit of the dialectic, however, their re­sis­tance produced some change. The following fall, DU hired its first African American faculty member, chartered an African American studies program, and integrated its athletic teams. The postintegration era at DU has borne witness to several examples of such dialectics, resulting in piecemeal reforms and new strug­g les over the direction of the campus and its sizeable minority student body. As African American enrollments have increased—­a trend reflected across the nation—­new policies and practices have led to positive institutional transformations. White students, alumni, and even faculty and staff frequently meet t­ hese new policies and practices with disdain. They defend the status quo and complain that “their DU” and its traditions are ­u nder siege or at risk. When DU’s first African American male cheerleader refused to carry the Confederate ­battle flag at a home football game—­a tradition at DU since the Dixiecrat movement of the late 1930s—­t he Ku Klux Klan came to campus to march in support of the flag. While some of DU’s student body met the Klan with protest, o ­ thers joined in support.



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More than a de­cade ­later, DU’s student body association passed a resolution banning Confederate flags at university athletic events. The chancellor supported the resolution and made it official university policy. Once again, the Klan and other white supremacists marched on DU’s campus and ­later challenged the policy in court on the grounds that it ­v iolated their First Amendment right to f­ ree speech. Though they lost their court case, their efforts and the efforts of o ­ thers—­including current students, staff, and alumni—­are far from a lost cause. ­Today, student clothing and vehicles parked on campus prominently display Confederate ­battle flags. Confederate iconography is not uncommon in the campus offices of some faculty and staff. And despite strong and vocal re­sis­tance to the continued presence of the Confederate monument, it remains where it was first erected more than a ­century ago.25 “The Past Is Never Dead. It’s Not Even the Past.” In his 1951 novel Requiem for a Nun, American writer and Nobel Prize ­laureate William Faulkner tells the story of Nancy Mannigoe, an African American ­woman and former nursemaid convicted of the murder of her former employer’s six-­month-­old ­d aughter. As Nancy’s pending execution approaches, her employer, T ­ emple, laments over what she could have done differently to prevent her d­ aughter’s death. She eventually concludes that, while Nancy ultimately killed her child, T ­ emple’s own actions in the years prior also contributed. T ­ emple suffers guilt for the role she played, and her suffering is her penance. The implication that redemption for evil done comes through suffering and the recognition of one’s guilt structures Faulkner’s entire novel. The past is never dead. It remains a specter with which we must all reckon.26 The theme of an always pre­sent past that demands continuous reconciliation is a constant in DU’s institutional narrative about itself. From DU’s executive summary in its campuswide diversity initiative (DAP) to the story it tells about itself to visitors, students, and other publics, the past is always pre­sent. However, I found in my fieldwork that what DU

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defines as its past rarely extends beyond its violent and forced integration. At DU, ­there is ­little exploration of what we might call “difficult history” beyond the history that allows it to claim redemption in the pre­sent. The DAP includes a section entitled “Historical Overview of the University,” which prefaces the specific actions that the university w ­ ill take ­toward its diversity initiative. In the subtitled section “The Past,” DU’s institutional narrative begins with its integration in the 1960s. The narrative makes no mention of DU’s slave-­holding origins, its Lost Cause nostalgia, or its Jim Crow policies from the late nineteenth c­ entury through the m ­ iddle of the twentieth c­ entury. Instead, ­a fter briefly describing its integration, the document reads, “Since that event, the question that has ­shaped this institution has been: how does one take this dark past and convincingly tell the nation, and prospective minority students, that the institution’s past stance no longer defines its current thinking . . . ​a nd that DU’s goal is to be diversified in all aspects.” The use of “this dark past” to characterize a white mob’s response to the presence of a single African American student not only minimizes the scale and scope of the mob’s response, but it also erases more than a c­ entury’s worth of vio­ lence and suppression in ser­v ice of white supremacy. Noting that the question it poses has no s­imple response, the document says that DU addresses it daily through “a clear commitment to pro­g ress.” This commitment, it claims, starts with its leadership and then “permeates throughout the entire core” of the university. What does it mean, however, to claim that the organ­i zation’s goal to be “diversified in all aspects” is proven daily by its “clear commitment to pro­g ress”? This suggests that diversity and inclusion are conjured simply by good intentions. That is, as I ­w ill argue ­later in this book, part of the reproductive logic of diversity regimes and their orga­n izational inequalities. A commitment to “pro­g ress,” “diversity,” “inclusivity,” or any other of the popu­lar buzzwords in higher education rarely signifies a commitment to material transformation. Instead, ­these denote a commitment to some future-­



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oriented ­thing, divorced from concrete actions and devoid of institutional accountability. How can an institution be held accountable to a commitment to something as ambiguous as “pro­g ress”? Yet that appears to be precisely the point of the commitment. DU’s institutional narrative is not without contestation. Over the course of my fieldwork, I observed a number of students, faculty, and staff actively push back against the conventional telling of the university’s pro­g ress since its integration. As I have described in this chapter, the post–­c ivil rights era at DU has teemed with racial conflict. Though the university was forced to accept its first African American student in the 1960s, African American enrollment remained ­l ittle more than tokenism on campus more than a de­cade ­later. With some exceptions, the university’s white professoriate and student body remained committed to maintaining the university as a closed society. Many white professors openly discouraged African American students from taking certain courses, while white students actively prevented African American students from participating in campus activities. ­T hese informal practices meant that African Americans, compared to their white peers, had far fewer ­people they could seek out for guidance and assistance. A de­cade ­a fter its “dark past” had supposedly concluded, the token number of African American students at DU staged a protest and sit-in. The students’ insistence on fairness and equity so threatened DU’s leadership that it ordered their arrest and imprisonment. Two de­cades ­later, only direct action on the part of students, faculty, and staff motivated the chancellor to approve a policy removing the open display of the Confederate flag at home athletic contests. Most recently, African American students and student organ­i zations helped lead efforts to change the names of certain campus buildings and to add plaques and markers that clarify the role of historical figures on campus in the maintenance of white racial rule. This history of strug­g le is the ­actual history of the university and serves as the appropriate backdrop through which to examine DU’s ongoing diversity initiative. As the institution and its publics strug­g le

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over re­sis­tance to white supremacy and its maintenance, pro­g ress becomes a ­battle over degrees, not massive transformations. Propping its diversity initiative upon a narrative of pro­g ress minimizes, and in some cases erases, the active and ongoing conflicts among social actors that have contributed to some of the institution’s most significant reforms. DU’s past, I argue, is a key vehicle through which diversity at DU unfolds as a “­going concern,” a constant strug­g le between the interests of DU’s leadership, its student body, and its faculty and staff over how it imagines itself then and now. This strug­g le, while leading to piecemeal reforms, largely denies or minimizes the enduring presence of racial conflict and inequalities on campus. The institution’s narrative of pro­g ress enables this denial and minimization of racial conflict and in­equality. In the next chapter, I turn my attention t­ oward another orga­n izational mechanism of its diversity initiative through which DU minimizes or denies enduring patterns of racial equalities: how it chooses to define the meaning of diversity itself.

3

Condensation and the Alchemy of Diversity

It is springtime. The magnolias are in bloom, and their scent blankets the campus. I make my way from one end of DU to the other, approximately a twenty-­five-­m inute walk, to meet with Justin, a se­n ior administrator in the athletics department. In informal conversations with other faculty and staff, Justin’s name has been mentioned repeatedly as someone I should talk to in order to better understand how diversity is or­g a­n ized and put into action at DU. The athletics department is ­housed in one of the newest and most luxurious buildings on campus. Though it was originally built in 2004, it was recently renovated. Among the new additions are ­t hese: • Players’ lounge complete with its own game room, a tele­v i­sion room with multiple large flat-­screen sets, a computer and study lab, a refreshment bar, and a small theater • 10,000-­square-­foot weight room with a fully stocked nutrition center • Separate training area with multiple in-­g round hydrotherapy pools and submersed treadmills • Staff office area that includes a state-­of-­t he-­a rt audiovisual “strategy room” with four digital projection screens and surround-­sound audio • Full-­service dining hall with approximately three hundred seats • Full-­size indoor practice fa­c il­i­ty with an under­g round tunnel that leads directly to the 60,000-­seat football stadium • Head coach’s office suite with its own private balcony and views of both indoor and outdoor practice fields • Private office space for position coaches • Team meeting room with approximately two hundred seats 43

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My visit to Justin’s office marks my first time in this state-­of-­the-­a rt fa­c il­i­t y. As a former college athlete, I am not completely surprised by the fa­c il­i­t y and its wealth of resources. DU’s multimillion-­dollar investment in its athletics program is the new normal for American colleges and universities.1 Entering the complex, I walk to the front desk to inform the receptionist, a white w ­ oman who appears around my own age, of my scheduled meeting. She invites me to sit down while she picks up the phone to inform Justin I have arrived. A few minutes pass, and Justin opens his office door, just several feet to the right of the receptionist’s desk. He greets me with a firm handshake and invites me into his office. Justin is African American and not quite forty years old. Justin is also a former college athlete who played the same sport as me, and we establish a rapport by swapping some of our own experiences—­both good and bad. Justin has a congenial disposition, and it is clear to me why so many ­people recommended I meet with him. As a se­ n ior administrator in athletics, Justin oversees academic ­support and life skills training for student athletes across DU’s major sports, including football. In addition to having been a former college athlete, Justin also holds a doctorate in higher education administration. His background and educational training make him well suited for his ­c urrent position. He shows a sharp, and at times even critical, understanding of the world of college sports, and he sympathizes with the challenges student-­athletes face in trying to balance the often conflicting obligations of their studies and their sport.2 In addition to overseeing a staff responsible for providing academic support and life skills training, Justin also leads the athletic department’s diversity efforts and serves as its representative to the campuswide diversity committee that advises the provost’s office on DU’s institutional diversity initiative. We talk about his experiences with this committee and as an African American in a leadership position on campus. Justin believes DU’s efforts are in earnest, but he also conveys an understand-



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ing that the dynamics of racism and racial conflict at DU reflect a larger social issue. For example, he tells me about a recent incident in which he had taken his truck to a local auto shop for some routine maintenance. His truck is fairly new and is a clear reflection of his economic status as a se­n ior administrator in a major college athletics department. When he arrived to drop off his truck, the white mechanic greeted him by asking, “How’d you get that truck?” Not where. How. Justin tells me that ­t hese incidents—­a kind of racial microaggression—­have been commonplace for him and his ­family since they arrived in the town in which DU is situated.3 Nevertheless, he speaks highly of the university and its efforts to address its shortcomings in creating a diverse environment. Our conversation shifts ­toward his work within the athletics department and the programs for which he provides oversight or helps plan. Most of the current diversity efforts within athletics involve bringing in outside speakers to engage student athletes on a host of topics, some of which appear unrelated to racial and ethnic diversity. One speaker, for example, talked at length with student athletes about the importance of etiquette. All of the topics, Justin tells me, fall u ­ nder the broad umbrella of “life skills,” for which he is responsible. As we continue to talk, I ask Justin the question I asked of all my interviewees: “How do you define diversity? What does it mean to you?” Sitting in his chair, his desk between us, Justin leans back and pauses before answering: “I just think diversity is more of a thought and having all of the thoughts around the ­table. Being able to voice their concerns, not being ostracized or thought of as dif­fer­ent. Or hazed. Or made fun of. That is diversity. Where every­ body’s idea is out ­t here, and all are equal, and all are fine.” Justin’s definition of diversity stuck with me long ­a fter our interview concluded. It felt hollow. Where was the emphasis on race and ethnicity? What was the relationship between this definition and legally protected rights of minority groups?4 Given Justin’s educational attainment and his prominent role in advising and shaping diversity policy both in athletics and across DU’s campus, I assumed his definition would acknowledge

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the need to better include historically underrepresented groups within the university’s orga­n izational structure and decision-­making pro­cesses. Instead, Justin’s definition seemed to be ­l ittle more than an emphasis on “diversity of thought,” similar to conservative and right-­w ing calls for “intellectual diversity” in the acad­emy.5 While Justin’s definition is inadequate for policies seeking to provide redress to orga­n izational inequities, it does reveal the dominant framing of diversity I found throughout DU. My fieldwork and interviews revealed a surprising consistency in p­ eople’s inability to connect diversity to race consciousness: an awareness of race’s continued significance in shaping ­people’s life chances, including their access to opportunities, resources, power, and decision-­making. To be clear, p­ eople’s inability to connect diversity to race consciousness says nothing about their willingness or unwillingness to do so. I sense from my interviews and fieldwork that diversity workers like Justin have good intentions. They believe the work they do is impor­tant for the campus, and they demonstrate an awareness that race remains a key structuring mechanism in the everyday lives of Americans. Justin, for example, was painfully aware of ­t hose dynamics when the mechanic asked him, “How’d you get that truck?” L ­ ater in our conversation, Justin talked very specifically about an ongoing partnership between athletics and DU’s Institute for Racial Justice, which cosponsors a week’s worth of programming on the history of racial integration in DU’s athletics teams. Most of the diversity workers I interviewed, and many of the students, faculty, and staff with whom I spoke at the diversity events, demonstrate race consciousness when it comes to the history of the United States, and especially the history of the American South, where DU is located. Yet ­these diversity workers displayed cognitive dissonance when it came to speaking about diversity and what it means for them specifically in the work that they do on campus. An alchemy of diversity takes form as p­ eople attempt to make meaning from it in their everyday lives. In both interviews and fieldwork, I found that students, faculty, and staff used diversity as a gateway to a much



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broader and less focused conversation about general (and generic) differences. Race and ethnicity w ­ ere part of the conversation, of course. But like alchemy, a ­whole host of other ­things—­geography, po­liti­cal ideology, academic credentials, and even left-­versus right-­handedness—­were employed to give the term “diversity” significance for ­t hose who used it. With so much variation in how diversity was defined, identifying patterns and themes at first proved difficult. Focusing my analy­sis on the hows, rather than the whats, of diversity’s articulation allowed me to make better sense of the definitional work. The differences p­ eople used to actively build a working definition of diversity—­a nd how they accomplished this—­became the focus of my analy­sis. This chapter, then, centers on the discursive pro­cesses through which ­people generate an understanding of diversity that is ubiquitous, empty, and often divorced from race consciousness. This definitional work, I  argue, is central for maintaining and reproducing racial in­equality. Organ­izations and orga­n izational actors rely upon shared definitions of diversity when planning and implementing diversity policies and programs. When the definitions themselves lack a clear recognition of the continued significance of race, the programs and policies that follow from ­t hose definitions ­w ill likely minimize, if not ignore, the active role of race in shaping orga­n izational structures and outcomes. To date, sociologists have well attended to the uneven and disappointing results of orga­n izational diversity policies and programs; much less has been said about how the under­lying discourses of diversity give rise to inadequate policies. This chapter seeks to fill a gap in our knowledge of how diversity discourse is or­g a­n ized and subsequently shapes diversity efforts on the ground. Diversity Discourse: What We Know and What We D ­ on’t Know Research on organ­izations has well documented the effects of diversity’s complex and contradictory meanings. For example, Lauren Edelman and colleagues performed a content analy­sis of professional management

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lit­er­a­ture to better understand what kinds of referents diversity points ­toward. Their analy­sis finds that managerial discourse on diversity disassociates diversity from civil rights law by overlaying certain referents not protected by law onto legally protected ones. Race and sex—­categories of difference with clear protections from employment and wage discrimination—­a re often flattened alongside diversity of thought or diversity of educational experience, rendering ­those legally protected categories less meaningful.6 Elsewhere, research finds that orga­n izational diversity policies often emphasize diverse attitudes, work styles, communication skills, and cultural competency alongside ethnoracial diversity. Collapsing ethnoracial distinctions with personal attitudes or experiences renders diversity both ubiquitous and empty; diversity can be anything, so it means ­l ittle, if anything.7 In the most extreme cases, research finds that orga­n izational policies exclude race and gender altogether in ­favor of an empty rhe­toric of difference.8 While the aforementioned research centers on corporate and for-­ profit settings, research on diversity discourse in higher education reaches similar conclusions. For example, Ellen Berrey’s examination of diversity discourse at the University of Michigan finds that, over time, the university redefined race from a ­matter of ­legal redress for previous exclusion to a ­matter of cultural identity. In the late 1990s, diversity at the University of Michigan became a way to talk about celebrating difference rather than achieving equity. The institution refocused beliefs, ideas, narratives, and, ­later, practices concerning race and racism on promoting tolerance of difference. Meanwhile, it minimized or ignored altogether the concrete, structural barriers to opportunity for historically underrepresented groups.9 Fi­nally, sociologist Antonia Randolph reveals that the minimizing of race and ethnoracial difference happens as a m ­ atter of practice and not just at the level of orga­n izational policy and decision-­making. Randolph’s interviews with and observations of elementary school teachers reveal that they adopt a certain set of practices that privilege, or value, certain



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kinds of diversity over ­others. Ethnic diversity, for example, receives far more emphasis than racial diversity in teachers’ conversations and understandings of the term. The deemphasizing of race leads to the maintenance of whiteness as the norm, and racial hierarchies in the classroom go unchallenged.10 This research helps us better understand how beliefs and practices associated with color blindness, when articulated through diversity policies and programming, often reproduce existing in­equality by simply letting it go uncontested. Still, the pro­cess through which social actors and organ­i zations develop ­t hese empty and hollow expressions of diversity remains less clear. What kinds of contingencies and conflicts emerge during that pro­cess? How are they negotiated, if at all? ­T hese questions differ from t­ hose that ask, What are the effects, or outcomes, of a color-­ blind diversity discourse? Both the plurality and ambiguity of diversity’s meaning suggest that diversity is a ­going concern whereby everyday actors strug­g le over diversity’s definition and how to put it into practice.11 We know from prior research that ordinary actors assign complex and often contradictory meanings to diversity. From where do ­those complex and contradictory meanings arise? What do actors do with them? How does diversity, as a g­ oing concern, take shape? A Note on Discourse and Power A slight detour to think more generally about the relationship between language and social context may help to answer t­ hese questions. Social contexts do not, by definition, have inherent meanings. Instead, the meanings given to social contexts derive from the vari­ous and numerous social interactions that constitute ­those contexts.12 To suggest that all meanings derive from social interaction, however, does not suggest that social interaction is a uniform or uncontested phenomenon. Instead, the interactions that help give meaning to social life and its vari­ous contexts involve a complex series of strug­g les, give and take, and negotiation over actors’ dif­fer­ent aims, interests, and goals.13 Often the same encounter

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or  sets of encounters render multiple accounts, or versions, for ­those involved.14 Even more complicated, social actors do not enter into social scenes as empty vessels waiting to be filled with meaning. We come into dif­fer­ ent contexts with our own social baggage: our definition of the situation paired with our own experiences from previous interactions and our expectations for subsequent encounters. Into ­every encounter, we bring the experiences of socioeconomic status (i.e., class), race, ethnicity, gender, religious upbringing, and much more. This baggage shapes how we encounter and interact with ­others, and it informs the meanings we derive from ­t hose interactions. Given this complexity, it is amazing that we ever develop any collective understanding of our social worlds. Yet we inevitably do. Enter language. Language provides the common script from which we interpret our interactions and social worlds. Language allows us to access the raw material of ­human experience and ascribe to that experience all kinds of thoughts and feelings. Social theorist Norman Fairclough argues that language exists in a dialectical relationship with our material world. Though language constitutes our world by providing us with a common set of attributions or scripts to describe it and make meaning from it, language itself is also socially ­shaped.15 This dialectical account treats language as a set of practices necessary for forming our social worlds, as well as any subsequent encounters within them. This view of language as a set of practices has two implications for our efforts to understand the alchemy of diversity, that is, how diversity becomes divorced from race consciousness while si­mul­ta­neously becoming more open to any and all differences. The first implication is that language is a mode of action—­a way of interacting and being with o ­ thers. As we interact with o ­ thers, laying our social baggage on the ­table, so to speak, that becomes part of our interpretive action. We are not, as I stated above, empty vessels h ­ ere to blankly receive the multicultural princi­ples of diversity. Instead, we actively reshape and form diversity to fit our existing worldviews.



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This leads me to the second implication. Fairclough’s argument indicates that as a mode of action, language is always socially and historically situated. Diversity’s relationship to multiculturalism stretches as far back as the intercultural education movement of the early twentieth ­century. Between World War I and World War II, social scientists, educators, and minority community leaders, including t­hose within immigrant communities, embraced a call to improve “intergroup relations.”16 ­T hese groups ­were responding to several dif­fer­ent movements occurring within American politics and culture at the time. On the one hand, the interwar period was marked by significant anti-­immigrant rhe­toric and legislative activity, including but not ­limited to the 1924 Johnson-­ Reed Act, which placed strict quotas on par­tic­u ­lar immigrant populations that remained virtually unchanged ­u ntil 1965; the forced removal of more than two million ­people of Mexican descent living in the United States, many of them citizens, as part of the Mexican Repatriation; and Japa­nese internment during World War II.17 On the other hand, anti-­immigrant fever led many educators and minority community leaders to build intercultural education programs centered on the historical and cultural contributions of vari­ous racial and ethnic groups in early twentieth-­century American society. According to Nicholas Montalto, their goal was threefold: “raising minority self-­ esteem, building attitudes of mutual appreciation . . . ​a nd stimulating a ‘re­nais­sance’ of American culture.”18 Partnering with major teacher-­ training colleges and universities, the American Association of University ­Women, the New Jersey Race Relations Survey Committee, and the National Conference of Christians and Jews, educational scholar-­activist Rachel Davis Du Bois designed assemblies and courses with an international focus, immediate antecedents in the pacifist movement, and a concern to change the attitudes of the majority rather than just alter the self-­concept of racial and ethnic minorities.19 During this period, groups such as the American Jewish Committee shifted their programming away from simply educating the public about Jewish history and culture.

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In its place, they advanced an intercultural educational model that centered on open-­m indedness, critical thinking, re­spect for the individual, and equality of opportunity. The aim was to “sterilize the soil” from which antisemitism and group prejudice grew.20 ­T hese examples help illustrate the historical and social locus of diversity as a mode of action. In the interwar period, intercultural education emerged as a positive form of encouraging tolerance and ac­cep­tance of vari­ous ethnoracial minority groups. It took root in institutions of education, including higher education. At the time, it became the lingua franca for bridging an increasingly ethnoracially diverse American public with traditional American values such as democracy and individual freedom. This slight detour through Fairclough’s argument about language, and the implications of his argument for understanding diversity as both a mode of action and as a historically and socially situated phenomenon, leads us to a concept that helps make sense of language’s power in shaping our social worlds: discourse. Though fraught with debate among academics, the term generally refers to a common system of meaning for the formation and articulation of ideas within a given historical, social, and po­l iti­cal context.21 For many who study discourse, they consider it constitutive of all knowable social life.22 All objects are objects of discourse, b­ ecause the meaning of each object depends upon a socially constructed and shared system of rules and differences.23 Discourse, then, encompasses the totality of the system of meaningful practices that form our knowledge of subjects and object. Considering diversity, we can restate it in the following way: Diversity discourse encompasses the totality of the system of meaningful practices that render diversity—­including its subjects and objects—­knowable. And as Fairclough implies, discourse—­ including diversity discourse—is a contingent phenomenon, subject to po­l iti­cal, social, economic, and cultural forces.24 If diversity discourse refers to common system of meaningful practices that render diversity knowable, then a few questions emerge: How does such a system become common, and what sort of practices are nec-



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essary to render it knowable? According to critical discourse theories, meaning emerges through a pro­cess of articulation. An articulation is a linguistic practice that establishes a relationship between two dif­fer­ent ele­ments. In the establishing of this relationship, the identity of each ele­ ment is modified as they are made to fit with one another. When the relationship is established and recognized, we can say that discourse is achieved.25 In their canonic work on the centrality of discourse for socialist movements, po­liti­cal theorists Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe write, “­Because the social is defined by its openness, ­t here is a constant overflowing of e­ very discourse. Articulation is the practice of constructing partially fixed meanings. This creates a scene in which the signifier is ambiguous, and not r­ eally fixed to the signified, since t­ here is a proliferation of signifieds. The polysemy of signifieds is what provides for disarticulation of discursive structures, i.e. ruptures and reformations.”26 The very proliferation of meaning that exists around all objects and subjects of discourse provides the basis for discursive structures, yet it also provides the foundation for unraveling them and making them anew. This impor­tant insight cuts sharply against common criticisms of discourse theory as overdetermining, revealing discourse as incredibly contingent and subject to contestation. Further, within the pro­ cess of articulation, privileged points of reference—­signifiers—­serve as the glue for a system of meaning, or “chain of signification.” T ­ hese privileged signifiers function as nodal points within a discursive structure. Consider the term “democracy.” Within discourse on democracy, the term itself draws upon readily available signifiers such as freedom, liberty, and equality as a means of articulating its meaning. Si­mul­ta­neously, ­these other terms acquire shared meaning with one another as they are articulated around the signifier, or nodal point—­democracy.27 To summarize, we can say that articulation is the pro­cess through which a relationship is established between dif­fer­ent signifiers that then gives rise to a system of meaning for a par­t ic­u ­lar sign, or concept. In the example of democracy, it is the articulation of freedom,

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liberty, and equality that produces the system of meaning b­ ehind, or within, democracy. Recall, however, that all objects and subjects contain within them a proliferation of meaning. This makes discourse itself subject to contingency and change. In the vignette that opened this chapter, Justin ­a rticulated a meaning of diversity that was surprisingly (at least to me) disconnected from multicultural referents such as race or ethnicity and instead related to diversity of ideas or thoughts. The late cultural theorist Stuart Hall used the term “condensation” to describe such a practice. Condensation is the pro­cess through which any number of seemingly unrelated signifiers, or ele­ments, are condensed u ­ nder a single sign, or concept. As condensation becomes repetitive, the sign takes on new meanings. And as the seemingly unrelated signifiers are increasingly brought into relationship with one another to give unity to the sign, they also become symbols, or referents, of one another.28 Hall’s theorizing of condensation helps us better understand how shared meanings become a staging ground for contestations over power and authority. One group’s ability to redefine a concept by way of condensation can have all kinds of po­liti­cal implications. Consider, as an extreme case, the concept of Islam. Within many Western nations in the post-9/11 period, including the United States, this concept has been increasingly associated with new kinds of signifiers—­ “terrorism,” “threat,” “anti-­Western,” and so forth. This condensation of previously unrelated signifiers to the term “Islam” has resulted in new policies aimed at controlling the lives and movements of ­people identified as prac­ti­tion­ers of Islam. Importantly, as ­these new signifiers are increasingly used as references to one another, the new system of meaning that emerges collapses previous ethnic and religious distinctions between ­people from ­M iddle Eastern nations, as well as the distinctions between non-­Western immigrants more generally. Thus, federal policy aimed at securing the nation-­state from terrorist threats not only targets immigrants from Muslim majority countries regardless of their religious prac-



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tice, but also other immigrant groups whose cultural and ethnic practices are deemed incompatible with Western ones.29 Condensing Diversity So how does this all relate to diversity at DU? Why, or perhaps how, is  condensation an impor­tant mechanism for maintaining racial in­­ equality? Feminist sociologist Dorothy Smith makes a strong case in her own research that institutional discourses are key for coordinating the work that ­ people do in creating everyday, institutional complexes. ­T hese discourses—­intellectual and cultural but also managerial and professional—­ organize, regulate, lead, and direct ­ people and their actions.30 Institutional discourses do not prescribe social action. Instead, they provide the terms that make social actors accountable to institutions by way of their actions.31 Diversity discourse at DU is primarily mediated through its diversity statement and Diversity Action Plan (DAP). Other texts I examined included memos, policies, brochures, and communiqués from leadership. T ­ hese texts also help or­g a­n ize, regulate, lead, and direct the university’s diversity efforts. The university created the DAP in 2014, then updated it in 2016. A diversity task force committee commissioned by DU’s chancellor produced the original version; Richard, DU’s director of multicultural affairs, and the academic provost cochaired this committee. The committee’s membership appears intended to reflect broad-­based community engagement. Members included the directors of institutional research, h ­ uman resources, and student disabilities; officers from bud­get and finance; representatives from the faculty and staff governing bodies; undergraduate and gradu­ate study body presidents; and two alumni characterized by DU’s chancellor as “community leaders.” A ­ fter nearly a year of regular meetings, the committee released the 2014 DAP, a nearly one-­hundred-­page document that attempts to specify what actions the university is taking, and w ­ ill take, to improve diversity and inclusion across its campus. The 2016 updated report intends to inform

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readers of steps that have already been taken since 2014 and steps that the university continues to take. Though the membership of the committee responsible for the 2016 update was essentially the same as the membership of the committee that prepared the 2014 report, I was told by two dif­fer­ent ­people with knowledge of the committee and its work that the update was primarily the work of Richard and that the committee was simply asked to “sign off on it.” In both the 2014 and 2016 versions, the first paragraph of the first page describes diversity as a “hallmark of education” that “enriches the environment and experiences of all our campus constituents.” It goes on to say that “diverse teams are more creative, productive, and successful” and that “DU embraces and encourages diversity of all forms.”32 ­Here the document spells out the terms for making DU and its campus publics accountable to diversity. But what is meant by “diversity of all forms”? On the second page, the DAP reads, “Diversity has many f­aces and we are not completely sure we are aware of all facets of this concept.” If, as Dorothy Smith argues, institutional discourse provides the terms that make social actors accountable to institutions by way of their actions, then what kind of terms are t­ hese, and what kind of accountability structures does this statement on diversity’s “many f­ aces” actually create? The statement leaves open the possibility that DU may recognize some ele­ ments of diversity right now but may also include many more ele­ments as they become “more aware” of “all the facets of this concept.” To its credit, the DAP notes that “race is one of the defining aspects of diversity”; however, it goes on to acknowledge that “gender, disability, sexual preference, religious choice, ethnicity, economic status, age, and geographic affiliation are additional facets that describe diversity in t­ oday’s world.” In just the first two pages, diversity is condensed alongside several other, unrelated ele­ments of ­human difference and variation. Granted, some of ­t hese ele­ments—­gender, disability, ethnicity, and religion—­a re legally protected categories that should be (and are required to be)



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included in any antidiscrimination clause. Yet to condense ­these ele­ ments, and race, alongside geographic affiliation essentially flattens them all. This condensation converts their historical, po­l iti­cal, and ­legal dimensions into just one of “many ­faces” of diversity. In the preamble, the chancellor makes a similar discursive move: “The members of the university and t­ hose we serve are part of a diversity community of dif­fer­ ent religions, races, economic backgrounds, ages, po­liti­cal perspectives, physical abilities, sexual orientations, gender expressions, nationalities, cultures, fields of study, and other characteristics.” In condensing legally protected categories of difference such as race, religion, ethnicity, and nationality alongside other markers of difference such as po­l iti­cal perspectives or fields of study, the chancellor undermines the significance of t­ hose legally protected categories in shaping both historical and con­temporary forms of in­equality. More importantly, however, ­these statements—­g iven their placement in the document, and the importance of the DAP itself—­ set the terms for how diversity ­w ill be or­g a­n ized, regulated, and practiced at DU. Orga­n izational texts like the DAP are structuring phenomena. They prescribe and or­g a­n ize relations between ­people and relations to the university. They are intended to provide a common understanding of the organ­ization’s goals—in this case, goals concerning diversity and inclusion. Divisions and departments within an organ­ization like DU take official texts and adopt and incorporate their language into their own protocols and guidelines for orga­n izational action. They use the text to plan and coordinate interdepartmental efforts and align themselves with the university’s stated goals. Likewise, individual actors adopt and incorporate ­these texts, and the subsequent departmental texts, into their everyday practices. As with any other orga­n izational mandate or policy, actors at DU look to achieve compliance and synergy with the DAP’s goals and suggested practices for achieving t­ hose goals.33 When in an official text like the DAP diversity is condensed alongside disparate and previously unrelated ele­ments, this condensation ­w ill be

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reflected in the kinds of actions that departments, divisions, and individual actors employ in order to achieve synergy and compliance with the organ­i zation. Their actions—­structured by condensation—­help construct a new meaning of diversity that is increasingly disassociated from race consciousness. This in turn leads to a solidifying of diversity as a catchall “sign” for nearly any and e­ very form of h ­ uman difference. The alchemy of diversity makes it so that diversity is everywhere and nowhere at the same time; it is both ubiquitous and empty. My analy­sis of the official texts at DU showed that DU’s institutional diversity discourse frequently collapses race alongside a wide variety of  other h ­ uman differences. DU’s DAP, memos, brochures, and other communiqués frequently define diversity as something that could be associated with race, but also with t­ hings such as educational diversity, geo­g raph­i­cal diversity, or a diversity of ideas, like what Justin claimed. The more diversity is identified with t­ hese other ele­ments, the less clear is its association with efforts to redistribute power, resources, and decision-­making among historically underrepresented racial and ethnic minority groups. Furthermore, the more ­t hese new meanings circulate, the more value they hold among campus publics. Indeed, I found that for campus leadership in par­t ic­u ­lar, ­t hese new meanings achieve equal if not greater value than race consciousness. Let me illustrate with another example from the field. The setting is midsummer on campus. I am attending a half-­d ay orientation hosted by the College of Arts and Sciences for all newly hired faculty. The orientation takes place in the conference room of a large, academic building in the heart of campus. The ­tables are arranged in a large semi-­square, with chairs along the outside of the t­ ables. Approximately two dozen new faculty attend the orientation, which is led by the dean of the college, a white man, along with two associate deans, both white, one a man and the other a ­woman. The orientation covers classroom expectations, the promotion and tenure pro­cess, vari­ous campus policies concerning aca-



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demic and behavioral conduct, and the resources available on campus for both research and teaching. Approximately two hours into the orientation, an African American ­woman enters the room with a large bag in tow. She is introduced as the associate dean responsible for “issues of diversity and inclusion.” Though she arrives midway through the orientation, her appearance seems timed. The other associate deans, it appears, w ­ ere asked to be pre­sent for the entire orientation seemingly ­because of what their par­tic­u ­lar responsibilities covered—­scholarship and instruction. This associate dean, however, responsible for “issues of diversity and inclusion,” only needs to be pre­sent for the short pre­sen­ta­t ion she delivers. This reflects a pattern I noted over time: How and when ­people are asked to speak about diversity and inclusion at DU are not nearly as central to the university and its mission as research and scholarship. Though perhaps we should expect it, this apparent hierarchy belies the DAP’s assertion that diversity is the “hallmark of education.” As the associate dean for “issues of diversity and inclusion” makes her way to the front of the room, she smiles and greets each of the new faculty hires she passes. At the front of the room, she unzips her large bag, pulling from it a laptop and a three-­r ing ­binder. She quickly connects her laptop to the room’s overhead projector and opens a Power­Point pre­sen­ta­ tion on the projector screen at the front of the room. She begins her pre­ sen­ta­tion by introducing herself, including how long she has worked at the university—­more than two decades—­t hough she has been in her current position for only the past few years. She tells the room that her role in the college is to help ensure that the college and its vari­ous departments are “making pro­g ress on diversity and inclusion,” and that she serves as a “resource for diversity and inclusion.” Then to illustrate her definition of diversity and inclusion, she asks, “Okay, so how many of you are left-­ handed?” Three of ­t hose in attendance raise their hands. She gestures to them, stating, “See, this is just one ele­ment of diversity.”

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This associate dean’s broad interpretation of diversity reflected the norm among DU’s leadership and many of its faculty, staff, and students. Taking their cues from the DAP and other institutional discourse, even diversity workers like the associate dean tended to use diversity as a catchall for myriad kinds of difference: “geographic diversity” was used to talk about the need to recruit out-­of-­state and international students; “ideological and intellectual diversity” was used to talk about the need for differing po­liti­cal viewpoints; and “diversity in experiences” was used to talk about cultural differences that included regionalism, urban versus rural provenance, and employment history. DU’s institutional discourse had structured ­t hese broad understandings of diversity. They also constituted part of diversity’s ­going concern in that the actors I observed at events and other programs negotiated diversity’s definition. In more than one meeting I attended, participants began by discussing the need for racially inclusive spaces, only to end by discussing the need for inclusive spaces for out-­of-­state students who may not be used to the “local culture.” As participants took their cues from the institutional discourse and worked them out among one another, the practices that make up “diversity work” at DU began to reflect the ambiguity and emptiness of the institutional discourse. Condensation and Diversity Work Research finds that institutional discourse operates on multiple levels.34 Universities like DU possess a deep structure of shared assumptions concerning the university’s mission, goals, and the steps the university ­w ill take to achieve t­ hose goals. Official texts e­ ither come from se­n ior leadership directly, or receive the explicit endorsement of se­n ior leadership. ­T hese texts produce much of this deep structure, and faculty, staff, and students draw upon such texts when d­ oing the work of the university. Yet as t­ hese texts make their way into departments and divisions, actors within them have conflicting beliefs about how to turn institutional policy into departmental practice.35



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In my research, I found that the condensation that takes place within official texts and in the statements of university leaders has consequences for how diversity discourse is then put into practice. Left on their own to interpret such broad definitions of diversity, diversity workers employ a wide variety of interpretive practices. Many diversity workers strug­g led to provide clear and concrete definitions of diversity. Like Justin, they thought about diversity as a catchall for all kinds of t­ hings that are not necessarily related to challenging in­equality within the organ­i zation. Crystal is an African American ­woman in her early twenties. At the time of our interview, Crystal was an undergraduate who worked part-­ time in DU’s Department of Housing as a community assistant (CA). ­T here, she lived in a residence hall and served as a resource to the other residents ­there. Upon finishing her undergraduate studies at DU, she would re-­enroll as a gradu­ate student, where she also worked part-­t ime for DU’s Center for Diversity. When I interviewed her, we spoke for nearly two hours about her experiences at DU and how she thinks about diversity and its relationship to the work she does for the Department of Housing. In her own words, this is how Crystal thinks about diversity: When I think of the word, I just think of a melting pot, and I think of, like, every­t hing. Not just black, white, but like Latino, gays, even like Native Americans, like every­one. And I feel like that’s not just—­ when I think diversity transcends, I guess moves across t­ hings, like, as far as foreign exchange students a­ ren’t considered in our diversity culture. But they bring so much to us. We have a multicultural event ­going on next week. But nobody knows about it. So I feel like, when ­people think about diversity they only think about black and white, not necessarily encompassing every­thing. Even ­people who are like, in subcultures, who are like gothic, or this, that, and the other. It includes every­body, and I ­really would love to say that diversity includes e­ very single person at this university. Or that’s how I would envision it. But it ­doesn’t.

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Crystal’s definition of diversity begins by centering race and ethnicity. She uses the “melting pot” meta­phor, which dates back to the intercultural education movement of the early and mid-­twentieth ­century. At the time, the concept of a melting pot was intended to reinforce the belief that vari­ous immigrant groups, through proper assimilation, would not only become contributing members of society but also enrich Amer­i­ca’s own traditions. Common critiques of the melting pot meta­phor point out that it is ahistorical and that society and its institutions often ostracize or sanction immigrant groups that seek to hold on to their own traditions. For my own analy­sis, however, Crystal’s easy transition from speaking about the need for multiculturalism through race and ethnicity, to speaking about cultural diversity through the example of goths, a youth subculture defined by its fashion and musical tastes, carries the most significance. Crystal’s understanding of diversity is all-­inclusive, where diversity “includes ­every single person at this university.” Crystal’s statement reveals a common paradox among ­those with whom I spoke: On the one hand, diversity workers at DU wish diversity resulted in more inclusiveness, particularly of historically marginalized populations (e.g., “not just black, white, but like Latino, gays, even like Native Americans”). Yet in their own practice, many of ­t hese diversity workers draw upon the very same institutional diversity discourse that is responsible for the lack of inclusivity at DU. Kelly is an instructional professor of behavioral sciences and the faculty advisor to one of the more prominent sororities at DU. Kelly is also very involved in a faculty organ­ization on campus that works to build greater racial equity at DU and elsewhere through its research and associated activities. White and in her mid-­thirties, Kelly tells me in our interview that, prior to coming to DU, she served in a similar instructor position at a public flagship university in the Northeast. Our interview takes place at a local coffee shop during the day. Despite a regular flow of foot traffic, the loud sound of the espresso machine, and the conversations taking place at the ­tables surrounding us, we find a booth with high



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backs to sit in that gives us some semblance of privacy. As with all my other interviewees, I eventually ask Kelly to tell me her thoughts on diversity and its importance at DU: I feel like from my first day at DU ­t here’s always been this acknowl­ edgment of diversity and that it ­matters and I still . . . ​I ­can’t quite get a hold on it h ­ ere at DU. Like it does m ­ atter, but it d­ oesn’t ­matter. I feel like the university is trying, but sometimes I ­can’t tell if ­t hey’re ­doing it to make themselves feel better or, “Oh gosh, we need to have a response. All right. Send out a memo.” . . . ​Even I am conflicted about what I want them to do. It’s like, ­t hey’re ­doing stuff, but then I get annoyed that ­t hey’re not ­doing stuff. You know, so I ­don’t even know.

Kelly’s response indicates a g­ reat deal of ambiguity, and not just on her part. Admittedly, she strug­g les to understand why diversity is supposed to ­matter (e.g., “Even I am conflicted about what I want them to do”). But she also states that she feels the efforts made on the part of the university are not genuine (e.g., “Sometimes I ­can’t tell if ­t hey’re ­doing it to make themselves feel better”) or even effective (e.g., “It’s like, t­hey’re d­ oing stuff, but then I get annoyed that t­ hey’re not d­ oing stuff”). I asked Kelly if DU’s diversity initiative could be appropriately characterized as ambivalent. Yeah. I think that it is actually, in the true sense of the word, ambivalent. And that’s one of the words that I have to teach my students. It  ­doesn’t mean, “­Doesn’t care.” It means strongly pulled in two directions. I think they wish they d­ idn’t have to deal with it only ­because I think they know it’s not g­ oing to make anybody happy. I think it’s hard. But I think, in some ways, they are all educators too, and they look for ­t hose teachable moments and they know it is something they have to deal with. Yeah, I think ambivalence is a very good word for it.

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Kelly’s frustration with the lack of clarity within DU’s institutional ­d iscourse on diversity was shared by each of the twenty-­seven diversity workers I formally interviewed, as well as many I spoke with informally at events and other programs. Kelly’s frustration with the lack of clarity in DU’s institutional discourse on diversity ­here mirrors that of many o ­ thers with whom I spoke. I return to this theme in chapter 5. For now, however, I find it impor­tant that, while Kelly and ­others expressed frustration and confusion over how the university defines its diversity efforts, many of their own understandings of diversity are structured by this institutional discourse. Thus, their own definitions mirror the ambiguity, confusion, and lack of race consciousness found within the institutional discourse. This has serious consequences for how diversity work is then practiced at DU. H ­ ere is Kelly’s own definition of diversity: I wish every­body got to be who they are, what­ever that happens to be, and we appreciate every­body’s sense of, “Where are you from? Oh, y­ ou’re from the Midwest? Oh, that’s so cool. Tell me about that. Oh, y­ ou’ve had relationships with men and ­women? That’s awesome. How do you decide? Like right now ­you’re with a guy? Do you ever miss being with ­women?” Like, let me know more about that in an intellectually curious sort of way without trying to make you meet a quota. . . . ​Sometimes I feel that diversity gets to that point of diversity for the sake of diversity. It’s still putting p­ eople in boxes. So diversity, I wish it was just an openness to whoever you are, what­ ever you are, and what­ever you are trying to be.

Readers should note how much Kelly’s definition of diversity mirrors Crystal’s from e­ arlier. Both Kelly and Crystal are a­ dept at talking about the significance of race and racism in Amer­i­ca and in the daily lives of African Americans. Yet when asked to define diversity, Kelly, Crystal, and o ­ thers that I spoke with shifted away from race consciousness ­toward an understanding of diversity as a catchall for vari­ous unrelated ele­ments of h ­ uman difference. In Kelly’s own definition, she oscillates between



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regional diversity (“Oh, y­ ou’re from the Midwest?”) to sexual orientation. Like Crystal, she concludes that diversity ­ought to just reflect “an openness to whoever you are, what­ever you are, and what­ever you are trying to be.” This definition of diversity as someone’s identity—­a nd something they are working ­toward becoming—­fails to acknowledge how racial identity is not a m ­ atter of “being who you want to be.” Instead, racial identities are largely products of historical patterns of vio­lence and in­equality; ­today ­t hese racial identities are both structured by and structure differential access to power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­making. I want to reiterate, however, that Kelly’s own ambiguous and unclear definition of diversity is not an indictment of her ability to think critically about race and its continued significance. Instead, her understanding of diversity is a reflection of the institutional discourse that informs it. The DAP and other official texts or­g a­n ize, regulate, and direct diversity workers at DU. The lack of clarity in ­those official texts creates a general climate of confusion over the term and gives rise to empty diversity rhe­toric and practices. ­Because of diversity’s condensation within DU’s institutional discourse, I found a similar pattern of condensation among diversity workers’ practices. Across campus, I found that dif­fer­ent departments and divisions have dif­fer­ent understandings of diversity as well as divergent practices. Furthermore, the condensation of diversity results in ­t hese dif­ fer­ent interpretations and practices themselves being flattened. B ­ ecause diversity can mean nearly anything, it results in widely divergent practices producing equally valued outcomes. For one department, diversity means hiring p­ eople with diverse educational experiences (e.g., ­people with degrees from Ivy League universities and p­ eople with degrees from public institutions like DU). For another, diversity means making a concerted effort to hire more racial and ethnic minorities. Only the latter’s efforts reflect race consciousness, yet condensation means that both departments’ efforts carry equal value. The alchemy of diversity, then,

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makes it so that diversity is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Diversity again is made both ubiquitous and empty. Diversity Is Everywhere! In my interview with Crystal, I asked her to tell me about some of the diversity programming she helps lead in her dormitory. I’ve done a few t­ hings as a CA. We have had “Around the World in Eleven Floors.” So what that is, is ­every floor in our dorm ­w ill pick a country. And we ­w ill research that country, explore that country, and cook a food from that country. And the CA ­w ill dress up in that country’s traditional attire. I’m trying to remember, what did I choose that year? Egypt! I chose Egypt for one year, and I cooked couscous. It was r­eally nasty! But I cooked couscous. And we tried to, like, make it ­really diverse, and once you make it to the bottom floor, you got a stamp from ­every RA [residential advisor], and once you make it to the bottom floor your name went into a raffle, and if it was pulled you got a prize. But it was very difficult to get p­ eople to be involved with that. B ­ ecause it was, like, at seven o ­ ’clock on a Wednesday night and most of them—­like most of our residents have chapters or ­t hey’re ­going to Bible study. So it was kind of like, we ­d idn’t get much participation in it. And I d­ on’t know if it was just b­ ecause of scheduling or lack of interest.

Crystal’s account contains several insights into how condensation of diversity translates into practice at DU. That the programming centers on increasing students’ multicultural awareness and competency is not surprising. Colleges and universities across the United States are increasingly putting their resources into demonstrating their commitments to multiculturalism. This is evidenced in every­t hing from the rise of chief diversity officers to the explosion of higher education administrative positions and remunerations, especially within student affairs divisions.36 At DU, a similar pattern persists. During my fieldwork, the university founded a new Center for Diversity, hired its director, rolled out a plan



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for an executive office for diversity and inclusion, and led a (failed) search for a chief diversity officer to lead it. In addition, the university maintains a robust calendar of diversity programming and events, including a Black History Month series for February, a Hispanic Heritage Month series for September, an LGBTQ History Month series for October, and a Native American Heritage Month series for November. On the one hand, this model reflects a popu­lar approach among higher educational professionals and diversity prac­t i­t ion­ers.37 Exposure to dif­fer­ent cultural groups and practices is believed to lead to a greater appreciation for the entire spectrum of cultural differences. Crystal’s leading of “Around the World in Eleven Floors” aligns with this popu­lar model. By asking students to familiarize themselves with a nation-­state’s foodways and styles of dress, then share what they have learned with ­others, the activity seeks to maximize the amount of cultural exposure among a small group. Each student takes part in both learning and teaching of dif­fer­ent ethnic practices. We need to be critical of such a model and its claims for cultural competency. It was unclear from my interview with Crystal ­whether the students she works with in the dormitory, most of whom are between eigh­teen and twenty years old, have enough competency to teach ethnic customs to ­others. Furthermore, by Crystal’s own admission the activity was poorly attended, in large part ­because attendance was not required. The students who do participate in such activities self-­select, making it difficult to imagine that this activity helps t­ hose students who may need the most help in gaining a greater understanding of cultural differences. Fi­nally, and perhaps most importantly, it does not appear that this activity addresses the issue of power. Indeed, I would argue that based on Crystal’s description, it reaffirms white dominance and American ethnocentrism. Couscous is a staple in North African cuisine, often served as a side dish with main courses. Yet in Egypt, it is much less common and is primarily served as a dessert. Even if we generously accept the idea that exposing students to dif­fer­ ent foodways and other cultural forms increases their multicultural competency, to what degree is real cultural

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competency actually gained through this par­tic­u ­lar activity? And to what degree does the knowledge gained from this activity lead to a more equitable distribution of power, resources, and opportunities for groups dif­fer­ent from that of the students? In her essay “Eating the Other,” cultural theorist bell hooks writes that when race or ethnicity “become commodified as resources for plea­ sure, the culture of specific groups, as well as the bodies of individuals, can be seen as constituting an alternative playground where members of dominating races, genders, sexual practices affirm their power in intimate relations with the Other.”38 Dressing up in the attire of the p­ eople of a dif­fer­ent country and culture, partaking of their foods, and rewarding participants for d­ oing so through a raffle in order to teach predominantly white students about ethnic differences strikes me less as a step in reor­g a­n iz­i ng ruling relations and more as what hooks refers to as “imperial nostalgia.” Citing Renato Rosaldo, hooks writes, [Imperial nostalgia] takes the form of reenacting and reritualizing in dif­fer­ent ways the imperialist, colonizing journey as a narrative of fantasy of power and desire, of seduction of the Other. . . . ​T he desire to make contact with t­ hose bodies deemed Other, with no apparent ­w ill to dominate, assuages the guilt of the past, event takes the form of a defiant gesture where one denies accountability and historical connection. Most importantly, it establishes a con­temporary narrative where the suffering imposed by structures of domination on ­t hose designated Other is deflected by an emphasis on seduction and longing where the desire is not to make the Other over in one’s image but to become the Other.39

Programming like “Around the World in Eleven Floors” is, I argue, an outcome of diversity’s condensation. When diversity can mean anything and every­t hing, then nearly ­every practice can be made to reflect diversity. If diversity is about cultural competency, then any practice involving the exposure of participants to culture—­broadly defined—is



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re­imagined as a “diverse” experience or encounter. Cultural theorist Sara Ahmed criticizes t­ hese kinds of diversity efforts as ­little more than citational practices.40 By simply citing diversity as the goal of a set of practices, diversity becomes attached to that set of practices, solidifying the relationship between the two. This is the case even if the practice has ­little or no prior relationship to diversity. In claiming that diversity is everywhere—in all eleven floors of a dormitory, in the consumption of couscous, or in dressing up in traditional Egyptian clothing—­d iversity is made to be everywhere. W ­ hether ­t hose practices produce a­ ctual transformations in the distribution of power, resources, or opportunities makes no difference. Condensation redefines diversity in such a way that the institution’s commitment to diversity cannot be questioned ­because the evidence of the institution’s commitment is everywhere: from its programming within student housing, to the calendar of events maintained by its newly minted Center for Diversity, to the consumption of ethnic cuisine in the dormitories. In addition to diversity programming, the institutionalizing of diversity work itself produces diversity’s ubiquity. The formation and assignment of committee work serves as a power­f ul vehicle for demonstrating the institution’s commitment to diversity without necessarily connecting it to race consciousness. The DAP lists two distinct committees responsible for helping it achieve its diversity goals: a diversity committee and a diversity leadership committee. The purpose of the diversity committee is to “augment and monitor the University’s efforts in implementing” the DAP. Meanwhile, the purpose of the diversity leadership committee is “to provide a centralized forum for campus discussion (and possibly actions) centering on diversity ­matters.” The differences between ­t hese two purposes are subtle, if not altogether irrelevant. What ­matters is that t­ hese committees exist. Their existence helps institutionalize a commitment to diversity, which according to the DAP “has many ­faces”—so many, in fact, that DU is “not completely sure we are aware of all the facets of this concept.”

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The diversity committee, charged with monitoring DU’s efforts in implementing the DAP, largely consists of ­human resource and financial officers within the university. Meanwhile, the diversity leadership committee includes “in­de­pen­dent units that have their own bud­gets devoted ­toward diversity concerns.” Among t­ hese units are the Center for Women’s and Gender Studies, the Institute for Racial Justice, and the Center for International Programs. Initially confused by the descriptions for each of t­ hese committees when I first discovered them, I reached out to Violet, the director of the Center for ­Women’s and Gender Studies, a tenured professor in the College of Arts and Sciences and a sitting member of the Diversity Leadership Committee. White and in her late forties, Violet has worked at DU for nearly two de­cades. This is what she told me about the Diversity Leadership Committee: This is a very strange ­l ittle group. From what I can tell, it is a group of ­people on campus whom Richard [DU’s multicultural affairs officer] recruited to advise him about issues of diversity. I never attended ­u ntil this year, when I became the permanent director of the center. They d­ idn’t ask me the year I was the interim director. I r­ eally ­can’t tell you what the criteria for membership are. I am ­t here, Gayle goes to represent the Institute for Racial Justice, Dawn from the Center for Diversity goes. But then t­ here is a guy from athletics [I learned this is Justin], a psy­c hol­ogy professor, a law professor, and even a ­lawyer from the compliance office, I think. The agenda is never entirely clear. We have lunch one or two times a semester. At the last one, Richard brought Sarah, the new chief diversity officer, to talk about issues of diversity. Richard ­ d idn’t give us any additional instructions before the meeting. He cut ­people off if they seemed to go on too long, and often undercut what they said.

As a point of clarification, Sarah was hired in the fall of 2016. Her hire fulfilled one of the chief goals of the DAP ­u nder the new administration. Violet continued:



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The committee predates both Dawn and Sarah. The committee prob­ ably should fall ­u nder Sarah’s purview, but I have noticed that Richard ­doesn’t want to give up any of his responsibilities from when he was the only diversity person. The name sounds much more formal than it actually is. Sometimes useful conversations occur, but it never seems intentional. And I was never privy to how this committee formed, what its charge is, and how it functions.

Violet’s comments reveal deep confusion even on behalf of ­those who belong to this committee. If the purpose of the committee is to “provide a centralized forum for campus discussion (and possibly actions) centering on diversity ­matters,” what does this mean in practice? As Violet continued, she got at the heart of the ­matter: It seems like so many ­t hings at DU—­just saying it exists is supposed to solve the prob­lem. Just like creating a Center for Diversity or hiring a chief diversity officer is supposed to solve the prob­lem. They give no thought to how that person ­w ill intervene to change the larger culture. I would be happy to go on a rant sometime about the shameful underinvestment of my center, for example. DU never invested in ­either the center or the academic program. It was formed [in the early 1980s] and had only a director and a secretary u ­ ntil four years ago. It seems to have been formed to give the former dean of ­women something to do. While other programs w ­ ere built and included support staff, programming staff, joint faculty, our center got nothing. They even took away its permanent space four years ago. D ­ idn’t tell us at first, and they had no plan for any new place. Yet they like to mention us as part of their larger commitment to diversity when it suits them.

Violet’s comments lend support to my argument that what ­matters at DU is that diversity is ubiquitous, not that diversity is effective. As she states, and many of my other conversations support, “Like so many ­things at

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DU—­just saying it exists is supposed to solve the prob­lem.” This is the rub of diversity, especially when it can mean anything and every­t hing. That it means so many ­t hings suggests the institution’s commitment is easily identifiable. Meanwhile, transformative efforts remain overwhelmingly absent, and the status quo continues. Diversity Is Nowhere To summarize, when diversity means anything and every­thing, it flattens meaningful interpretative practices alongside of less meaningful ones. Efforts to more equitably distribute power, resources, and decision-­ making among historically underrepresented groups occur alongside efforts to increase hollow forms of difference, such as geo­g raph­i­cal or educational diversity. As a result, diversity is made both ubiquitous and empty. The alchemy of diversity makes it appear as though it permeates ­every aspect of the university. Yet in practice, ­little if any transformative changes are made to the structure of the university or how it conducts its business. Rather than reducing or eliminating existing racial inequalities, DU’s diversity initiative simply circles around the core issues of in­equality that plague its campus. Returning to my conversation with Violet helps illustrate. In our interview, Violet informed me that her conservative and religious upbringing deeply influences how she sees the world, including university dynamics. I asked her to explain. Well, the fact that ­you’ve got all ­these men in charge, right? Of a certain age and race. This sort of “white guys in suits” was the hierarchy I grew up in, with ­women totally shut out. I think that often reminds me of how I grew up. It seems more the way patriarchy, even in that kind of fashion sense, continues to function. I noticed it growing up, and it continues to function in that way. I find that sometimes depressing, right? Despite all the other changes, . . . ​you



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­Table 3.1

73

Gender and Racial Repre­sen­ta­t ion among DU Leadershipa Percentage male

Percentage white

Executive leadership (n=13)

54

92

Academic deans (n=13)

69

92

a

Figures are from the 2017–2018 academic year.

look at how power structures work the moment you go past a certain level.

­Here Violet conveyed what my own observations and the university’s institutional data support (see ­table 3.1). ­T hose in power at the university—­those who hold key positions of influence on university decisions including how resources are allocated—­ are overwhelmingly white and mostly men. The lone nonwhite member of the leadership team is an African American ­woman recently hired to serve as the chief diversity officer. The only nonwhite academic dean is an Asian American man who heads DU’s School of Engineering. I asked Violet to describe her perceptions of DU’s campus culture. She replied, “Ever since I’ve been ­here it has been sort of a schizophrenic campus, if that makes sense. It felt like it’s been in transition, but it has constantly been in transition.” The use of “schizo­phre­n ia” is illuminating. For Violet, it refers to DU’s efforts to balance what she calls its “old school” traditions with new traditions meant to be more reflective of DU’s diversity initiative. Many of DU’s “old school” traditions are relics of its segregationist legacy. This includes the moniker for its athletics teams and the open display of Confederate iconography by its student body on T-­shirts, baseball hats, bumper stickers, and other merchandise. Violet’s referring to ­these efforts as schizophrenic suggests that, from her perspective, DU’s efforts are incongruent, each operating as if it w ­ ere unaware of the

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other. In my interview, I attempted to get Violet to clarify this point by asking if she sensed a push and pull between DU’s “old school” traditions and its diversity initiative, or if she thought the two could peacefully coexist. I think ­t here is a group that wants ­t hings to stay the way they w ­ ere, ­don’t want you to take away ­t hose ­t hings from us, that kind of language. And then t­here’s a group that feels r­eally alienated by that traditional culture and is trying to kind of deconstruct it. . . . ​W hen I say schizophrenic, I think what I mean by that is I often feel t­ here is a sort of doublespeak coming from the administration . . . ​where on the one hand they do ­t hings, like get rid of some of ­t hese old traditions b­ ecause they recognize how offensive they are. But then they have a way of talking with a nudge and a wink so that donors and the ­people who ­were kind of old-­l ine traditionalists knew that they ­were still on their side. I mean, it’s sort of a code language that it’s hard to even put your fin­ger on, especially as an outsider. But I can recognize when that kind of negotiation is happening.

Violet’s observations paint a picture of a university administration that wants to have its cake and eat it too. On the one hand, the past two decades—­u nder the leadership of three dif­fer­ent chancellors—­have borne witness to significant cultural changes on campus: the banning of the Confederate flag at university-­sponsored events, the request by the athletics department that the school band no longer play “­Dixie” at home sporting events, and the addition of plaques and markers on campus that add context to the university’s historical relationship to slavery and Jim Crow segregation. On the other hand, Violet and ­others I spoke with see ­t hese changes as long past due and entirely insufficient in addressing the structural inequities of the university: its lack of minority repre­sen­ta­tion among leadership, its declining African American enrollment and retention rates, and its per­sis­tent inability to recruit and retain minority faculty.



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From Violet’s perspective, DU is willing to make some changes, so long as ­those changes have l­ittle if any material consequences for the orga­ nizational structure. As I continued to talk with Violet, our conversation narrowed ­toward diversity’s condensation and its effects on how diversity is practiced at DU. Violet drew distinctions between, as well as connections to, diversity’s condensation and issues of repre­sen­ta­t ion: I think what [the administration] is constrained by is their sense [that] it’s material. They are afraid of losing funding, they are afraid of losing donors. And they are afraid of the legislature turning against them in a r­ eally profound way . . . ​t he way it’s happened in other places, you know. That’s, I think, what their concern is. Now maybe if they w ­ ere better at doublespeak this w ­ ouldn’t have erupted in the way that it has. It’s currently a discourse t­ hing, and I think it’s partly like if you are a member of the club or not. . . . ​I think that’s partly what’s been g­ oing on, and so t­here’s this constant push-­pull weird dance, you know, between trying to make pro­g ress, but then every­body freaks out so they just sort of back off, right? That’s kind of my perception of it all. So it’s funny how it is prob­ably discourse, but it still is very much about who you are, still about where you went and got your degree—­it’s where your ­d addy and granddaddy got their degree. No m ­ atter how diverse the student body is getting and certainly how diverse the faculty is getting, ­t here is still an inner core, right? T ­ here’s still a power­ful inner core that’s run by t­hose folks, right?

Violet drew attention t­ oward the institutional culture at DU, one which she indicated is both buttressed by diversity’s condensation and also a contributor to it. Violet’s response lends support to my claim that the official discourse of diversity is fundamental to how diversity ultimately unfolds, or does not, in practice. In that “it is prob­ably discourse, but it still is very much about who you are,” Violet draws our attention to the

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dynamic relationship between discourse and repre­sen­ta­t ion, suggesting that we attend to how their interaction shapes diversity’s articulation pro­ cess: how diversity is defined, and the conflicts and contingencies that unfold during this pro­cess. This suggestion to attend to diversity’s articulation pro­cess became clearer as our interview continued and Violet described her own experience with trying to get the university to adopt a gender and sexual orientation clause within the DAP: I was on an advisory committee on LGBTQ issues for the last year or so, maybe year and a half. And we had to get them to add orientation and gender expression, right? ­Because they ­hadn’t thought about that. So I think what they wanted was a kind of inoffensive, generic commitment to diversity. I think they saw it more as a PR prob­lem than as a culture prob­lem. So it’s like, if you have the right statement and you have the right positions and you have the right offices, then you can say, “No ­we’re dealing with it. We have a Center for Diversity. We have a chief diversity officer. So the prob­lem’s solved.” That’s sort of how they responded to it rather than saying, “We ­really need to rethink how ­t hings work on this campus.” And part of what keeps happening is, it’s not just PR, it’s about t­ hese deeper t­ hings that keep coming forward. Diversity is easy to put in a statement. But actually enacting that is in­ter­est­i ng.

­Here Violet spoke directly to the issue of condensation and its “emptying” effect on diversity in practice. As she stated, as long as you have the right language and you create the impression that you are dealing with diversity, then you can claim the prob­lem is solved, or at the least in the pro­cess of being solved. She continued: They want to talk about [diversity] without it actually disrupting the way ­things are. . . . ​I think if we changed the way this place functions, then p­ eople would get tension around that, and so they think



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they can keep adding t­ hese ­t hings and it’s not ­going to affect the way ­t hings work, I think. So that’s the difference. It’s like okay, you can be h ­ ere, but we ­don’t want to talk about it and we ­don’t want to change the way we do t­hings, and it’s like this sort of invisibility ­thing. Like, as long as you are quiet and d­ on’t draw attention to yourself, w ­ e’ll just pretend every­thing is the same other­w ise. And I know they are that way about sexual orientation issues—­I mean, it just drives me crazy. We have a number of r­ eally good programs and initiatives now. I c­ an’t get them to talk about any of them. They ­won’t put it on the website, ­t hey’re not proud of them. . . . ​“ You want to change the perception that this is one of the worst campuses in the country for LGBTQ students? Tell them what ­we’re ­doing.” But they ­won’t do it.

From Violet’s perspective, diversity’s condensation appears intentional—­ “They think they can keep adding t­ hese ­t hings and it’s not g­ oing to affect the way t­hings work.” According to Violet, if diversity ­were oriented ­toward a re­d istribution of power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­ making, that would pose a real challenge to how DU operates in its everyday affairs. Diversity’s condensation, then, is not just a coincidence or even a tragic accident. Diversity’s condensation is a strategy for maintaining the status quo. A note of caution is in order, however. As I stated in chapter 1, it is difficult to capture the intent of orga­n izational actors, many of whom operate with their own self-­i nterest in mind as well as the interests of the organ­ization. And while we may be on more solid ground in making claims about an organ­ization’s intentions vis-­à-­v is its official texts, we cannot forget that ­t hose texts themselves are “­going concerns,” the product of conflicts, contingencies, and negotiations among vari­ous social actors. Perhaps most importantly, attempts to sift the intentions of actors can easily slip into suggestions for changing p­ eople’s hearts and minds, rather than changing the social structures that shape how ­people act.

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I  certainly observed ­people in my fieldwork make problematic statements, some of which would easily be categorized as microaggressions.41 Yet if p­ eople are at least partially responsive to their external conditions, we need to ask how much of their attitudes, beliefs, and practices are ­shaped by, and in some cases directed by, the orga­n izational rules and norms within which they operate.42 Violet nevertheless raises impor­tant questions for us to consider. Why does diversity’s condensation make it so difficult for organ­izations to respond to existing inequalities? Why ­wouldn’t casting a wider net, so to speak, allow for an organ­i zation to tackle all kinds of forms of inequalities at the same time? Again, Violet’s comments prove instructive: Part of what w ­ e’re seeing is like when suddenly you have an African American president of the United States, that’s a connection to influence and power that’s brought out a lot of kind of deep racial fears in some ­people. And that’s the ­t hing. Diversity in the generic sense is not very accurate about this more complicated negotiation. . . . ​ That’s the unfortunate t­ hing about the rhe­toric of diversity. It’s like every­t hing’s equal, you ­don’t talk about power dynamics and dif­fer­ ent access. . . . ​T hat rhe­toric d­ oesn’t take into account hierarchies of power.

As Violet correctly noted, diversity’s condensation allows for the avoidance of questions of power, including the power to flatten diversity’s meaning. When anything can be made to represent diversity, then nobody must consider how power relations have structured, and continue to structure, access to resources, opportunities, and decision-­making based on group membership. In the next chapter, I consider the orga­ nizational structure of DU and how this orga­n izational structure works in tandem with condensation to help evade ­these questions of power relations.

4

Go Your Own Way T h e O r g a ­n i z a t i o n a l St ruct u r e of Di v er si t y

In the previous chapter, I described diversity’s condensation as a pro­ cess  through which diversity is made into a catchall for all forms of ­human difference: race and ethnicity, but also po­l iti­cal ideology, regional ­identity, and even left-­versus right-­handedness. In that chapter, I used critical theories of discourse to argue that diversity’s condensation subsequently structures how diversity is interpreted and practiced by diversity workers. When diversity can mean nearly anything, it has the effect—­ intentional or not—of flattening race-­ conscious practices alongside less meaningful ones. Diversity’s condensation, then, creates a dynamic where diversity is made ubiquitous across a campus while si­mul­ta­ neously made hollow in its forms. Devoid of race consciousness in both its definition and practice, diversity is rendered insufficient in addressing ­actual inequalities—­racial and other­w ise—­that persist within the university. Instead, what circulates is an abstract commitment with l­ittle consensus on what the commitment actually means or how it should be implemented across departments and divisions. Condensation creates the context for orga­n izational efforts that ultimately fail to reduce or address differential access to opportunities, resources, power, and decision-­ making between whites and racial and ethnic minorities. In this chapter, my focus turns from diversity’s discourse to its organ­ ization. While condensation flattens race-­conscious practices alongside less meaningful ones, condensation alone cannot explain why even race-­ conscious practices are not enough to produce material change within the university. Indeed, intuition would suggest that successful race-­conscious efforts might have a kind of inertia of their own, leading ­others across 79

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campus to mimic what works once they see the positive results. To the contrary, my fieldwork and interviews reveal that diversity’s organ­i zation at DU prevents successful efforts from spreading across campus and ultimately reproduces the status quo. Loose Coupling and Decentralization of Diversity Research on orga­n izational management indicates that for organ­i zations to operate smoothly and efficiently, orga­n izational actors require a shared sense of direction. For-­profit and corporate organ­i zations often structure that sense of direction through what scholars call a tightly coupled system. Tightly coupled systems feature clear goals, communication, and interde­pen­den­c y.1 In contrast to tightly coupled systems, loosely coupled ones—­more common in educational settings like schools or ­universities— do not or­g a­n ize actors around a single goal. Rather, they are multifocal. Likewise, they typically lack the same kind of technical core or centralized authority characteristic of tightly coupled systems.2 Instead, loosely coupled systems have diffuse leadership, and this leadership is often much greater numerically than the leadership pre­sent in a tightly coupled system. As a result, leadership within a loosely coupled system is much less focused.3 To be clear, orga­n izational scholars do not necessarily speak of t­ hese two systems in normative terms. Loosely coupled systems need not impede orga­n izational goals, so long as ­t hose goals have a degree of clarity and consensus.4 Within the setting of a university, for example, loosely coupled systems can help preserve the academic freedom of faculty and can lead to creative breakthroughs by scholars who are given ample room to pursue their own interests rather than just ­t hose of the organ­ization. Similarly, tightly coupled systems within the corporate or for-­profit setting can help steer orga­n izational actors ­toward a shared goal—­such as the production of a new product or the pursuit of profit—­which can propel a firm to dominate its par­t ic­u ­lar field. My fieldwork and interviews at DU indicate that diversity’s organ­ ization best exemplifies a kind of loose coupling I term decentralization.5



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This term derives from a rich lit­er­a­t ure and is defined by at least five core features: 1. A lack of coordination or slow coordination 2. A relative absence of regulations, or an inability to properly enforce existing regulations 3. Unresponsiveness 4. Poor observational capabilities 5. A shared belief that no ­matter what orga­n izational actors do, the same outcome persists In theorizing loosely coupled systems, Karl Weick identifies decentralization as one ele­ment of loose coupling.6 I argue, however, that decentralization is not simply an ele­ment, but a style of loose coupling. ­Decentralization, as I describe below, begets many if not all of the conditions characteristic of loosely coupled systems. Decentralization, then, is a system of loose coupling that prevents diversity’s organ­ization from achieving transformative change to existing inequalities. This is largely due to the fact that decentralization, unlike other styles of loosely coupled systems, does in fact impede orga­n izational actors from achieving clarity and consensus around the university’s goals for diversity. A key claim of my analy­sis is that diversity—as a ­matter of practice within the university—is a “­going concern.” Orga­n izational actors have to work out agreements and understandings of what diversity means and how it should be or­g a­n ized and implemented. They negotiate this in response to the everyday contingencies of their orga­n izational setting.7 Keep in mind that the orga­n izational setting in this case is a public flagship university with a history—­both distant and recent—of violent racial conflict. Many of t­ hose at DU accept as inevitable the next violent racial encounter. As Richard, the university’s multicultural affairs officer told me, DU is a place where “racism just happens.” Diversity’s condensation demonstrates that orga­n izational actors have ­l ittle in the way of consensus or clarity about what diversity means. This consequently shapes the

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negotiations over what diversity should look like in practice. The late sociologist Peter Hall warns against considering social organ­ization apart from how it is enacted. He also says that social organ­ization’s very formation shapes its enactment. Put differently, while social action is contextually situated, it also reproduces the context within which it takes ­ ught to be understood not only as an place.8 Decentralization, then, o orga­n izational context—­a kind of loose coupling—­but also as a set of actions that reproduces that context. In what follows, I draw upon my observations and interviews to reveal how DU enacts the core features of decentralization, what role ­t hese features play at DU in constraining diversity as a meaningful set of race-­conscious activities, and why successful efforts at race-­conscious diversity ultimately fail to generate institutional momentum. I also aim to provide “flesh to the bone” for theorizing the relationship between decentralization and condensation, that is, between orga­n izational context and orga­n izational action. “Nobody Is Partnering” In the fall of 2014, DU officially unveiled its new Center for Diversity with a ribbon-­c utting ceremony. With its mission to “work enthusiastically to develop programs and ser­v ices that support [DU’s] core values of inclusiveness,” the center and its new director, Minnie, quickly developed a monthly dialogue series centered on race and racism. The center also began planning for a robust schedule of Black History Month programming for February  2015 and a Lavender Graduation ceremony for DU’s LGBTQ+ students in May 2015. This acceleration in programming is all the more impressive ­because, for its first six months, the center was only staffed by two ­people: Minnie, who is African American, and Essence, an African American w ­ oman and gradu­ate student at DU. The center’s opening in the fall of 2014 intentionally coincided with Racial Justice Week, an event inaugurated just one year prior by DU’s Institute for Racial Justice. Founded in the late 1990s as part of the Clin-



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ton administration’s Initiative on Race, the Institute for Racial Justice aimed to help DU foster more public engagement on the topic of racial justice and racial reconciliation. Historically, most of the institute’s programming—­ approximately 75  ­ percent, according to its director, Gail—­had been “outward facing.” When Gail joined the institute’s staff in 2012, part of her role was to expand the institute’s programming across the campus. Racial Justice Week was part of this “inward facing” initiative. In addition to the ribbon-­c utting ceremony for the Center for Diversity, Racial Justice Week included a ­f ree public screening of the documentary Come Hell or High W ­ ater. This film tells the story of a Boston teacher who relocates to the Gulf Coast to help lead a local African American community’s re­sis­tance against redevelopment efforts by power­ful corporate interests and local and state politicians. Racial Justice Week also included a panel discussion on the intersections of race and popu­lar culture and a film about an African American football player at DU who suffered a paralyzing injury and for whom the university named one of its ser­v ice awards. One of the primary goals for Racial Justice Week, according to t­ hose who or­g a­n ize it, is to showcase some of the more significant partnerships in diversity programming across campus. For example, Racial Justice Week highlights collaboration between the Institute for Racial Justice and the athletics department at DU. Leading up to Racial Justice Week, DU’s communications office sent several campuswide emails to advertise a “Diversity in Sports” panel cosponsored by the institute and the athletics department that would take place that week. Such emails and other official texts suggested that partnerships like this ­were the norm at DU. A closer look reveals that t­ hose kinds of partnerships ­were rare and often superficial when they did occur. As a w ­ hole, most of the diversity workers with whom I spoke expressed frustration at the lack of partnering on campus. My own observations revealed relatively l­ittle coordination or cooperation between departments, divisions, and other diversity-­ centered organ­i zations across campus. The sort of programming enacted

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during Racial Justice Week goes a long way t­oward demonstrating that diversity work is happening. Yet many diversity workers ­were unable to tell me about the efforts of ­others on campus. My interview with Gail, the program director for the Institute of Racial Justice, captured ­these issues well. Gail joined the institute in 2012 as director of academic programming, part of an effort to better connect the work of the institute to DU as a ­whole. Since its founding in the late 1990s, the institute’s mission had focused entirely on helping local communities throughout the American South have frank discussions about race and racism in their own backyards. Staff from the institute would partner with local educators, business leaders, and other community stakeholders to overcome prob­lems, both economic and social, that they identified as “rooted in racial injustice.” In addition to local partnerships, the institute also hosts a two-­ week summer youth program on campus each year. This program brings rising high school sophomores and ju­n iors to campus to develop their civil and h ­ uman rights organ­i zing experiences. The program aims to foster greater civic engagement among the youth when they return to their communities. I met Gail in a local coffee shop to talk about her work and her experiences on campus. Gail’s frankness in our conversation and her willingness to “speak truth to power” pleasantly caught me by surprise. Among my interviewees, she was perhaps the most critical of campus leadership. I asked her to identify the biggest obstacles to her work. Without hesitation, she began discussing the lack of meaningful partnerships on ­campus: “One big prob­lem with the campus is that every­body is ­doing diversity work but nobody is ­really partnering. . . . ​I f we did an architecture of our resources, we would see that so many p­ eople—­across student affairs, academics, and athletics—­t hey’re working hard . . . ​but one of the biggest obstacles on this campus is that every­body assumes nothing is being done. So nothing begets nothing, and ­people are tired and become instantly fatigued when they think they have to start from zero.”



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Given Gail’s position and her subsequent statement on the lack of partnering, my first thought was to question the support she receives from campus leadership. Her response surprised and enlightened me: “I get carte blanche. . . . ​W hen I asked for permission to do comprehensive campus training, [DU’s chancellor] said yes, the provost said yes,  student affairs said yes, the dean of liberal arts, who is my direct dean, said yes. I had absolute carte blanche.” Like Gail, other diversity workers with whom I spoke affirmed that they receive “carte blanche.” This was not, however, a universal belief. More importantly, “carte blanche” from the administration did not mean that other diversity workers on the ground accepted Gail’s initiatives or that she accepted theirs. Indeed, I found that t­ hose ­doing the work of diversity exhibited a ­g reat deal of skepticism ­toward ­others ­doing the work. Gail was a tenured professor and department chair at her previous institution. In accepting the position at DU, she gave up her academic tenure and moved into a full-­t ime diversity practitioner role. She was not faculty at DU; she was staff. Gail anticipated that ­because of the nature of her work and the context in which she would be ­doing it, she would receive pushback from the administration. She was surprised to learn that the strongest pushback she received was from a faculty group whose research and campus work focused on equity, similar to her own work. According to Gail, when she approached this group, they “slammed the door in my face and challenged my pedigree.” When I asked her to reflect on why this was the case, she told me, “Members of the group told me privately that they d­ on’t know how to do this stuff [i.e., diversity work]. So I think I represent psychologically something uncomfortable. So they strike out at me.” From Gail’s perspective, her experience in designing and implementing diversity programming represented a threat to an existing group with similar interests and that, prior to Gail’s arrival, was asked by campus leadership to assist in diversity and inclusion efforts. It would be too simplistic to conclude that the tension between Gail and this working faculty group boiled down to personality conflicts.

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Combined with my other observations of how diversity work is or­g a­ nized across campus, the much stronger explanation concerns the lack of a shared vision, unclear goals, and an insufficient orga­n izational framework for achieving them. Gail’s observation that “nobody’s partnering” in diversity work referred to her experiences across campus, not just with the faculty working group. It was also based on her observations of ­others’ attempts to do diversity work on campus, not just her own efforts. The frequency with which DU’s leadership called on each to help with vari­ous ­matters related to diversity, equity, and inclusion implies that this leadership perceived both Gail and the working faculty group very positively. The faculty group, for example, receives some institutional support in the way of funds to help or­g a­n ize events on racism and inequalities, and many of its members serve in advisory capacities for institutional efforts aimed at making the campus more welcoming for racial and ethnic minorities. Gail’s observations, and my own, indicate that though ­these individuals and groups receive broad support from the administration, the administration does not successfully coordinate their efforts. Monique is a student or­g a­n izer and activist at DU. She double-­majors in sociology and African American studies and serves in leadership positions for vari­ous student organ­izations, including two that she helped found. One organ­ization seeks to empower minority ­women students, and the other is a campus chapter for a national student-­led ­labor organ­ ization. ­Because of her leadership positions, Monique is frequently asked to partner on diversity programming with the new Center for Diversity, the Institute for Racial Justice, and other on-­campus organ­izations. I asked her to tell me about the partnerships on campus she is asked to join and to share her thoughts on how well coordinated diversity efforts are at DU:

JT:  ​When you look across campus and you kind of see the dif­fer­ent groups and individuals and organ­izations that are ­doing diver-



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sity work, do you get a sense that ­t here is much collaboration or cooperation among t­hose groups or individuals? Or do you get the sense that they are all kind of g­ oing at it alone?

Mon iqu e:  ​Yeah, it seems like p­ eople are just putting their names on stuff a lot but not r­ eally ­doing anything beyond that.

JT:  ​So ­people who are d­ oing diversity work, they a­ ren’t necessarily working? The work is just a way of showing they are associated with something?

Mon iqu e:  ​Yeah. So I have been in situations where ­t here has been an event [with one of my organ­izations], and we did all the legwork. It was us! Just us! Our advisors and our executive board, that’s it. I ­don’t want to just put them out ­t here, but then [a campus organ­ization] put their name on it, and then the Black Student Union, they wanted to put their name on the event too.

JT:  ​But they ­d idn’t do anything? Mon iqu e:  ​Yeah, basically. I mean I was like, “I never saw any of you guys.” You know? I’m like, “I never saw any of you guys in any of the planning stages or anything. I d­ on’t ­really understand why y’alls’ name is on our event. I d­ on’t understand that.” And then it also seems like ­t here are groups ­here that are supposed to be promoting diversity work that do have a lot of pull with administration, but they ­a ren’t ­doing what ­they’re supposed to be ­doing.

Monique’s experiences in partnering with other organ­izations suggest that ­these partnerships are “surface only.” This lends more support to my argument that diversity efforts at DU are largely about demonstrating a commitment to diversity rather than enacting transformative change. Monique’s experiences seemed commonplace among ­t hose with whom I spoke. Many ­others—­not just students but also faculty, staff, and even administrators—­acknowledged the lack of coordination and collaboration across campus.

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Patti is a white professor in the liberal arts. For several years she has worked to document the scale and scope of sexual harassment within her discipline. ­Because of her research, she is sometimes asked to partner with vari­ous units to address gender inequities across campus. I met with Patti at the campus bookstore, where we talked at length over coffee about her experiences d­ oing diversity work on campus. Discussing the orga­n izational structure of diversity at DU, Patti used the term “façade”: “It’s definitely decentralized, that’s what I see. It seems sort of, almost a façade at centralization. I d­ on’t want to call it a façade. I think DU attempts to do diversity without a real understanding of how to do it—­w ithout, as far as I can tell, looking at other institutions across the country to figure out what’s been successful and what h ­ asn’t. We just kind of put this front up, and that’s what I mean by ‘façade.’ ” From Patti’s perspective, DU attempts to create the impression of a centralized orga­ nizational structure, but in practice, this is just a “front.” She attributed this to a lack of understanding, especially a lack of understanding of best practices at other universities. As a public flagship university, DU has much more in common with other major research universities than what Patti’s statement implies. I argue that DU’s orga­n izational structure mimics that of most other major American universities in nearly ­every way: from its hierarchy of management to its decision-­making pro­cess to the specific kinds of offices, units, and divisions that operate within ­ nder the same general conditions and conit.9 Likewise, DU operates u straints that other major public universities face: public disinvestment and pressure to produce gradu­ates with “ job skills” and training, often at the expense of a traditional liberal arts education.10 As Patti and I continued to talk, she expressed concerns for the Institute for Racial Justice and for the work of Gail, its academic programming director: “The institute, you know, seems to be geared ­toward not just racial diversity on campus but also across [the Southern state]. I keep meaning to walk over ­t here and just kind of see what they have. I ­haven’t done that, but I’ve heard some talks with the head of the institute a few



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times, and you know I’ve been r­ eally impressed with her. I’m also worried about her, that if she keeps speaking out like this, that somehow [the administration] is ­going to have her go away, or even the institute itself.” Patti recognizes the importance of the work performed by the institute and Gail. Yet she expresses disconnect from it—­“I keep meaning to walk over t­here and just kind of see what they have.” From Patti’s own account, she is only tangentially aware of the institute and its work. Furthermore, Patti’s perspective on how the institute’s work is perceived contrasts greatly with Gail’s perspective from ­earlier. Patti worries that if Gail continues to press the university on its existing racial inequities, campus leadership w ­ ill “have her go away, or even the institute itself.” Yet according to Gail, she receives “carte blanche” from campus leadership to do this very work. The point is not ­whether Gail or Patti is more correct, but that t­hese contrary perceptions exist. This suggests that diversity workers are not nearly as engaged with one another as they ­ought to be. ­Later in our interview, Patti and I discussed the faculty working group mentioned by Gail in her interview: I watch them mostly from the sideline, and I think it’s a good t­ hing. But I also find it curious that it’s very much at what I would call the local level, the departmental level. From where I stand, I d­ on’t see a ­whole lot of administrative support for it. And then it seems to me that [the administration] was trying to hire a diversity officer or something, but that’s all I know. That’s kind of sad that that’s all I know. Like, I was told about it through the [faculty working group], and then I heard something broader like, “You can go to the job talks,” and it was like “Oh, yeah? T ­ hey’re t­oday? Gee, let me drop every­thing and run over ­there!” And then I thought if ­they’ve got money for a lot of other ­t hings on this campus, then it seems to me they could be pouring money into [diversity efforts] a bit more, promoting them a bit more.

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­Here Patti draws attention to the lack of communication about ongoing diversity efforts between campus leadership and then individuals and groups on the ground. Patti’s characterization of the faculty working group’s lack of support from campus leadership, along with spotty communication about when job talks for the chief diversity officer position would occur, suggests that t­here is a disconnect between ­those ­doing diversity work and t­ hose responsible for managing it. The faculty working group and ­others on the ground do not have the same level of support as the Institute of Racial Justice, despite the fact that DU’s official texts name both the institute and the faculty working group among its existing inventory of diversity efforts. Instead, the faculty working group appears to have general approval for its work without significant investment. In my observations and interviews, I encountered a number of individuals and units on campus who engage in diversity work, some of it successful within their own departments, but ­t hese successes have not resulted from the orga­n izational structure within which diversity work occurs. Instead, they appear to have resulted from exceptional individual efforts. Malcolm, a professor of African American studies, supports this claim. In our interview, he noted that many of the efforts he observes across campus appear to come from small groups who run on the sheer ­w ill of their membership: “So ­there’s One-­DU, which is coming out of the Institute for Racial Justice. So t­ hey’re focused on racial reconciliation and how do we come together. Then ­t here are a few other groups, one of them I advise, and I guess I’d say ­t hey’re a bit more aggressive in their approach to addressing racism. But all of t­ hese are small groups. In fact, One-­DU is mostly the work of one student, who is a ­g reat student! You know, very active. Does a lot of wonderful ­t hings. But One-­DU runs on the steam of her determination.” Thus far, I have shown that diversity workers generally feel that few actors and groups are partnering on campus. I have also shown that diversity workers perceive an uneven sense of how much support and direction they receive from campus leadership.



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­Table 4.1

Share of Full-­Time Tenured and Tenure-­Track Faculty by Race and Gender, 2016

Full-­t ime tenured/ tenure-­t rack facultya

DU b

Men

63.1

66

­Women

36.9

34

African American White

Public four-­year R-1 institutions (n=81)c

5.6

3.5

74.6

69.8

a

To aggregate the data, I ­l imited this group to assistant professors on the tenure track, and associate and full professors with tenure. Assistant professors with tenure, and associate and full professors on the tenure track, ­were eliminated from the analy­sis. b

Figures are from DU’s institutional data for the 2015–2016 academic year.

c

Figures are derived from the Integrated Postsecondary Education Data System (IPEDS), National Center for Education Statistics (NCES), 2016. See https://­nces​ .­ed​.­gov​/­ipeds​/­.

Many of t­ hose with whom I spoke admit that impor­tant work is happening, but they affirm that it appears to happen within a vacuum. I argue that this lack of coordination at DU is not simply a bug in the orga­ nizational design of diversity work. It defines this work. And it has serious consequences for DU’s ability to address inequalities within the existing structure of the university. Like many other American colleges and universities, DU strug­g les to recruit, hire, and retain faculty and staff from historically underrepresented groups. ­Table 4.1 displays shares of faculty by race and gender at DU in comparison to the shares of faculty by race and gender across all public four-­year institutions that have the same R-1 Car­ne­g ie classification as DU for the 2016 academic year. In comparison, DU has a slightly higher percentage of ­women among its faculty than the comparison group. However, DU’s African American and white faculty repre­sen­ta­tion varies significantly from the comparison

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group. Interestingly, both African American and white faculty represent a greater population at DU than at comparable institutions. Nevertheless, African American faculty remain at less than 6  ­percent of all full-­ time tenured and tenure-­t rack faculty at DU; this percentage is roughly one-­t hird the size of DU’s African American undergraduate enrollment and just one-­sixth the size of the African American population with residency in the state within which DU is located. Put differently, African Americans represent just 1 out of e­ very 20 tenured and tenure-­t rack faculty at DU, 1 out of ­every 8 students at DU, and 1 out of ­every 3 residents in the state to which DU belongs. DU’s campus leadership recognizes the lack of repre­sen­ta­t ion among its faculty and among its student body. The official texts of DU express their desire to better recruit, hire, and retain minority faculty, staff, and students. Rarely, however, does se­n ior leadership propose concrete plans to remedy this. Furthermore, the organ­ization of diversity work at DU poses serious prob­lems for achieving greater African American repre­sen­ta­t ion. In her analy­sis of the University of Michigan’s “architecture of diversity,” ­legal scholar Susan Sturm finds a lack of coordination between the office of ­human resources and other departments and units across campus.11 While departments have expressed goals for recruiting, hiring, and retaining minority faculty, Sturm finds that the mechanisms for achieving ­t hese goals primarily rest with the office of ­human resources.12 My fieldwork at DU finds a similar lack of coordination and communication, with impor­tant differences. At DU, the responsibility for compliance with civil rights law resides within DU’s ­human resources department, as well as with its equal employment opportunity (EEO) office. The EEO office advises both h ­ uman resources and individual units at DU on how to achieve compliance and to investigate any complaints of noncompliance. When an academic unit at DU begins a search for a new faculty hire, it works with both ­human resources and the EEO office to craft the job advertisement, advertise it through vari­ous channels and



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networks, and establish a search committee and pro­cess for filling the position. In this way, DU appears on the surface to have greater coordination and communication than what Sturm finds at the University of  Michigan. Yet  a closer examination reveals the limits to this apparent  coordination.  Aside from civil rights compliance, neither h ­ uman resources nor the EEO office offer much in the way of best practices for recruiting candidates from underrepresented groups. Instead, h ­ uman resources and EEO primarily function as risk-­management offices for the university, minimizing DU’s exposure to ­legal redress due to noncompliance with civil rights laws. Put differently, neither h ­ uman resources nor EEO operates with a positive mandate to hire more faculty from underrepresented  groups. Their mandate is simply to reduce or eliminate illegal barriers to employment. While coordination and communication do take place between hiring units and central management, this coordination and communication focuses narrowly on reducing ­legal risks to the university. This has the effect of converting efforts to increase minority faculty repre­sen­ta­tion into a ­matter of “checking boxes.” So long as the university can demonstrate that it met the minimum ­legal requirements for eliminating discriminatory barriers in hiring, it can claim an “unwavering commitment to diversity and inclusion.” The commitment, then, functions to disguise a set of internal hiring practices that do l­ ittle, if anything, to increase minority faculty repre­sen­ta­t ion on campus.13 “It’s a Free-­for-­A ll” Recall that the second feature of a decentralized structure is the relative absence of regulations or an inability to properly enforce existing regulations. ­T here are regulations governing DU’s diversity efforts. As a public university, DU must respond to the rules and regulations set forth by its state’s higher education governing body. This includes the governing body’s diversity-­related goals. T ­ hese goals ­were expressed by the state governing body in 2005:

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Increase the enrollment and graduation rate of minorities. Increase the employment of minorities in administrative, faculty, and staff positions. Enhance the overall curriculum by infusion of content that enhances multicultural awareness and understanding. Increase the use of minority professionals, contractors, and other vendors.

The goals are expressed in DU’s original 2014 DAP and in its 2016 update: Have students and employees better reflect the demographics of the state it serves. Instill in students and faculty a working understanding of diversity in society. Promote diversity through contracts with minority and female contractors, vendors, and professionals.

­Later, the DAP makes specific commitments to ensure it meets t­hese goals. Among other ­t hings, DU commits to: Have graduation rates for minority students that are within 80 ­percent of ­t hose for white students. Increase minority enrollment at a greater rate than the overall enrollment (2.5 ­percent versus 1.5 ­percent). Increase the percentage of minority faculty to 18 ­percent of its full-­ time faculty by 2020. At least 40 ­percent of DU’s new administrative appointments being ­women.

The DAP reveals DU’s clear institutional diversity goals. This is good, ­because organ­izations with clear goals are better able to demonstrate ­whether efforts to achieve them are successful over time. Orga­n izational actors are also better able to align their own work with orga­n izational



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goals when ­t hose goals are made clear. However, goals and regulations are very dif­fer­ent ­t hings. Despite its significant length—­n inety-­six total pages—­t he DAP does not specify what pro­cesses ­w ill be employed to achieve any of its stated goals. Instead, the DAP provides several pages that document all of the programs and entities it claims are currently helping the university to achieve ­t hese goals. As part of my fieldwork, I culled the list of programs and entities in the DAP, then sought to observe ­t hese programs in action, and in some cases, to interview the actors involved with them. I soon discovered a disconnect between how some of t­ hese programs are positioned in the DAP and how they operate on the ground. One case in par­ tic­u ­lar stood out for its egregiousness. It involved the faculty working group. Recall that this working group consists primarily of faculty across campus and that, broadly, it concerns itself with documenting and combatting racism on campus and in the broader region of the American South. Yet in the DAP, the group is described as supporting the university’s efforts to increase the employment of minorities in administrative, faculty, and staff positions. This aligns well with the university’s stated goals to increase minority repre­sen­ta­tion among its employees, but it was not at all how I understood the group or its activities. I showed several members of the group the description in the DAP. Their reactions ranged from confusion and headshaking to outrage. One faculty member described “feeling used,” while another stated, “This is just a lie!” Nobody I talked to could recall ever being approached by campus leadership to ask the group’s permission to list it within the DAP’s inventory, nor could anyone recall ever providing anything resembling the DAP’s description of the group to campus leadership. Soon ­a fter my conversations with some of the group’s members, the group contacted campus leadership and demanded that its name be removed from the document.

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This case raises several concerns. Among them is the degree to which a document like the DAP—an action plan in name—­establishes any kind of pro­cess to facilitate achieving university-­w ide goals. Is the document simply a way for the university to demonstrate its commitment to greater equity and equality without necessarily having to do the work to convert that commitment into real­ity? This case calls into question the integrity of diversity work at DU, including the relationship between the stated goals of the institution and the work the university claims it is d­ oing, and ­w ill do, to achieve ­t hose goals. In my interviews with diversity workers, I questioned what pro­ cesses, if any, DU employs to ensure that its goals are met. Not surprisingly, many of their responses centered on affirmative action policy and the degree to which they thought DU complied or did not comply with this policy. Affirmative action policy attempts to eliminate discrimination in the workplace and employment discrimination, thereby lending itself well to redistributing power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­ making among historically disadvantaged groups. Barbara, DU’s EEO director, made this very point in our interview. I met Barbara in her office. Barbara is a white w ­ oman in her early sixties. Relatively new to her position, she has worked at DU for the past three or four years. Prior to her role at DU, she had a successful c­ areer working in ­human resources for a Fortune 500 com­pany. I asked Barbara to describe the role her office has in ensuring compliance with civil rights laws on campus, including affirmative action policy. Her response, below, highlights the constraints with risk-­management approaches, particularly related to producing effective change across a campus: We do the statistics, and we work through the affirmative action plan. Frankly, our communications have not been as good over the last several years as we would like for them to be as far as ­people—as far as chair and department heads—­u nderstanding what the makeup of their department is. The t­ hing about an affirmative action plan is



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that it is a dated metric. So it’s r­ eally hard to get ­people—­u nless it’s just ­really bad—to get ­people to ­really embrace it ­because the ­actual report of the statistics are done on the previous twelve months. So by the time you get every­thing compiled and the report done and the statistics run, y­ ou’re prob­ably at least 18 months past what you ­were mea­sur­ing. In an environment like higher ed where ­t here is a lot of p­ eople coming and ­going, ­these statistics are almost worthless.

According to Barbara, the lag between the reported data on faculty and staff repre­sen­ta­t ion and the ­actual levels of employment at DU creates a real challenge for ensuring that individual units are taking appropriate steps to produce a more equitable workplace. Barbara’s statement indicates not just an absence of regulatory mechanisms, but also insufficient regulations. Barbara mentions some of the other steps her office takes in addressing this lag: We try to look at our hiring on a quarterly basis to ask, “Okay, are we getting a diverse group of p­ eople into the university?” And so we try to look at what’s g­ oing on now and what can we do. We work very closely with the search committees, we ask, “Where are we advertising? How are we getting our ­people?” And groups are not required to have us help out when they commission a search committee. Oftentimes we are asked to come in and talk to the committee, and we talk to them about their responsibilities. We talk to them about the fact that they are [on a search committee] b­ ecause someone in their group sees them as being responsible, having good judgment, and fair. Someone who can judge talent and understand the needs of the department. It’s more of an art than a science to get the right ­people into an organ­i zation.

­Here Barbara notes that, though her office makes itself available to any unit on campus, no unit is required to make use of the EEO office when it establishes a hiring committee. In practice, this means that while some

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units can receive advice on best practices for increasing minority repre­ sen­ta­t ion, other units can ignore the EEO office altogether. Absent clear rules governing how units w ­ ill achieve compliance—­not just with civil rights laws but with the organ­ization’s diversity goals—we ­ought to expect that some units ­w ill fail to improve minority repre­sen­ta­t ion at all. Barbara’s description of hiring as an art rather than a science piqued my curiosity. I asked her to explain what she meant: Anybody can put together a pretty impressive resume, so ­you’ve got to get beyond that. That’s a g­ reat first start, but from an employment point of view, which i­ sn’t ­really my job ­here, it’s having the right talent at the right time in the right group. So from my compliance position, I say, “Okay, what do you need to be able to be successful in this job?” Prob­ably I can give you the best example from my life before I worked ­here. I worked for [an electric utility com­pany], and we had lots of engineers and we had lots of engineering groups. Well, not every­body that works for an electric utility has to be an electrical engineer. ­You’ve got civil, ­you’ve got mechanical, ­you’ve got nuclear, ­you’ve got all kinds [of engineers]. So when a group would lose an individual and they would look to hire, I would challenge them. I would ask, “What do you need? Bob may have been an electrical engineer and Bob worked h ­ ere for fifteen years. What does your group need to be successful?” And we would challenge them on the diversity of the candidate and not just merely gender or race but schools, where ­were they educated? What have their experiences been? I may have a design group, and if I’ve got ten ­people in ­t here and eight of them are electrical engineers, then this is a g­ reat opportunity to bring in someone who i­ sn’t electrical that may let me make my group stronger. The same ­thing with other ele­ments of diversity—­ race, gender, educational background, industry background. So ­really, it’s ­really more of an art than a science. You can say okay, I’ve got the job description for an engineer in this group, ­here’s what ­t hey’ve



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got to be able to do, and I’ve got thirty resumes and twenty-­seven of them can do this. Okay, so then you have to start, what is the best fit for the job?

Barbara’s response sheds light upon on how regulations governing diversity work actually operate at DU and upon the broader relationship between condensation (described in chapter 3) and decentralization. Barbara’s response indicates that the art of “getting the right ­people” at DU entails flattening distinctions between legally protected categories of difference such as race and gender, and distinctions between occupational specialties, educational backgrounds, and workplace experiences. Yet what enables this flattening, at least in part, is the lack of regulations governing what ele­ments of diversity a hiring committee o ­ ught to consider over ­others. Without a clear mandate to hire more racial and ethnic minorities, or more w ­ omen, hiring committees can freely interpret the organ­i zation’s diversity initiative through the lens of workplace productivity and success (e.g., “What do you need to be able to be successful in this job?”) This loose interpretation becomes legitimated when it is accompanied by the encouragement of Barbara’s office, whose responsibility is to ensure regulatory compliance with antidiscrimination laws. Not only can hiring units at DU decide against coordinating with the EEO office, but the EEO office—as the regulatory apparatus for preventing racial and gender discrimination—­ can enable hiring units in ways that explic­itly deny the importance and significance of racial and gender equity within the workplace. If condensation makes it difficult to achieve orga­n izational consensus on existing inequalities, then decentralization—­here, the absence of regulations or the presence of insufficient regulations—­ensures that ­those inequalities go unchallenged. “It’s Definitely Siloed” Along with a lack of coordination and insufficient regulations, my interviews and informal conversations with diversity workers reveal that

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many believe their work unfolds in silos separate from one another. The term “silo” was one that diversity workers used themselves unprompted; it described both unresponsiveness and poor observational abilities across the campus. Diversity workers at DU overwhelmingly feel that their efforts go unnoticed not only by campus leadership but also by other diversity workers. Essence is an African American ­woman and gradu­ate student at DU. We met at the coffee shop of the campus bookstore on a weekday after­ noon. Essence had been referred to me by some of the other diversity workers I spoke with. As an undergraduate student at DU, Essence was elected its first African American homecoming queen, receiving an outright majority of the student body vote in a runoff election. Essence’s victory that fall followed a spring semester in which DU’s student body elected its first African American w ­ oman as president of the student association. Our interview at the coffee shop took place approximately three years ­a fter her homecoming win. Essence placed her win within the context of her ­family’s history at DU: Both my parents went to DU. My dad is actually from [this small, Southern town] and went to the all-­black high school [­here]. I still have a lot of f­amily around h ­ ere, and my grand­mother loves this place. My mom is from [another small town in this state], which is like an hour from h ­ ere. . . . ​My parents met h ­ ere, got married, had me and my s­ ister, divorced sixteen years ­later. . . . ​I used to go to basketball camp ­here when I was in elementary school. My dad used to live in—­I think it’s called married student housing. I d­ on’t think it’s called that anymore. Kind of over by the law school. I used to spend a lot of time ­here. I used to live in the residence halls during basketball camps. Actually, the reason why I wanted to come to DU was that my m ­ other was actually the charter member for a Greek organ­ ization, a gradu­ate Greek organ­ization ­here. . . . ​My dad was actually the first African American judicial chair [for the student body] as well.



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Currently, Essence is working t­oward her master’s in higher education administration and has an assistantship with the new Center for Diversity. She is the only support staff the new center has. I asked Essence to describe her experiences working with the center and how she thought about the relationships between the new center and other units and actors on campus ­doing similar work: You have the Institute for Racial Justice over t­here, you have the Center for Diversity over h ­ ere, you have the Center for ­Women’s and Gender Studies over t­here. I definitely think t­hey’re siloed to an extent. . . . ​It makes it hard to get the word out about what every­ body is d­ oing. So how do we know what the Institute for Racial Justice is d­ oing? How do they know what we are ­doing at the Center [for Diversity]? How do we know what the Center for ­Women’s and Gender Studies is d­ oing? How do we know what the Office for Disability Ser­v ices is ­doing? Social media, maybe? I mean all of that works to an extent, but ­there is no one person or one channel for it to all go through right now. And so I think that we all try to collaborate the best we can, but we are all t­ hese separate entities. DU d­ oesn’t have anyone to bring us all together. But I think that if we could all come together, it would be a lot stronger. If we could all have a similar mission and the same goals, what we are trying to do and trying to accomplish, I think it could r­ eally help the university.

Essence’s response paints a portrait of a diversity architecture that contains few direct lines of communication and cooperation between dif­fer­ ent units across campus. Diversity workers know that work is happening on campus. They even know which units are involved. But they lack an integrated system through which to join their efforts or to share specific knowledge about what kind of work ­others are ­doing. Importantly, this is a structural feature of DU’s diversity architecture. The feeling of not knowing what ­others are d­ oing or feeling as though the work being done is ­going unnoticed by ­others does not result from any ill ­w ill or

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competitiveness among diversity workers. Rather, ­t hese feelings are the product of how diversity work is or­g a­n ized at DU. Part of this organ­ization involves where certain units and actors are physically located on campus. The Center for ­Women’s and Gender Studies, for example, was u ­ ntil recently located in the basement floor of the main administrative building. The Institute for Racial Justice was first ­housed in an old dormitory on the far northwest side of campus before moving to a more centralized location off of the main green space. The Center for Diversity is or­g an­i­za­t ion­a lly under­neath student affairs. Student affairs resides inside DU’s student u ­ nion, in the heart of campus. It has office space for the coordinators of Greek life, the director of student wellness, and the dean of students. Yet when the center was established in 2014 as an effort to enrich support ser­v ices for minority students, ­t here was no available office space in student affairs. As a result, the center was ­housed temporarily in the basement of a residence hall approximately fifteen minutes’ walking distance from the student ­u nion. The center’s structural position within student affairs has made it more difficult to form partnerships and programming with faculty and staff on campus. Meanwhile, its physical location renders it invisible to many students who do not live on the side of campus where it is ­housed. Most of ­t hose with whom I spoke, formally and informally, had positive ­t hings to say about the center and its work. Yet few had collaborated with the center or knew much about the kinds of programming the center was directing. Other diversity workers echoed Essence’s characterization of diversity work as siloed on campus. When I asked Justin, the athletics administrator, w ­ hether he thought diversity work was collaborative or siloed on campus, he responded, “Siloed for sure.” He then added, ­T here’s no way that someone is ­going to come in and quickly galvanize this w ­ hole group to do the right ­t hing, but I think ­people are ­going to listen, and as long as ­people ­don’t get hurt feelings by real-



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izing t­ hey’re not ­doing enough, I think some ­really good work can come from [hiring a chief diversity officer] if we have the right person.

Justin, like Essence, sees value in having a chief diversity officer who could provide oversight and guidance to ongoing diversity efforts on campus. As Justin states, ­T here’s no way you can come in and just do a bunch of dif­fer­ent programs in seven or eight dif­fer­ent offices and say ­you’re ­doing diversity when none of them have to link or pool their thoughts and resources. If they ­don’t hire someone to help, I think they are missing out on a g­ reat opportunity h ­ ere. And I know that leadership is looking for that type of person that can galvanize—­I know I’ve used that word—­but it’s ­going to have to reinvigorate every­one. Put every­ body on the same plan. And have every­body be a part of the plan as opposed to the siloed plans that ­aren’t too terribly effective. . . . ​We have to be tied to something bigger than this.

JB, the president of DU’s African American gradu­ate student association, also spoke at length about silos within diversity work. JB noted that he was on the same search committee for a chief diversity officer that Justin had mentioned in his interview. JB relayed to me that the search committee discussed the concern about silos within diversity work: Generally every­one seems pretty siloed. What’s funny is that I’m on the search committee for the [chief diversity officer], and one of the  ­things that we discussed was that this was the very concern of ours. T ­ here is no center to which all t­ hese dif­fer­ent organ­i zations report. T ­ here is not like an office to which all of t­hese dif­fer­ent organ­i zations can kind of go to and through which they can partner. So that’s one big prob­lem with the campus is that every­body is like ­doing diversity work, but nobody is ­really partnering.

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Anthony is an openly gay Hispanic student at DU. As a se­n ior, he helped or­g a­n ize a student conference on identity that has since become an annual event. The inaugural event was cosponsored by the Center for Diversity and in subsequent years has received support from the Center for W ­ omen’s and Gender Studies and vari­ous academic departments across campus, including En­g lish, American studies, African American studies, and sociology. I asked him to tell me about what kinds of collaboration or coordination ­were involved in organ­i zing the identity conference and other programming with which he has been involved: Generally when an event is created by, let’s say the Center for Diversity or the Institute for Racial Justice, they list all of the support that they receive. But ­really they just sort of list just a bunch of departments. . . . ​I feel like the institute and the center work collaboratively. As far as the [academic] departments go, you know maybe they are listed. I d­ on’t know how well the [academic] departments actually communicate with each other. My suspicion is that they ­don’t. Or if they do, it’s very kind of siloed. I d­ on’t see a lot of cross-­ community efforts being made by the [academic] departments.

Anthony’s comments echo ­those from Monique, the African American student leader who ­earlier said that “­people are just putting their names on stuff a lot.” As a ­whole, ­these comments and ­others reflect a sense among diversity workers that while ­people are generally interested in enhancing diversity programming at DU, the orga­n izational structure does not facilitate the kind of coordination and collaboration that could produce transformative change in how power, opportunities, resources, and decision-­making are distributed. “Nothing Ever Changes” To be clear, silos are not synonymous with decentralization. Rather, like the lack of coordination and insufficient regulations, the presence of silos is a key feature of decentralization. In and of themselves, silos may not



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reproduce in­equality. We could imagine a situation in which dif­fer­ent parts of the organ­ization operate in­de­pen­dent from one another, but a centralized structure for communicating orga­n izational goals and outcomes makes it so that each of the silos in­de­pen­dently helps the organ­ ization achieve its purpose. This is why it is impor­tant to consider the vari­ous ele­ments of decentralization in tandem, and their relationship to condensation. Absent a clear consensus on what diversity means or its importance, novel approaches to putting diversity into practice operate structurally and ideologically in­de­pen­dent from one another. ­Because diversity can mean so many dif­fer­ent ­t hings, departments and divisions on campus can never fail to do diversity! Each unit and group of actors on campus believes it is ­doing the right kind of diversity work, ­because what constitutes diversity work is so ambiguous that nearly anything fits. And absent clear guidelines or a set of intended consequences, units and actors on campus have ­l ittle structural incentive to perform the kind of diversity work that could produce transformative change. The decentralized structure of diversity work provides few shared resources for meaning making, leaving diversity workers to construct a working definition of diversity that they can live with but rarely embrace.14 Instead, many diversity workers experience frustration with the entire diversity initiative. ­T hose with whom I spoke shared a sense that no ­matter what they do, nothing ever changes. Kelly is a white ­woman in her mid to late thirties who teaches in the behavioral sciences at DU. She and I met at a local coffee shop just off campus. T ­ here she told me about her experiences in vari­ous diversity efforts, including advising dif­fer­ent student groups that seek to center diversity in their orga­n izational mission and activities. As we talked, she relayed an instance when she and her se­n ior capstone students approached the administration to partner on conducting research about the challenges that international students face on campus. Kelly and her students designed, distributed, and collected survey data from the general student body on their attitudes ­toward international students. Their research

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was coordinated through DU’s office of institutional planning. Their findings, according to Kelly, reflect what ­others term “color blindness” among the general student body. On the surface, students support diversity. However, they are more resistant to diversity when it might seep into their everyday lives: “It was depressing. It was exactly what we already knew. . . . ​[Students] think that diversity is g­ reat, but they d­ on’t want it. Like, ‘Yes, I’m so glad that we have students from fifty-­t wo countries, but I still want to live with my white roommate from my home state.’ ”15 Despite d­ oing this work for campus administrators so that they could better understand the challenges facing some of their students, Kelly expressed frustration with campus leaders b­ ecause they did not appear to take her students’ findings more seriously: “We did our report and presented it to the university. And so we w ­ ere ­really excited. I guarantee nobody read it. . . . ​I think they ­really saw this as kind of a science fair proj­ect rather than ‘You have some of the best and brightest at this school putting their cognitive resources t­owards answering something you want to know.’ ” Faith is an African American w ­ oman and student or­g a­n izer on campus. In our interview, she also expressed frustration that, when she has partnered with campus leaders and ­others, her ideas have not been taken seriously. Faith relayed to me an instance in which she was asked by campus leadership to join an LGBTQ advisory committee to the chancellor. In describing her experiences with that committee, Faith used the term “censor” repeatedly: I had to tailor my perspective to what best fit or to best serve the university, especially as a student leader. As I got closer to the administration and served on committees, I kind of saw that I had to censor myself. And I also felt like t­ here was some censoring happening in the committee. . . . ​[ The committee chairs] would just push back on the group on certain ­t hings whenever they felt like it was too radical or it w ­ asn’t ­going to be taking into consideration what the chancellor



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needed. So that was like one incident of overt censoring. But then ­t here ­were times when it was just kind of censoring out of the fact that ­there ­were so many ­people on the committee and every­body had differing opinions. Sometimes it was just like, “I’m not even ­going to put any input on this par­t ic­u ­lar issue ­because the group ­w ill never get to it anyway.”

My sense of Faith’s use of censorship ­here is that the committee served as a filter for certain ideas deemed too radical or out of step with what some committee members thought the chancellor wanted. Faith’s reflection on the size of the committee—­“­T here ­were so many ­people on the committee”—­suggests that part of the difficulty in providing effective advising to campus leadership is that the advisory group was too large, making consensus difficult to achieve. For Faith, this structural feature led to a certain pessimism with the w ­ hole pro­cess. Kelly’s and Faith’s frustrations ­were common among ­others with whom I spoke. Time and again, diversity workers told me how frustrating it felt to put their time and energy into trying to make the campus more inclusive and equitable, only to see t­ hose efforts ultimately fail or go nowhere. Perhaps no other interview captured this sentiment as well as my interview with Ella. Ella is an African American ­woman and se­n ior administrator in student affairs. Ella grew up in a town just a short drive from where DU is located. Ella’s m ­ other was the first African American schoolteacher in the county school system in which Ella was educated. When Ella and I met at the campus bookstore coffee shop, she was in her twenty-­fi fth year working at DU. She described having several job titles during that time period but that each of ­t hose roles has had an under­lying sense of duty to other African American men and w ­ omen on campus: We d­ on’t have enough p­ eople of color [­here at DU]. So I’m on e­ very freaking committee. So if ­t here’s a diversity committee that comes up, I’m on it. If ­t here’s a [minority] faculty member or a staff member

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who is struggling, I’m the one who is calling them. If something happens to a faculty member or a staff member of color, they ask me to help. If something happens to a student—­even before I ­really started ­doing any intense crisis work—if we had students of color in an accident, even though I ­wasn’t in that crisis circle, I was called to help ­t hose students and their parents and kind of work with their needs.

In describing her current role as a se­n ior administrator and the work she does on behalf of African American students, faculty, and staff, Ella used the word “triage.” I asked her if she could describe what it feels like to perform triage for African American members of campus who experience near-­d aily encounters with racism and microaggressions:

Ella:  ​Very tiring—­mentally as well as physically. Emotionally. I ­don’t think it’s healthy. I’ve gained more weight in the last five years than in my entire life. I was a runner, you know. Very athletic. I’ve had to—­I d­ on’t know if I r­ eally made a decision, but—­ you know I c­ an’t do that anymore. I should have been a faculty member. But in this role, an administrator’s role, when you work I would say in the trenches with students, your time is just—­you ­don’t even own your time, or you ­don’t feel like you do. It’s very uncomfortable at times. It’s certainly mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually draining [chuckles]. It’s hard on your ­family. On the flip side of that, it is also very fulfilling, you know? You know that y­ ou’re making a difference. Most of the time, students show you some kind of appreciation. But it h ­ asn’t even been about the students showing appreciation. It’s more seeing the students be successful. That is the rewarding part, you know? Seeing some of t­hose walls come down so that other students have ­those opportunities. Having a homecoming queen who’s African American, having a student government president who’s a ­woman, and African American. ­T hose ­t hings are . . .

JT:  ​­They’re like victories? Ella:  ​Yeah, like victories.



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On the one hand, Ella’s response reveals the sheer exhaustion that comes from “working in the trenches” as a diversity worker. Her experiences illustrate the kind of emotional l­ abor that goes into d­ oing diversity work, as well as its physical, ­mental, and emotional toll on ­t hose who do it.16 On the other hand, Ella also conveys a sense of fulfillment, especially when she sees the success of students with whom she works. ­T hese victories, as she characterizes them, are especially sweet when they appear to be the result of “some of the walls [coming] down.”17 Many of ­t hose with whom I spoke shared Ella’s sense of satisfaction with the small victories that come from their efforts. They also shared Ella’s sense of weariness with the work itself. Most importantly, they expressed growing frustration that the victories are few and far between. Audre is an African American w ­ oman and humanities professor at DU. I spoke with Audre in her office and inquired about her experiences serving on several dif­fer­ent committees as part of DU’s diversity initiative: Exhausting. That’s why I quit. Once I realized that I was just a body taking up space, I ­d idn’t feel like my input was very valuable. A lot of it was, I was a ju­n ior faculty member. I still am a ju­n ior faculty member. I d­ idn’t know the ins and outs and so h ­ ere I am, my second year, or my third year, sitting with p­ eople who have been in the university for fifteen and twenty years, and so they know the institutional culture in ways that I ­don’t. ­Because [my department] is a ­l ittle dif­fer­ent. Our first year ­we’re ­really protected. We ­don’t do community ser­ vice. And so all we know about the university is ­really localized. In terms of [my department’s] structure. And t­ here is no formal pro­cess for us to even learn that. And so I’m sitting in ­t hese spaces, and I’m ­really not able to provide or add anything that I feel is significant. And so once I realized what the deal was, I just ­stopped ­going. I ­d idn’t think it was worth it.

Audre’s response parallels both Faith’s and Ella’s. Like Faith, she found herself unable to contribute in a way that felt meaningful to her. And like

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Ella, she found the work itself utterly exhausting, in part ­because of her realization that she was “ just a body taking up space.” Audre also draws attention to one of the structural prob­lems of decentralization when she describes what it is like as a ju­n ior faculty member to serve on campuswide committees populated by faculty and staff with much longer tenure at DU. As she states, they understand the institutional culture in ways that she does not. Her characterization of how institutional culture limits the extent to which she and other new members of campus can learn that culture speaks to the lack of communication and coordination I described e­ arlier. Audre also recognizes that as a ­woman of color she occupies an impor­tant symbolic place on ­t hese committees. Her attempts to share information or participate remain unfulfilling b­ ecause of her unequal status as a ju­n ior faculty member and ­because of the sense that it is her physical presence on diversity committees, rather than her ideas, that seem most impor­tant to the institution. ­T hese frustrations ultimately led Audre to quit ­doing diversity committee work entirely. I want to close this section of the chapter with excerpts from my interview with Richard, DU’s multicultural affairs officer and its highest-­ ranking diversity worker. In his office, just down the hallway from the  office of DU’s chancellor and academic provost, Richard candidly expressed his frustrations with diversity’s organ­i zation at DU, especially when it comes to improving minority faculty hiring and retention rates: I would like for all t­ hese committees and departments ­here to realize  without being told that their faculty ­doesn’t represent the state that this university is serving. We need to get to that level. I’ve seen where w ­ e’ve gotten to that level in some places. But sustaining that level is a challenge too. The challenge is certainly bigger than this administration. We realize, administratively, we need to put pro­cesses in place to help t­ hose individuals and departments realize this without being told by us. So that their work is lasting. But it



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looks like ­we’re just able to make temporary fixes. Then new ­people come in, a new chair comes in, and many times we just have to start all over.

Richard’s candidness reveals several t­ hings. First, the fact that committees and departments do not realize “without being told” that they are not reflective of the state they serve suggests that DU’s goals and strategy for achieving ­t hose goals are not clear for every­one on the ground. Second, Richard notes the failure of the administration to establish clear pro­cesses that would help make the goals and the strategies for achieving ­t hose goals clearer and more attainable. Fi­nally, Richard describes an orga­n izational culture in which, when someone of significance leaves—­a chair or a dedicated faculty member—­few participants, if any, remain to pick up the baton: “Many times we just have to start all over.” This statement speaks directly to the shared sentiment among t­ hose I interviewed that, despite their hard work and genuine efforts, nothing ever changes. Decentralization and Condensation in Tandem Decentralization plays a complex role in reproducing or maintaining in­equality. I have argued in this chapter that despite public commitments to the contrary, DU’s orga­n izational structure prohibits well-­ meaning actors from making meaningful changes to how power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­making are distributed across campus. The culture at DU—­from its official texts and statements to the attitudes and beliefs of t­hose on the ground—­promotes a common definition of diversity that serves as a catchall for all forms of ­human difference. The cultural logic of diversity at DU effectively collapses, or condenses, the material significance of race, ethnicity, and gender with other aspects of difference that do not have l­egal protections or the same kind of material consequences for ­people’s everyday lives. The combination of condensation with decentralization—­the lack of coordination among diversity workers, insufficient regulations governing diversity

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work, lack of responsiveness across the campus to ongoing concerns, poor observational capabilities among diversity workers and campus leadership, and a shared frustration—­produces an ironic outcome: a general sense that  diversity work is happening across campus b­ ecause of how poorly defined diversity is at DU, while at the same time a general belief among diversity workers that ­ l ittle if anything actually ever changes ­because they are unable to see or understand what o ­ thers are actually d­ oing across campus. Admittedly, my analy­sis falls short of showing a causal relationship between condensation and decentralization. I cannot say conclusively which comes first, or that one condition necessarily creates the context for the other to emerge. However, this does not mean that a general theory, or framework, cannot be advanced. In general, one could imagine a centralized diversity initiative that fails to provide a clear, race-­conscious understanding of diversity. This is due in large part to the fact that color blindness, diversity ideology, and hollow multiculturalism form the lingua franca for how Americans think and talk about race in the twenty-­ first ­century.18 ­T hese discourses and ideas interpellate our organ­i zations and institutions and subsequently structure the rules and pro­cesses that govern their activities. Colleges and universities, interpellated with t­ hese dominant discursive structures, are altered and ­shaped by them so as to conform to them. They not only absorb the dominant language of race; they also reflect (and reinforce) this hegemony through their ongoing activities.19 It is also not hard to imagine a race-­conscious diversity initiative that operates ­u nder a decentralized system like that at DU. Recall that educational organ­izations are, in general, loosely coupled systems.20 While loosely coupled systems can promote f­ ree inquiry and autonomy—­h ighly valued features of the acad­emy—­t hey also can limit the ability of units and actors to coordinate their activities, develop shared goals and strategies, and achieve similar outcomes. Even if condensation ­were reduced



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or eliminated at DU, it is likely that the decentralized organ­ization of diversity work would fail to produce transformative change. What we can say, then, is that the coupling of condensation with decentralization makes for a much more potent diversity regime than ­either of t­ hose features on their own. When t­ hese two mechanisms are put into ser­v ice with one another—­when diversity’s meaning is flattened and when its orga­ n izational structure is loose, un­ co­ or­ d i­ nated, and un­regu­la­ted—­inequalities become more deeply embedded and remain unchallenged. Absent a clear orga­n izational mandate for diversity, most units and orga­n izational actors fall back on a vague and ambiguous belief in diversity’s overall importance to the mission of the university, but they lack specificity in what the importance actually is. B ­ ecause ­there is no clear orga­n izational mandate, this shared belief fails to ­elevate beyond a general commitment—­a “commitment to a commitment.”21 Meanwhile, vari­ous units and actors perform diversity work on behalf of the institution, and the orga­n izational schema of decentralization leads to a sense that every­one on campus is operating in­de­pen­dent from one another. Diversity workers themselves remain diligent in their efforts to improve the campus climate through any number of ways, yet they demonstrate ­l ittle specific knowledge of ­others’ activities elsewhere on campus. Decentralization provides few opportunities for them to convene together and discuss their efforts, including what is working and what is not. The structural isolation of diversity workers is compounded by the fact that they have few direct lines of communication with campus leadership to voice their concerns. Indeed, my fieldwork and interviews found that that decentralization redistributes responsibility for redressing racial in­equality away from campus leadership, placing it at the feet of diversity workers. The only work required of campus leadership in a decentralized model is to profess a belief in diversity’s importance, including its importance in addressing racial in­equality. The work of

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putting into place a coordinated plan of action and structure falls on the shoulders of individual units and actors. As a result, the disconnect between what diversity workers need from campus leadership and what support they receive leads to growing frustration with the entire pro­ cess. The autonomy granted through decentralization comes at the expense of poor institutional oversight, poor observational abilities on the behalf of upper administrators, ­little if any coordination between departments and divisions, and, perhaps most importantly, no clear goal or consensus coming from the top. Ultimately, the tandem of condensation and decentralization inhibits DU’s ability to make significant pro­ gress t­ oward reducing racial inequalities on its campus. ­T here is a cruel irony at play in all of this. The lack of consensus on what diversity is, and the lack of a clear orga­n izational goal for putting it into motion, means that no ­matter what individual units and actors do, they never fail to do diversity. B ­ ecause diversity’s condensation gives it an endless supply of meanings and attributes, any effort to produce diversity constitutes a successful one. Furthermore, each attempt to put diversity into practice, even in isolation from the o ­ thers, functions to reaffirm the institution’s commitment to this nebulous idea without the accountability to produce significant change in how the campus does its work. Indeed, decentralization provides the means through which DU can absorb e­ very individual unit’s initiative as a separate and distinct effort. The result is a seemingly endless inventory of diversity efforts across campus. This inventory impresses upon the public a perception that DU is making pro­g ress ­toward racial equity ­because they can literally count all of the efforts taking place across campus. W ­ hether or how ­these efforts relate to one another, or w ­ hether they accomplish anything beyond signaling a commitment, is less impor­tant than w ­ hether they tell the story of DU’s commitment to diversity and inclusion that DU wants to tell.

5

Staging Difference, Performing Diversity

This chapter centers on the challenges and frustrations of diversity workers as they try to put diversity into practice. In chapter 3, I described how DU’s diversity discourse constrains practical action both in how it ambiguously defines diversity and in what it subsequently prescribes. At DU, diversity is an ill-­defined commitment with unclear goals, targets, and timetables. When organ­izations have poorly defined goals and fail to provide clear guidance and oversight for achieving them, it leads to frustration among orga­n izational actors as they strug­gle to meet ­these goals.1 Throughout my fieldwork, I encountered students, faculty, and staff who felt cynical ­toward DU’s diversity initiative. Some described DU’s commitment to diversity as l­ittle more than lip ser­v ice. Gail, the director of DU’s Institute for Racial Justice, described DU’s diversity ­initiative as “superficial bullshit.” In chapter 4, I argued that the shared frustrations among diversity workers—­the feeling that nothing ever changes—­a re both an indicator and an effect of DU’s decentralized structure. Diversity’s condensation compounds this frustration. Not only do diversity workers strug­g le to make meaning from a poorly defined institutional objective, but they also must try to implement that poorly defined objective while operating in­de­pen­dently and with ­little institutional support or guidance. This raises an impor­tant issue. Diversity is indeed vague, abstract, and poorly defined at DU, yet the institution expresses a very clear commitment to diversity, what­ever diversity may mean. The commitment is pervasive across official texts and is widely recognized by actors on the ground. Furthermore, the commitment is often tethered in official texts and individual actors’ use to ongoing programming, bridging the relationship between diversity discourse and diversity programming. The 115

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first paragraph of the Diversity Action Plan (DAP) states that DU “is committed to diversity in all aspects of its interpretation.” Beginning on page twelve, it then lists an inventory of existing programming that it claims demonstrates this ongoing commitment. Many of t­ hese programs are managed by or involve the same diversity workers who relayed to me their personal frustrations with the work they do, the level of support they receive, and the degree to which their work makes a concrete difference on campus. How do we reconcile this incongruence between the expressed ­commitment to diversity and the shared belief that this commitment is disingenuous? In this chapter, I frame the institutional commitment to diversity as a kind of performative culture in order to critically assess what it accomplishes as well as what it fails to accomplish. My use of performative culture ­here derives from a rich lit­er­a­t ure that defines performativity as a discursive power that, through reiteration, produces the very t­hings it seeks to control.2 I describe the performative culture of diversity at DU as staging difference. Staging difference refers to the repetitive and strategic use of race as a mechanism for institutionalizing DU’s commitment to diversity. Staging difference includes, but is not ­limited to, the constant push for new programs, most of which are managed and attended by men and ­women of color; the tendency of the institution to respond to racist incidents or criticisms with statements that reaffirm the institution’s commitment; and the shared expectation that minority men and ­women ­w ill help do diversity work on behalf of the university, which then serves as evidence of the university’s commitment. Staging difference is both constituted by, and constitutes, a diversity regime. Diversity’s condensation and decentralization lead to cynicism among diversity workers. In tandem, ­t hese two pro­cesses work to reconfigure diversity—­a nd antiracism more broadly—as simply a commitment to liberal values and ideals, rather than a mechanism for reor­g a­n iz­i ng and redistributing power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­making.3 Staging difference enables DU to



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demonstrate its commitment to poorly defined ideals through any number of seemingly disconnected practices across campus: campus forums on race and racism, ethnic food festivals, events celebrating vari­ous “heritages,” military veteran recruitment and retention programs, and the creation of freshmen interest communities (e.g., “emerging leaders” and “STEM”). Staging difference recasts diversity as a series of rhetorical and symbolic gestures that, though appealing to multiple campus publics, do nothing to reduce racial in­equality. DU’s performative culture of diversity both constitutes and is constituted by its diversity regime. In practice, “­doing diversity” at DU leads to increased ser­v ice demands upon minority faculty, staff, and students. With ­t hose increased ser­v ice demands often comes increased emotional ­labor; faculty and staff working on race and racism are often “first responders” for students and colleagues facing racial hostility.4 At the same time, “­doing diversity” has significant value for the university. DU can point to its faculty and staff on the front lines as evidence of the institution’s commitment to creating a welcoming and inclusive space. Meanwhile, t­hose ­doing the work receive ­little, if anything, in return. This system of exploitation, a product of DU’s performative culture, advantages whites over nonwhites. DU does not call upon whites or even expect whites to perform diversity work at the rate of their minority colleagues. Whites, then, are absolved of the same responsibility to improve campus equity with which their minority colleagues are tasked. Performative Diversity DU clearly has a commitment to diversity, yet as I showed in chapter 3, it is unclear what this commitment actually means. For some, it is a commitment to “an openness to whoever you are, what­ever you are, and what­ever you are trying to be” (Kelly, white professor). For ­others, the commitment is to “diverse experiences, values, systems, beliefs, perspectives, that ­people bring as a result of their identity differences” (Gail, administrator). ­T hese broad interpretations of diversity suggest that

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diversity has not been institutionalized at DU, meaning that diversity is not a well-­established norm within DU’s orga­n izational culture. I argue, however, that while ­there is a general lack of agreement on just what diversity is, DU’s official text makes it clear that the institution is committed to it. The institutionalization of DU’s commitment to diversity as a poorly defined construct lays the foundation for diversity’s performative culture. Cultural theorist Sara Ahmed analyzes diversity discourse within British and Australian institutions of higher education. She argues that the institutional commitments—­t hose that exist in the official texts—­a re performative in that they bring about what they name.5 When a college or university declares its commitment to anything, that institution creates the very idea to which it claims commitment. When DU declares in the DAP that it “has made a commitment to embrace and encourage diversity of all forms” b­ ecause “it is the right ­t hing to do,” the university positions itself as an honorable, fair, and just institution ­because of this commitment. This enables DU to dismiss existing inequalities and its complicity in them by claiming that its values, and its commitment to them, are clearly antiracist and antithetical to t­ hose inequalities. When, for example, three students at DU vandalized a monument to its first African American student, DU claimed that t­ hese students ­were just “a few bad apples” and in no way reflective of the institution’s values, ­because the institution is committed to “the dignity and re­spect of each person.” Importantly, Ahmed’s analy­sis demonstrates that institutional commitments to diversity are also nonperformative acts. On the one hand, the creation of ­t hese ideas leads to the perception that the university is defined by its commitments. On the other hand, the creation of ­these ideas entails the minimization and obscuring of material conditions that run c­ ounter to t­ hose definitions. In this way, a commitment to diversity “in all its forms” b­ ecause “it is the right t­ hing to do” avoids responsibility for the racism and in­equality that are rampant across campus. If the per-



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formative aspect of discourse is the reiterative and citational practice by which discourse produces the effects that it names, the nonperformative aspect of discourse is the reiterative and citational practices by which a discourse does not produce the effects that it names. Indeed, the discourse fails to produce the effects it names ­because all that is institutionalized is the commitment, not the material changes necessary for the commitment to produce the effects it names. How does a commitment to diversity become a nonperformative act? The repetition and circulation of the commitment in official diversity discourse is key h ­ ere. The repetition and circulation of “diversity,” and the closely associated term “inclusion,” accumulates positive value simply by being pre­sent across institutional materials.6 The repetition and circulation of diversity throughout the institution’s discourse becomes a marker of diversity’s action as well as its virtue. B ­ ecause the commitment is reiterated everywhere, it is valued. That value then becomes a substitute for concrete action to combat existing in­equality. The DAP, a ninety-­six page document I analyzed in chapter 3 for its condensation of diversity, focuses explic­itly on diversity. Meanwhile the Strategic Action Plan (SAP), at 226 pages, is a more general strategic vision for the university. Nevertheless, the SAP includes diversity among the university’s core planning princi­ples, making it appropriate for further analy­sis. Across both documents, “diversity” appears nearly three hundred times, or roughly once per page on average. Excluding instances in which diversity references a job title or specific event, the majority of  the remaining references are to DU’s commitment or dedication to diversity. DU has “a long-­standing commitment” to diversity; DU is “committed to diversity”; DU places an “emphasis on diversity into all aspects of the university”; and DU “re­spects,” “supports,” and “celebrates” diversity. In sum, this repetitive citation shields the university from having to confront the more concrete realities of its institution: poor retention rates for African American students and tenure-­track faculty, a sizeable gender pay gap across occupations and ranks, and a

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per­sis­tent lack of minority men and w ­ omen in positions of power and decision-­making. References to DU’s commitment to diversity are nearly ubiquitous. Across twenty-­t hree separate official texts, I counted nearly two hundred explicit mentions of DU’s commitment to diversity. Among ­t hose sources I analyzed are the bylaws for the state governing board to which DU’s administration reports. In its bylaws, the state governing board mentions its commitment to diversity three separate times. First, it promises to obtain national recognition for “its commitment to affordability, accessibility, and accountability.” Second, it promises for its member institutions “a commitment to ethnic and gender diversity.” Fi­nally, in the paragraph entitled “Diversity Statement,” the board “recognizes the importance of campus environments to promote diversity and ensure that all aspects of institutional practice affirm our commitment to access and success, with par­tic­u ­lar attention to heightening participation and achievement of underrepresented individuals, as defined by each institution and approved by the [board].” Like other public institutions in the state, DU takes its cues from the state governing board. In both the DAP and the SAP, DU declares it “has made a commitment to embrace and encourage diversity of all forms.” It then explains, “That is why we have de­c ided not to simply follow ­others in promoting diversity, but to truly champion the quest for diversity in all of our endeavors.” The use of pre­sent perfect verbs in both documents indicates that DU’s commitment itself was an action already taken. Additionally, both documents use boundary work to draw distinctions between DU’s own commitment and the commitment of other colleges and universities. DU ­w ill not just promote diversity; it promises to “truly champion the quest for diversity” in all of its activities. Boundary work largely refers to the conceptual distinctions we make between categories of objects, ­people, and practices.7 Previous research shows how social actors draw upon values and ideals to make classed and ethnoracial distinctions between “us”



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and “them.”8 Other research examines professions and disciplines that make use of bound­aries in their competition for legitimacy, expertise, and jurisdiction.9 To ­these I would add that organ­izations themselves, as cultural actors, make similar moral and symbolic distinctions between themselves and other similar organ­izations. ­There is no discernable difference between “promoting diversity” and “champion[ing] the quest for diversity.” Yet DU draws a distinction, or boundary, between the two in order to demonstrate the supposed strength of its own commitment. While ­others have seemingly only promoted diversity, DU promises to champion it in all of its activities. This kind of boundary work is far more impor­tant for what it conveys about the institution than for what it actually achieves. DU also employs boundary work in the distinctions it draws between its past and its pre­sent. In the introduction to the DAP, the university acknowledges its racist history, including its prohibition against nonwhite students for its first one hundred years. It then asks, “How does one take this dark past and convincingly tell the nation, and prospective minority students, that the institution’s past stance no longer defines its current thinking, and that t­oday minorities are welcomed on the campus?” H ­ ere the university makes clear that its present-­d ay organ­ization and campus culture are distinctly dif­fer­ent—­a nd improved—­f rom ­t hose of its preintegration past. Though the DAP acknowledges that this question has no easy answer, the university pivots t­ oward its commitment as a concrete action meant to demonstrate the line between who it was and who it is, declaring that “we address it daily through our clear commitment to pro­g ress.” Yet if a commitment is defined as a state or quality of being dedicated to something, and if pro­g ress is defined as a movement ­toward a goal, then all that is accomplished h ­ ere discursively is an abstract promise to an abstract movement. It is a nonperformative act in that its reiterative and citational practices surrounding its commitment do not produce the effects that it names ­because all that is institutionalized is the commitment.

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Like the DAP, the SAP also makes use of DU’s past as a way to define itself against its past and reaffirm its ongoing commitment to diversity. In its section detailing diversity as a core planning princi­ple, the SAP states that understanding DU’s past and “its commitment to taking institutional owner­ship of that history are distinctive” for the university. H ­ ere DU draws a distinction between itself and other colleges and universities with similar legacies of institutionalized racism. That DU considers its approach as one that takes owner­ship of its history makes it, in its view, distinctive. We are left to think that other colleges and universities have not taken similar owner­ship.10 Left unsaid is what “owner­ship” means h ­ ere. The SAP does not define it, nor does it provide any concrete way of assessing “owner­ship” in ­f uture actions. Instead, the SAP states that a “commitment to providing access to all our programs . . . ​a nd academic support for all undergraduates is a direct result of this legacy.” In other words, “owner­ ship” is defined by its ongoing commitment. H ­ ere DU calls forth what it is—­committed to diversity—by way of repetition and citation. But the repetition and citation of its commitment fail to produce transformative change ­because all that is called forth is the commitment. The commitment to diversity then is both performative and nonperformative. It is not uncommon for organ­izations to use their official texts to make claims about the values they seek to uphold. However, when the commitment to the value is discursively represented as an action that demonstrates the organ­ization’s commitment to said value, it is nothing more than tautology. For example, in the “Objectives” section for “Diversity as a Planning Princi­ple,” the SAP states that DU ­w ill address its underrepre­sen­ta­tion of minority students by “continuing our commitment to promoting diversity.” H ­ ere the response to a lack of repre­sen­ta­tional diversity is nothing more than reaffirming the commitment to diversity! Elsewhere in the same section, the SAP states that as part of its objective “to make the DU experience robust, inclusive, and vibrant,” it w ­ ill center its Core Values Statement (CVS) in order to “build and support a diverse, welcoming, civil, and socially responsible community.” What



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does it mean, though, to claim that a statement of values is capable of building and supporting an inclusive community? The SAP claims that the CVS “expresses DU’s commitment to respecting and celebrating individual diversity and supports DU’s mission of providing educational opportunities to all, as a central component of our campus life.” ­Because the CVS expresses DU’s commitment to “respecting and celebrating individual diversity,” then centering the CVS w ­ ill lead to the building and maintenance of a “diverse, welcoming, civil, and socially responsible community.” Once again, the commitment is framed as the transformative action that calls into being what it names. And, once again, all that is called into being is the commitment itself, rather than any tangible or material transformation. It is worth saying more about the CVS and its relationship to the performative component of staging difference at DU. Officially, the DAP is the university’s diversity statement, yet just one diversity worker with whom I spoke correctly identified it as such. Every­one ­else identified the CVS as the university’s diversity statement. Richard, the multicultural affairs officer at DU and coauthor of the DAP, identified the CVS and the DAP as the university’s diversity statement. Minnie, the director of DU’s Center for Diversity, said, “Honestly, ­there’s no official diversity statement that I am aware of. . . . ​However, through the university’s CVS, it talks about diversity. So it is outlined in the core values of the university.” When DU unveiled its new campus diversity website in 2016, the first picture on the homepage showed three students standing together with the caption “Students show their support of the CVS.” On the homepage ­t here is a box containing a link to DU’s institutional diversity documents. Clicking the link takes viewers to a page where the CVS is prominently featured along with the mission statement from the DAP. In addition to its centering on the campus diversity website, the CVS is quoted verbatim in the introduction to the DAP. If the CVS is a diversity statement, it is not just a diversity statement. Developed by a task force of students, faculty, staff, and alumni in 2002,

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its aim is to articulate and promote DU’s core values and mission. According to the cochair of the committee that drafted the CVS, it is “a reminder of who we are.” The CVS affirms the following values, in no par­t ic­u ­lar order: re­spect for the dignity of each person, fairness, civility, personal integrity, professionalism, academic honesty and freedom, and fiscal responsibility. While some values reflect affirmations ­toward diversity, ­others speak to ­t hings entirely unrelated. Importantly, how the CVS is used calls into being a par­t ic­u ­lar understanding of DU, and its relationship to diversity, that fails to meaningfully address racial in­equality on campus. Institutional leadership and event participants referenced the CVS at e­ very diversity-­related program I attended. It was often written or posted on whiteboards at the front of a room, or given as a handout to participants when they entered. Organizers frequently began events by reciting the CVS aloud, prefacing it by stating, “I want to remind every­ one of our CVS.” One of the more memorable instances of its use as a performative instrument for diversity took place the night ­a fter a serious incident of racial vio­lence. Student groups had or­g a­n ized a candlelight vigil at the steps of the main administrative building. I arrived around six o ­ ’clock in the eve­ ning, just before it began. More than seven hundred faculty, students, and staff ­were huddled together, facing the front entrance to the building. Student organizers ­were handing out small flyers with the CVS written on them. On the steps stood the chancellor, the student organizers, and staff from the Institute for Racial Justice. ­A fter welcoming the crowd, the student organizers asked the chancellor to give some opening remarks. Taking the microphone, he began by asking the large crowd that had gathered to collectively read aloud the CVS in order to affirm the university’s commitment to an inclusive and safe environment. The crowd did so. Upon finishing, he asked the crowd to read it again—­a nd then once more. The ritual-­like recitation of the CVS made clear its ­performative function. By reading it aloud not once or twice but three consecutive times, the university (represented by t­hose gathered) was



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calling into existence its state of commitment to diversity and inclusion. Yet at the same time, the ritual recitation of the CVS failed to call into action anything that would fundamentally alters existing social relations between whites and nonwhites on campus. Upon the conclusion of the event, the crowd returned to their dormitories or vehicles, and the campus slept. If a university becomes what­ever it declares as its commitments, then it is our responsibility as scholars and academic laborers to ask how t­ hese commitments may help conceal the material conditions and relations of the institution.11 What are we to make of commitments to diversity, inclusion, or equity in the face of open racial hostility and conflict, or declining enrollment and retention rates for African American students, or woefully underrepresented minority faculty and administrators? To be clear, some structures in place at DU and other colleges and universities have had marginal success in increasing minority repre­sen­ta­t ion or minorities’ access to resources and opportunities. Kwame, an African American man and alumnus of DU, worked for a short time in student affairs before transferring to a dif­fer­ent unit that assists minority students from disadvantaged backgrounds in their transition from high school to the university. Kwame also serves as staff advisor to an African American male initiative program he helped start that aims to increase the retention rates of its participants.12 Programs like ­these, of which ­there are a handful at DU, help provide mentorship and professional development for African American students, both men and w ­ omen. ­A frican Americans helm of each of t­hese programs, and most of the ­programs are the brainchild of t­ hose diversity workers. My own observations indicate that ­t hese programs overwhelmingly rely upon the sweat and toil of t­ hese individual workers who lead them. Broader university support comes in the form of “commitments” to the programs, but rarely increased material support. When material support is offered, it is usually insufficient to allow them to expand their ser­v ices, hire more staff, or increase the number of participants. Many diversity workers see DU’s

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institutional support as tokenism. By and large, diversity workers at DU characterize DU’s commitment as a nonperformative act, though they do not use that specific language. Examining diversity in practice, including diversity workers’ perceptions about diversity in practice, helps clarify its performative function at DU. Staging Difference, in Practice Recall that “staging difference” refers to the repetitive and strategic use of race as a mechanism for institutionalizing DU’s commitment to diversity. While the above analy­sis focused on its discursive mechanisms, staging difference is not just a discursive phenomenon. It is also a ­matter of orga­ nizational practice. Staging difference includes the formation of programs, offices, and even new positions meant to reflect DU’s commitment to diversity. Staging difference also includes how, when, and why the institution asks minority faculty, staff, and students to do diversity work. In the spring of 2014 a major incident of racial vio­lence occurred on DU’s campus. Amid growing outrage from minority students, pressure from minority faculty and staff, and the spotlight from national media coverage, DU’s administration accelerated its diversity initiative. Following the recommendations of a large ad hoc committee comprised of faculty and staff, DU hired two outside con­sul­tants to evaluate DU’s architecture of diversity and inclusion.13 The con­sul­tants completed their work in the summer of 2014 and issued reports that the chancellor shared with the university by way of a lengthy letter. In it, the chancellor responded at length to each of the con­sul­tants’ six recommendations and outlined an action plan based on ­those recommendations. The recommendations ­were for DU to do the following: 1. Hire a chief diversity officer. 2. Establish a portfolio model of diversity. 3. Deal squarely with the issue of race while also addressing other dimensions of diversity.



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4. Require a formal and symbolic dedication of all new students to the ideals of inclusion and fairness. 5. Offer more historical context on DU’s racist and exclusionary history. 6. Divest itself from all attachments to Confederate iconography, including the university moniker. Almost immediately, DU began to work on the first recommendation. The chancellor commissioned a search committee in the fall of 2015 for a chief diversity officer. The committee was cochaired by DU’s academic provost and Richard, its multicultural affairs officer. They invited more than thirty faculty, staff, students, local residents, and distinguished alumni to join the committee. The committee was tasked with creating a job title, writing a job description, and writing a job advertisement. The large size of the committee is unusual for academic searches, and many with whom I spoke found this counterproductive. But just as concerning as the size of the search committee was who was conspicuously absent from it. Minnie, the director of the new Center for Diversity, was not invited to take part. Minnie knew of the search and that it was ongoing, but she was never briefed on the pro­cess or its status at the time that we spoke. Surprisingly, it was common knowledge that her center would be restructured under­neath the new chief diversity officer once the position was filled. During the search pro­cess, I spoke with three members of its committee: Justin, from athletics; Essence, the gradu­ate student who worked at the Center for Diversity; and JB, the president of the African American gradu­ate student association at DU. While Jason seemed confident that the search committee would be able to complete its pro­cess, Essence and JB ­were less convinced. All three, however, spoke about the difficulty they experienced in achieving consensus among such a large group. Committee members disagreed over what responsibilities the new position should entail (responsibilities for students versus responsibilities for faculty and staff) and w ­ hether the job advertisement should be written

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for someone with an academic background or someone who is more of a “diversity practitioner,” as Justin put it.14 Justin, Essence, and JB each conveyed that the committee’s size and composition—­including distinguished alumni—­made them feel the pro­cess was more about symbolizing DU’s commitment to diversity than finding a qualified candidate to lead DU’s diversity initiative. JB was quite frank, telling me, “I d­ on’t even know how I was recruited. I think it’s b­ ecause I am the president of the black gradu­ate student association—­I suppose that’s how I got on the committee. . . . ​It’s a big committee. It’s the biggest committee I’ve ever heard of.” The committee was unable to reach a consensus on the position requirements, and the search ultimately failed.15 JB’s sense that his involvement had to do with his leadership role in an African American student organ­i zation reveals a common perception among diversity workers that how, when, and why they are asked to help the institution fulfill its commitment to diversity concerns institutionalizing that commitment more than creating structural and material transformation. While academic search committees range in size, they rarely exceed eight to ten members. Most departments recognize that too many cooks in the kitchen, so to speak, inhibits the hiring pro­cess. When DU convened a search committee of more than thirty actors from across campus as well as off-­campus, Justin, Essence, and JB understood that DU prioritized making its commitment to diversity clear and convincing to a viewing public. W ­ hether the search was successful or not, the very act of conducting the search became a performative instrument. In 2016, DU held a groundbreaking ceremony for an on-­campus garden for its eight Black Greek Letter organ­i zations (BGLO). Both the campus newspaper and the university’s public relations website quoted school administrators who claimed that the idea for the construction of the garden was “years in the making” and was intended to “celebrate the long-­term contributions” of BGLOs to DU. Both the campus newspaper and the university website noted that none of the BGLOs’ physical structures on campus compare to their white counter­parts. ­W hether inten-



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tional or not, the coverage of this event left the impression that the construction of the garden is equal to having on-­campus housing. The coverage in the newspaper and website also failed to acknowledge the historical context ­behind the absence of on-­campus housing for BGLOs. Several de­cades ago, a BGLO attempted to build a home for its members along DU’s traditional Greek Row. Construction was even completed over the summer. One month before the chapter was to move into the ­house, an arsonist set the structure ablaze. No arrest was ever made. Funds ­were raised across campus and elsewhere to rebuild the ­house. L ­ ater that semester, chapter members moved into their renovated home. However, in the early 2000s, the home was irreparably damaged by a major storm. Due to a change in university policy that chapter members claimed they ­were unaware of, the home lacked insurance. Unable to repair the home, membership ultimately vacated it. DU subsequently demolished the home. While no one associated with the garden ceremony mentioned this history, it lends impor­tant context to the garden’s construction. African American students once made a material investment to create their own space on campus that would support their own activities and well-­being. The university did not match this effort. Nearly three de­cades ­a fter the home was set ablaze, the university’s commissioning of a garden is the only tangible investment it has made in BGLOs on campus. Though aesthetically pleasing, a garden cannot serve as a site to hold meetings, to ­house t­ hose who may need shelter, or to feed ­t hose who may be hungry. The garden epitomizes the institutionalization of DU’s commitment and its performative culture of diversity. The construction of the garden does not require any material changes in how DU supports its minority student body. Like much of DU’s diversity initiative, the garden only has an aesthetic function. It comes as no surprise, then, that frustration and cynicism emerge among diversity workers as staging difference fails to produce material changes in how power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­making are distributed.

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Frustrations in the Field Frustration and cynicism commonly surfaced among the diversity workers with whom I spoke. They often directed their frustration t­oward campus administration for what diversity workers perceived as a lack of material support for their efforts. Cynicism, meanwhile, was most typically expressed through the belief that no ­matter what diversity workers did, ­things rarely improved across campus. Fi­nally, though nearly all twenty-­ seven diversity workers I formally interviewed shared ­ t hese ­sentiments, men and w ­ omen of color expressed a growing weariness with DU’s entire diversity initiative. Much of this weariness, I learned, resulted from the pressure placed upon them to perform the work of diversity for the rest of campus. In chapter 4 we met Audre, an African American w ­ oman and humanities professor. In our interview, Audre articulated her frustrations with DU’s diversity initiative, including her belief that it exploits the l­abor of men and ­women of color:

Audr e:  ​I think in terms of—­now I ­can’t speak for staffers, but in terms of faculty members—­I think the school was pretty supportive [of my diversity work]. So you know, I have been given leeway to speak out on issues of race and racism, and gender in­equality. But what I also realized is the school has a lot of currency with who I am and what I represent [emphasis mine]. And so that could also be a part of the reason why I’ve been allowed to voice certain concerns. B ­ ecause t­here is capital in having a black ­woman speak about race and gender.

JT:  ​You said the university has currency in what you represent. Can you tell me what you mean by that?

Audr e:  ​I thought that the university was happy to have a historian who does slavery and race and immigration. At least that’s what I was told by my department. But I realized soon on that the t­ hing most impor­tant to the university is that I am a black ­woman and I can speak on issues that pertain to black ­women. And so that’s



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pretty much what I’ve been invited to do on this campus. You know, I ­don’t mind speaking out about issues that pertain to black ­women. I think we are a marginalized segment of American society. But when you tell me that you appreciate my intelligence and my expertise and my training, and yet I’m only ever reduced to speaking about my experiences in the body I’m ­housed in, I also realize that for the university, I am a much more integral part to the diversity package that they want to try to sell to other ­people of color, or even progressive or liberal whites. And so that’s disheartening b­ ecause it makes me feel like maybe I’m not as good as I thought I was, b­ ecause they only want me to speak about being black and being a w ­ oman.

­Here Audre reveals how she and ­others like her experience the strategic use of black men and w ­ omen as “valuable resources.” Audre understands, and is critical of the fact, that DU “has a lot of currency with who I am and what I represent.” Even though she has earned a national reputation as a scholar of African American colonial history, Audre believes the university’s use of her talent and energy reduces her “to speaking about my experiences in the body I’m h ­ oused in.” For Audre, this strategic use of her talent and energy is exploitative. What DU gains from Audre’s participation is far greater than the value it creates for her. Indeed, Audre indicates her participation comes at an emotional and psychological cost, if not an economic one. Being reduced to speaking only about issues that pertain to her identity as an African American w ­ oman is not just unfulfilling—it is disheartening. From Audre’s perspective, this strategic use of her embodied difference reveals DU’s true motive: to sell the institutional commitment to diversity to a wider audience. Audre’s participation signals DU’s commitment to diversity and inclusivity, even though it does not result in transformative change. Martin is an African American man and assistant dean within one of DU’s professional schools. Martin was born and raised in the state in which DU is located and received his undergraduate education at DU in

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the early 2000s. ­A fter receiving his master’s degree in higher education administration at DU, he began working in its admissions office before moving over to DU’s honors program, then to his current position. At the time of our interview he had been an assistant dean for almost two years. In his current role, Martin advises organ­izations, manages orientation programs, facilitates ­career development, and helps actively recruit students from across the state to major in his professional program. Martin and I met in his office, a wide and open space complete with a sofa and chairs. Martin had been mentioned by many of t­hose I spoke with, formally and informally, as someone with whom I “should absolutely talk.” His time on campus both as a student and now staff, and the active roles he has had in implementing vari­ous diversity programming across campus, give Martin a perspective on DU’s diversity initiative that is nearly unmatched in its scale and scope: I remember coming h ­ ere [as a student] and thinking that . . . ​I knew I wanted to be a DU ambassador and give tours, b­ ecause that was a part of my own campus visit. I thought, “Wow, that was ­really cool that t­hese current DU students w ­ ere giving their time to show us around and make sure we felt comfortable and all that,” so I knew I wanted to do that. It was one of t­ hose situations where I call it a snowball effect. Being an ambassador led ­people to say, “Hey, you would be a good orientation leader.” And being in orientation led to being involved in what used to be called the student programming board. So it was sort of a snowball effect that I got involved in other ­t hings.

Our conversation soon turned ­toward Martin’s perceptions about DU’s commitment to diversity and inclusion. I asked Martin w ­ hether he has seen DU’s leadership taking charge of its diversity programming: I ­don’t see it necessarily. I guess if y­ ou’re talking about upper level administration, I d­ on’t see that ­t here. From what I see, t­ here are normally the same p­ eople pre­sent at ­t hese types of events. Our dean of



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students. Our assistant vice chancellor was ­t here. . . . ​I think a lot of times p­ eople view support as just being ­t here as opposed to playing an active role in the planning and implementation of ­those ­things. I think sometimes that comes from the idea that we have someone to do that so it could just be that they are relying on that person, which in a way I can almost understand that. You know ­you’ve got someone that ­you’ve hired in place to coordinate and facilitate ­these events, and you are in a role where you are ­doing a lot of other ­t hings, but then again I think if you want the message to be that we as an institution fully support diversity and inclusion programming, t­ here could be some opportunities for them to take a larger role in t­ hose areas.

Martin’s response echoes some of the concerns expressed by other diversity workers. Like Martin, ­others agreed that the same p­ eople show up to many of ­t hese events, but ­t hose ­people ­really do not provide much guidance or leadership over the events. While Martin acknowledges that this could be due to an orga­n izational belief that ­m iddle man­ag­ers and staff are responsible for implementation, Martin also suggests the upper administration could take on a bigger and more active role. From t­ here, I asked Martin if he has felt pressure as an African American man to do diversity work or to represent diversity for DU: In a number of ways, I think so—­especially when ­people see that you have a good rapport with students and that they expect you to sort of represent that with students. I was at lunch with some p­ eople t­ oday, and we ­were talking about being on search committees. I think that ­t here is pressure to do that ­because I personally get called on a lot to be on search committees. I just got off one. Well technically, I’m still on one. But I just got off of being on three search committees and then got called prob­ably two days ­later to be on another one.

Martin’s discussion of the number of search committees he has served on is a direct result of a policy decision made several years ago in response

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to concerns that minority men and ­women ­were not being given equal opportunities for employment. To remedy that, DU instituted a diversity requirement for hiring committees: at least one ­woman and one member of a racial or ethnic minority group needs to be on each hiring committee. Though well meaning, as Martin and I discuss below, the requirement places additional ser­v ice requirements on the few minority men and w ­ omen who work at DU. It has not actually led to any significant changes in the number of minority men or ­women hired at DU.

M a rtin:  ​I think t­here has to be an underrepresented person on ­every search committee. I think they might consider w ­ omen as underrepresented, so I think that if t­here’s a ­woman, but t­here has to be—­basically ­t here has to be a person of color.

JT:  ​So what happens in departments or divisions on campus where ­t here are few w ­ omen or ­people of color?

M a rtin:  ​I mean, they can call somebody from outside of the department.

JT:  ​What if a department has just one or two p­ eople of color? Is that person the one that serves on all of the search committees?

M a rtin:  ​Prob­ably, yeah. I mean I guess they could always say no. If that person says no, then the hiring committee would prob­ably have to go outside of the department. So for instance, even h ­ ere in the School of Engineering in terms of African American individuals, ­t here’s two of us—­myself and a faculty member. I would say that we are one of the most diverse areas just ­because we have lots of other ethnic groups that are involved ­here. But you might walk into another office on campus, like student affairs, where ­t here is no one that is represented. And ­t here’s always that weird feeling sometimes, and I know I felt that way. Like, “Am I ­here ­because you wanted me to be h­ ere, or am I h­ ere just to fill that quota of having that person in the room?” [emphasis mine]. Sometimes it’s a benefit to you ­because you get to do something or you



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­w ill get to be a part of something that you prob­ably w ­ ouldn’t have normally been a part of. But at the same time, you want to be something other than the black person in the room [emphasis mine]. But if you have the opportunity to have that voice, I think most ­people that I know would take advantage of t­ hose opportunities. Though, you know, I think we all know that it’s not fair to put that burden on one person to represent an entire race. But, you know, sometimes you have to shoulder that to be able to say that this is not ­really a good idea for us to do.

Martin’s response reveals his personal concerns with this policy. It also illustrates how a policy intended to institutionalize a commitment to diversity ultimately creates frustration for the groups of p­ eople it claims it serves. B ­ ecause DU lacks minority repre­sen­ta­t ion across many of its offices, divisions, and departments, the burden to fulfill the diversity requirement for its hiring committees falls on a relatively small number of primarily African American men and w ­ omen. In Martin’s case, more than one of the search committees he was involved with are outside of his own program ­because the hiring departments have no minority faculty or staff to fulfill the diversity requirement for their own committees. Martin’s response, on the one hand, tries to find the silver lining: by being on the committee, t­ here is the chance that he can influence some of its decision-­making. Yet Martin also won­ders aloud if he is being asked to serve on ­these committees ­because they value his input, or simply ­because he needs “to fill that quota of having that person in the room.” Martin’s response also indicates a certain fatigue with constantly being asked to do this work on behalf of the institution and even his own race.16 It is illuminating to compare and contrast Martin’s perception of this policy with that of Marcia, a white w ­ oman and the director of DU’s EEO office. I asked Marcia to weigh in on the university’s diversity requirement for hiring committees and the perception that it places an additional ser­v ice burden upon minority faculty and staff:

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JT:  ​To what extent does this requirement for hiring committees become a tax? You know, the policy that search committees . . .

M a rci a:  ​ . . . ​must be diverse. JT:  ​Must be diverse, yes. But when you are in a department that ­doesn’t have diversity, or has very l­ ittle of it, then the one or two members who are racially or ethnically diverse end up performing a lot of that work disproportionate to their peers. So for me I think about it just in terms of the s­ imple substitution effect. For ­every hour that faculty spend reading over job packets, that’s an hour they are not spending ­toward publications. So I am wondering how the organ­i zation can think to resolve that kind of issue, right?

M a rci a:  ​Yeah, and I d­ on’t have a silver bullet. I wish I did. We tried to think, “Okay, what can we do to accommodate that?” ­Because I think it is impor­tant that you have a diverse group of p­ eople making ­those se­lections. One of the ­things that we suggest is, look at your gradu­ate student population. You know, every­body that is on a search committee d­ oesn’t have to be what you would consider an authority figure or a major decision-­maker, ­because you are making a judgment about p­ eople that are g­ oing to come in that are ­going to impact a lot of groups on campus. So part of the diversity is that not every­body on a tenured faculty search has to be a tenured faculty member. Now you want some, certainly. And in fact some of the schools from vari­ous positions ­w ill include a gradu­ate student on that search committee. Which is a g­ reat diversity issue in and of itself w ­ hether it’s ethnically, racially, or gender diverse, you have a w ­ hole dif­fer­ent view of the world, which is terrific. So we do encourage ­people to go outside your department, not necessarily to just find a minority female, but to go outside your department or groups that you have interdependencies with and if ­t here’s diversity that you can bring in from t­hose groups, that’s good input too. We recently had a



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search for a Title IX coordinator. In that committee, of course, we are a small group. So we had to go outside our office b­ ecause we c­ ouldn’t pull a committee together. We looked for the groups that we have a lot of interaction and interdependencies with. Campus police, vio­lence prevention, athletics, conflict management. So t­ hose w ­ ere the ­people that we brought together to help us identify candidates for the Title IX coordinator ­because not only did we need someone that understands Title IX, but we needed to be able to have someone that understands t­ hese other groups and can get a sense for how they can work with them and they could work with us. So g­ oing outside your immediate group is another way to achieve diversity. And this ­doesn’t happen often, but we have even brought in ­people that ­weren’t with the university but that had some type of strong interde­pen­dency with the group that was ­doing the hiring. So sometimes you have to kind of stretch and get a l­ ittle creative. But it is an issue. God bless Justin [the athletics administrator]! I d­ on’t know how many search committees that man has been on. He could be a poster child for that!

Marcia’s response, like Martin’s, acknowledges the deficiencies in the diversity requirement for hiring committees. She even brings up the example of Justin from athletics, describing him as the “poster child” for increased ser­v ice obligations on account of simply being a member of a minority group. Yet Marcia’s response also illuminates how the discursive feature of diversity regimes—­ t heir condensation of diversity—­ structures orga­n izational policies meant to create a more diverse workforce. For Marcia, an acceptable workaround to better accommodate over­burdened racial and ethnic minorities is to simply consider other ele­ ments of diversity in the formation of hiring committees: every­thing from the status of committee members (gradu­ate students versus full-­ time faculty), to ­people who are not even employed by the university!

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Marcia does not seem to recognize, at least from our interview, how this conception of diversity renders the very purpose of the policy meaningless. If the point of including racial and ethnic minorities is to increase the likelihood of hiring racial and ethnic minorities, then expanding the meaning of diversity to include ­t hings unrelated to racial and ethnic difference also decreases any likelihood that the search results in the hiring of more racial and ethnic minorities. Returning to my interview with Martin, we further explored the disproportionate amount of diversity work performed by racial and ethnic minorities, what has been coined a “black tax” or “brown tax”:

JT:  ​In your time h­ ere, have you noticed w ­ hether diversity work done on this campus is performed by lots of dif­fer­ent ­people, or does it tend to be performed by the same core set of p­ eople?

M a rtin:  ​I think it tends to be performed by the same sort of core group of ­people. Again, I think ­there is two dif­fer­ent sets of ­people that are involved. ­T here’s some p­ eople on campus who like to say a lot of stuff, but then when they actually have to engage, then they ­don’t want to do the work part of it. They want to say, “Oh, this is not happening, we are not d­ oing this.” And when you ask them to come to this meeting or come to be a part of this, then it’s all, “Oh, I ­don’t have time to do that, I ­don’t have time.” But then you have other p­ eople that may not even say ­t hose ­t hings or ­w ill engage in the work that’s necessary to be done. I could give you—­ I mean, I ­ don’t know if that’s appropriate—­but I could give you names of about seven or eight ­people who, any time ­t here is some kind of diversity effort, particularly involving African American individuals, they are called upon to be in the room or to participate. And it’s just sort of that—­a lot of it’s just ­because they know you care about that kind of ­t hing. But at the same time, you are almost sort of worked to



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death trying to do it. We call it “the usual suspects.” It’s like you know that when [a major incident] happened on campus, I said ­t here was g­ oing to be an email and we w ­ ere ­going to be called to a meeting. And it’s ­going to be me and ­t hese other ­people. And of course . . .

JT:  ​You ­were ­t here, Richard [multicultural affairs officer] was t­ here, Ella [student affairs] was t­ here . . .

M a rtin:  ​Yeah. And a few other p­ eople. And it’s just like the same group of ­people that are always called. I mean, obviously sometimes you’ll see new ­people come in by virtue of positions they hold. Or sometimes whenever new faculty members come in, they ­w ill try to engage t­hose ­people. Or new staff members, they try to engage t­ hose ­people as well. But ultimately you have folks that have been ­here for a long time that ­they’re always ­going to call.

Martin’s response describes a campus in which the burden to perform diversity work is not only made formal through official policies like the diversity requirement for hiring committees, but also through informal  expectations placed upon select minority faculty and staff—­what he  calls “the usual suspects.” T ­ hese individuals, with most of whom I  spoke, are constantly asked to demonstrate the university’s commitment to diversity. This work is burdensome, and it does not provide tangible benefits to t­ hose who do it. As Kwame, the African American man who works in student affairs, told me, “Most of my work is not what I get paid for. . . . ​It’s not in my job description. But if I d­ idn’t do it, who would?” ­There is a vicious cycle apparent in all of this. DU’s emphasis on institutionalizing a commitment requires that certain actors be convinced, cajoled, or compelled to demonstrate this commitment for a variety of publics on and off campus. This demonstration is even codified into

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policy, as shown by the example of the diversity requirement for hiring committees. This demonstration, part of what I term “staging difference,” puts additional burdens on racial and ethnic minorities in comparison to their white peers. The “usual suspects” are frequently called to assist in institutionalizing DU’s commitment to diversity in a way that benefits  DU but does not confer any benefits upon themselves. Indeed, the reward for serving on one committee is, according to Martin and o ­ thers, being asked to serve on additional committees! The more work they perform, the more entrenched the commitment to diversity becomes. Ironically, the more work they perform, the more the status quo remains. The more the status quo remains, the more likely certain kinds of events happen on campus that require DU to demonstrate its public commitment, and DU w ­ ill increasingly call upon its “usual suspects” to perform that commitment. In this way, a diversity regime prevails, and racial in­equality is maintained. ­Toward the end of my interview with Marcia, I asked for her thoughts on what Martin and ­others ­were conveying to me about the disproportionate amount of diversity work performed by minority men and ­women across campus.

JT:  ​As you kind of look across campus, at the committees that you are on, at the departments and centers on campus that do what I would call diversity work, which is work that looks to e­ ither design, coordinate, or implement the diversity policies and practices of this institution, is that work shared equally among men and w ­ omen, or among whites and nonwhites? Or do you get the sense that this work is being done mostly by white w ­ omen and men and w ­ omen of color?

M a rci a:  ​ Oh, it’s absolutely being done disproportionately by ­women and racial minorities. I think that is a result of inclusion gone bad. But you have to have ­t hose underrepresented groups



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represented b­ ecause you ­don’t know what you d­ on’t know. So if you are a majority male [white male], you may have ­g reat sensitivity and empathy t­oward underrepresented groups, but you ­really ­don’t know the real challenges of ­those groups. So you have to have that repre­sen­ta­tion to understand the challenges. I’m never ­going to be an African American. Now I try to look at the data, talk to p­ eople, and develop a greater understanding. But I’m never g­ oing to totally get it. So anytime you have an underrepresented group, you have to have ­people from that population, from that community, to help educate the rest of the group. So b­ ecause they are underrepresented, they become a very valuable resource. Groups, committees, search committees—­ they pull from underrepresented p­ eople to the point that it can be a real disadvantage for them ­because they get a lot of demand on their time.

Marcia’s response reveals a g­ reat deal about the performative culture of diversity at DU. Her office is responsible for the implementation, monitoring, and evaluation of DU’s affirmative action program and its compliance with federal law. Her structural location as the director of this office means she is the chief regulatory officer for the l­egal framework ­behind DU’s diversity initiative. Yet, as she tells me, the overreliance upon racial and ethnic minorities to help “educate the rest of the group” is a structural deficiency, “the result of inclusion gone bad.” Nevertheless, Marcia suggests that this overreliance upon minority men and ­women, despite its unfairness, is a necessary function of DU’s diversity initiative. Racial and ethnic minorities, according to Marcia, are “a very valuable resource.” By virtue of their minority status, she claims, they can help whites “understand the challenges” facing minorities like themselves. Marcia’s characterization of minority men and ­women as “valuable resources” underlines how staging difference helps institutionalize

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DU’s commitment to diversity at the expense of minority men and ­women. Not only does diversity fail to realign power, resources, opportunities, or decision-­making for minority men and ­women at DU; it actually exploits the very populations it ostensibly intends to help. Rather than addressing structural inequalities, the performative culture of diversity reproduces and even exaggerates them.

6

Diversity Regimes and the Reproduction of Racial In­equality

The last three chapters help illustrate diversity work at DU as a “­going concern,” the product of a dynamic, and often contested, set of interactions between an active core of ­people and the social definition of how and when they act.1 From diversity’s condensation to its decentralization and the performative culture that arises as a result, my analy­sis centers on the glaring contradiction between diversity as an ideal and diversity as interpretive practice. Analyzing how DU defines, organizes, and employs diversity—­what I term diversity’s articulation process—­brings into sharp focus an orga­n izational culture unable to adequately respond to the inequalities—­racial and other­w ise—­embedded within it.2 In this final chapter, I aim to make sense of what I have described thus far. How can scholars and laypersons alike better understand how and why, at a university saturated with public commitments to multiculturalism, racial in­equality persists? To explain this paradox, I offer my concept of a diversity regime. A diversity regime consists of the meanings and practices that institutionalize an organ­i zation’s commitment to diversity and in d­ oing so obscure, entrench, and even intensify racial in­equality. When colleges and universities like DU center their commitments to multiculturalism, ­those commitments often come at the expense of material transformations in how power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­making are distributed. While this outcome is certainly not inevitable, I argue that ­t hese pro­cesses regularly unfold in such fashion and, importantly, that this is by design. My claim that diversity regimes are designed to reproduce racial in­equality should not be mistaken for a claim on the intent of the social 143

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actors who work within them. I do not make any claims about the intent of social actors b­ ecause I lack the supporting evidence for such claims. Indeed, my field observations and my interactions with diversity workers at DU show quite the opposite: most, if not all, have good intentions in that they hope to dismantle racial inequalities and remain committed to at least the idea of antiracism. While my last chapter revealed deep frustration among diversity workers ­toward the institution, some of my respondents did express hope for significant improvements in DU’s campus climate and for DU’s ability to recruit and retain minority faculty and staff. Nearly all—­a nd especially African American diversity workers—­ champion the success of DU’s minority student body, especially its ­A frican American student population. Yet their frustration is grounded in the fact that their good intentions and good efforts do not produce the outcomes t­oward which they strive. The misplaced emphasis on the ­u niversity’s commitment to diversity ultimately enables and supports a shared belief among diversity workers that their diversity work is for “a good cause,” yet the diversity regime that arises from this misplaced emphasis also enables and supports the very conditions of racial in­equality that diversity initiatives mean to address. In what follows, I begin with a “30,000-­foot view” of in­equality at DU. I focus on four primary indicators that diversity is ­going poorly: undergraduate enrollment, gradu­ate enrollment, graduation rate, and minority faculty repre­sen­ta­tion. I examine ­these indicators over a ten-­year period—­from 2006, when DU made diversity an institutional mandate, to 2016—in order to mea­sure to what degree the university has moved the needle, if at all, on equity and repre­sen­ta­t ion. ­A fter this 30,000-­foot view, I return to the main empirical findings from the previous three chapters in order to support my argument that DU’s diversity regime—­ including how it is constructed and practiced—­maintains racial in­equality at DU.



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In­e quality at 30,000 Feet To this point I have described the discursive and orga­n izational features of DU’s diversity initiative that reproduce racial in­equality, but I have not yet described what racial in­equality looks like, objectively, at DU. In the introductory chapter, I painted in broad strokes some of the relevant trends in higher education since the 1978 Bakke Supreme Court ruling regarding minority student enrollment, minority faculty hiring, and the growth in diversity infrastructure. By juxtaposing t­ hese trends against continued experiences with everyday racism across American colleges, I brought into focus the paradox that led me to pursue this research: how, in an era increasingly saturated with multicultural rhe­toric and commitments, racism persists. H ­ ere, however, I provide a top-­level view of the orga­n izational context for which I have spent the last several chapters providing microlevel data and analy­sis. Efforts to strategize a diversity initiative at DU began as early as the late 1990s. Richard, DU’s multicultural affairs officer and its highest-­ ranking diversity worker at the time of my research, then worked in DU’s gradu­ate school, where his work focused on recruiting more minority men and w ­ omen to STEM fields. Se­ n ior administrators widely applauded his efforts. In 1997, DU’s chancellor came to Richard for help in improving diversity across the entire campus. Richard: I think [the chancellor] tapped me ­because I had been ­here for a while. I was an administrator, and I was d­ oing that type of work in the gradu­ate school, you know, writing grants to attract more African Americans to the gradu­ate school. So I kind of was a known quantity in that way. And we have seen each other and known each other and bumped into each other and kind of worked with each other for a while. So that’s prob­ably why he sort of tapped me.

Richard was not certain what responsibilities or duties he would take on when the chancellor approached him for help.

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JT:  ​So when he brought you over ­here, was it that a brand new position for multicultural affairs had been created? Did it already exist, and you w ­ ere just ­going to step into this position?

R ich a r d:  ​It did not exist. He brought me over to give him a hand, if you ­w ill, for when race issues came up. Somewhere along the way, we had to eventually come up with a job title. And then a job description.

I asked Richard to explain in more detail the vision for this brand new position: Initially, I think the vision was to help them out by giving advice and by steering [the chancellor] away from pitfalls, to kind of advise him  on racial m ­ atters and to be a central resource for diversity at DU. I think that was prob­ably his aim, his goal. And it was kind of expressed as, “Well, I just need you to help me out.” So I had to give a lot of meaning to that par­t ic­u ­lar statement. A lot of the meaning came from the kind of materials that landed on my desk, you know, the type of referrals that he gave to me. Eventually, we gave my position a title—­sort of gave it a title. It was my idea or my understanding that this would be something that we would set up, we would somehow get it g­ oing, and then we would have a real expert to come in and run the place. I guess we realized somehow along the way that real experts w ­ eren’t being trained academically, and it would prob­ably be that the real experts ­were the ones that had been ­doing it for a while, had been in the field. The background was kind of in­de­pen­dent of a major. You d­ idn’t have to be a social science major, you ­d idn’t have to be a philosophy major. You could be any type of major. It was just the interest and the ability to be willing to get embarrassed and talked about and that you stay the course kind of stuff.

As Richard explains, DU first began strategizing its diversity initiative without a roadmap or plan. The pro­cess was akin to building the plane while flying it, so to speak. Richard created a job title, then eventually a



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job description. He admittedly did not have formal expertise or training in how to plan or coordinate a diversity initiative. Instead, he relied upon his own personal interests and willingness to “get embarrassed” while trying to “stay the course.” In my attempts to triangulate Richard’s narrative with the institutional memory of DU, I failed to find any documents archived within DU that describe the pro­cess he lays out above. His testimony remains the only rec­ord I could find of his office’s development. A search in the campus and local newspapers reveals a title change when he took on his current position but does not describe any pro­cess ­behind it. I did discover a 2002 policy from the state governing board of higher education to which DU reports. In it, the governing board establishes for all of its public colleges and universities “a commitment to ethnic and gender diversity.” Three years l­ater, in 2005, the state governing board ­adopted a formal diversity statement as part of its official mission. Thus, 2006 marked the first year in which diversity became an orga­n izational mandate for DU and other public colleges and universities in the state to which it belongs. In its 2005 diversity statement, the state governing board ­adopted four goals for its institutions of higher education: 1. To increase the enrollment and graduation of underrepresented students 2. To increase the employment of underrepresented individuals in administrative, faculty, and staff positions 3. To enhance the overall educational experience through infusion of curricular content and cocurricular programming that enhances multicultural awareness and understanding 4. To increase the use of underrepresented professionals, contractors, and other vendors Examining the degree to which DU has met, exceeded, or failed to reach ­t hese goals since 2006 lays the groundwork for understanding the per­sis­ tence of racial in­equality at DU despite its public commitments to the

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contrary. At a minimum, a mandate for diversity, combined with increased university-­w ide efforts to center on diversity and inclusion, o ­ ught to produce an increase in the number of minority students enrolled and an increase in the number of minority faculty hired and promoted. To test this hypothesis, I analyzed DU’s reported institutional data through the Integrated Postsecondary Education Data System (IPEDS). IPEDS contains a series of interrelated annual surveys conducted by the U.S. Department of Education’s National Center for Education Statistics (NCES). Law requires that ­every postsecondary institution that participates in a federal student financial aid program report annual information to the NCES, including enrollments, program completions, graduation rates, faculty and staff employment numbers, institutional finances, and student financial aid figures. Hosting this information through IPEDS allows for researchers and ­others to describe and analyze trends in American higher education. My analy­sis of DU’s institutional data focuses on just three metrics: full-­t ime undergraduate enrollments, six-­year graduation rates, and faculty status. The focus on ­these metrics reflects the first two goals: to increase the enrollment and graduation of underrepresented students, and to increase the employment of underrepresented individuals in administrative, faculty, and staff positions. I narrowed my focus to just ­t hose first two goals in order to simplify the comparisons. ­T here are far too many variables that account for enhancement in multicultural awareness and understanding, including changes in degree and course offerings, programming, and funding levels. Meanwhile, data concerning the fourth goal (the number of underrepresented professionals, ­contractors, and other vendors) is not fully available. Instead, the 2016 Diversity Action Plan (DAP) states, “Occasionally we are asked by the state governing board to provide our spending information for a specific spending category such as African American men or African American ­women. However, this specific information is not collected, and we are unsure if asking for this information from the vendor conflicts with fed-



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eral guidelines or statutes.” In addition to focusing only on goals 1 and 2, I also narrowed my analy­sis to comparisons between whites and African Americans across the four metrics. I chose to limit the comparison to ­t hese groups ­because of the social and historical context of DU and the Southern state in which it resides. DU’s home state has one of the largest proportions of African American residents of any in the nation. Its African American enrollment rate also ranks among the highest of any ­public flagship university in the nation. DU’s institutional history in the post–­Civil Rights era is fraught with open conflict between its majority white student body and its small but significant African American student population. While ­there are other minority groups pre­sent in its student body, African Americans constitute the largest. For each of the three metrics, I focused on what, if any, changes took place between 2006 and 2016. For each metric, I not only looked at comparisons between African Americans and whites, but also between men and ­women within and between each group. If African American repre­ sen­ta­tion is increasing over a ten-­year period, it helps to know if this increase in repre­sen­ta­t ion is evenly distributed among African American men and African American ­women. Undergraduate Enrollment, 2006–2016 From 2006 to 2016, DU’s total full-­t ime student enrollment increased by 57 ­percent. ­Today, ­women comprise approximately 56 ­percent of all full-­ time students at DU, which reflects a national trend. Overall, African American enrollment has also increased since 2006 for both men and ­women. Yet when converted into a share of total enrollment, a dif­fer­ent picture emerges. Between 2006 and 2016, African American enrollment as a share of total full-­time enrollment, ­either for men or ­women, remained virtually unchanged (see figure 6.1). While African American enrollment increased significantly between 2006 and 2011, ­those gains vanished completely between 2011 and 2016. One pos­si­ble explanation for the rise and then fall in African American

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18% 16% 14% 12% 10% 8% 6% 4% 2% 0% 2006

2007

2008

2009

2010

2011

2012

2013

2014

2015

2016

Share of African American FTE Share of African American Female FTE Share of African American Male FTE

Figure 6.1 ​Share of Full-­Time African American Enrollment by Gender, 2006–2016

full-­t ime enrollment is that it reflects a national trend in American higher education. From 2010 to 2016, both the total number and share of African American full-­time enrollment in American colleges and universities decreased significantly. In 2010, African American full-­time enrollment was approximately 2.7 million nationwide, or nearly 15  ­percent of total full-­time enrollment. In 2016, total African American full-­time enrollment had fallen to 2.2 million, or 13 ­percent of total full-­t ime enrollment nationwide.3 Like many other public colleges and universities, DU has in recent years made the recruitment of international students a priority as federal



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and state austerity mea­sures have significantly reduced public spending on higher education. Increasingly, colleges and universities are replacing older revenue streams with new ones, and international students represent a significant revenue stream.4 While ­these are impor­tant considerations, we cannot minimize or ignore DU’s social and historical context. For more than a ­century, DU was a racially segregated university with an explicit prohibition against African American men and w ­ omen. Federal intervention forced DU’s integration in the 1960s, resulting in a deadly conflict. What had been formal law remained cake of custom for de­cades. Given the attention by DU t­oward this history within its own diversity initiative, its goal for increasing minority repre­sen­ta­tion ­ought to put special emphasis on African American student enrollments. This is not reflected in its enrollment data, however. While DU’s student body became less white between 2006 and 2016 (84 ­percent to 77 ­percent), it also became less African American. Six-­Year Graduation Rates for Bachelor’s Degrees, 2006–2016 Between 2006 and 2016, overall six-­year graduation rates at DU increased from 56  ­percent to 60  ­percent. Men’s graduation rates increased from 52  to 56  ­percent, while ­women’s graduation rates improved from 59 to 63 ­percent. When race is considered, however, key differences emerge. While both white men and white w ­ omen experienced significant improvements in six-­year graduation rates, African American men and ­women did not. Indeed, the six-­year graduation rates for African American men and ­women actually declined between 2006 and 2016. For white men, their graduation increased from 54  ­ percent in 2006 to nearly 61 ­percent in 2016. Meanwhile, African American men’s six-­year graduation rate declined from 39 ­percent in 2006 to less than 34 ­percent in 2016. A similar pattern emerged between white ­women and African American ­women. White ­women’s six-­year graduation rate increased from 61 ­percent

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70%

60%

50%

40%

30%

20%

10%

0%

2006

2007

2008

2009

2010

2011

2012

2013

2014

2015

2016

Overall Six-Year Graduation Rates Six Year Graduation Rates for African American Women Six Year Graduation Rates for African American Men

Figure 6.2 ​Six-­Year Graduation Rates, 2006–2016

in 2006 to 69 ­percent in 2016. Meanwhile, African American ­women’s six-­ year graduation rate decreased from 45  ­percent in 2006 to less than 44 ­percent in 2016. Figure  6.2 reveals African American six-­year graduation rates, by gender, in comparison to six-­year graduation rates for DU students as a ­whole. Figures 6.1 and 6.2 show a disturbing trend: DU is failing to fulfill its first mandated diversity goal to increase the enrollment and graduation of underrepresented students. While the total number of African American full-­time students has increased between 2006 and 2016, African



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50% 45% 40% 35% 30% 25% 20% 15% 10% 5% 0%

2006

2007

2008

2009

2010

2011

2012

2013

2014

2015

2016

Share of African Americans 18–24 in DU’s Home State Share of African American FTE

Figure  6.3 ​Share of African Americans 18 to 24  Years Old versus Share of African American FTE, 2006–2016

American enrollment has not kept pace with DU’s total enrollment growth. African American full-­t ime students are less represented t­ oday than they ­were ten years ago. To bring this into even greater focus, ­figure 6.3 compares the overall share of African Americans ages 18 to 24 in DU’s home state with the share of full-­t ime African American students from 2006 to 2016.5 The decline in African American repre­sen­ta­t ion at DU accompanies a significant decrease in six-­year graduation rates for both African American men and w ­ omen, yet an increase in the six-­year graduation rates of white men and w ­ omen. When taken together, t­hese trends raise an impor­tant question, and one my analy­sis has sought to explain throughout this book: How is it that, in a period in which DU made public and symbolic commitments to diversity and multiculturalism, inequalities

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between white and African American students not only failed to marginally improve but actually worsened? Before responding to this question, let’s examine the data concerning DU’s second diversity-­related goal: to increase the employment of underrepresented individuals in administrative, faculty, and staff positions. Faculty Diversity, 2007–2016 6 In order to examine what pro­g ress, if any, has been made on DU’s second diversity-­related goal, I narrowed my focus to just full-­t ime, tenure-­t rack faculty. As the public flagship in its state, and a research-­i ntensive university, DU has experienced significant infrastructural growth over the past de­cade. This growth includes the creation of new offices, divisions, departments, and employment opportunities for faculty and staff. During this same period, and in response to its growth and its ten-­year Strategic Action Plan (SAP), DU has restructured and realigned many of its ser­v ices and personnel. Tracking ­these infrastructural and orga­n izational changes through the reports DU submits each year to the Department of Education is difficult and pre­sents a large margin of error. For example, the reports may indicate that an administrative or staff position has been eliminated, but in practice someone working in that position simply moved into a new position or existing position elsewhere on campus. Faculty lines, however, are more straightforward. Typically (though not always), DU hires faculty at the ju­n ior or assistant rank. ­A fter six or seven years of ser­v ice, t­ hese faculty become eligible for tenure and promotion. While it is increasingly common across American colleges and universities— ­especially ­t hose facing bud­getary crises—­for tenure-­t rack lines to become converted into one or more contingent instructional positions, data for DU pre­sent a dif­fer­ent case. From 2007 to 2016, the growth rates of full-­t ime nontenure-­t rack and full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty w ­ ere similar. Between 2007 and 2016, the number of full-­t ime, tenure-­t rack faculty at DU more than doubled. Meanwhile, nontenure-­t rack faculty grew by



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61 ­percent. This, of course, does not take into account the growth of part-­ time instructional faculty. But a glance at the data reveals a surprising decline: from 388 part-­time instructional staff in 2006 to 373 part-­time instructional staff in 2016. One pos­si­ble explanation for this counterintuitive finding is that many full-­time staff at DU take on part-­time instructional work for extra money or incentives, including paid time off. For example, as part of its efforts to improve its freshmen retention rates, DU requires all first-­year students to take a one-­c redit “DU Experience” course. In the fall semester, roughly 200 sections of this course are offered, with approximately twenty students in each section. Full-­ time staff and faculty teach many of ­t hese courses, while adjuncts teach some also. I provide this context to help illustrate the complexity of tracking demographic changes within a dynamic and evolving organ­i zation like a public flagship university. Despite ­t hese complexities, a narrow focus on tenure-­track faculty positions helps us better understand w ­ hether and how DU is effectively meeting its goal to increase the employment of underrepresented individuals. ­Table  6.1 pre­sents a comparison of full-­ time tenure-­t rack faculty in 2007 and 2016. For both years, I provide the number of faculty by gender, race, and rank, as well as each category’s percentage of the entire full-­t ime, tenure-­t rack faculty body of that year. Several observations are worth mentioning. First, the overall number of full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty at DU has grown significantly. Much concern has been made over the adjunctification of higher education.7 While is true that ­t here are many more contingent faculty at DU ­today than in 2007, the number of full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty at DU has also more than doubled in the past nine years. Though an analy­sis of this growth is beyond the scope of my study, it remains impor­tant for my argument concerning the growth—or lack thereof—of a racially diverse tenure-­t rack faculty body. The second observation worth mentioning is the modest growth in the repre­sen­ta­t ion of ­women among the tenure-­t rack ranks. As a ­whole,

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­Table 6.1

Full-­Time Tenure-­Track Faculty by Gender, Race, and Rank, 2007–2016

Total

2007 462

Men

318

69%

615

63%

267

58%

459

47%

Assistant professor

70

15%

92

9%

Associate professor

86

19%

162

17%

Full professor

111

24%

205

21%

10

2%

28

3%

Assistant professor

3

1%

5

1%

Associate professor

5

1%

12

1%

Full professor

2

0%

11

1%

144

31%

360

37%

117

25%

268

27%

Assistant professor

40

9%

82

8%

Associate professor

59

13%

89

9%

Full professor

18

4%

97

10%

16

3%

39

4%

Assistant professor

6

1%

11

1%

Associate professor

7

2%

13

1%

Full professor

3

1%

15

2%

White

African American

­Women White

African American

2016 975

the percentage of w ­ omen among all tenure-­track faculty increased by nearly 20 ­percent: from 31 ­percent of all tenure-­t rack faculty in 2007 to 37 ­percent in 2016. The largest increase occurred at the rank of full professor, where ­women’s repre­sen­ta­t ion increased from less than 5 ­percent of all tenure-­t rack faculty in 2016 to more than 11 ­percent in 2016.



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This growth in w ­ omen’s repre­sen­ta­t ion brings us to a third observation: nearly all of the growth was in the repre­sen­ta­t ion of white ­women among tenure-­t rack faculty. African American ­women’s repre­sen­ta­t ion, as a percentage of the entire faculty body, barely moved. This pattern held true for African American men as well. While their overall numbers have increased since 2007 their proportional repre­sen­ta­tion has not. Importantly, both African American men and w ­ omen ­were no more represented at the assistant rank in 2016 than they w ­ ere in 2007. What might this tell us? We are l­imited in drawing any firm conclusions. For example, the growth in the number of African American men and w ­ omen at the rank of full professor could be the result of successful tenure and promotion practices. It could also be the result of outside hiring. My survey of some of the faculty biographies available through departmental websites implies that it is a combination of both. However, I also learned through my fieldwork and informal conversations with African American faculty and staff that while some choose to remain at DU and pursue tenure and promotion, ­others look for opportunities elsewhere. Between the time of my fieldwork and the writing of this book, both Audre and Malcolm left DU to teach elsewhere. Another African American w ­ oman, also ju­n ior faculty, I failed to formally interview but who was heavi­ly involved in diversity work at DU left shortly ­a fter fieldwork ended. In the case of both Audre and Malcolm, the decision to leave DU was largely due to the difficulties they encountered with the campus climate and their perceptions that the climate would not improve. In the case of the African American professor heavi­ly involved in diversity work, my informal conversations revealed that the campus climate played a role in her decision, but less so than it did for Audre and Malcolm. Nevertheless, she experienced racial harassment on more than one occasion while at DU. In one instance, she was walking across campus when a group of young white men in a truck, presumably students, shouted a racial slur at her as they passed. Ironically, she was headed to a forum to talk about

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everyday racism on campus. ­These cases, when combined with the figures from ­table 6.1, suggest that while DU has marginal success in retaining its already tenured African American faculty, it has been far less successful in both recruiting and retaining its African American ju­n ior faculty. ­T here are many ­factors involved in choosing a college or university, in choosing to remain enrolled, and in choosing to remain employed. I make no attempts to control for any of the pos­si­ble scenarios. Rather, the data presented so far in this chapter is meant to illustrate that if diversity is “­going” at all at DU, it is hardly ­going well. If two of the four major goals for DU’s diversity initiative center on increasing the repre­sen­ta­t ion of minority groups, including African Americans, the data I show ­here makes a strong case that even ­a fter a de­cade of public commitments to diversity and inclusion, ­l ittle pro­g ress has been achieved. Diversity Regimes What explains this lack of pro­g ress? How can we understand the failures of a diversity initiative within the context of symbolic and public commitments to the contrary? In theorizing on in­equality within organ­ izations, the late sociologist Joan Acker conceptualizes in­equality regimes as the interrelated practices, pro­cesses, actions, and meanings that result in the reproduction of inequalities within organ­izations. Acker defines in­equality as “systemic disparities between participants” that results from the organ­ization of general requirements; the institutionalization of job descriptions and pay scales; the recruitment, supervision, and promotion of members; and informal, everyday interactions within the organ­i zation.8 Centering on systematic disparities between orga­n izational actors, Acker’s concept of an in­equality regime helps reveal the uneven distribution of power and control over goals, resources, outcomes, workplace decision-­making, promotional opportunities, and pay differentials that exist in orga­n izational life. Acker gives brief mention of diversity programs and policies, noting that ­t hese are often responses to in­equality regimes and aimed t­oward “the more subtle discriminatory pro­cesses” through education and “consciousness-­raising.”9



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Building upon Acker, cultural theorist Sara Ahmed examines the per­ for­mance culture of diversity within UK colleges and universities to explain how certain inequalities remain unchallenged despite symbolic commitments to the contrary.10 Through interviews with diversity workers in the United Kingdom and a discursive analy­sis of institutional diversity discourse, Ahmed aims her critique at the relationship between in­equality regimes and con­temporary policy changes and practices that produce a redefinition of equality as a positive duty.11 Importantly, Ahmed asks that we not assume that ­t hese policy changes and practices are “aimed at the overcoming of an in­equality regime,” arguing instead that ­these policies and practices might be “an in­equality regime given new form, a set of pro­cesses that maintain what is supposedly being redressed.”12 Scaffolding upon Ahmed and Acker, I define a diversity regime as the set of meanings and practices that institutionalize a hollow commitment to diversity and in d­ oing so obscure, entrench, and even intensify existing racial in­equality by failing to make fundamental changes in how power, resources, and opportunities are distributed. While Acker rightfully directs our attention to the systematic disparities between orga­ nizational actors, Ahmed’s focus on the per­for­mance culture highlights how t­ hese disparities arise from taken-­for-­g ranted pro­cesses and interactive patterns among orga­n izational actors. My concept of a diversity regime aims to describe how diversity is defined, produced, or­g a­n ized, and deployed, and the contingencies and conflicts that arise in that pro­ cess. My concept of a diversity regime also helps us better understand how, in an era saturated with public and symbolic commitments to multiculturalism, racial in­equality persists. Key Features The research I have presented thus far identifies three key mechanisms that lead to the creation and maintenance of a diversity regime: condensation, decentralization, and staging difference. Drawing from the critical writings of Stuart Hall, Ernesto Laclau, Chantal Mouffe, and ­others,

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I  use the term condensation to describe the pro­cess through which any number of seemingly unrelated ele­ments, or signifiers, are condensed ­u nder the sign “diversity.” Over time the per­sis­tent association of ­t hese vari­ous unrelated signifiers to one another, and to the concept of diversity, provides diversity with new meanings. Consequently, not only do ­t hese unrelated signifiers provide unity to the concept of diversity, but they also function as symbols of each other. That is, they articulate their relationship to one another.13 Condensation is a kind of cultural logic, a general schema conditioned, in this case, by multicultural and neoliberal discourses that seek to minimize or erase the continued significance of race in everyday life by placing it alongside less meaningful forms of difference. As a cultural logic, condensation structures how DU defines diversity and subsequently determines how that definition is then put into practice by diversity workers. Legally protected categories of difference, such as race and ethnicity, are considered alongside other categories of diversity such as geographic origin, left-­versus right-­handedness, and the increasingly common “intellectual diversity.” The result is general confusion around what kinds of diversity m ­ atter for increasing historically underrepresented groups’ access to power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­ making. ­Because ­little consensus around diversity’s meaning or how to put it into practice is achieved, condensation produces l­ittle more than vague commitments to diversity itself. Rather than reducing or eliminating existing racial inequalities within the institution, DU’s diversity initiative ends up circling around the core issues that plague its campus. Despite the fact that condensation prevents consensus around ­d iversity’s meaning or what constitutes successful versus unsuccessful practices, I found that some diversity workers ­were able to create more opportunities for historically underrepresented groups. Some departments, for example, did make concrete efforts to hire more men and ­women of color. Some diversity workers spoke about their individual efforts that helped increase minority students’ access to resources and



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opportunities. As I looked across DU’s campus and took note of ­these successful efforts among a horde of unsuccessful ones, I wanted to understand how and why the successful efforts w ­ ere not replicated elsewhere. Given the symbolic commitment to diversity at DU, why ­wasn’t ­there any momentum that would lead other departments, divisions, and actors on the ground to mimic ­t hose successful efforts? This question led me to identify the second mechanism that leads to  the creation and maintenance of a diversity regime: decentralizag a­ n ized at tion.  Decentralization specifies how diversity work is or­ DU.  My fieldwork and interviews revealed five structural features of decentralization: 1. A lack of coordination or slow coordination 2. A relative absence of regulations, or an inability to properly enforce existing regulations 3. Unresponsiveness 4. Poor observational capabilities 5. A shared belief that no ­matter what orga­n izational actors do, the same outcome persists As I detail in chapter  4, decentralization prevents institutional momentum from developing around DU’s efforts ­toward diversity and inclusion. At DU ­t here is ­l ittle coordination or collaboration among diversity workers. Indeed, the university lacks an appropriate orga­n izational structure that could facilitate coordination and collaboration across campus. Diversity workers frequently spoke of operating in silos from one another. That few have direct lines of communication to campus leadership to voice their concerns compounded their structural isolation. If a diversity worker’s formal job duties relate to diversity and inclusion, that person is often the only individual in the office or division with t­hose responsibilities. Diversity workers with whom I spoke have a ­g reat deal of autonomy in how they do their jobs, and they often report directly to a department or division head with a wide range of management responsibilities that

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extend well beyond diversity and inclusion. This kind of decentralized model of diversity lays the responsibility for redressing racial in­equality at the feet of diversity workers themselves. Meanwhile, campus leadership professes its belief in diversity’s importance and the university’s steadfast commitment to it. The autonomy granted through decentralization comes at the expense of poor institutional oversight, poor observational abilities on behalf of upper administrators, poor coordination between departments and divisions, and perhaps most importantly, the lack of a clear goal or consensus coming from the top. In this way, condensation and decentralization mutually reinforce each other. In tandem, they constrain the university’s ability to make significant material pro­g ress ­toward reducing existing racial inequalities on campus. As condensation and decentralization mutually reinforce one another, diversity workers grow increasingly frustrated and cynical ­toward the university’s commitment to diversity. Without consensus on diversity’s meaning or its importance, novel approaches to putting diversity into practice do not just operate structurally in­de­pen­dent from one another; they also operate ideologically in­de­pen­dent from one another. ­Because condensation makes it so that any number of criteria may constitute “diversity,” few departments and divisions can ever fail to do diversity. Many diversity workers on the ground recognize this rub, and thus they are highly critical of DU’s diversity initiative as ­l ittle more than “lip ser­ vice” or “superficial bullshit.” Over the course of fieldwork, I observed the frustration and cynicism among diversity workers, which my interviews with them confirmed. Following a high-­profile act of racism on campus in 2014, I sat in on an emergency meeting of concerned faculty and staff. Most of ­those in attendance ­were men and ­women of color. One ­woman of color shared with the group that her doctor had advised her to quit her job at DU years ago b­ ecause of the stress associated with it. Working at DU literally caused her pain. Another ­woman of color shared that she did not have



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faith in DU or the larger community in which it is situated to “take complaints seriously.” According to another w ­ oman of color in attendance, DU was simply a “trash dump for racists,” and DU’s efforts to date amounted to “putting lipstick on a pig.” Three days a­ fter this emergency meeting, a collective of minority student organ­i zations held a public forum in front of DU’s student u ­ nion. The forum was advertised in the campus paper as an “outlet of expression so that every­one has the opportunity to get their feelings off their chest.” The forum took place around the lunch hour. I estimated a crowd of at least one hundred persons, mostly students, in attendance, as well as dozens of passersby given the time and location of the event. As I observed the forum, I paid special attention to how participants openly wrestled with the contradiction between the symbolic and public commitments to diversity and inclusion at DU and the real­ity on the ground. At the beginning of the event, one of the organizers, a black male student, informed the audience of the general guidelines for participation: two minutes per person, and no profanity. The first person to take the microphone was a white male student. His comments w ­ ere brief. He declared, “We are DU. It is what we want to make it. We are what we do each and ­every day.” He then handed the microphone back to the organizers. Following his brief remarks, a white female student approached. Identifying herself as a queer feminist, she made clear that her experiences at DU w ­ ere anything but positive: “I’ve been attacked on this campus. My black professors are too afraid to come on campus, so they just stay home. I hate this school. This school is racist. This school is a white supremacist school. I hate this school. I hate this place.” As she stepped away from the microphone, ­t hose in attendance began cheering loudly. Another student, identifying himself as Arab American, approached the microphone and used his time to challenge the previous perspective. “Racism [at DU] is a minority,” he declared. “I d­ on’t see it much h ­ ere. I ­couldn’t believe it happened. DU is a ­g reat place.” Following his remarks, a black male student took the microphone and stated, “Just last week,

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something r­eally terrible happened. Our united front the past several days has shown how we deal with racism. ­T hings have gotten better since fifty years ago. It’s not as bad as it used to be ­here. We have experienced love on this campus. Thank you to my friends and professors for helping me to continue to grow into a man while ­here.” Fi­nally, the black male student who began the event with the general guidelines returned to the microphone and provided the last commentary for the event: “I never knew racism ­u ntil I got ­here. It’s 50  ­percent black and 50 ­percent white where I’m from. I never felt my double consciousness ­u ntil I got ­here. It hurts my spirits, the microaggressions I feel ­every day. The microaggressions I experience make me feel like a second-­c lass citizen ­here, even though I’m a prominent member of this university.” The back-­a nd-­forth nature of students’ comments puts into sharp focus diversity as a g­ oing concern: the product of a dynamic and contested set of interactions between everyday actors as they strug­g le to make sense of what diversity means and how to act based upon how they define it.14 The students at this forum, as well as the faculty who gathered for the emergency meeting, have l­ ittle consensus on what diversity is or what it is meant to do on campus. For some of the students, DU is a diverse and inclusive place. Racist events, when they happen, are anomalies, the products of “outside influences” and not reflective of DU’s pre­ sent identity. For many ­others, DU reflects the worst of our societal values. It is a “white supremacist school,” where minority students, faculty, and staff face daily microaggressions. No amount of public and symbolic effort on behalf of the university can remedy this. The more events I attended, and the more p­ eople with whom I spoke, the more I began to understand DU’s diversity initiative as a kind of ­per­for­mance culture. This per­for­mance culture makes strategic use of ­ethnoracial difference in order to institutionalize DU’s commitment to  diversity, what I describe in chapter  5 as staging difference. Staging ­d ifference at DU entails, at the orga­n izational level, the planning and development of new programs and offices centered on the idea of multi-



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culturalism as an impor­tant value. It also entails how, when, and why university higher-­ups call upon minority faculty, staff, and students to do diversity work, to demonstrate the university’s enduring commitment to diversity and inclusiveness. DU’s per­for­mance culture informs and is informed by both condensation and decentralization. Condensing diversity results in a commitment to ­little more than poorly defined ideals that can be demonstrated through any number of practices. Decentralization reinforces a commitment to ­these abstract ideals by ensuring that practices across campus remain disconnected from each other. Even successful efforts to respond to racism on campus, then, fail to generate institutional momentum. Meanwhile, staging difference reinforces diversity as an abstract commitment by converting diversity work into l­ittle more than rhetorical and symbolic gestures to difference, broadly construed. Diversity work, for the institution, becomes a ­matter of letting campus publics know how much diversity means to the university, without actually ­doing anything to change the traditional power structure of the university or how resources and opportunities are allocated to historically underrepresented groups of ­people. The result of ­these three mechanisms—­ condensation, decentralization, and staging difference—is a diversity regime that enables existing racial in­equality to persist. My analy­sis also raises the question of ­whether the three key features I identify are exhaustive. Are t­ here other features? Is it pos­si­ble that diversity regimes look dif­fer­ent within dif­fer­ent colleges or universities? I argue that condensation, decentralization, and staging difference likely vary by degree across dif­fer­ent colleges and universities. However, given the isomorphic structure of American higher education, especially among large, public flagship universities, it is unlikely that diversity initiatives across ­these types of universities vary tremendously from one to the next. Thus, we would expect to find similar commitments to diversity and inclusion, a similar organ­ization of diversity work, and a similar per­for­mance culture that leads to shared frustrations and cynicism among diversity workers.

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As to ­whether diversity regimes contain more than just the three ­features I identify, I do not believe my findings or analy­sis rule this out.  ­Because the nature of my fieldwork and interviews was inductive, ­t hese are the three features that became most clear to me over time. It is pos­si­ble that ­t here are other features of diversity regimes for which my analy­sis did not account. However, I argue that condensation, decentralization, and staging difference are the most impor­tant. The methodological approach I used—­a combination of participant observation, interviews with campus diversity workers, and an analy­sis of institutional discourse—confirms the centrality of ­t hose three features. Recommendations Given the cultural and orga­n izational logics of diversity that I identify as central to the reproduction of in­equality, I now consider strategies to remedy ­t hese dynamics. One benefit of a grounded analy­sis such as the one I provide ­here is that revealing a deeper understanding of the nature of social actors’ situations can help them transform their social worlds.15 In what remains, I provide several recommendations for colleges and universities that, like DU, strug­g le to convert their public commitments to diversity and inclusion into material gains for historically underrepresented students, faculty, and staff. Any single one of t­ hese recommendations, if ­adopted, would likely only produce marginal change. The mechanisms that enable a diversity regime work in tandem. Focusing, for example, on addressing condensation without focusing on decentralization or diversity’s per­for­mance culture would do ­little to curtail existing racial inequalities that derive from the interactions between the three key features of a diversity regime. Colleges and universities must approach racial in­equality on their campuses from a systemic and relational perspective. If they ever hope to dismantle it, they must recognize how each of ­these mechanisms complements and builds upon one another to further entrench in­ equality into the fabric of the organ ­i zation.



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Institutional Rhe­t oric Must Center on Power, Justice, and Equity My first recommendation focuses on the institutional rhe­toric of diversity and the need to abandon the typical focus on s­ imple repre­sen­ta­t ion in ­favor of a multicultural rhe­toric that centers on power, justice, and equity. In a 2017 essay for the online publication Inside Higher Ed, professor of higher education administration Dafina-­Lazarus Stewart differentiates between the rhe­torics of diversity, inclusion, equity, and justice.16 To paraphrase, diversity asks who is sitting at the ­table, whereas equity asks who is trying to get a seat at the t­ able but cannot. Meanwhile, inclusion asks ­whether every­one sitting at the ­table has had a chance to be heard. Fi­nally, justice asks whose ideas ­w ill be taken more or less seriously ­because of who is represented at the ­table. Stewart’s insights show that, though relational, ­these rhe­torics are distinct and do not necessarily share similar goals or interests. Diversity rhe­toric in higher education far too often asks ­whether the number of minority students, faculty, or staff has increased from one year to the next. Yet this ­either takes for granted, or fails to consider, why certain groups remain in the majority from one year to the next. Why, for instance, has the proportional repre­sen­t a­t ion of minority faculty remain unchanged for nearly a de­cade? Why, as Richard pointed out in our interview and my own analy­sis confirmed, does power and decision-­ making at DU remain overwhelmingly concentrated in the hands of white men? Diversity rhe­toric also takes for granted, or fails to consider, ­whether the social and cultural scene of the college campus is one to which every­ one can belong. To be clear, this is a dif­fer­ent consideration than ­whether every­one has a place on campus. Sociologist Barbara Combs recently theorized that in the post–­c ivil rights era, the politics of space and place remain infused with the racial logics of the Jim Crow era. Black (and brown) bodies ­today, as in Jim Crow, have a place. But their place is separate from (and often unequal to) that belonging to whites.17 For more

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than fifty years, institutions of higher education have opened their doors to ­women and racial and ethnic minorities in historic proportions. It is  now incumbent upon t­hese colleges and universities to recognize ­whether and how certain rooms within remain closed to historically underrepresented groups. What good is access to a college education if it does not come with equal access to the resources—­material, ­human, and other­w ise—­w ithin the college? As Audre expressed in our interview, what good is her seat at a committee ­table if she is only ever seen or treated as a placeholder and not a key decision-­maker? By the same token, colleges and universities cannot minimize or ignore the continued need for minority spaces, events, and programming on their campuses. In fact, universities often deploy diversity and inclusion rhe­torics as mechanisms to give space, time, and resources to actors or groups whose presence harms historically underrepresented groups. H ­ ere I am thinking of the debates over campus ­f ree speech, and ­whether colleges and universities should, for the sake of promoting “intellectual diversity” or “re­spect for dif­fer­ent ideas,” facilitate the speech of actors or groups who have no real interest in the values that are central to higher education: discovery, creativity, the pursuit of knowledge, and the promotion of a more virtuous and informed demos.18 Richard Spencer, Ann Coulter, Dinesh D’Souza, and other “alt-­right” provocateurs are no more intellectual than a head of lettuce is a salad. Yet they profit richly by pretending their claims for biological racism are somehow grounded in the scientific and humanist knowledge of ­today. More importantly, when colleges and universities divert their time, resources, and energy ­toward accommodating ­t hese charlatans, their efforts make the campus even less safe and welcoming for ­t hose groups whose presence is already precarious. Fi­nally, diversity and inclusion rhe­torics too often see minority repre­ sen­ta­t ion as the final, rather than first, step ­toward a more just and fair society. Increasing the number of minority students, faculty, and staff is



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an impor­tant goal. But we cannot lose sight of what ­these increases ­ought to do for the distribution of power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­making within the university structure. And we ­ought to be especially attuned to when increases in minority repre­sen­ta­t ion do not lead to a re­d istribution of ­t hese ­t hings. Any rhe­toric that suggests repre­ sen­ta­t ion is the aim should be flatly rejected in f­ avor of one that centers on a model of equity and justice. Likewise, colleges and universities should abandon diversity and inclusion rhe­torics that celebrate difference in and of itself in f­ avor of a rhe­toric that celebrates concrete transformations in how the university conducts its day-­to-­d ay affairs. Celebrate the reduction or elimination of daily microaggressions on campus, or commemorate the moment when pay equity is achieved. This does not mean that colleges and universities should not have Pride Week or sponsor ethnic foodways events (e.g., “Around the World in Seven Floors”). Rather, it means the university’s rhe­toric must go beyond ­t hese ­t hings in and of themselves and ask ­whether and how ­t hese sorts of events result in the re­d istribution of power in greater equity and justice. The recommendation to shift the rhe­toric of multiculturalism may seem too soft or inconsequential for some: “Diversity statements are just statements, a­ ren’t they?” My analy­sis suggests quite the opposite. Institutional discourse ­matters. How diversity is defined structures how it is subsequently or­g a­n ized and practiced. When diversity can mean anything and every­thing, it allows social actors on the ground to engage in a wide variety of practices that, while technically subsumed by an all-­ encompassing definition of diversity, often fail to redress existing inequalities. Diversity’s condensation prevents the kind of orga­n izational consensus needed to develop specific targets, goals, timetables, and policy recommendations that center on the reduction or elimination of racial inequalities. When diversity can mean anything and every­t hing, then actors and departments can never fail to do it, even as the university itself fails to respond to or change its unequal structure and relations.

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Centralization To address only the institutional rhe­toric of diversity and inclusion is insufficient for dismantling racial in­equality within the American university system. A commitment to addressing power, justice, and equity is  still only a commitment. Commitments on their own lack tangible steps  ­ toward redistributing power, facilitating justice, and creating equity. To make ­these tangible steps, universities and colleges must work to centralize their diversity initiatives. As I detailed in chapter 4, a decentralized structure at DU creates a number of conditions that makes the dismantling of racial in­equality difficult if not impossible. First, b­ ecause each department and division has f­ ree reign to interpret and enact diversity, ­t here is ­l ittle coordination between units to stretch their efforts across the entire campus. Second, while DU articulates orga­n izational goals for diversity and inclusion, few diversity workers have a clear understanding of what pro­cesses exist to ensure DU meets its goals. Third, the lack of coordination between units creates a general sense among diversity workers that they work in silo from one another. Diversity workers perceive DU’s administration as unresponsive to their needs. This results in part from administrators’ poor observational abilities. With no centralized structure, diversity workers often only report to their direct supervisor. This supervisor in many departments and divisions oversees much more than the diversity goals of the university, and diversity workers reported feeling that diversity was not necessarily a priority for university administrators. Fi­nally, ­t hese features in tandem produce frustration and cynicism t­ oward DU’s diversity initiative. Many of t­ hose I interviewed feel their efforts are minimized or ignored. They experience a growing frustration with putting so much of their time and energy into trying to improve the campus climate and address real issues of everyday racism while not receiving an equal effort on the part of university leadership.



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If my analy­sis is correct, however, ­these prob­lems are not insurmountable. Centralizing the university’s diversity initiative can help actors and departments better coordinate their activities, develop and implement clear guidelines for best practices, and make timely adjustments across the campus when efforts do not appear to produce the intended effects. But what does it mean to centralize? In January 2017, ­a fter I concluded fieldwork, DU hired its first chief diversity officer (CDO). Recall that the initial attempt to fill this role led to a failed search, due in no small part to the size of the search committee tasked with creating the job advertisement and ideal candidate qualifications. DU’s move to hire a CDO represents a growing trend among institutions of higher education, as well as Fortune 500 companies.19 While some studies note the general conditions associated with organ­ izations’ efforts to create and fill CDO positions, few studies examine the impact of creating and filling t­ hese positions.20 Nevertheless, companies are putting enormous resources b­ ehind the creation of ­t hese positions, providing them in some cases with multimillion-­dollar bud­gets, a full staff, and carte blanche. A CEO for a talent acquisitions firm wrote in the Harvard Review back in 2007 that CDOs “drive an innovative programmatic agenda” within Fortune 500 companies.21 A qualitative study of seven CDOs and the impact they have on their respective campuses reveals uneven pathways to the position, support once in it, and similar frustration and cynicism with university leadership that I found among the diversity workers in my own study.22 As one CDO in the study stated, “Personally I fear my college ­w ill just look the way it is ­today. They do not see a need to change and be dif­fer­ent ­because it has served them well in the past.”23 University administrators themselves are not immune from the general tendency among orga­n izational actors to resist orga­ nizational mandates when they are not aligned with their own system of beliefs and ideas about what is right and proper.24 Administrators are also not immune from the conflicts and contingencies that emerge elsewhere in the organ­ization. Indeed, they bear a ­g reat deal of responsibility

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for t­ hose conflicts and contingencies ­because of their inability to establish clear goals and procedures concerning their diversity initiatives. Given ­t hese insights, colleges and universities exploring the creation of a CDO position or, like DU, in the midst of incorporating it into their existing infrastructure, must first align the CDO’s duties and responsibilities with the institutional rhe­torics of power, justice, and equity. Additionally, the college or university should complete a needs assessment that identifies which groups currently have the most power and decision-­making and which groups have the least, how resources and opportunities on campus are currently distributed and if they are distributed equitably, and how the day-­to-­d ay experiences with racism, sexism, homophobia, and elitism are felt differently for minority groups compared to t­ hose in the majority. This needs assessment must be completed not only for students but also for faculty and staff, and it should take place before even considering ­whether or not the university should hire a CDO. Once the university decides to hire a CDO, it should ensure that the new office is located within the existing power structure of the university. The executive cabinet in many universities typically contains a university president or chancellor, an academic provost, and several vice provosts or vice chancellors that oversee the major divisions of the university—­its finances, research and development, student affairs, and so forth. The CDO’s place, to my mind, is within this cabinet and directly ­u nder the university president or chancellor. Power, justice, and equity are not just student issues. They are campus issues. I see no good reason why a CDO would only have purview over student life or be ­limited to the university’s academic affairs. If the university’s goals are to recruit, retain, and promote minority faculty and staff, then the CDO should be in position to provide guidance on bud­get and salary m ­ atters and how the university allocates existing or new resources for research and teaching. As part of a se­n ior leadership team, the expectation should be that the CDO offers guidance and support to e­ very department across campus, b­ ecause diversity is a university-­w ide goal.



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Fi­nally, the university must invest significant resources into the success of the CDO. This means providing the space and money for a full staff and a bud­get that maps onto the stated goals and objectives for the office. The establishment of DU’s Center for Diversity in 2015 should serve as a warning. The director of the center was initially only able to hire one gradu­ate assistant and was not provided adequate space to do her work. Only recently has she been given the resources to hire an assistant director, and she has been promised an office in a more central part of campus upon the completion of a few major construction proj­ ects. While she has helped establish a number of impor­tant programs on campus, ­these are in spite of DU’s support (or lack thereof), not ­because of it. Even if ­t hese steps are taken, the success of a CDO is not guaranteed. High-­ranking diversity workers like Minnie, Gail, Richard, and Etta—­a ll in administrative positions—­a re too often caricatured as saviors. For campus officials, their positions and work serve as absolution from the ­actual work necessary to achieve diversity and inclusion. The CDO is not a savior and should not be put in the position to act like one. The responsibility to establish clear goals, targets, timetables, and pro­cesses should not only predate the development of a CDO position, but it should be evenly distributed across university leadership and ­m iddle management. Furthermore, colleges and universities need to go beyond the bare minimum when it comes to ­t hese goals and targets. At DU, the most common form of coordination is between its offices for ­human resources and EEO to ensure regulatory compliance with federal antidiscrimination laws. This is impor­t ant, but it has the effect of framing justice and equity as a negative duty rather than a positive one, meaning that departments and divisions only ensure that they are not acting in an overtly discriminatory manner ­toward historically underrepresented groups. They are not, however, required to demonstrate what steps they are taking to provide more opportunities or resources to t­ hose groups. Establishing the distribution of power, the pursuit of justice, and the creation of

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equity as positive duties would go a long way ­toward converting public commitments to multiculturalism into efforts that produce tangible, positive results. Accountability My third recommendation concerns the creation of an accountability structure. As I showed in chapter  5, t­here is good reason to remain skeptical of DU’s commitment to diversity. Indeed, the diversity workers I spoke with used terms like “lip ser­v ice” and “superficial bullshit” to describe their perceptions of DU’s commitment to diversity. The institutional discourse of diversity institutionalizes a commitment to diversity, but it does ­little ­else. In this way, the institutional discourse lays the foundation for a per­for­mance doctrine. The terms “diversity” and “inclusion” are near ubiquitous across DU’s official diversity discourse. Their constant repetition and circulation becomes a marker of diversity’s action and its virtue. ­Because the commitment to diversity appears everywhere, it becomes valued. That value, a value in and of itself, becomes a substitute for concrete action. As a broad-­based commitment, diversity signals the positive social virtues of the campus and its publics without having to acknowledge or address existing inequalities. Emerging from this broad-­based commitment is a per­for­mance culture I describe as “staging difference.” Staging difference describes the strategic use of race and racial difference as a way to institutionalize DU’s commitment to diversity. Staging difference includes the formation of programs, offices, and even new positions meant to reflect DU’s commitment to diversity. Staging difference also includes how, when, and why minority faculty, staff, and students are asked by the institution to do diversity work. From placeholder positions on university committees to administrators’ requests that minority faculty and staff represent “the issues” even if t­ hese actors lack formal expertise or training, to symbolic ceremonies for minority group achievements that decontextualize the history of strug­g le and power relations at the university, DU’s approach



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to diversity centers on diversity as an achievement itself while minimizing or ignoring questions of power, justice, and equity. This per­for­mance doctrine produces frustration and cynicism among diversity workers, who question not just the university’s efforts but also the university’s intentions. My analy­sis demonstrates that while the decentralized structure of DU’s diversity initiative contributes to diversity workers’ frustrations and cynicism, the condensation of diversity’s discourse makes it so that nobody is held accountable to the most vulnerable populations on campus and their needs. Put differently, centralizing the existing diversity initiative at DU would do ­little to remedy existing inequalities ­because they are poorly defined in the first place. Instead, colleges and universities like DU need to consider how they can be held accountable to historically underrepresented and disadvantaged groups. To this end, I suggest a mechanism that has proved successful for groups, organ­izations, and communities working in other social prob­ lem arenas: impact statements. Fiscal impact statements are an increasingly common tool for state legislatures, with thirteen states now required by their own laws to produce one if a proposed initiative w ­ ill have a monetary effect on the state’s bud­get. In Missouri, for example, the law requires that the state auditor and attorney general prepare the fiscal impact statement and that it appear on the legislative petition, in voter information pamphlets, and on the ballot. In this way, voters are provided with impor­tant fiscal context and information when considering ­whether to vote for or against a par­t ic­u ­lar initiative.25 At the federal level, it is now routine for the in­de­pen­dent and nonpartisan Congressional Bud­get Office (CBO) to provide a fiscal score for ­proposed policy. The CBO’s impact on both public opinion and the actions of Congress cannot be understated. In 2017, the CBO found that the Senate’s proposed American Health Care Act that sought to repeal major portions of the Affordable Care Act would lead to 22 million fewer Americans having health insurance. While the House passed the bill

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before the CBO scored it, the Senate’s vote took place ­a fter the CBO released its report. As a result, the bill failed in the Senate 49–51, with Senators Susan Collins, Lisa Murkowski, and John McCain abandoning their majority GOP caucus to reject the bill. Elsewhere, environmental impact statements have been required by federal law since the adoption of the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA) of 1969. NEPA requires federal agencies to prepare an environmental impact statement for “proposals for legislation and other major Federal actions significantly affecting the quality of the ­human environment.”26 Environmental impact statements not only must include an assessment of the environmental impact and any potentially negative impacts of federal action, but they also must examine alternatives to the proposed action.27 In 2005, for example, the U.S. Forest Ser­v ice alone prepared more than 150 impact statements; many ­others ­were prepared by more than eighty other federal agencies, including the Army Corps of Engineers, the Federal Highway Administration, and the National Park Ser­v ice. In other nations, health impact assessments are common and focus on the pos­si­ble health effects of new initiatives and related costs.28 Following ­these statements and their successes, other researchers have proposed the use of racial impact statements. ­T hese statements require an organ­i zation or group to consider ­whether or how a proposed policy or initiative might lead to any disproportionate and negative effects for racial and ethnic minorities.29 The Mississippi ACLU chapter, for example, recommends this: “Before policy decisions are made, lawmakers should determine the effects ­t hese policies have on Mississippi’s growing minority population. When racial impact is not consciously addressed, racial in­equality is often unconsciously replicated. The per­sis­ tence of deep racial disparities and divisions across society is evidence of the need for institutional reform. Many mea­sures that appear to be race-­ neutral can, in practice, have disproportionate, harmful consequences on racial and ethnic minorities.” Racial impact statements are most commonly recommended for criminal justice legislation, including sentenc-



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ing guidelines. Though policy makers are not prohibited from adopting the legislation if it shows a disproportionate impact on racial and ethnic minorities, the impact statement gives them the opportunity to consider alternative and more equitable mea­sures. Since 2007, three states—­Iowa, Connecticut, and Oregon—­have passed racial impact legislation, while Minnesota ­adopted a similar mea­sure through its Sentencing Guidelines Commission.30 As of 2014, seven other states—­Texas, Mary­land, Arkansas, Mississippi, Wisconsin, Florida, and Kentucky—­have attempted but failed to pass racial impact statement legislation. So what affect, if any, do racial impact statements have? While no systematic study has been conducted, case studies reveal ­these statements can have a positive effect on communities and groups who adopt them. In April 2014, Seattle mayor Edward Murray signed an executive order affirming and expanding Seattle’s Race and Social Justice Initiative (RSJI). The executive order required city staff to establish new goals, track outcomes over time, and periodically report on pro­g ress. The executive order also required the city to apply a racial equity lens to all citywide initiatives. While a handful of cities like Seattle are experiencing increased community support and building the capacity to assess and respond to per­sis­tent racial inequalities ­because of ­t hese policies, other researchers advocate for a bottom-up, collaborative, community-­based approach to racial impact statements, rather than top-­down approaches by state government.31 My sense of the po­l iti­cal and cultural climate at DU and similar universities is that adopting policies that require the university to assess what disproportionate effects its actions might have on racial and ethnic minority groups would be far easier than it has proven at the state or even municipal levels. This is due, perhaps ironically, to the per­for­ mance culture of diversity already embedded within colleges and universities like DU. B ­ ecause they have made their commitments to diversity so public and ubiquitous, it is easier for advocates of racial justice and equity to hold university leadership’s feet to the fire. They can (and

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should) demand accountability for improving historically underrepresented groups’ access to power, resources, opportunities, and decision-­ making, especially when available evidence suggests l­ ittle if any changes have resulted from previous efforts. An additional benefit to adopting a policy requiring a racial impact statement to accompany any orga­n izational policies or programming is that the assessment itself requires (or ­ought to require) the participation of faculty and staff with formal expertise in evaluating race and racial disparities. The lit­er­a­ture is clear on the fact that participation in  key orga­n izational decisions increases buy-in for ­those decisions. ­Because racial impact statements and assessments require formal training and expertise, the likelihood that a college or university would ­simply look for “the usual suspects” to assist their efforts should be ­lessened considerably. Incentivize Equity While colleges and universities ­ought to adopt racial impact statements and establish assessment committees, this requires enormous time, energy, and personal investment on behalf of ­t hose faculty and staff most qualified to participate. My interviews with diversity workers on campus reveal a deep sense of fatigue, and even exploitation, from the expectations placed upon them to represent diversity for the university. Indeed, much of this is due to the fact that diversity, as it is constituted at DU and similar colleges and universities, is “all bark, no bite.” Diversity workers’ feelings of fatigue and exploitation are directly related to the fact that ­t hings rarely change, no m ­ atter what Herculean efforts they may make. If colleges and universities are truly committed to addressing issues of power imbalance, injustice, and inequity on campus, they must begin by acknowledging and then working to change the unfair practice of placing increased ser­v ice demands on their most vulnerable faculty—­women, minorities, and ju­n ior faculty—to do the work they claim is central to the university’s mission.



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My fourth recommendation, then, is to incentivize the work involved in designing, organ­izing, and implementing the university’s diversity initiative. This can be done through any number or combination of orga­ nizational changes. Most directly, colleges and universities can directly pay faculty, students, and staff for their time and energy through the funds the university sets aside for its diversity initiative.32 Compensation in the form of stipends, overload pay, overtime pay, or funds transferred into faculty research accounts are all common and established practices. It stands to reason that diversity work could be integrated into t­hese compensatory mechanisms. In addition to monetary compensation, colleges and universities should consider revising their paid time off (PTO) policies to account for ser­v ice work ­toward the university’s diversity initiative. It is not uncommon in the for-­profit world for larger companies to provide matching PTO for employees who volunteer for charitable ­causes, particularly ­those that reflect well upon the com­pany and its brand. For staff, this kind of incentive could prove especially helpful if the university has in place a mechanism to account for all of the dif­fer­ent kinds of ­labor associated with diversity work. This would include committee work, of course, as well as the informal and emotional ­labor of which, as research shows, minority w ­ omen and men perform far more than their white counter­ parts. It is up to colleges and universities to determine (demo­c ratically, I hope) how to account for this kind of ­labor. A recent pi­lot study reveals how colleges and universities might begin to think about how to account for this ­labor. Responding to a change in a university work-­load policy, the research team used a modified version of the twenty-­four-­hour recall technique to establish what university faculty w ­ ere ­doing, how much time they spent on t­ hese activities, where this work took place, and what time of the day it took place. On average, faculty participants worked sixty-­one hours per week. Of that time, they spent roughly 17 ­percent in meetings, including committee meetings that have a clear ser­v ice function.33 While this pi­lot study

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did not account for how faculty spent time based upon faculty characteristics such as race or gender, other research makes clear that the burden to perform ser­v ice is often higher for w ­ omen and racial and ethnic minorities and lower for white men, especially t­hose with tenure and rank.34 Not only might a revised PTO policy help properly compensate minority men and w ­ omen already performing increased ser­v ice work on behalf of the university, but it may also incentivize other faculty and staff—­especially white men—to contribute to that work. Fi­nally, ser­v ice ­toward a university’s diversity initiative should be clearly tied into annual reviews and to the tenure and promotion pro­ cess. Though an expected component of university employment for most faculty and staff, ser­v ice remains poorly defined even at the departmental level. DU expects that faculty and staff ­w ill perform university ser­ vice as part of their employment, but it does not specify any amount of  ser­v ice. DU requires faculty to rec­ord their ser­v ice as part of their annual reviews, then for their tenure and promotion dossiers. How ­ser­v ice is considered, however, is unclear beyond ­whether or not it takes  place.  Instead, colleges and universities o ­ ught to prioritize ser­ vice  ­toward their diversity initiative, and explic­itly detail how ser­v ice to  diversity work ­factors into considerations for pay raises and promotions. Faculty who provide more ser­v ice ­toward the university’s diversity initiative—­particularly its assessment—­should not have the same expectations for research as their peers who provide less ser­v ice. Staff who provide more  ser­v ice ­toward the university’s diversity initiative should see that work prioritized in their annual reviews and considerations for promotion. Students who perform ser­v ice ­toward the university’s diversity initiative—­ particularly its assessment—­ could receive course credit, ­particularly if their work ­were supervised or guided by faculty with expertise. With each of t­ hese recommendations, individual colleges and universities need to work out the details. My hope is that this would unfold through a demo­c ratic pro­cess that adheres to the princi­ple of shared gov-



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ernance. Diversity regimes are power­ful vehicles for the maintenance and reproduction of in­equality, especially racial in­equality. They absorb and modify the values of fairness, equality, and justice into abstract commitments that require ­l ittle effort to fulfill or maintain. Meanwhile, historically underrepresented groups remain marginalized on American college campuses, subject to daily microaggressions and disproportionately tasked, formally and informally, with the responsibility of “dealing with race” as their cross to bear. If the recent wave of campus protests centered on everyday experiences with racism tells us anything, it is that students, faculty, and staff are fed up with the status quo on campus and more generally in U.S. society. Colleges and universities can take the lead in fostering a greater purpose ­toward dismantling existing structures of power and domination, including white supremacy, or they can serve the interests of the dominant classes and remain sites of intense conflict and even vio­lence. It is my hope that this book provides some insights into how current practices and arrangements contribute to the maintenance of racial in­equality and everyday racism in higher education, as well as some tools for considering how to dismantle t­hese entrenched systems.

Appendix S t u d y i n g I n ­e q u a l i t y, i n S i t u

As an ethnographer, I take seriously recent debates over the validity and transparency of the ethnographic method.1 For all its perceived strengths in revealing hidden social pro­cesses, critics are quick to point to what appears as a glaring weakness: How can you, the reader, know for certain that what I, the researcher, describe is an accurate account of the social scene ­u nder study? Of course, ­t here is subtext in this criticism—­ namely, that data and analy­sis derived from more quantitative procedures is somehow ­f ree from error or bias. The same critics who question ethnographic data’s accuracy have l­ittle to say when it concerns the accuracy of statistical data. I am sure that the visual neatness of a well-­constructed graph, chart, or t­able has something to do with this. Yet several recent high-­profile instances of researchers fabricating quantitative data for the purposes of publication give us pause in what does and does not count (pun intended). A particularly insidious practice known as “p-­hacking” entails trying out several dif­fer­ent statistical techniques ­u ntil the researchers discover one that produces statistically significant results they can then report.2 Such efforts to produce empirical and legitimate social scientific knowledge demonstrate that numbers do indeed lie—or at least ­t hose who manipulate them lie.3 Ethnographic data is often nuanced, and for good reason. Give social actors a survey with a set number of responses, and you introduce some ele­ments of control over how they respond. Study them in situ, however, and you w ­ ill find their attitudes and be­hav­iors less predictable and often contradictory. My intent ­here is not to rehash the qualitative-­quantitative debate within the social sciences. Most social scientists I know and work

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with see benefits to both forms of data collection and data analy­sis. Instead, I want to address head-on potential criticisms about the techniques I used to collect and analyze my own data for this research, and put at ease any doubts readers may have about the validity and transparency of my own ethnographic description. My choice to conduct an ethnography of Diversity University (DU) is rooted in ethnography’s ability to provide rich description. This makes ethnography uniquely situated for studying in­equality’s pro­cesses and contingencies in situ.4 Participant observation is perhaps the oldest form of social inquiry.5 If you want to know how p­ eople act, observe them. Yet how ­people act and how they understand their actions are not always the same. So if you want to find out how they think about how they act, ask them. Fi­nally, how ­people act, and how they make sense of their actions, is situated within a larger social context that includes the organ­izations and groups they belong to and the rules and norms within them. So if you want to better understand the larger social context that structures how ­people act and how they make sense of their actions, then study the organ­izations and groups to which they belong. This is, in a nutshell, how my own study unfolded. I began my fieldwork by attending diversity events at DU. T ­ hese events ranged from small group meetings with administrators, faculty, and staff, to large “open dialogues” on race and racism with vari­ous campus publics. In between w ­ ere multicultural events, programs, and workshops sponsored by vari­ous groups and offices across campus. All told, I attended roughly three dozen campus events during fieldwork. While at ­these events, I focused on how ­people talked about diversity and its importance. I paid attention to what values they associated with diversity. I looked to see if ­people had consensus on diversity’s meaning and its importance for campus life. I paid attention to ­whether and how ­people at t­ hese events made connections between diversity and racial in­equality. As best I could, I allowed the data to guide my analytic pro­cess by carefully reviewing my field notes and looking for patterns, themes, and

Appendix

185

unique observations. Then I would attempt to corroborate any discoveries or insights with subsequent observations. When I began fieldwork at DU, I was an outsider. I had ­little knowledge of DU’s diversity initiative or t­ hose involved in it. I knew a diversity initiative existed, and a ­simple web search revealed how DU’s administration defined diversity. But I had no empirical knowledge of how ­people at DU put that definition into practice, or what sense they made from it. Over time, my membership role changed.6 Early on, I thought it would be useful to take part as an audience member in the events I attended by asking questions or relaying some of my own thoughts to ­t hose in attendance. My primary areas of research are race, racism, and in­equality. I  found that sharing my expertise was welcomed by ­others, especially given the thematic focus of ­t hese events. My choice to become an active participant served me well over the course of my fieldwork. I began to receive requests to attend events, and ­later to help or­g a­n ize and plan them. T ­ oward the end of my fieldwork, it was not uncommon for me to serve as speaker or moderator. In this way, I was able to acquire a finer grain of detail into how t­hese events are planned and or­g a­n ized, and what goals or objectives m ­ atter to ­t hose involved. Acquiring this kind of access is a common practice in ethnography and is akin to pulling back the curtain of Oz to discover all of the previously hidden mechanisms that make social life appear to unfold naturally. Taking an active role in my fieldwork also helped me to develop strong relationships with DU’s diversity workers—­t he faculty, staff, and students active in putting DU’s diversity initiative into practice. I used ­these relationships to construct a list of ­people who, through in-­depth interviews, could help me learn even more about DU’s diversity initiative. My list was not intended to be a statistical repre­sen­ta­t ion of all of DU’s diversity workers. Rather, I focused my list on the ­people who, through fieldwork, I knew ­were the most active and involved in planning, coordinating, and implementing diversity at DU. All told, I conducted twenty-­six in-­depth interviews. Among ­t hose I interviewed ­were

186 Appendix

­Table A.1

Respondent Demographics

(n=26)

Administrators

­Women

Faculty

Staff

Students

Total

5

4

1

5

15 (58%)

2

2

1

5

10

3

2

0

0

5

3

1

1

6

11 (42%)

3

1

1

3

8

White

0

0

0

2

2

Other

0

0

0

1

1

African American White Men African American

six administrators, six faculty, two staff, and twelve students. Interviewees represented a wide range of divisions across campus: multicultural affairs, student affairs, residential housing, Greek life, athletics, and vari­ ous academic centers, departments, and programs (see t­ able A.1). I structured interviews around themes discovered through fieldwork. I wanted to know how ­t hese diversity workers did their work, but also what they thought about their work. How do they talk about and make sense of diversity? What values do they connect with diversity? What are the challenges they face in d­ oing diversity work? To what extent do they see their work as connected to racial in­equality? Structuring interviews around themes derived from fieldwork serves an impor­tant methodological purpose in ethnography. It allows you, the researcher, to test and validate your observations. Often, interviews provide disconfirming evidence. More often, they reveal even more meaning than what you observed. This is all helpful for putting together the bigger “story” of the social scene u ­ nder study. When respondents repeatedly confirmed my observations, I viewed that as significant and worthy of deeper analy­sis. Yet if a respondent disconfirmed my observations, that too was significant. It led me to probe deeper within that interview

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and in ­later interviews. It also led me to revisit my field notes with more skepticism and new perspectives.7 Fi­nally, while I was busy conducting fieldwork and interviews, I also read through and analyzed hundreds of pages of institutional documents dealing with DU’s diversity initiative: memos, announcements, job advertisements, policies, press releases, website materials, brochures, and pamphlets. Studying DU’s institutional discourse helped me compare the institution’s official commitment with what that commitment looks like in practice. T ­ hese documents helped me see how diversity becomes institutionalized over time, and in response to what other events. I learned which offices, organ­i zations, and actors are involved in a variety of diversity programming on campus. This, of course, helped me refine my list of interviewees. Like the interviews, the institutional documents helped me better understand the bigger story of diversity at DU. To ensure that the story I was seeing was accurate, understandable, and fit the social scene of DU, I included my interviewees throughout the research pro­cess. Together we reviewed their transcripts for accuracy. I  often circled back with them ­a fter our interviews to share ideas and themes with them and to get their thoughts. T ­ hese exchanges often led to new insights from t­hose I spoke with. “Oh, this reminds me of . . .” and “I should have mentioned this in our interview . . .” w ­ ere common observations in our ongoing discussions. ­T hese interactions helped me maintain constant reflection as my research unfolded. Indeed, this is what ­others mean when they speak of the iterative nature of qualitative inquiry. All of this research took place for well over two years. During that period, DU saw one chancellor ousted by the governing state board, followed by an interim appointment of one of its se­n ior administrative officials. This appointment lasted for approximately one full semester before the governing state board hired a full-­t ime replacement. The ousting of the first chancellor was met with widespread disapproval across DU’s campus. The first chancellor was viewed by many at DU as a champion of a more progressive campus politics, including a commitment, albeit

188 Appendix

largely symbolic, to diversity and inclusion. Many students, faculty, and staff viewed his removal by the governing state board as blowback for wanting to make “too many changes too quickly,” as more than one person conveyed to me. When a new, full-­time chancellor was hired, he picked up on the symbolic politics of diversity, creating a diversity webpage and following through with the Diversity Action Plan (DAP) that was initiated by his pre­de­ces­sor. On the surface, abrupt transitions in leadership might signal a ­methodological prob­lem for someone studying a diversity initiative as it unfolds. W ­ ouldn’t a leadership change, especially one at the very top of the institutional hierarchy, result in wide-­scale changes that may make it hard to draw firm conclusions over time? What I found in the course of my research is that while ­there are stylistic differences between one administration and another, ­these differences are less substantive and have ­little bearing on the organ­ization and implementation of diversity. By and large, I found the same “­going concerns” at DU u ­ nder its new leadership that I did u ­ nder its older one. Indeed, some of them became more pronounced as DU sought to make headway on several of the plans outlined in the DAP. In this way, the abrupt change in leadership, and its negligible impact on how DU’s diversity initiative unfolded, suggests that the orga­n izational inequalities enabled by a diversity initiative are much more entrenched within the fabric of an institution than one might think. A change in leadership is not enough to reduce or eliminate racial in­equality, especially if it is not accompanied by a change in orga­ nizational culture or structure. Additional Note on Ethnography I should note that t­ here are two general tendencies in ethnography that, in some ways, are best delineated by the Atlantic Ocean that separates them. Across the Atlantic, the British tendency is to emphasize “theory from description.” Meanwhile, the tradition in the United States emphasizes “from description ­toward theory.” The differences may appear sub-

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tle, but my take on the m ­ atter is anything but. In the British tradition, theory is the primary motivation of description. This means that in the best cases, British scholars often move t­oward a critical and insightful analy­sis that discovers deeply embedded social pro­cesses and their relationships. Evidence is marshaled as a means to demonstrate ­these pro­ cesses in general terms, which are then applicable to a wide variety of social contexts outside of the immediate one ­u nder scrutiny. In the worst cases, however, this tradition produces vague and empty frameworks reliant upon scant evidence—­not altogether that dif­fer­ent from the ­a rmchair theorizing that dominated the early twentieth-­century social sciences. Contrast that with the American tradition. At least since Du Bois, the American tradition of ethnography, and sociology more generally, has tended ­toward a motive for empirical description that then lends itself ­toward theory. “­Toward” is the operative word. In the best cases, thick description, to borrow from Geertz, paints a vivid portrait of a social scene.8 The reader is sucked into the sounds, colors, and vibrations of city life, or the taunts, jeers, and traditions of a primary school.9 ­T hese details are expertly woven together to reveal some hidden set of pro­ cesses that helps us better understand the orga­n izational life of the scene and its relationship to o ­ thers, or how macrolevel transformations in the po­l iti­cal economy manifest themselves in the everyday lives of ordinary ­people. In the worst cases, however, this tradition becomes ­little more than voy­eur­is­tic journalism. The reader is taken into a social scene, given a privileged vantage point from which to observe ­people behaving in ways that appear foreign, though no less enticing—­a colonizing experience, for both reader and subject. My aim is to strike some balance between the two traditions. I cannot be certain the attempt has been successful, but I believe ­there is something to be said about the importance of thin description as much as what has already been said about the importance of thick description.10 In striking this balance, I have avoided diving down the rabbit

190 Appendix

holes of a wide variety of lit­er­a­t ures that, while complementary to my study, prohibit me from detailing the contours of my argument without sacrificing the space constraints of a monograph. Scholars who study organ­izations and institutions, for example, may find themselves disappointed that more of that lit­er­a­ture is not incorporated into chapter  4. Scholars who study discourse may be disappointed for similar reasons in chapter 3. In lieu of what are ultimately strategic omissions, I offer them the following condolence: when pos­si­ble, I include a number of notes with citations to what I believe are the key texts that support the argument I am building.

Acknowl­edgments Books are collective endeavors. In 2013, I received seed money from the American So­cio­log­i­cal Association and National Science Foundation’s joint Fund for the Advancement of the Discipline to examine how and why racial conflict and vio­lence persist on American college campuses. My intention was to conduct a comparative study of colleges and universities that experienced some form of collective white backlash following the reelection of Barack Obama as president of the United States in 2012. The seed money helped me hire a gradu­ate assistant, LaTierney Frazier, who assisted me early on in conducting fieldwork, organ­izing my field notes, and identifying networks of diversity workers across Diversity University, the first of what I thought would be three comparative cases. Funding is a tricky t­ hing, and writing to foundations for money, if it is a science, is at least as much—if not more—an art. My attempts to secure additional external funding to expand the study beyond Diversity ­University proved unsuccessful. By 2014 I made the decision to limit my study to the single case presented h ­ ere. Depth, rather than breadth, became my purpose. In its early stages, my colleagues in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology and in the University of Mississippi’s Critical Race Studies Group proved invaluable. What I thought would be a study on racial vio­ lence on college campuses soon became a study on diversity and inclusion gone wrong—or, at least, diversity and inclusion gone nowhere. Not all colleges and universities experience fits of racial vio­lence. Most deal with racial conflict. All, I would venture, strug­g le with race as a structuring phenomenon. Thus, my single case study began to help me see its fit in the larger social world of American higher education. I am particularly thankful for the support in this early phase from my previous

191

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Acknowl­e dgments

chair, Professor Kirsten Dellinger; my current chair, Professor Jeffrey Jackson; and my colleagues Professor Willa Johnson and Professor Kirk Johnson. In 2015 I secured some competitive summer research support from the University of Mississippi’s College of Liberal Arts. This funding helped me hire another gradu­ate student, Shanda Taylor, who assisted me in transcribing my interviews with diversity workers. Shanda’s transcriptions ­were sharp and insightful, and she saved me around one hundred hours’ worth of work that I was able to put t­ oward other aspects of this research, including its analytical components. Additional funding helped me to hire a third gradu­ate student, Ian Whelan, to help code the institutional discourse—­t he memos, policies, reports, strategic planning documents, and other communiqués. Ian’s time, energy, and savvy knowledge of NVivo ­were invaluable. This, of course, brings me to the diversity workers whose thoughts, efforts, and frustrations form the basis for this book. To the twenty-­six diversity workers with whom I sat down for formal interviews, and the dozens of o ­ thers who spoke with me off the rec­ord or who offered me their thoughts and impressions at the events I attended: thank you. I hope this book does your work, and all of its challenges and frustrations, ­justice. I hope you see yourselves and your work in my writing and that you recognize the criticisms that I have are not with you but with the orga­n izational logic and structure within which you work. Around the same time Shanda was transcribing my interviews for me, I began to pre­sent the framework for this study and its initial findings to colleagues outside of my own department and university. I am grateful for the early feedback received from friends and colleagues at the annual meetings for the Southern So­c io­log­i­cal Society and for the Society for the Study of Social Prob­lems, at which I presented some of my initial findings. In par­t ic­u ­lar, I want to thank my friend, colleague, and collaborator Hephzibah Strmic-­Pawl for some early feedback a­ fter a



Acknowl­e dgments

193

pre­sen­ta­t ion at the Southern So­c io­log­i­cal Society’s annual meeting. Hephzibah and I have been talking on and off for nearly two years about a collaborative study on housing insecurity, and she has been incredibly patient with me as I worked to complete this proj­ect. At the invitation of colleagues, I presented more polished findings to audiences at the University of West Georgia and ­Virginia Tech. The questions and comments from ­t hose in attendance helped me think through several analytic components of what I term a diversity regime. I am also thankful for my conversations with two of my friends and mentors, Professor David  G. Embrick and Professor David Brunsma. Embrick’s own research on diversity initiatives in the corporate and ­for-­profit worlds proved instructive for my own efforts. His mentorship, encouragement, and friendship have always been unwavering. I am grateful to know him. Brunsma, meanwhile, has been perhaps my biggest academic supporter since my days as a first-­year gradu­ate student in his race and ethnicity seminar at the University of Missouri. His mentorship and guidance has been steadfast, even ­a fter he moved to ­Virginia Tech and I eventually made my way to Mississippi. David, thank you for every­t hing, always. I want to thank Kimberly Guinta and Lisa Banning of Rutgers University Press for taking a chance on this book. Lisa in par­t ic­u ­lar has been fabulous in marshaling this proj­ ect along. In putting the finishing touches on this book, I am deeply grateful for all of the copyediting provided by my friend and colleague Jenna Mason. She is a wordsmith with a sharp eye for detail. I am also grateful for the feedback provided by my colleagues Simone DeLerme, Seung-­Cheol Lee, Amy McDowell, Marcos Mendoza, Catarina Passidomo Townes, and Ana Velitchkova on early drafts of some of the book’s chapters. Their comments, insights, and suggestions have greatly clarified my book’s organ­i zation and argument. Fi­nally, nothing I have ever done in the past eleven years that was worth anything could have been completed without the enduring support

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and love from my partner, Afton. This book is no dif­fer­ent. Afton sacrificed a g­ reat deal of her time, energy (and perhaps even her sanity) so that I could complete this book. Far more than she knows it, my conversations with her helped me think through many of the issues I wrestle with in this book. I dedicate this book to Afton and our beautiful ­c hildren: Olive, my Heart and Soul; and Noah, my Sun and Moon.

Notes Chapter 1 ​— ​Introduction 1. ​“Unemployment Rate—­Black or African American, Seasonally Adjusted,” ­ abor Force Statistics from the Current Population Survey, U.S. Bureau of ­L abor L Statistics, August 21, 2018, https://­d ata​.­bls​.­gov​/­pdq​/­SurveyOutputServlet. 2. ​Gallup, for example, tracks Americans’ attitudes and beliefs across a number of social and economic issues. Over the course of Obama’s two terms (2009–2017), Americans’ attitudes ­toward social issues became increasingly more liberal. For example, in 2016, for the first time since Gallup began asking about same-­sex marriage, a majority of Americans believed that same-­sex marriage should be ­legal. When Obama took office in 2008, just 40  ­percent of Americans agreed. On the other hand, nearly three times as many Americans said they worried about race relations in 2016 than in 2010 (35  ­percent to 13  ­percent). And while 71  ­percent of African Americans and 56 ­percent of whites thought that Obama’s presidency represented one of the most impor­t ant advancements for African Americans in 2009, by 2016 that belief was shared among just 51  ­percent of African Americans and 27  ­percent of whites. See Frank Newport and Andrew Dugan, “5 Ways Amer­i­ca Changed during the Obama Years,” Gallup​.­com, accessed August 21, 2018, https://­ news​.­g allup​.­c om​/­o pinion​/­p olling​-­m atters​/­2 03123​/­a merica​-­c hanged​-­d uring​ -­obama​-­years​.­a spx. 3. ​In 2012, nearly 57 ­percent of Lafayette County, Mississippi, voted for Romney, compared to just over 41 ­percent for Barack Obama. 4. ​Descriptions from this event are taken from a 2013 public report by the Incident Review Committee, a ten-­person committee appointed by the chancellor of the University of Mississippi to investigate the precipitating events leading up to the racially charged incidents on the night of November 6, 2012. The report is in the public rec­ord and can be found ­here: https://­news​.­olemiss​.­edu​/­u niversity​ -­committee​-­releases​-­report​-­on​-­election​-­n ight​-­i ncident​/­. 5. ​See http://­news​.­olemiss​.­edu​/­message​-­c hancellor​-­d an​-­jones. 6. ​Gary T. Marx, “Issueless Riots,” Annals of the American Acad­e my of Po­liti­cal and Social Science, no. 391 (September 1970): 21–33. 7. ​The definitive historical account of this event is Charles W. Ea­g les, The Price of Defiance: James Meredith and the Integration of Ole Miss (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2014).

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Notes to Pages 4–6

8. ​Yamiche Alcindor, “Racial Slurs at College Protests Prompt a Deeper Look,” USA ­Today, November 10, 2012. 9. ​Everett C. Hughes, The So­c io­log ­i­cal Eye: Selected Papers (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1984), 54. Hughes’s treatment of “­going concerns” focused on orga­n izational life more generally. ­Here I am narrowing the focus to a specific kind of g­ oing concern within diversity initiatives in higher education. 10. ​One could (and perhaps should) argue that it shapes in­equality more generally. While the focus of my analy­sis is on the maintenance and reproduction of racial in­equality, the distinction from other forms of in­equality (e.g., gender and class) is ­l ittle more than an analytic one. This means that how in­equality plays out within orga­n izational and everyday life entails a constant and dynamic intersection between dif­fer­ent spheres of power: economic, patriarchal, and racial, to name the “big three.” My hope is that while I do not provide an intersectional framework in my own analy­sis, other scholars reading this book w ­ ill better understand how to take my analy­sis and shape it to provide insights into how racial in­equality and other inequalities intersect through the ongoing production of diversity initiatives. 11. ​­T here are, of course, social fissures on t­hese ­matters. ­T here is a political-­ ideological divide among Americans, with Republican-­leaning Americans less likely to express confidence in American colleges and universities. And ­t here is a generational divide as well, with younger Americans more skeptical of their chances for social mobility. See Rachel Fishman, Manuela Ekowo, and Ernest Ezeugo, “Varying Degrees: New Amer­i­ca’s Annual Survey on Higher Education,” New Amer­i­ca, August 2017; “Sharp Partisan Divisions in Views of National Institutions,” Pew Research Center for the ­People and the Press, July 10, 2017, http://­ www​.­p eople​-­press​.­org​/­2 017​/­0 7​/­10​/­s harp​-­partisan​-­d ivisions​-­i n​-­v iews​-­of​-­n ational​ -­i nstitutions​/­. 12. ​John R. Thelin, A History of American Higher Education, 2nd ed. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011). 13. ​Arne Duncan, “Remarks of U.S. Secretary of Education Arne Duncan to the Inter-­A merican Development Bank | U.S. Department of Education” (December  5, 2012), http://­w ww​.­ed​.­gov​/­news​/­s peeches​/­remarks​-­u s​-­secretary​-­education​ -­a rne​-­duncan​-­i nter​-­a merican​-­development​-­bank. 14. ​ Stanley Fish, “Neoliberalism and Higher Education,” New York Times, March  8, 2009, Opinionator (blog); Christopher Newfield, Unmaking the Public ­University: The Forty-­Year Assault on the ­Middle Class (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011); Christopher Newfield, The ­Great ­Mistake (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016).



Notes to Pages 6–8

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15. ​Anthony P. Carnevale and Jeff Strohl, “Separate and Unequal: How Higher Education Reinforces the Intergenerational Reproduction of White Racial Privilege,” Georgetown Public Policy Institute, Georgetown University, July  2013, https://­cew​.­georgetown​.­edu​/­cew​-­reports​/­separate​-­u nequal​/­. 16. ​Even from Amer­i­ca’s most prestigious universities, a college degree does not promise social mobility. See Anthony Abraham Jack, The Privileged Poor: How Elite Colleges Are Failing Disadvantaged Students (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2019); Caroline Preston, “When a College Degree Is No Longer a Ticket to the M ­ iddle Class,” Hechinger Report, February 7, 2019, https://­hechingerreport​.­org​ /­when​-­a​-­college​-­degree​-­i s​-­no​-­longer​-­a​-­t icket​-­to​-­t he​-­m iddle​-­c lass​/­. 17. ​ College Board/National Journal, “College Board/National Journal Next Amer­i­ca Poll, Spring 2014,” New York, 2014; Ronald Roach, “Poll: Minorities More Likely to Say College Degree Is Key to Success,” Diverse (blog), November 18, 2013, http://­d iverseeducation​.­com​/­a rticle​/­5 7495​/­. 18. ​Gallup-­Lumina Foundation, “The 2014 Gallup-­Lumina Foundation Study of American Public’s Opinion on Higher Education: Postsecondary Education Aspirations and Barriers,” Indianapolis, 2015. 19. ​L ewis Powell, “Regents of the University of California v. Bakke,” Pub. L. No. 438 U.S. 265, 7811 (1978). 20. ​Thomas D. Snyder, Cristobal de Brey, and Sally A. Dillow, Digest of Education Statistics, 2016 (Washington, DC: National Center for Education Statistics, 2016). See t­ able 306.10 for figures quoted. 21. ​Thelin, History of American Higher Education. 22. ​Carnevale and Strohl, “Separate and Unequal”; Henry A. Giroux, Neoliberalism’s War on Higher Education (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2014); Mitchell  L. ­Stevens, Elizabeth A. Armstrong, and Richard Arum, “Sieve, Incubator, ­Temple, Hub: Empirical and Theoretical Advances in the Sociology of Higher Education,” Annual Review of Sociology 34, no. 1 (2008): 127–151. 23. ​Patricia Gurin et al., “Diversity and Higher Education: Theory and Impact on Educational Outcomes,” Harvard Educational Review 72, no.  3 (2002): 330–367; Patricia Gurin et al., “The Benefits of Diversity in Education for Demo­c ratic Citizenship,” Journal of Social Issues 60, no. 1 (April 1, 2004): 17–34. 24. ​Anthony Lising Antonio, “When Does Race M ­ atter in College Friendships? Exploring Men’s Diverse and Homogeneous Friendship Groups,” Review of Higher Education 27, no.  4 (2004): 553–575; Sylvia Hurtado, Adriana Ruiz Alvarado, and Chelsea Guillermo-­Wann, “Thinking About Race: The Salience of Racial Identity at Two-­and Four-­Year Colleges and the Climate for Diversity,” Journal of Higher Education 86, no. 1 (2015): 127–155.

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Notes to Page 8

25. ​Eduardo Bonilla-­Silva and Tyrone A. Forman, “ ‘I Am Not a Racist But . . .’: Mapping White College Students’ Racial Ideology in the USA,” Discourse and Society 11, no. 1 (January 1, 2000): 50–85; Michelle L. Bryan et al., “Exploring the Impact of ‘Race Talk’ in the Education Classroom: Doctoral Student Reflections,” Journal of Diversity in Higher Education 5, no. 3 (September 2012): 123–137; Kimberly A. Griffin, Marcela Muniz, and Lorelle Espinosa, “Beyond Institutional Commitment: Understanding the Influence of Campus Racial Climate on Efforts to Promote Diversity in Gradu­ate Education,” Review of Higher Education 35, no.  4 (2012): ­535–566; Stacy A. Harwood et al., “Racial Microaggressions in the Residence Halls: Experiences of Students of Color at a Predominantly White University,” Journal of Diversity in Higher Education 5, no.  3 (September  1, 2012): 159–173; Janet  K. Swim et  al., “African American College Students’ Experiences with Everyday Racism: Characteristics of and Responses to ­T hese Incidents,” Journal of Black Psy­chol­ogy 29, no. 1 (February 1, 2003): 38–67. 26. ​Derald Wing Sue et  al., “Racial Dialogues: Challenges Faculty of Color Face  in the Classroom,” Cultural Diversity and Ethnic Minority Psy­chol­ogy 17, no.  3 (July 2011): 331–340. 27. ​Barbara Harris Combs, “No Rest for the Weary: The Weight of Race, Gender, and Place inside and outside a Southern Classroom,” Sociology of Race and Ethnicity 3, no. 4 (October 1, 2017): 491–505; Leslie T. Fenwick and H. Patrick Swygert, “It’s 2015. Where Are All the Black College Faculty?” Washington Post, November  12, 2015; Chavella  T. Pittman, “Racial Microaggressions: The Narratives of African American Faculty at a Predominantly White University,” Journal of Negro Education 81, no. 1 (winter 2012): 82–92. 28. ​ Hate Crimes on Campus: The Prob­l em and Efforts to Confront It, Bureau of Justice Assistance Monograph, Hate Crimes Series (Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, October 2001). 29. ​ Hate Crime Statistics, 2013, Uniform Crime Report (Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation, December 2014); See also ProPublica, “Documenting Hate,” 2017, https://­projects​.­propublica​.­org​/­g raphics​ /­hatecrimes. 30. ​See, for example, Anemona Hartocollis, “Long ­a fter Protests, Students Shun the University of Missouri,” New York Times, July 9, 2017; Alexandra Markovich and Emily Palmer, “Prince­ton Students Hold Sit-in on Racial Injustice,” New York Times, November  18, 2015; Cody  R. Permenter, “Bleach Balloons Launched at Minority Students at University of Texas,” Huffington Post, October 4, 2012; Roxana Kopetman, “UC Irvine Students Join Nationwide Protest on Tuition, Missouri Racism,” Orange County Register, November 13, 2015; Teresa Watanabe, “Racial Ten-



Notes to Pages 9–11

199

sions Inflame UCLA Student Body Election, Driving Calls for More Repre­sen­ta­ tion,” Los Angeles Times, May 8, 2017. 31. ​Joyce M. Bell and Douglas Hartmann, “Diversity in Everyday Discourse: The Cultural Ambiguities and Consequences of ‘Happy Talk,’ ” American So­c io­log­i­cal Review 72, no. 6 (December 1, 2007): 895–914; Ellen Berrey, The Enigma of Diversity: The Language of Race and the Limits of Racial Justice (Chicago: University of C ­ hicago Press, 2015). 32. ​Bell and Hartmann, “Diversity in Everyday Discourse.” 33. ​Bell and Hartmann, 898. 34. ​Douglas Hartmann, “Reflections on Race, Diversity, and the Crossroads of Multiculturalism,” So­c io­log ­i­cal Quarterly 56, no. 4 (September 1, 2015): 623–639. 35. ​Lauren B. Edelman, Sally Riggs Fuller, and Iona Mara-­Drita, “Diversity Rhe­ toric and the Managerialization of Law,” American Journal of Sociology 106, no.  6 (May 1, 2001): 1589–1641. 36. ​Ellen Berrey, “Why Diversity Became Orthodox in Higher Education, and How It Changed the Meaning of Race on Campus,” Critical Sociology 37, no. 5 (September 1, 2011): 573–596. 37. ​David G. Embrick, “The Diversity Ideology in the Business World: A New Oppression for a New Age,” Critical Sociology 37, no. 5 (September 1, 2011): 541–556. 38. ​Frank Dobbin and Alexandra Kalev, “The Architecture of Inclusion: Evidence from Corporate Diversity Programs,” Harvard Journal of Law and Gender 30, no. 2 (2007): 279–301; Frank Dobbin, Soohan Kim, and Alexandra Kalev, “You ­Can’t Always Get What You Need: Orga­n izational Determinants of Diversity Programs,” American So­c io­log ­i­cal Review 76, no.  3 (June  1, 2011): 386–411; Alexandra Kalev, Frank Dobbin, and Erin Kelly, “Best Practices or Best Guesses? Assessing the Efficacy of Corporate Affirmative Action and Diversity Policies,” American So­c io­log­i­cal Review 71, no. 4 (August 1, 2006): 589–617. 39. ​Susan Sturm, “The Architecture of Inclusion: Advancing Workplace Equity in Higher Education,” Harvard Journal of Law and Gender 29, no. 2 (2006): 247–334; Susan P. Sturm, “The Architecture of Inclusion: Interdisciplinary Insights on Pursuing Institutional Citizenship,” Harvard Journal of Law and Gender 30 (October 3, 2007): 409–424. 40. ​Berrey, “Why Diversity Became Orthodox”; see also Berrey, Enigma of Diversity. 41. ​Amir B. Marvasti and Karyn D. McKinney, “Does Diversity Mean Assimilation?” Critical Sociology 37, no. 5 (September 1, 2011): 631–650.

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Notes to Pages 11–14

42. ​Antonia Randolph, The Wrong Kind of Dif­fe r­ent: Challenging the Meaning of Diversity in American Classrooms (New York: Teachers College Press, 2012); see also Chandra T. Mohanty, Feminism without Borders: Decolonizing Theory, Practicing Solidarity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003). 43. ​See Hughes, So­c io­log ­i­cal Eye. 44. ​My use of “articulation” ­here derives from Stuart Hall, “Signification, Repre­ sen­t a­t ion, Ideology: Althusser and the Post-­structuralist Debates,” Critical Studies in Mass Communication 2, no. 2 (June 1, 1985): 91–114. 45. ​Gallup-­Lumina Foundation, “2014 Gallup-­Lumina Foundation Study”; Stevens, Armstrong, and Arum, “Sieve, Incubator, ­Temple, Hub.” 46. ​See Peter  M. Hall, “Interactionism, Social Organ­ization, and Social Pro­ cesses: Looking Back and Moving Ahead,” Symbolic Interaction 26, no. 1 (2003): 43; Michael Lounsbury and Marc J. Ventresca, eds., Social Structure and Organ­izations Revisited (Amsterdam: Emerald Group Publishing ­L imited, 2002); Charles Perrow, Complex Organ­izations: A Critical Essay, 3rd ed. (New York: McGraw-­H ill, 1993). 47. ​Wendy Brown, Undoing the Demos: Neoliberalism’s Stealth Revolution (New York: Zone Books, 2015); see also Stephen J. Ball, “Performativity, Commodification, and Commitment: An I-­Spy Guide to the Neoliberal University,” British Journal of Educational Studies 60, no. 1 (February 21, 2012): 17–28; Joyce E. Canaan and Wesley Shumar, eds., Structure and Agency in the Neoliberal University (New York: Routledge, 2011). 48. ​Susan Welch and John Gruhl, Affirmative Action and Minority Enrollments in Medical and Law Schools (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1998). 49. ​Daniel  N. Lipson, “Embracing Diversity: The Institutionalization of Affirmative Action as Diversity Management at UC-­Berkeley, UT-­Austin, and UW-­ Madison,” Law and Social Inquiry 32, no. 4 (fall 2007): 1012. 50. ​Sara Ahmed, “The Language of Diversity,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 30, no. 2 (2007): 235–256; Sara Ahmed, On Being Included: Racism and Diversity in Institutional Life (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012); Jeffery  L. Wilson, “Emerging Trend: The Chief Diversity Officer Phenomenon within Higher Education,” Journal of Negro Education 82, no. 4 (2013): 433. 51. ​See James  M. Thomas, “Diversity Regimes and Racial In­equality: A Case Study of Diversity University,” Social Currents 5, no. 2 (April 1, 2018): 140–156. 52. ​When I first began imagining this proj­ect in 2012–2013, my interests w ­ ere in the apparent paradox between American universities as hallmarks of civility, and the increasing number of racist and violent encounters taking place across college campuses.



Notes to Pages 15–27

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53. ​See Hall, “Signification, Repre­sen­t a­t ion, Ideology”; also see Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: T ­ owards a Radical Demo­c ratic Politics, 2nd ed. (London: Verso, 2014).

Chapter 2 ​— ​­U nder the Live, Old Oak Trees 1. ​Richard Delgado, Jean Stefancic, and Angela Harris, Critical Race Theory: An Introduction, 3rd ed. (New York: NYU Press, 2017); Daniel G. Solórzano and Tara J. Yosso, “Critical Race Methodology: Counter-­Storytelling as an Analytical Framework for Education Research,” Qualitative Inquiry 8, no. 1 (February 1, 2002): 23–44. I distinguish the American tradition of critical race theory from the postcolonial critical race tradition. The former developed out of critical ­legal studies and its analy­sis of race and racism within the juridical-­legal institutions and their role in reproducing race-­based discrimination in other institutions: education, health care, government, and so forth. The postcolonial tradition, meanwhile, emerged during strug­g les for po­liti­cal in­de­pen­dence in parts of Asia, Africa, and Latin Amer­i­ca. While the American tradition has, since the 1970s, sought to understand the effects of slavery, Jim Crow, and extralegal practices on ­people of color in the United States, the postcolonial tradition has explored the effects of centuries of colonial rule and exploitation on colonial subjects, including their postcolonial conditions and cultures. ­T here are significant overlaps between ­t hese two traditions, chief among them an intellectual history that draws explic­itly and implicitly from the many writings on race, racism, and empire from American sociologist W.E.B. Du Bois. 2. ​See Edward W. Said, “Invention, Memory, and Place,” Critical Inquiry 26, no. 2 (January 1, 2000): 175–192. 3. ​Edward Said, “Imaginative Geography and Its Repre­sen­t a­t ions: Orientalizing the Oriental,” in The Cultural Geography Reader, ed. Timothy Oakes and Patricia L. Price (London: Routledge, 2008). 4. ​Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). 5. ​See also Mahmood Mamdani, Citizen and Subject: Con­temporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonialism (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1996). 6. ​See Said, “Imaginative Geography and Its Repre­sen­t a­t ions.” 7. ​See Hobsbawm and Ranger, Invention of Tradition. 8. ​See Craig Steven Wilder, Ebony and Ivy: Race, Slavery, and the Troubled History of Amer­i­ca’s Universities (New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2013). Around 2014 a working body of faculty and staff was formed in­de­pen­dent of the university’s administration

202

Notes to Pages 28–35

with the aim to investigate the relationship between slavery and DU’s founding.  In  2016 their efforts ­were absorbed as part of DU’s efforts to contextualize its  past. The faculty and staff who comprise this group have varied academic and professional interests but have had modest success in uncovering the historical significance of enslaved laborers to campus life in the early years of the university. 9. ​Southern Poverty Law Center, “Whose Heritage? Public Symbols of the Confederacy,” June  4, 2018, https://­w ww​.­s plcenter​.­org​/­2 0180604​/­whose​-­heritage​ -­public​-­s ymbols​-­confederacy. 10. ​See Southern Poverty Law Center, “Whose Heritage?” 11. ​A n alternate translation reads, “Foreigner, go tell the Spartans that we lie ­here, obedient to their commands.” 12. ​Herodotus, The Histories, ed. John  M. Marincola, trans. Aubrey De Selincourt (New York: Penguin Classics, 2003). 13. ​T he scholarly lit­er­a­ture on the history of chattel slavery and Jim Crow is rich. I recommend the following for their accessibility and scope: William  H. Chafe, Raymond Gavins, and Robert Korstad, eds., Remembering Jim Crow: African Americans Tell About Life in the Segregated South (New York: New Press, 2014); Jerrold M. Packard, American Nightmare: The History of Jim Crow (New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2003); Richard Wormser, The Rise and Fall of Jim Crow (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2003). 14. ​Richard Gray, Southern Aberrations: Writers of the American South and the Prob­ lems of Regionalism (Baton Rouge, LA: LSU Press, 2000); Lucinda Hardwick MacKethan, The Dream of Arcady: Place and Time in Southern Lit­e r­a­ture (Baton Rouge, LA: LSU Press, 1999). 15. ​Lucinda MacKethan, “Genres of Southern Lit­er­a­t ure,” Southern Spaces (2004), https://­southernspaces​.­org​/­2 004​/­genres​-­southern​-­l iterature​/­; Benjamin Schwarz, “The Idea of the South,” Atlantic, December 1997. 16. ​MacKethan, “Genres of Southern Lit­er­a­t ure.” 17. ​MacKethan. 18. ​For the significance of settler colonialism to the American proj­ect, see James Belich, Replenishing the Earth: The Settler Revolution and the Rise of the Angloworld (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 19. ​This quote comes from DU’s chancellor following the Civil War. 20. ​This quote comes from a 1936 interview with one of the ­women who served on the yearbook committee in 1896 and who had suggested the ­adopted name of DU’s annual that year.



Notes to Pages 35–44

203

21. ​See Gray, Southern Aberrations. 22. ​United States Supreme Court, “Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, Opinion,” May  17, 1954, Rec­ord Group 267, National Archives. For examples of southern universities’ re­sis­t ance to the Supreme Court ruling, see David J. Mays, Race, Reason, and Massive Re­sis­tance: The Diary of David  J. Mays, 1954–1959, ed. James R. Sweeney (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2008); E. Culpepper Clark and Dan T. Car­ter, The School­house Door: Segregation’s Last Stand at the University of Alabama (Tuscaloosa, AL: Fire Ant Books, 2007). 23. ​Jenny Irons, Reconstituting Whiteness: The Mississippi State Sovereignty Commission (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2010); Charles W. Ea­g les, The Price of Defiance: James Meredith and the Integration of Ole Miss (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2014). 24. ​The dialectic is a Hegelian concept that ­later took on significance for Marx’s historical materialist method. For Marx, all of ­human history is ­shaped by (class) conflict between two opposing forces: a thesis and an antithesis. Their encounter produces a new system with new forms of (class) conflict: what Hegel, and then Marx following Hegel, refers to as a synthesis. Marx’s dialectic model is illustrative of how dominance and re­sis­tance often unfold across historical periods. Rarely does one side defeat the other. Instead, their strug­g les produce new modes of being, with new conflicts and strug­g les between newly constituted opposing forces. 25. ​In 2019, campus protests during Black History Month w ­ ere met by counterprotests from white nationalist groups, many from out of state. The presence of white nationalists marching on campus for the protection of a Confederate statue led to renewed calls by students, faculty, and staff to remove the statue from its current position and relocate it to the Confederate cemetery adjacent to campus. The administration, ­u nder pressure from students, faculty, and staff, submitted a request in writing to the state’s governing authority over historical monuments for permission to relocate the statue at the end of the spring semester. The campus continues to wait for a response. 26. ​William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun (New York: Vintage Books, 2012).

Chapter 3 ​— ​Condensation and the Alchemy of Diversity 1. ​See Gilbert M. Gaul, Billion-­Dollar Ball: A Journey through the Big-­Money Culture of College Football (New York: Penguin Books, 2016). 2. ​See Peter Adler and Patricia Adler, Backboards and Blackboards (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991).

204

Notes to Pages 45–48

3. ​A microaggression is defined as a brief interaction in everyday life that sends a denigrating message to an individual based on that person’s group membership (see Derald Wing Sue, Microaggressions in Everyday Life: Race, Gender, and Sexual Orientation (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2010, 24). Microaggressions can be deliberate and obvious, but many are subtle. Often the perpetrator can even seem innocent and well intentioned, making the act even more difficult for the target of the aggression to pro­cess or confront. The lit­er­a­ture on microaggressions is increasingly vast. For some primers, with par­tic­u ­lar emphasis on the context of the college campus, see Sue, Microaggressions in Everyday Life; Derald Wing Sue, ed., Microaggressions and Marginality: Manifestation, Dynamics, and Impact (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2010); Chavella  T. Pittman, “Racial Microaggressions: The Narratives of African American Faculty at a Predominantly White University,” Journal of Negro Education 81, no. 1 (winter 2012): 82–92; Stacy A. Harwood et al., “Racial Microaggressions in the Residence Halls: Experiences of Students of Color at a Predominantly White University,” Journal of Diversity in Higher Education 5, no. 3 (September 1, 2012): 159–73. 4. ​For so­c io­log­i­cal treatments of diversity discourse among man­ag­ers in for-­ profit firms, see Lauren  B. Edelman, Sally Riggs Fuller, and Iona Mara-­Drita, “Diversity Rhe­toric and the Managerialization of Law,” American Journal of Sociology 106, no.  6 (May  1, 2001): 1589–1641; Patrizia Zanoni and Maddy Janssens, “Deconstructing Difference: The Rhe­toric of H ­ uman Resource Man­ag­ers’ Diversity Discourses,” Organ­ization Studies 25, no. 1 (2003): 55–74. 5. ​Stanley Fish, “Intellectual Diversity,” Chronicle of Higher Education, February 13, 2004; Mitchell Langbert, “Homogeneous: The Po­l iti­cal Affiliations of Elite Liberal Arts College Faculty,” National Association of Scholars, April  24, 2018, https://­w ww​.­n as​ .­o rg​ /­a rticles​ /­h omogenous ​ _ ­p olitical ​ _ ­a ff iliations ​ _­o f ​ _­e lite​ _­liberal; Richard Vedder, “How to Improve Campus Intellectual Diversity: Have More Outside Speakers,” Forbes, April 9, 2018. 6. ​Edelman, Fuller, and Mara-­D rita, “Diversity Rhe­toric and the Managerialization of Law.” 7. ​Ellen Berrey, “Divided over Diversity: Po­l iti­cal Discourse in a Chicago Neighborhood,” City and Community 4, no. 2 (June 2005): 143–170; Alison M. Konrad and Frank Linnehan, “Formalized HRM Structures: Coordinating Equal Employment Opportunity or Concealing Orga­n izational Practices?” Acad­emy of Management Journal 38, no. 3 (June 1, 1995): 787–820. 8. ​David  G. Embrick, “The Diversity Ideology: Keeping Major Transnational Corporations White and Male in an Era of Globalization,” in Globalization and Amer­i ­ca: Race, ­Human Rights, and In­equality, by Angela Hattery, David G. Embrick,



Notes to Pages 48–51

205

and Earl Smith (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2008), 23–42; David  G. Embrick, “The Diversity Ideology in the Business World: A New Oppression for a New Age,” Critical Sociology 37, no. 5 (September 1, 2011): 541–556. 9. ​Ellen Berrey, “Why Diversity Became Orthodox in Higher Education, and How It Changed the Meaning of Race on Campus,” Critical Sociology 37, no. 5 (September 1, 2011): 573–596; see also Ellen Berrey, The Enigma of Diversity: The Language of Race and the Limits of Racial Justice (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015). 10. ​Antonia Randolph, The Wrong Kind of Dif­fe r­ent: Challenging the Meaning of Diversity in American Classrooms (New York: Teachers College Press, 2012). 11. ​See Everett C. Hughes, The So­c io­log ­i­cal Eye: Selected Papers (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1984). 12. ​­T here is a vast lit­er­a­ture devoted to the study of how shared meaning is derived from social interaction. The following classic texts are instructive: Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Real­ity: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (New York: Anchor, 1967); Erving Goffman, The Pre­sen­t a­tion of Self in Everyday Life (New York: Anchor, 1959); George Herbert Mead, Mind, Self, and Society: From the Standpoint of a Social Behaviorist (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1967). 13. ​See Anselm  L. Strauss, Negotiations: Va­r i­e ­ties, Contexts, Pro­cesses, and Social Order (San Francisco: Jossey-­Bass, 1978); Anselm Strauss, “The Articulation of Proj­ ect Work: An Orga­n izational Pro­cess,” The So­c io­log ­i­cal Quarterly 29, no. 2 (1988): 163–178. 14. ​See Robin Wooffitt, Conversation Analy­s is and Discourse Analy­s is: A Comparative and Critical Introduction (London: Sage, 2005); M.A.K. Halliday, Language as Social Semiotic (London: Edward Arnold, 1978); G. Nigel Gilbert and Michael Mulkay, Opening Pandora’s Box: A So­c io­log­i ­cal Analy­s is of Scientists’ Discourse (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). 15. ​Norman Fairclough, Discourse and Social Change (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1993), 134. 16. ​Nicholas  V. Montalto, A History of the Intercultural Educational Movement, 1924–1941 (New York: Garland Publishing Co., 1982). 17. ​Abraham Hoffman and Julian Nava, Unwanted Mexican Americans in the ­Great Depression: Repatriation Pressures, 1929–1939 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1974); Sandra  C. Taylor, Roger Daniels, and Harry  H.  L. Kitano, eds., Japa­nese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, 2nd  ed. (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1991).

206

Notes to Pages 51–55

18. ​Montalto, History of the Intercultural Educational Movement, 20. 19. ​Montalto, 97. 20. ​Montalto, 216; see also Kurt Lewin, Resolving Social Conflicts: Selected Papers on Group Dynamics (New York: Harper & B ­ rothers, 1948); T. W. Adorno et al., The Authoritarian Personality (New York: Harper & ­Brothers, 1950); Max Horkheimer and Samuel H. Flowerman, Studies in Prejudice, 5 vols. (New York: American Jewish Committee, 1949). 21. ​Mats Alvesson and Dan Karreman, “Va­r i­e­t ies of Discourse: On the Study of Organ­i zations through Discourse Analy­sis,” ­Human Relations 53, no. 9 (2000): 1127. 22. ​See, for example, Simon Critchley and Oliver Marchart, Laclau: A Critical Reader (New York: Psy­c hol­ogy Press, 2004); Stuart Hall, “Signification, Repre­sen­ ta­t ion, Ideology: Althusser and the Post-­structuralist Debates,” Critical Studies in Mass Communication 2, no. 2 (June 1, 1985): 91–114; David Howarth, Aletta J. Norval, and Yannis Stavrakakis, eds., Discourse Theory and Po­liti­cal Analy­s is: Identities, Hegemony (Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 2000); Jonathan Potter and Margaret Wetherell, “Analyzing Discourse,” in Analyzing Qualitative Data (London: Routledge, 2002), 47–66. 23. ​Howarth, Norval, and Stavrakakis, Discourse Theory and Po­liti­cal Analy­s is, 3. 24. ​See Howarth, Norval, and Stavrakakis. 25. ​Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: ­Towards a Radical Demo­c ratic Politics, 2nd ed. (London: Verso, 2014), 91. 26. ​Laclau and Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy, 99. 27. ​Howarth, Norval, and Stavrakakis, Discourse Theory and Po­liti­cal Analy­s is. 28. ​Hall, “Signification, Repre­sen­t a­t ion, Ideology”; see also Laclau and Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy. 29. ​Jennifer  G. Correa, “ ‘­A fter 9/11 Every­thing Changed’: Re-­Formations of State Vio­lence in Everyday Life on the US–­Mexico Border,” Cultural Dynamics 25, no. 1 (March 1, 2013): 99–119; Steve Garner and Saher Selod, “The Racialization of Muslims: Empirical Studies of Islamophobia,” Critical Sociology 41, no. 1 (January 1, 2015): 9–19; Saher Selod, “Citizenship Denied: The Racialization of Muslim American Men and W ­ omen Post-9/11,” Critical Sociology 41, no. 1 (January 1, 2015): 77–95; James M. Thomas and Jennifer G. Correa, Affective L­ abour: (Dis) Assembling Distance and Difference (London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2015); Jennifer  G. Correa and James  M. Thomas, “From the Border to the Core: A Thickening Military-­Police Assemblage,” Critical Sociology, September 3, 2018. 30. ​Dorothy E. Smith, Texts, Facts, and Femininity: Exploring the Relations of Ruling (New York: Routledge, 1990), 2.



Notes to Pages 55–78

207

31. ​Dorothy  E. Smith, Institutional Ethnography: A Sociology for P­ eople (Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press, 2005), 113. 32. ​Emphasis added. 33. ​Smith, Texts, Facts, and Femininity, especially pp. 162–163. H ­ ere Smith writes, “Textually mediated discourse is a distinctive feature of con­temporary society existing as socially or­g a­n ized communicative and interpretive practices intersecting with and structuring ­people’s everyday worlds and contributing thereby to the organ­ization of the social relations of the economy and of the po­liti­cal pro­cess. The concept of discourse used in this way transposes the kinds of observations collected by the concept of ‘culture’ into a­ ctual practices which are open to direct investigation.” 34. ​See John W. Mohr, Michael Bourgeois, and Vincent Duquenne, “The Logic of Opportunity: A Formal Analy­sis of the University of California’s Outreach and Diversity Discourse,” Center for Studies in Higher Education, University of Berkeley at California, October 1, 2004. 35. ​Mohr, Bourgeois, and Duquenne, “Logic of Opportunity.” 36. ​“Is ‘Admin Bloat’ ­Behind the High Cost of College?” Policy Center blog, American Institutes for Research, March  24, 2016, https://­w ww​.­a ir​.­org​/­resource​ /­admin​-­bloat​-­behind​-­h igh​-­cost​-­college; Donna  M. Desrochers and Steven Hurlburt, “Trends in College Spending: 2001–2011” (Washington, DC: American Institutes for Research, December 24, 2013); Jeffery L. Wilson, “Emerging Trend: The Chief Diversity Officer Phenomenon within Higher Education,” Journal of Negro Education 82, no. 4 (2013): 433. 37. ​See Michael J. Cuyjet, Mary F. Howard-­Hamilton, and Diane L. Cooper, Multiculturalism on Campus: Theory, Models, and Practices for Understanding Diversity and Creating Inclusion (Sterling, VA: Stylus Publishing, 2011). 38. ​bell hooks, Black Looks: Race and Repre­sen­ta­tion (Boston: South End Press, 1992), 23. 39. ​hooks, Black Looks, 25; Renato Rosaldo, Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analy­sis (Boston: Beacon Press, 1993). 40. ​Sara Ahmed, On Being Included: Racism and Diversity in Institutional Life (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012). 41. ​See Sue, Microaggressions in Everyday Life. 42. ​See Joan Acker, “In­equality Regimes: Gender, Class, and Race in Organ­ izations,” Gender and Society 20, no. 4 (August 1, 2006): 441–464; Michael Lounsbury and Marc  J. Ventresca, eds., Social Structure and Organ­izations Revisited (Amsterdam: Emerald Group Publishing, 2002); Erving Goffman, Frame Analy­s is: An Essay

208

Notes to Pages 80–88

on the Organ­ization of Experience (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1986); Arthur  L. Stinchcombe, Social Structure and Organ­izations (Indianapolis: Bobbs-­ Merrill, 1965).

Chapter 4 ​— ​Go Your Own Way 1. ​John  W. Meyer and Brian Rowan, “Institutionalized Organ­izations: Formal Structure as Myth and Ceremony,” American Journal of Sociology 83, no. 2 (September 1, 1977): 340–363; Karl E. Weick, “Educational Organ­i zations as Loosely Coupled Systems,” Administrative Science Quarterly 21, no. 1 (1976): 1–19. 2. ​J. Douglas Orton and Karl E. Weick, “Loosely Coupled Systems: A Reconceptualization,” Acad­e my of Management Review 15, no. 2 (1990): 203–223. 3. ​K arl  E. Weick, “Administering Education in Loosely Coupled Schools,” Phi Delta Kappan 63, no. 10 (1982): 675. 4. ​See Weick, “Educational Organ­i zations as Loosely Coupled Systems.” 5. ​See, for example, David L. Altheide, “Mediating Cutbacks in ­Human Ser­v ices: A Case Study in the Negotiated Order,” So­c io­log ­i­cal Quarterly 29, no. 3 (1988): 3­ 39–355; Janice Danielle Aurini, “Patterns of Tight and Loose Coupling in a ­Competitive Marketplace: The Case of Learning Center Franchises,” Sociology of  Education 85, no. 4 (2012): 373–387; Tim Hallett, “The Myth Incarnate: Recoupling Pro­cesses, Turmoil, and Inhabited Institutions in an Urban Elementary School,” American So­c io­ log­i­cal Review 75, no. 1 (2010): 52–74; Paul Hoggett, “New Modes of Control in the Public Ser ­v ice,” Public Administration 74, no.  1 (March  1, 1996): 9–32; Orton and Weick, “Loosely Coupled Systems”; William B. Tyler, “The Orga­n izational Structure of the School,” Annual Review of Sociology 11 (1985): 49–73. 6. ​Weick, “Educational Organ­i zations as Loosely Coupled Systems”; Orton and Weick, “Loosely Coupled Systems.” 7. ​Peter M. Hall, “Presidential Address: Interactionism and the Study of Social Organ ­i zation,” So­c io­log ­i­cal Quarterly 28, no. 1 (March 1, 1987): 6. 8. ​Peter M. Hall and Patrick J. W. McGinty, “Social Organ­ization across Space and Time: The Policy Pro­cess, Mesodomain Analy­sis, and Breadth of Perspective,” in The Meta-­Power Paradigm: Impacts and Transformations of Agents, Institutions, and Social Systems—­Capitalism, State, and Democracy in a Global Context, ed. Tom R. Burns and Peter M. Hall (New York: Peter Lang, 2012), 423. 9. ​Eric  L. Dey, Jeffrey  F. Milem, and Joseph  B. Berger, “Changing Patterns of Publication Productivity: Accumulative Advantage or Institutional Isomorphism?” Sociology of Education 70, no.  4 (1997): 308–323; Paul  J. DiMaggio and Walter  W.



Notes to Pages 88–109

209

Powell, “The Iron Cage Revisited: Institutional Isomorphism and Collective Rationality in Orga­ n izational Fields,” American So­c io­log ­i­cal Review 48, no.  2 (April 1983): 147. 10. ​Stephen J. Ball, “Performativity, Commodification, and Commitment: An I-­Spy Guide to the Neoliberal University,” British Journal of Educational Studies 60, no.  1 (February  21, 2012): 17–28; Joyce  E. Canaan and Wesley Shumar, eds., Structure and Agency in the Neoliberal University (New York: Routledge, 2011); Henry  A. Giroux, Neoliberalism’s War on Higher Education (Chicago: Haymarket  Books, 2014); Christopher Newfield, Unmaking the Public University: The ­Forty-­Year Assault on the ­Middle Class (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011). 11. ​Susan Sturm, “The Architecture of Inclusion: Advancing Workplace Equity in Higher Education,” Harvard Journal of Law and Gender 29, no. 2 (2006): 247–334. 12. ​See also Susan  P. Sturm, “The Architecture of Inclusion: Interdisciplinary Insights on Pursuing Institutional Citizenship,” Harvard Journal of Law and Gender 30, no. 2 (October 3, 2007): 409–424. 13. ​For an insightful consideration of how commitments to diversity mask efforts to maintain the status quo within the context of British higher education, see Sara Ahmed, On Being Included: Racism and Diversity in Institutional Life (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012). 14. ​Weick, “Educational Organ­i zations as Loosely Coupled Systems.” 15. ​See Eduardo Bonilla-­Silva and Tyrone  A. Forman, “ ‘I Am Not a Racist But . . .’: Mapping White College Students’ Racial Ideology in the USA,” Discourse and Society 11, no. 1 (January 1, 2000): 50–85; Alex Manning, Douglas Hartmann, and Joseph Gerteis, “Colorblindness in Black and White: An Analy­sis of Core Tenets, Configurations, and Complexities,” Sociology of Race and Ethnicity 1, no. 4 (October 1, 2015): 532–546; Uma M. Jayakumar, “The Shaping of Postcollege Colorblind Orientation among Whites: Residential Segregation and Campus Diversity Experiences,” Harvard Educational Review 85, no.  4 (December  1, 2015): 609–645. Related to color blindness is what Douglas Hartmann and Joyce Bell call “happy talk.” See Joyce M. Bell and Douglas Hartmann, “Diversity in Everyday Discourse: The Cultural Ambiguities and Consequences of ‘Happy Talk,’ ” American So­c io­log ­i­ cal Review 72, no. 6 (December 1, 2007): 895–914. 16. ​Blake E. Ashforth and Ronald H. Humphrey, “Emotional L ­ abor in Ser­v ice Roles: The Influence of Identity,” Acad­e my of Management Review 18, no.  1 (January 1, 1993): 88–115; Marlese Durr and Adia M. Harvey Wingfield, “Keep Your ‘N’ in Check: African American ­Women and the Interactive Effects of Etiquette and

210

Notes to Pages 109–116

Emotional ­L abor,” Critical Sociology 37, no.  5 (September  1, 2011): 557–571; Louwanda Evans and Wendy Leo Moore, “Impossible Burdens: White Institutions, Emotional ­L abor, and Micro-­Resistance,” Social Prob­l ems 62, no. 3 (August 1, 2015): 439–454; Amy S. Wharton, “The Sociology of Emotional L ­ abor,” Annual Review of Sociology 35, no. 1 (2009): 147–165. 17. ​See, for example, Derrick  R. Brooms, Being Black, Being Male on Campus: Understanding and Confronting Black Male Collegiate Experiences (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2016); Derrick R. Brooms, “ ‘Building Us Up’: Supporting Black Male College Students in a Black Male Initiative Program,” Critical Sociology 44, no. 1 (January 1, 2018): 141–155; Derrick R. Brooms and Arthur R. Davis, “Staying Focused on the Goal: Peer Bonding and Faculty Mentors Supporting Black Males’ Per­sis­tence in College,” Journal of Black Studies 48, no. 3 (April 1, 2017): 305–326. 18. ​Sara Ahmed, “The Language of Diversity,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 30, no. 2 (2007): 235–256; Douglas Hartmann, “Reflections on Race, Diversity, and the Crossroads of Multiculturalism,” So­c io­log ­i­cal Quarterly 56, no.  4 (September  1, 2015): 623–639; Douglas Hartmann and Joyce M. Bell, “Race-­Based Critical Theory and the ‘Happy Talk’ of Diversity in Amer­i­ca,” in Illuminating Social Life: Classical and Con­temporary Theory Revisited, 5th  ed., ed. Peter Kivisto (Los Angeles: Sage, 2011), 259–277; Jodi Melamed, “The Spirit of Neoliberalism: From Racial Liberalism to Neoliberal Multiculturalism,” Social Text 24, no. 4 (December 1, 2006): 1–24. 19. ​My use of interpellation follows that of Althusser and then Stuart Hall’s subsequent treatment of the term. See Louis Althusser, Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays (New York: Monthly Review Press, 2001); Stuart Hall, “Signification, Repre­ sen­t a­t ion, Ideology: Althusser and the Post-­structuralist Debates,” Critical Studies in Mass Communication 2, no. 2 (June 1, 1985): 91–114. 20. ​Weick, “Educational Organ­i zations as Loosely Coupled Systems.” 21. ​Ahmed, On Being Included.

Chapter 5 ​— ​Staging Difference, Performing Diversity 1. ​Erik Oddvar Eriksen, “Leadership in a Communicative Perspective,” Acta Sociologica 44, no.  1 (2001): 21–35; Edwin  A. Locke and Gary  P. Latham, “Work Motivation and Satisfaction: Light at the End of the Tunnel,” Psychological Science 1, no. 4 (1990): 240–246. 2. ​The lit­er­a­t ure on performativity is expansive. For some of the key readings, as well as ones specific to my own argument, see Stephen J. Ball, “Performativity, Commodification, and Commitment: An I-­Spy Guide to the Neoliberal Univer-



Notes to Pages 116–121

211

sity,” British Journal of Educational Studies 60, no. 1 (February 21, 2012): 17–28; Judith Butler, Gender Trou­ble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 2006); Judith Butler, “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory,” Theatre Journal 40, no. 4 (December 1, 1988): 519–531; Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, vol. 1, An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Vintage, 1990); Michael Lempert, “Avoiding ‘The Issues’ as Addressivity in US Electoral Politics,” Anthropological Quarterly 84, no. 1 (2011): 187–207; Donald MacKenzie and Yuval Millo, “Constructing a Market, Performing Theory: The Historical Sociology of a Financial Derivatives Exchange,” American Journal of Sociology 109, no.  1 (2003): 107–145; Christopher Wickert and Stephan M. Schaefer, “­Towards a Progressive Understanding of Performativity in Critical Management Studies,” ­Human Relations 68, no. 1 (January 2015): 107–130. 3. ​See Jodi Melamed, “The Spirit of Neoliberalism: From Racial Liberalism to Neoliberal Multiculturalism,” Social Text 24, no. 4 (December 1, 2006): 1–24; Jodi Melamed, Represent and Destroy: Rationalizing Vio­lence in the New Racial Capitalism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011). 4. ​Barbara Harris Combs, “No Rest for the Weary: The Weight of Race, Gender, and Place inside and outside a Southern Classroom,” Sociology of Race and Ethnicity 3, no. 4 (October 1, 2017): 491–505; Louwanda Evans and Wendy Leo Moore, “Impossible Burdens: White Institutions, Emotional L ­ abor, and Micro-­Resistance,” Social Prob­l ems 62, no. 3 (August 1, 2015): 439–454. 5. ​Sara Ahmed, On Being Included: Racism and Diversity in Institutional Life (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012), 116. 6. ​Ahmed, On Being Included. 7. ​M ichèle Lamont and Virág Molnár, “The Study of Bound­a ries in the Social Sciences,” Annual Review of Sociology 28, no. 1 (2002): 167–195. 8. ​Nicholas P. De Genova, “Mi­g rant ‘Illegality’ and Deportability in Everyday Life,” Annual Review of Anthropology 31, no. 1 (2002): 419–447; Nicholas P. De Genova, “Working the Bound­a ries: Race, Space, and ‘Illegality’ in Mexican Chicago,” Journal of Latin American Anthropology 11, no. 1 (June 28, 2008): 192–195; Michèle Lamont, The Dignity of Working Men: Morality and the Bound­aries of Race, Class, and Immigration (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002); Michèle Lamont, Money, Morals, and Manners: The Culture of the French and the American Upper-­Middle Class (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). 9. ​Andrew Abbott, “Bound­a ries of Social Work or Social Work of Bound­a ries? The Social Ser­v ice Review Lecture,” Social Ser­v ice Review 69, no. 4 (1995): 545–562.

212

Notes to Pages 122–150

10. ​See Craig Steven Wilder, Ebony and Ivy: Race, Slavery, and the Troubled History of Amer­i­ca’s Universities (New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2013). The real­ity is that other colleges and universities—­for example, Brown University, Georgetown University, and the University of V ­ irginia—­a re confronting their relationship to previous systems of racial rule, including Jim Crow and chattel slavery. 11. ​Sara Ahmed, “The Language of Diversity,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 30, no. 2 (2007): 235–256; Ahmed, On Being Included. 12. ​See Derrick  R. Brooms, “ ‘Building Us Up’: Supporting Black Male College Students in a Black Male Initiative Program,” Critical Sociology 44, no. 1 (January 1, 2018): 141–155. 13. ​See Susan Sturm, “The Architecture of Inclusion: Advancing Workplace Equity in Higher Education,” Harvard Journal of Law and Gender 29, no.  2 (2006): 247–334. 14. ​See “­going concerns” in Everett  C. Hughes, The So­c io­log ­i­cal Eye: Selected Papers (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1984). 15. ​A smaller search committee of eight was convened the following year and resulted in a successful search and hire of DU’s first chief diversity officer. 16. ​Jonathan  A. McElderry and Stephanie Hernandez Rivera, “ ‘Your Agenda Item, Our Experience’: Two Administrators’ Insights on Campus Unrest at ­M izzou,” Journal of Negro Education 86, no. 3 (2017): 318–337; Dawn G. Williams and Roderic R. Land, “Special Focus: The Legitimation of Black Subordination: The Impact of Color-­Blind Ideology on African American Education,” Journal of Negro Education 75, no. 4 (2006): 579–588.

Chapter 6 ​— Diversity Regimes and the Reproduction of R acial In­e quality 1. ​Everett C. Hughes, The So­c io­log ­i­cal Eye: Selected Papers (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1984). 2. ​For my use of articulation, see Stuart Hall, “Signification, Repre­sen­ta­tion, Ideology: Althusser and the Post-­structuralist Debates,” Critical Studies in Mass Communication 2, no.  2 (June  1, 1985): 91–114; Stuart Hall, “Race, Articulation, and  Socie­ties Structured in Domination,” in Black British Cultural Studies, ed. Houston  A. Baker and Manthia Diawara (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 16–60. 3. ​Thomas D. Snyder, Cristobal de Brey, and Sally A. Dillow, Digest of Education Statistics, 2016 (Washington, DC: National Center for Education Statistics, 2016), ­t able 306.10.



Notes to Pages 151–171

213

4. ​See Christopher Newfield, The ­Great ­Mistake (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016). 5. ​The share of African Americans ages 18 to 24 in DU’s home state is derived from the United States Bureau of the Census’s American Community Survey data. 6. ​In this section, my comparisons shift from ten-­year to nine-­year periods (i.e., 2007–2016). This is due to changes in required reporting from 2006 to 2007 concerning the gender and ethnicity status of faculty. In 2006 and prior years, this was optional. For 2007 onward, it is required for all four-­year institutions. Thus, 2007 and subsequent years represent complete data for DU. 7. ​See, for example, Adam Harris, “­Here’s How Higher Education Dies,” Atlantic, June 5, 2018. 8. ​Joan Acker, “In­equality Regimes: Gender, Class, and Race in Organ­i zations,” Gender and Society 20, no. 4 (August 1, 2006): 443. 9. ​Acker, “In­equality Regimes,” 457. 10. ​Sara Ahmed, On Being Included: Racism and Diversity in Institutional Life (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012). 11. ​Ahmed, On Being Included, 8. 12. ​Ahmed. 13. ​See Hall, “Signification, Repre­sen­ta­tion, Ideology”; Hall, “Race, Articulation, and Socie­t ies Structured in Domination”; Ernesto Laclau, On Populist Reason (London: Verso, 2007); Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: T ­ owards a Radical Demo­c ratic Politics, 2nd ed. (London: Verso, 2014). 14. ​Hughes, So­c io­log ­i­cal Eye. 15. ​Barry A. Turner, “The Use of Grounded Theory for the Qualitative Analy­sis of Orga­n izational Behaviour,” Journal of Management Studies 20, no. 3 (July 1, 1983): 348. 16. ​ Dafina-­ L azarus Stewart, “Language of Appeasement,” Inside Higher Ed, March 30, 2017. 17. ​Barbara Harris Combs, “Black (and Brown) Bodies out of Place: T ­ owards a Theoretical Understanding of Systematic Voter Suppression in the United States,” Critical Sociology 42, nos. 4–5 (July 1, 2016): 535–549. 18. ​See Stanley Fish, “Intellectual Diversity,” Chronicle of Higher Education, February 13, 2004; Richard Vedder, “How to Improve Campus Intellectual Diversity: Have More Outside Speakers,” Forbes, April 9, 2018. 19. ​See Ben Gose, “The Rise of the Chief Diversity Officer,” Chronicle of Higher Education, September 29, 2006; Sylvia Ann Hewlett, “The Rise of the Chief Diversity Officer,” Harvard Business Review, October 17, 2007.

214

Notes to Pages 171–180

20. ​See, for example, Wei Shi et al., “The Adoption of Chief Diversity Officers among S&P 500 Firms: Institutional, Resource Dependence, and Upper Echelons Accounts,” ­Human Resource Management 57, no. 1 (January 1, 2018): 83–96. 21. ​Hewlett, “Rise of the Chief Diversity Officer.” 22. ​Jeffery L. Wilson, “Emerging Trend: The Chief Diversity Officer Phenomenon within Higher Education,” Journal of Negro Education 82, no. 4 (2013): 433–445. 23. ​Wilson, “Emerging Trend,” 442. 24. ​Donald E. Walker, The Effective Administrator: A Practical Approach to Prob­l em Solving, Decision Making, and Campus Leadership (San Francisco: Jossey-­Bass, 1979), 96. 25. ​ National Conference of State Legislatures, “Fiscal Impact Statements,” April  2002, http://­w ww​.­ncsl​.­org​/­research​/­elections​-­a nd​-­campaigns​/­fi scal​-­i mpact​ -­statements​.­a spx. 26. ​Marc Mauer, “Racial Impact Statements as a Means of Reducing Unwarranted Sentencing Disparities Symposium: Racial Blindsight and Criminal Justice,” Ohio State Journal of Criminal Law 5 (2007): 32n78. 27. ​Mauer, “Racial Impact Statements,” 32n79. 28. ​Mauer. 29. ​Jessica Erickson, “Racial Impact Statements: Considering the Consequences of Racial Disproportionalities in the Criminal Justice System,” Washington Law Review 89 (2014): 1425–1466; William Kennedy, Gillian Sonnad, and Sharon Hing, “Putting Race Back on the T ­ able: Racial Impact Statements,” Clearing­house Review 47 (2014): 154–162; Marc Mauer, “Addressing Racial Disparities in Incarceration,” Prison Journal 91, no. 3, supplement (September 1, 2011): 87S–101S. 30. ​Erickson, “Racial Impact Statements.” 31. ​Kennedy, Sonnad, and Hing, “Putting Race Back on the ­Table.” 32. ​If a college or university does not have adequate resources for its diversity initiative, including resources to compensate the time of its diversity workers, that indicates a larger prob­lem with the university’s commitment. See the first and ­second recommendations. 33. ​John Ziker, “How Professors Use Their Time: Faculty Time Allocation,” Blue Review, March 31, 2014. 34. ​Benjamin Baez, “Race-­Related Ser­v ice and Faculty of Color: Conceptualizing Critical Agency in Academe,” Higher Education 39, no. 3 (2000): 363–391; Cassandra M. Guarino and Victor M. H. Borden, “Faculty Ser­v ice Loads and Gender: Are ­Women Taking Care of the Academic ­Family?” Research in Higher Education 58, no. 6 (September 2017): 672–694.



Notes to Pages 183–189

215

Appendix 1. ​See the following, for example: Steven Lubet, “Ethnography on Trial,” New Republic, July 15, 2015; Steven Lubet, “Alice Goffman’s Denial of Murder Conspiracy Raises Even More Questions,” New Republic, June 3, 2015; Alexandra Murphy and Colin Jerolmack, “Ethnographic Masking in an Era of Data Transparency,” Context Magazine (blog), March  19, 2016, https://­contexts​.­org​/­blog​/­ethnographic​ -­masking​-­i n​-­a n​-­era​-­of​-­d ata​-­t ransparency​-­2​/­; Marc Parry, “Conflict over Sociologist’s Narrative Puts Spotlight on Ethnography,” Chronicle of Higher Education, June 12, 2015; David D. Perlmutter, “In Defense of Ethnography,” Chronicle of Higher Education, June 26, 2015. 2. ​Megan  L. Head et  al., “The Extent and Consequences of P-­Hacking in ­Science,” PLOS Biology 13, no.  3 (March  13, 2015): e1002106, https://­doi​.­org​/­10​.­1371​ /­journal​.­pbio​.­1002106. 3. ​For a well-­c rafted critique of our overreliance on knowledge derived from statistics, see Joel Best, Damned Lies and Statistics: Untangling Numbers from the Media, Politicians, and Activists (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012). 4. ​Martyn Hammersley and Paul Atkinson, Ethnography: Princi­ples in Practice, 3rd  ed. (London: Routledge, 2007); Donald Tomaskovic-­Devey, “The Relational Generation of Workplace Inequalities,” Social Currents 1, no. 1 (February 1, 2014): 51–73; Michael Schwalbe et  al., “Generic Pro­ cesses in the Reproduction of In­equality: An Interactionist Analy­sis,” Social Forces 79, no. 2 (2000): 419–452. 5. ​K athleen DeWalt and Billie  R. DeWalt, Participant Observation: A Guide for Fieldworkers, 2nd ed. (Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press, 2010). 6. ​ Patricia  A. Adler and Peter  N. Adler, Membership Roles in Field Research ­( Newbury Park, CA: Sage, 1987). 7. ​See Juliet Corbin and Anselm Strauss, Basics of Qualitative Research: Techniques and Procedures for Developing Grounded Theory, 3rd ed. (Los Angeles: Sage, 2007). 8. ​Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1977). 9. ​David Grazian, On the Make: The Hustle of Urban Nightlife (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011); C. J. Pascoe, Dude, ­You’re a Fag: Masculinity and Sexuality in High School, 2nd ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011). 10. ​Wayne H. Brekhus, John F. Galliher, and Jaber F. Gubrium, “The Need for Thin Description,” Qualitative Inquiry 11, no. 6 (December 1, 2005): 861–879.

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Index accountability: commitment to diversity without, 41, 114; in Diversity Action Plan, 56; imperial nostalgia and denial of, 68; state governing board on, 120; as strategy for successful diversity initiatives, 174–178 Acker, Joan, 158–159 affirmative action policy, 96–99 African Americans: African American studies program, 32, 38; Black Greek Letter organ­i zations’ garden, 128–129; “black tax” on, 138; civil rights movement, 6, 7, 28, 29; Confederate monuments and control of, 28; discrimination against outlawed, 7; as Diversity University faculty, 38, 91–92, 119, 157–158; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack, by gender, race, and rank, 156, 157; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by race and gender, 91–92; in Diversity University’s home state, 149, 153; as Diversity University staff, 35; as Diversity University students, 30–32, 38, 41, 74, 92, 119, 125, 144, 149–154; Ella’s support for, 107–109; on higher education’s value, 6; how, when, and why minorities are asked to do diversity work, 126–128; legislative gains of 1950s and 1960s, 36; mentorship and professional development assistance for, 125; minority students championed by, 144; Obama’s significance for, 1, 195n2; percentage increase in college admissions, 7; pressured to do diversity work, 133, 135, 138–139; respondents for this study, 186; six-­year graduation rate at Diversity University, 151–154; student protests at Diversity University, 37–38, 41, 203n25; undergraduate enrollment at Diversity University, 149–151; unemployment rate for, 1; as valuable

resources, 131; vio­lence against at University of Mississippi, 2–5 Ahmed, Sara, 69, 118, 159 “alt-­r ight,” 168 American Jewish Committee, 51 annual reviews, tying ser­v ice work to, 180 Anthony (student), 104 antiracism, 116, 118, 144 “Around the World in Eleven Floors” event, 66, 67–69, 169 articulation, 53–54, 76, 143 Asian Americans, 6 Asian/Pacific Islanders, 7 athletics department, 43–45; Institute for Racial Justice and, 46, 70, 83; integration of athletic teams, 32, 38, 46; “old school” traditions and, 73, 74 Audre (professor), 109–110, 130–131, 157, 168 Bakke, Regents of California v. (1978), 7, 8, 12–13, 145 Barbara (EEO director), 96–99 Bell, Joyce, 9 Berrey, Ellen, 9–10, 11, 48 Black Greek Letter organ­i zations garden’, 128–129 “black tax,” 138 boundary work, 120–121 “brown tax,” 138 Brown v. Board of Education (1954), 36 Center for Diversity (Diversity University): annual conference on identity, 104; chief diversity officer and restructuring of, 127; commitment to diversity symbolized by, 32, 69, 76; Crystal as part-­t ime worker at, 61; Diversity Leadership Committee and, 70; establishment of, 66–67, 82, 83; inadequate resources for, 71, 82, 102, 173; location of, 102; mission of, 82; Monique partners with, 86; programming of, 82; as siloed, 101

231

232 Index Center for W ­ omen’s and Gender Studies (Diversity University), 70, 71, 101, 102, 104 centralization: accountability and, 175; as strategy for successful diversity initiatives, 170–174. See also decentralization of diversity chief diversity officers, 171–173; at Diversity University, 32, 66–67, 70, 71, 73, 76, 89, 90, 103, 126, 127–128, 171; diversity workers have l­ ittle contact with, 11; for signaling compliance, 13 civil rights law, 9, 48, 92, 93, 96, 98, 99, 173 civil rights movement, 6, 7, 28, 29 “color blindness,” 49, 106, 112 Combs, Barbara, 167 Come Hell or High W ­ ater (film), 83 commitment to diversity: ambiguity of, 117–118; Center for Diversity symbolizes, 32, 69, 76; Center for ­Women’s and Gender Studies and, 71; committee work for demonstrating, 69; condensation of diversity and, 69, 160; in Core Values Statement, 122–125; in Diversity Action Plan, 18, 94, 95, 116, 118; diversity regimes and, 143, 159; diversity workers’ cynicism ­toward, 162; diversity work for signaling, 165; in face of open racial hostility, 125; hiring committee for chief diversity officer symbolizes, 128; inoffensive commitment desired, 76; institutionalizing, 13, 116, 118–119, 121, 126, 128, 129, 135, 140, 141–142, 143, 159, 164–165, 174; inventory of diversity efforts for demonstrating, 114, 116; leadership’s place in, 132–133; as lip ser­v ice, 115, 162, 174; meeting minimum ­legal requirements as, 93; minorities ­doing diversity work as evidence of, 16, 116, 165; misplaced emphasis on, 144; as nonperformative acts, 118–119, 122, 126; in official diversity discourse, 18, 115–116, 118, 119–120, 187; as performative culture, 116–117, 122, 129; racial in­equality despite ubiquitous, 4, 9, 12, 13, 14, 153–154; rarely signifies material transformation, 10, 15, 40–41, 87, 93; recommendations for converting it

into material gains, 166–181; same individuals called on to demonstrate, 139–140; shared belief that it’s disingenuous, 116; staging difference for institutionalizing, 116, 141–142, 164–165, 174; of state governing board, 20–21, 93–94, 120, 147; in Strategic Action Plan, 122–125; strategic use of difference for selling, 131; symbolic, 12, 153, 158, 159, 161, 163, 188 compensation for diversity work, 179 compliance: with civil rights law, 92, 93, 96, 98, 99, 141, 173; efforts to signal, 13; institutional actors look to achieve, 57, 58 condensation of diversity, 55–60; accountability and, 175; achieved through official documents, 15–16; “Around the World in Eleven Floors” event as outcome of, 68–69; consensus made difficult by, 79, 81, 99, 160, 162, 169; as cultural logic, 160; and decentralization, 16, 82, 105, 111–114, 116, 162, 165, 166; defined, 15; diversity work and, 60–66, 79, 115, 160–161; emptying effect of, 76–77; as intentional, 77; as mechanism of diversity regimes, 15–16, 160–161, 165, 166; orga­n izational policies structured by, 137–138; po­l iti­cal implications of, 54; power and, 78; race and, 56–60, 160; racial in­equality and, 55, 79, 160; repre­sen­t a­t ion and, 75–78 Core Values Statement (CVS), 122–125 Coulter, Ann, 168 criminal justice legislation, 176–177 critical discourse theory, 53 critical race theory, 19, 201n1 Crystal (undergraduate community assistant), 61–62, 64, 66, 67 DAP. See Diversity Action Plan (DAP) decentralization of diversity, 80–82; absence of regulations in, 81, 93–99, 104, 161, 170; autonomy granted through, 114, 161, 162; condensation and, 16, 82, 105, 111–114, 116, 162, 165, 166; defined, 16; diversity work as decentralized, 82–111, 161–162; diversity workers’ frustrations and,

Index 16, 105–110, 175; in­equality and, 99, 111; key features of, 81, 161; lack of coordination in, 81, 82–93, 161, 170; as mechanism of diversity regimes, 16, 161–162, 165, 166; nothing ever changes and, 81, 104–111, 115, 161, 170; orga­n izational actors impeded by, 81; poor observational capabilities in, 81, 99–104, 161, 170; as set of actions that reproduce context, 82; “silos” as key feature of, 104–105, 170; as style of loose coupling, 81; unresponsiveness in, 81, 99–104, 161 decision-­making: concentrated in hands of the elite, 14; at Diversity University, 14, 88, 167; gender and racial repre­sen­t a­t ion in Diversity University, 73; in­equality regimes and, 158; minorities lacking in Diversity University positions of, 120; in needs assessment for chief diversity officer, 172; participation increases buy-in, 178; race and access to, 46, 65. See also re­d istribution of decision-­making democracy, 52, 53–54, 179, 180 difference: in Bakke decision, 13; celebrating, 11, 48, 169; certain kinds in reproducing structures of power, 9; cultural, 60, 67; discourse and systems of, 52; diversity as catchall sign for ­every form of, 58, 60, 61, 64–65, 79, 111, 160, 169; in Diversity University’s per ­for ­mance culture, 164–165; empty rhe­toric of, 48; general, 47, 50; hollow forms of, 72; imaginative geography and, 23; in power, 6; protected categories of, 9, 48, 56–57, 99, 160; strategic use of, 131. See also staging difference disability, 55, 56–57, 101 discourse: critical discourse theory, 53; institutional, 14, 33, 55, 56, 60, 62–66, 166, 169, 174, 187; nonperformative aspect of, 119; official Diversity University diversity, 18, 115–116, 118, 119–120, 187; performativity as discursive, 116; power and, 49–55; repre­sen­t a­t ion and, 76. See also diversity discourse

233

diversity: architecture for, 10, 92, 101; articulation of, 76, 143; as catchall sign for e­ very form of difference, 58, 60, 61, 64–65, 79, 111, 160, 169; citing, 69; clear orga­n izational mandates for, 11; in college admissions, 7, 12–13; connecting to race and ethnicity, 9–12, 44–47, 54; decentralization of, 80–82, 88, 93, 96–104; educational, 48, 58, 65, 72, 98, 99; as everywhere, 66–72, 79, 174; focusing on pro­cesses not outcomes of, 13–14; forging connection between meaning and practice of, 12; as gateway to broader conversation, 46–47; geo­g raph­i­cal, 47, 56, 57, 58, 72, 79; as ­going concern, 5, 11–12, 42, 49, 81, 143, 164; as “­going poorly,” 14, 144, 158; as historically and socially situated phenomenon, 52; hollow, 11, 45, 49, 79; as an ideal versus as an interpretive practice, 143; as identity, 21, 65, 117; infrastructure of, 7–8, 13, 20; institutionalizing, 69, 117–118, 187; intellectual, 46, 60, 160, 168; in managerial discourse, 9–12, 47–49; as mode of action, 52; multiculturalism’s relationship to, 51; multiple and contested meanings of, 9–12, 65–66, 105, 114, 115, 117–118, 162, 164, 169, 184; never failing to do, 16, 105, 114, 162, 169; as not well-­established norm at Diversity University, 118; as nowhere, 72–78; orga­n izational structure of, 79–114; orga­n izational texts structure understanding of, 57; per­for­mance culture of, 16, 117–126, 175, 177–178; practices eschew conversations on race, power, and in­equality, 11; privileging certain kinds over o ­ thers, 48–49; race consciousness and, 15, 46, 47, 50, 58, 64–65, 69, 79, 82, 112; racial in­equality and practices of, 5, 196n10; reconfigured as simply commitment to liberal values, 116; reiteration of term makes it valued, 119, 174; rhe­toric of, 11, 65, 78, 167–169, 170; seen as achievement in itself, 175; in Strategic Action Plan, 119; of thought, 21, 46, 48, 54, 58, 60, 160, 168; at University of Mississippi, 4. See also commitment to

234 Index diversity (cont.) diversity; condensation of diversity; decentralization of diversity; diversity discourse; diversity initiatives; diversity regimes; diversity workers Diversity Action Plan (DAP), 21; ambivalence of, 63–64, 65; Black Greek Letter organ­i zations’ garden compared with, 129; boundary work in, 120–121; circles around core issues of in­equality, 72, 160; on commitment to diversity, 18, 94, 95, 116, 118, 120–121; on committees for achieving diversity goals, 69; Core Values Statement compared with, 123–124; cynicism regarding, 115, 170; on diversity as hallmark of education, 56, 59; diversity goals in, 94; “diversity” in, 119; Executive Summary, 18, 39; on faculty group focusing on equity, 95; gender and sexual orientation clause for, 76; Historical Overview of the University section, 40; leadership change and, 188; “old school” traditions and, 73, 74; pro­cesses for achieving goals not specified by, 95; on requests for spending by category, 148–149; as structuring phenomenon, 57; university’s racist history acknowledged in, 121; update of 2016, 55–56 diversity discourse, 52–53; bridging diversity programming and, 115–116; color-­blind, 49; commitment to diversity in official, 18, 115–116, 119; condensation and putting it into practice, 61; at Diversity University, 14, 18, 55–61, 62, 75–76, 115–116, 174; institutional, 60, 62–66, 118, 159; official texts as performative, 118; race frequently collapsed with other forms of difference in, 58; shapes diversity efforts on the ground, 47–49; at University of Michigan, 9–10, 11, 48 diversity initiatives: centralization for, 170–174; Diversity University’s initiative as per­for­mance culture, 164–165; diversity workers’ frustration regarding, 16; fail to remedy racial in­equality, 15, 158; focusing on

under­lying pro­cesses of, 14; the prob­lem defined, 5–13; strategies for material change, 166–181; strategizing at Diversity University, 145–147; success as incomplete or deficient at best, 8–9; at University of Mississippi, 4. See also Diversity Action Plan (DAP) diversity regimes, 158–166; becoming equity regimes, 17; coupling condensation with decentralization makes for more potent, 113; defined, 13, 143, 159; key mechanisms in, 15–16, 159–166; misplaced emphasis on commitment to diversity in, 144; other pos­si­ble features of, 165–166; and reproduction of racial in­equality, 143–166; reproductive logic of, 40; staging difference constitutes and is constituted by a, 116, 117; usual suspects performing diversity work and maintenance of, 140 Diversity University (DU), 13–14; administration building, 26–27; affirmative action policy in hiring, 96–99; African American administrators at, 44–45; African American staff at, 35; African American students protest at, 37–38, 41, 203n25; African American studies program, 32, 38; always pre­sent past at, 39–42; associate dean for diversity and inclusion, 59–60; Black Greek Letter organ­i zations’ garden, 128–129; Black Student Union, 32, 37–38, 87; calendar of diversity programming, 67; campus culture at, 73–74, 111; Center for International Programs, 70; Center for W ­ omen’s and Gender Studies, 70, 71, 101, 102, 104; chancellor’s statement on its history, 19–20; chief diversity officer, 32, 66–67, 70, 71, 73, 76, 171; condensation of diversity at, 15–16, 43–78, 137–138; Confederate flags banned at, 39, 41, 74; Confederate iconography at, 28, 30, 35–36, 38, 41, 73, 74, 127; Confederate monument at, 27–30, 37, 39; con­s ul­t ants’ report on diversity at, 126–127; creation of, 55; decentraliza-

Index tion of diversity at, 79–114; decision-­ making at, 14, 88, 167; Diversity Committee, 69, 70; diversity discourse at, 14, 18, 55–61, 62, 75–76, 115–116, 174; diversity events at, 184–185; diversity initiative as per­for­mance culture, 164–165; Diversity Leadership Committee, 69, 70–71; “DU Experience” course for freshmen, 155; faculty group focusing on equity, 85–86; f­ amily and home as themes at, 32–33; as flagship university, 26, 88; gender and racial repre­sen­t a­t ion among leadership at, 72–73; governing board’s diversity statement, 20–21, 55, 93–94, 120, 147; historical relationship to slavery and Jim Crow, 15, 19, 21, 22, 27, 30–31, 34–35, 36, 40, 73, 74, 121, 151, 201n8; infrastructural growth at, 154; integration of, 19, 25, 26, 27, 29, 30–32, 36–37, 40, 151; Lost Cause nostalgia at, 35, 40; minorities exploited by performative culture of diversity of, 117, 130, 142; monument to first African American student, 30–31, 118; Office of Multicultural Affairs, 20, 146–147; official texts on commitment to diversity, 18, 115–116, 118, 119–120, 187; orga­n izational culture as unable to respond to in­equality, 143; orientation for new faculty, 58–60; pastoral scene at, 32–34; physical campus landscape of, 22–39; plaques placed on buildings at, 25–26, 41; progressive narrative at, 18–19, 21–22, 25–26, 31–32, 40–42; racial conflict at, 14, 31, 32, 34, 41, 42, 81, 149; racial in­equality at, 42, 144–158; Racial Justice Week, 82, 83, 84; racial vio­lence incident of 2014, 126, 162; racism at, 20, 21, 31, 45, 81, 118, 163–164, 165; regulations governing its diversity efforts, 93–94; shared assumptions about its mission, 60; six-­year graduation rate at, 151–154; staging difference at, 115–142, 164–165; strategizing diversity initiative, 145–147; undergraduate enrollment at, 149–151; as university and as

235

symbol, 33; white re­sis­t ance at, 37–39; white supremacy at, 15, 18, 19, 34, 36, 40. See also athletics department; Center for Diversity (Diversity University); Diversity Action Plan (DAP); faculty; Institute for Racial Justice (Diversity University); Strategic Action Plan (SAP); students diversity workers: accounting for dif­fer­ent types of diversity work, 179; African Americans pressured to do diversity work, 133, 135, 138–139; “carte blanche” for, 85; commitment to diversity signaled by, 165; condensation and diversity work, 60–66, 79, 115, 160–161; create own means for promoting diversity and inclusion, 16; cynicism among, 18, 116, 129, 130, 162, 165, 170, 175; decentralization and frustrations of, 16, 105–110, 175; decentralized structure of diversity work, 82–111, 161–162; on diversity as catchall sign for e­ very form of difference, 60; frustrations of, 16, 64, 83, 105–110, 112, 115, 116, 129, 130–142, 144, 162, 165, 170, 175; good intentions of, 46, 144; how, when, and why minorities are asked to do, 126–128; incentivizing diversity work, 178–181; increased ser­v ice demands on, 117, 134–142, 178; interviewed for this study, 14, 18, 185–187; lack of support for, 89, 90, 115, 116, 125–126, 130, 132–133; nobody is partnering in diversity work, 82–93; as not engaged with one another, 89; “nothing ever changes” for, 104–111, 112, 115, 178; physical and emotional toll on, 108–110, 178; research and scholarship compared with diversity work, 59; “siloing” of diversity work, 99–104, 170; skepticism ­toward ­others d­ oing the work, 85; staging difference by, 16, 116–117, 165; structural isolation of, 113–114, 161; wide variety of interpretive practices of, 61 Dixiecrat movement, 35, 38 Dobbin, Frank, 10 D’Souza, Dinesh, 168 Du Bois, Rachel Davis, 51

236 Index Du Bois, W.E.B., 189, 201n1 Duncan, Arne, 6 Edelman, Lauren, 9, 47–48 Ella (se­n ior administrator), 107–110, 139, 173 Embrick, David, 10 environmental impact statements, 176 equality: commitment to without wanting to do the work, 96; in demo­c ratic discourse, 53–54; diversity regimes absorb and modify, 181; higher education promotes, 5; of opportunity, 52, 134; redefining as positive duty, 159. See also equity; in­equality equity: African American students demand, 41; aligning chief diversity officer’s duties with institutional rhe­toric of, 172; as campus issue, 172; celebrating difference rather than achieving, 48; commitment to versus tangible steps to address issues of, 170; commitment to without wanting to do the work, 96; distinguishing inclusion and justice from, 167; diversity regimes becoming equity regimes, 17; in face of open racial hostility, 125; faculty group focusing on, 85–86, 89–90, 95; gender inequity, 88; incentivizing, 178–181; institutional rhe­toric that centers on, 167–169; pay, 169; as positive duty, 173–174; seeing diversity as achievement in itself while ignoring, 175; whites absolved of responsibility for improving, 117. See also equality Essence (gradu­ate student), 82, 100–101, 102, 127–128 ethnicity: in college admissions, 7, 12–13; commodifying, 68; connecting diversity to, 9–12, 44–47, 54; in Diversity Action Plan, 56; governing board’s commitment to ethnic diversity, 20, 120, 147; in governing board’s diversity statement of 2005, 21; “happy talk” and continuing prob­lems of, 9; privileging over race, 49; as protected category, 9, 56–57, 111, 160; university departments centered

on, 8. See also racial and ethnic minorities ethnography: British versus American, 188–189; participant observation in, 184–185; qualitative-­quantitative debate in, 183–184; rich description in, 184 faculty: accounting for diversity work of, 179–180; African Americans as Diversity University, 38, 91–92, 119; diversity of, 154–158; full-­t ime tenure-­t rack, by gender, race, and rank, 156; full-­t ime tenure-­t rack, by race and gender, 91–92; full-­t ime tenure-­t rack versus part-­t ime, 154–155; increased ser­v ice demands on, 178; minorities as Diversity University, 74–75, 92–93, 94, 107, 110, 117, 125, 126, 135, 139, 144, 148, 164, 165, 167; retention of African American, 157–158. See also search (hiring) committees Fairclough, Norman, 50, 51, 52 Faith (student or­g a­n izer), 106–107 Faulkner, William, 39 fiscal impact statements, 175–176 ­f ree speech, debates over campus, 168 Gail (director of Institute for Racial Justice), 83, 84–86, 88–89, 115, 117, 173 Geertz, Clifford, 189 gender: black w ­ oman speaking out about, 130–131; Center for W ­ omen’s and Gender Studies, 70, 71, 101, 102, 104; in Diversity Action Plan, 56, 76; diversity policies and, 10, 48; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by race and, 91–92; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by race, rank, and, 156; governing board’s commitment to gender diversity, 20, 120, 147; inequity, 88; as protected category, 56–57, 99, 111; and racial repre­sen­t a­ tion among Diversity University leadership, 72–73; wage gaps, 14, 119. See also ­women geography: in discussions of diversity, 47, 56, 57, 58, 72, 79; imaginative, 23, 24, 33

Index Hall, Peter, 82 Hall, Stuart, 54, 159 “happy talk,” 9, 11 Hartmann, Douglas, 9 Hate Crimes on Campus (Department of Justice), 8 higher education: adjunctification of, 155; college degree’s value, 6; core values transmitted by, 5–6, 12; corporate shift in, 12; discrimination outlawed in, 7; diversity in admissions, 7, 12–13; diversity management in, 10–11, 48; diversity rhe­toric in, 167; dominant American language for race in, 112; explicit and violent racism on campuses, 8, 200n52; isomorphic structure of American, 165; as loosely coupled systems, 80, 112; political-­ ideological divide regarding, 196n11; racial and ethnic difference in attitudes ­toward, 6–7; racial in­equality in, 13; reduced public spending for, 151; signaling compliance without altering infrastructure, 13 hiring committees. See search (hiring) committees Hispanics, 6, 7 historically underrepresented groups: accountability to, 175, 178; in defining diversity, 46; diversity work done by, 140–141; employment as faculty, administrators, or staff, 148; enrollment and graduation rates of, 148; increased opportunities despite condensation of diversity, 160–161; minority repre­sen­t a­t ion requirement for search committees, 134; recommendations for converting commitment to diversity into material gains for, 166–181; recruiting and retaining minority faculty by Diversity University, 92–93; redistributing power, resources, decision-­making, and opportunities among, 14, 15, 58, 72, 165; remain marginalized, 181; share of full-­t ime Diversity University tenure-­t rack faculty by race and gender, 91–92; spaces for, 168; state governing board’s commitment to, 21, 120, 147; structural barriers to

237

opportunity for, 48. See also ­people of color; racial and ethnic minorities Hobsbawm, Eric, 23 hooks, bell, 68 Hughes, Everett, 5, 196n9 identity: annual conference on, 104; diversity as, 21, 65, 117; redefining race as cultural, 11, 48; traditions for creating sense of, 23 immigrants: in intercultural education movement, 51; “melting pot” meta­phor, 9, 61, 62 inclusion: commitment rarely signifies material transformation, 9, 40–41, 93; Core Values Statement and, 125; distinguishing equity and justice from, 167; in Diversity Action Plan, 18; diversity workers’ means for promoting, 16; in face of open racial hostility, 125; “gone bad,” 141; institutional diversity discourse and lack of, 62; institutional rhe­toric of, 170; leadership’s place in commitment to, 132–133; minorities ­doing diversity work as evidence of, 165; orga­ nizational texts structure understanding of, 57; recommendations for converting commitment into material gains, 166–181; repetition and circulation of term, 119; research and scholarship compared with issues of, 59; strategic use of difference for selling commitment to, 131; symbols of commitment to, 32; at University of Mississippi, 4 in­equality: commitment to diversity and dismissal of existing, 118–119, 174; condensation of diversity and responding to, 78, 79, 169; decentralization and, 99, 111, 113; defined, 158; Diversity Action Plan circles around core issues of, 72, 160; diversity practices eschew conversations on race, power, and, 11; diversity regimes in maintenance and reproduction of, 181; “happy talk” and continuing prob­lems of, 9; in­equality regimes, 158–159; orga­ nizational, 188; orga­n izational

238 Index in­equality: commitment (cont.) culture as unable to respond to, 143; overview at Diversity University, 144–158; performative culture of diversity fails to address, 142; persists despite symbolic commitments to the contrary, 159; “silos” and, 105; structural, 74, 142; universities as transmitters of, 8; valuing diversity becomes substitute for taking concrete action against, 119. See also racial in­equality Institute for Racial Justice (Diversity University): athletics department and, 46, 83; Diversity Leadership Committee and, 70; location of, 102; Monique partners with, 86; One-­DU program of, 90; outward facing programming of, 83, 84, 88–89; Racial Justice Week of, 82, 83, 84; as siloed, 101; vigil ­a fter incident of racial vio­lence and, 124 Integrated Postsecondary Education Data System (IPEDS), 148 intercultural education movement, 51–52, 62 international students, 60, 105–106, 150–151 Islam, 54–55 JB (gradu­ate student), 103, 127–128 Jim Crow segregation: Confederate monuments and, 28, 29; critical race theory and, 201n1; Diversity University’s relationship to, 15, 19, 21, 22, 27, 30–31, 34–35, 36, 40, 73, 74, 121, 151; politics of space infused with racial logics of, 167–168 Johnson-­Reed Act (1924), 51 justice: aligning chief diversity officer’s duties with institutional rhe­toric of, 172; as campus issue, 172; commitments to versus tangible steps to address issues of, 170; distinguishing inclusion and equity from, 167; diversity regimes absorb and modify, 181; institutional rhe­toric that centers on, 167–169; as positive duty, 173–174; Racial Justice Week at Diversity University, 82, 83, 84; seeing diversity

as achievement in itself while ignoring, 175. See also Institute for Racial Justice (Diversity University) Justin (se­n ior athletic administrator), 43–46, 54, 58, 61, 70, 102–103, 127–128, 137 Kelly (instructor), 62–64, 105–106, 107, 117 Ku Klux Klan, 28, 38, 39 Kwame (diversity worker), 125, 139 Laclau, Ernesto, 53, 159 leadership: African American at Diversity University, 44, 73; change in at Diversity University, 187–188; chief diversity officer in se­n ior, 172; in Diversity Action Plan, 40; Diversity Leadership Committee, 69, 70–71; diversity workers have few lines of communication with, 113–114; faculty working group focusing on equity criticizes, 95; gender and racial repre­sen­t a­t ion among Diversity University, 72–73; lack of partnering in diversity work and, 84, 86, 90; lack of support for diversity programming from, 132–133, 170; in loosely coupled systems, 80; meaning of diversity for Diversity University, 58, 60; minority repre­sen­t a­t ion in Diversity University, 74; not taking diversity workers seriously, 106–107; re­sis­t ance to orga­n izational mandates in, 171; responsibility for setting goals distributed across, 173 loosely coupled systems, 80–82, 112 Lost Cause ideology, 29–30, 34, 35, 40 MacKethan, Lucinda, 33–34 Malcolm (professor), 90, 157 Marcia (director of Equal Employment Opportunity office), 135–138, 140–142 Martin (assistant dean), 131–135, 138–140 Marvasti, Amir, 11 Marx, Gary, 3 McKinney, Karyn, 11 “melting pot” meta­phor, 9, 61, 62 Meredith, James, 4 methodology of this study, 166, 183–190

Index microaggressions: as daily experience, 8, 108, 164, 169, 181; defined, 204n3; at Diversity University, 45, 164; eliminating, 169; orga­n izational rules and norms and, 78 Minnie (director of Center for Diversity), 82, 123, 127, 173 minorities. See racial and ethnic minorities Molly (orientation leader), 24–28, 30, 32 Monique (student or­g a­n izer), 86–87, 104 Montalto, Nicholas, 51 Mouffe, Chantal, 53, 159 multiculturalism: commitments coming at expense of material transformations, 143; condensation conditioned by discourses of, 160; converting commitments into tangible results, 174; in diversity infrastructure, 8; diversity’s relationship to, 51; diversity workers on need for, 61, 62; hollow, 112; increasing multicultural competency, 66, 67–68; multicultural awareness, 8, 21, 66, 94, 147, 148; Office of Multicultural Affairs at Diversity University, 20, 146–147; racial in­equality versus public affirmations of, 5, 14, 143, 145, 153–154, 159; rhe­toric of, 145, 169; signaling compliance without altering infrastructure for, 13; in staging difference, 164–165; symbolic commitments to, 12 needs assessments, 172 neoliberalism, 160 Obama, Barack, 1–2, 3, 4, 195n2 Office of Multicultural Affairs (Diversity University), 20, 146–147 opportunities: cost of higher education reduces, 6; equality of, 52, 134; increased despite condensation of diversity, 160–161; in­equality regimes and, 158; in needs assessment for chief diversity officer, 172; race and access to, 46, 65; structural barriers to, 48. See also re­d istribution of opportunities Oxford (Mississippi), 1–4

239

paid time off, 155, 179–180 participant observation, 184–185 pastoral South trope, 33–35 Patti (professor), 88–90 ­people of color: diversity work managed by, 116, 140–141; at emergency meeting about racial vio­lence of 2014, 162–163; higher education opportunities for, 6; increased opportunities despite condensation of diversity, 160–161; minority repre­sen­ ta­t ion requirement for search committees, 134; Obama’s significance for, 1; pressured to do diversity work, 130; vio­lence and racism directed ­toward, 14. See also African Americans; racial and ethnic minorities performativity: commitment to diversity as nonperformative acts, 118–119, 122, 126; commitment to diversity as performative culture, 116–117, 122, 129; Core Values Statement and, 124; defined, 116; Diversity University’s diversity initiative as per­for­mance culture, 164–165; hiring committee for chief diversity officer as performative, 128; official texts as performative, 118; per­for­mance culture of diversity, 16, 117–126, 175, 177–178 p-­hacking, 183 postcolonial tradition, 201n1 Powell, Lewis, 7, 12 power: aligning chief diversity officer’s duties with institutional rhe­toric of, 172; as campus issue, 172; certain kinds of difference in reproducing structures of, 9; commodifying race and ethnicity for affirming, 68; Confederate monuments and, 28; discourse and, 49–55; diversity practices eschew conversations on race, in­equality, and, 11; diversity programming and issues of, 67; diversity work without changing structure of, 165; education for overcoming differences in, 6; gender and racial repre­sen­t a­t ion among Diversity University leadership,

240 Index 72–73; in hands of white men at Diversity University, 167; in­equality regimes and, 158; institutional rhe­toric that centers on, 167–169; locating chief diversity officer in structure of, 172; minorities lacking in Diversity University positions of, 120; in needs assessment for chief diversity officer, 172; race and access to, 46, 65; rhe­toric of diversity and hierarchies of, 78; seeing diversity as achievement in itself while ignoring, 175; in shaping interactions with ­others, 9; space and place and, 23–24; spheres of, 196n10; universities can take lead in dismantling existing structures of, 181. See also re­d istribution of power privilege, 6, 8 promotion, tying ser­v ice work to, 180 race: black w ­ oman speaking out about, 130–131; Center for Diversity’s programming on, 82; in college admissions, 7, 12–13; “color blindness,” 49, 106, 112; commodifying, 68; condensation of diversity and, 56–60, 160; connecting diversity to, 9–12, 44–47, 54; in con­s ul­t ants’ report on diversity at Diversity University, 126; critical race theory, 19, 201n1; in Diversity Action Plan, 56; diversity practices eschew conversations on power, in­equality, and, 11; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by gender and, 91–92; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by gender, rank, and, 156; dominant American language for, 112; ethnicity privileged over, 49; gender and racial repre­sen­ ta­t ion among Diversity University leadership, 72–73; in governing board’s diversity statement of 2005, 21; “happy talk” and continuing prob­lems of, 9; in hate crimes, 8; as key structuring mechanism, 46; politics of space infused with racial logics of Jim Crow, 167–168; as protected category, 9, 48, 99, 111, 160;

racial identity, 65; racial impact statements, 176–178; Racial Justice Week at Diversity University, 82, 83, 84; redefining as cultural identity, 11, 48; in staging difference, 116, 174; university departments centered on, 8; wage gaps, 14. See also Institute for Racial Justice (Diversity University); ­people of color; race consciousness; racial and ethnic minorities; racial in­equality; racism race consciousness: diversity and, 15, 46, 47, 50, 58, 64–65, 69, 79, 82, 112; of diversity workers, 46; as not enough to produce material change, 79–80, 82 racial and ethnic minorities: “black tax” or “brown tax” on, 138; called upon to do diversity work, 165, 174; condensation of diversity and differential access of, 79; connecting diversity to, 9–12, 44–47, 54; in Diversity Action Plan’s goals, 94, 95; in diversity rhe­toric in higher education, 167; as Diversity University faculty and staff, 74–75, 92, 93, 94, 107, 110, 117, 125, 126, 135, 139, 144, 148, 164, 165, 167; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by gender, rank, and race, 156; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by race and gender, 91–92; as Diversity University students, 20, 21, 28, 40, 74, 94, 102, 121, 122, 125, 126, 129, 144, 148, 164, 165; ­doing diversity work as evidence of commitment to diversity, 16, 116, 165; exploited by performative culture of diversity, 117, 130, 142; forum on racial conflict held by minority students, 163–164; gender and racial repre­sen­t a­t ion among Diversity University leadership, 72–73; harsh realities of southern spaces for, 33; on higher education’s value, 6–7; how, when, and why minorities are asked to do diversity work, 126–128; increased opportunities despite condensation of diversity, 160–161; increased ser­v ice demands on, 117, 134–142, 178, 179, 180, 181; in intercultural education

Index movement, 51–52; lacking in positions of power at Diversity University, 120; minority repre­sen­t a­t ion requirement for search committees, 133–138; Obama’s significance for, 1; percentage increase in college admissions, 7, 13; racial diversity benefits less, 8; racial impact statements and, 176–178; recruiting and retaining minority faculty by Diversity University, 92–93, 144, 158, 172; repre­sen­t a­t ion seen as final rather than first step, 168–169; spaces for, 168; staging difference places additional burdens on, 140; state governing board on, 94; tokenism, 10, 14, 41; as valuable resource, 141–142. See also African Americans; ­people of color racial impact statements, 176–178 racial in­equality: “color blindness” in reproducing existing, 49; condensation of diversity and, 55, 79, 160; Core Values Statement fails to address, 124; decentralization and, 113–114, 170; despite ubiquitous commitments to diversity and inclusion, 4, 9, 12, 13, 14, 147, 153–154; Diversity Action Plan and, 72; diversity initiatives fail to remedy, 15, 158; diversity practices and, 5, 196n10; diversity regimes and reproduction of, 143–166; at Diversity University, 42, 144–158; diversity workers’ hope to eliminate, 144; in higher education, 13; leadership change as not enough to reduce, 188; orga­n izational culture as unable to respond to, 143; public affirmations of multiculturalism versus, 5, 14, 143, 145, 153–154, 159; public commitments to racial harmony versus lived realities of, 5, 13, 16; racial impact statements and, 176; staging difference and reduction of, 117; usual suspects performing diversity work and per­sis­tence of, 140 racism: antiracism, 116, 118, 144; biological, 168; campus protests against, 8; Center for Diversity’s programming on, 82; commitment to diversity and avoiding responsibility

241

for, 118–119; of Confederate monuments, 28; despite multicultural rhe­toric, 145; at Diversity University, 20, 21, 31, 45, 81, 118, 163–164, 165; everyday, 4, 8, 108, 145, 158, 170, 172, 181; faculty group focusing on equity and, 95; hate crimes on campus, 8; as increasing, 14, 200n52; Institute for Racial Justice programs on, 84; institutional, 19, 31, 122; ­people of color respond to incidents of, 116; successful responses to, 165; at University of Mississippi, 2–5. See also microaggressions; white supremacy Randolph, Antonia, 11, 48–49 Ranger, Terence, 23 re­d istribution of decision-­making: abstract commitment to diversity and, 10; affirmative action policy for, 96; commitments to multiculturalism coming at expense of, 143; condensation of diversity and, 58, 72, 77, 78, 79, 116; decentralization of diversity and, 16, 104, 111, 116; diversity initiatives fail to accomplish, 14; minority repre­sen­t a­t ion and, 169; race consciousness and, 15; staging difference and, 129, 142 re­d istribution of opportunities: abstract commitment to diversity and, 10; affirmative action policy for, 96; commitments to multiculturalism coming at expense of, 143; condensation of diversity and, 77, 79, 116; decentralization of diversity and, 104, 111, 116; diversity initiatives fail to accomplish, 14; diversity regimes fail to make fundamental changes, 159; diversity work without, 165; minority repre­sen­t a­t ion and, 169; staging difference and, 129, 142 re­d istribution of power: abstract commitment to diversity and, 10; affirmative action policy for, 96; commitments to multiculturalism coming at expense of, 143; commitments to versus tangible steps to address issues of, 170; condensation of diversity and, 58, 72, 77, 79, 116, 169; decentralization of diversity and, 16,

242 Index re­d istribution of power (cont.) 104, 111, 116; diversity initiatives fail to accomplish, 14; diversity regimes fail to make fundamental changes, 159; minority repre­sen­t a­t ion and, 169; as positive duty, 173–174; race consciousness and, 15; staging difference and, 129, 142 re­d istribution of resources: abstract commitment to diversity and, 10; affirmative action policy for, 96; commitments to multiculturalism coming at expense of, 143; condensation of diversity and, 58, 72, 77, 78, 79, 116; decentralization of diversity and, 16, 104, 111, 116; diversity initiatives fail to accomplish, 14; diversity regimes fail to make fundamental changes, 159; diversity work without, 165; minority repre­sen­ta­t ion and, 169; race consciousness and, 15; staging difference and, 129, 142 religion, 9, 56–57 repre­sen­t a­t ion: condensation and issues of, 75; discourse and, 76; diversity programs and, 10; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by gender, rank, and race, 156; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by race and gender, 91–92; in Diversity University’s diversity goals, 94, 158; as final rather than first step, 168–169; gender and racial repre­sen­t a­ tion among Diversity University leadership, 72–73; seeking it without being told, 110–111; tokenism, 10, 14, 41. See also historically underrepresented groups Requiem of a Nun (Faulkner), 39 resources: for chief diversity officer, 173; equal access to, 168; increased access despite condensation of diversity, 160–161; in­equality regimes and, 158; in needs assessment for chief diversity officer, 172; race and access to, 46, 65. See also re­d istribution of resources rhe­toric: anti-­i mmigrant, 51; of diversity, 11, 65, 78, 167–169, 170; empty rhe­toric of difference, 48; institutional, 167–169, 170, 172;

multicultural, 145, 169; in staging difference, 117, 165 Richard (se­n ior multicultural affairs officer): on Diversity Action Plan and Core Values Statement, 123; on Diversity Action Plan committee, 55, 56; Diversity Leadership Committee of, 70, 71; in group of ­people always called on, 139; on hiring committee for chief diversity officer, 127; as Office of Multicultural Affairs head, 20, 146–147; on power and decision-­ making in hands of white men, 167; on “racism just happens” at Diversity University, 20; on realizing need for diversity without being told, 110–111; seen as a savior, 173 risk management, 93, 96 Rosaldo, Renato, 68 Said, Edward, 23, 25 same-­sex marriage, 195n2 SAP. See Strategic Action Plan (SAP) search (hiring) committees: for chief diversity officer, 103, 127, 128, 171; Equal Employment Opportunity office works with, 97; in faculty hiring procedure, 93; minority repre­sen­t a­t ion requirement for, 133–138, 139, 140 segregation. See Jim Crow segregation sex: managerial discourse and protected category of, 9, 48. See also gender sexual orientation, 57, 65, 76, 77 “siloing,” 99–104, 170 six-­year graduation rate, 151–154 slavery, Diversity University’s relationship to, 15, 19, 21, 22, 27, 34, 40, 201n8 Smith, Dorothy, 55, 56, 207n33 social mobility, 5, 6, 196n11, 197n16 Southern Poverty Law Center, 28 space: for historically underrepresented groups, 168; politics of infused with racial logics of Jim Crow, 167–168; power and place and, 23–24; for t­ hose who harm historically underrepresented groups, 168 Spencer, Richard, 168 staging difference, 115–142; additional burden placed on minorities by, 140;

Index constitutes and is constituted by a diversity regime, 116, 117; defined, 16, 116; as discursive phenomenon, 116, 126; in institutionalizing commitment to diversity, 116, 141–142, 164–165; as ­matter of orga­n izational practice, 126; as mechanism of diversity regimes, 16, 164–165, 166; in practice, 126–129; recasts diversity as series of rhetorical and symbolic gestures, 116–117, 165 state governing board, 20–21, 93–94, 120, 147, 148, 187–188 Stewart, Dafina-­L azarus, 167 Strategic Action Plan (SAP): boundary work regarding diversity in, 120–121; on commitment to diversity, 122–125; Core Values Statement in, 122–125; “diversity” in, 119; orga­n izational changes due to, 154; on university’s past, 122 students: African American at Diversity University, 30–32, 38, 41, 74, 92, 119, 125, 144, 149–154; course credit for diversity work by, 180; increased ser­v ice demands on, 117; international, 60, 105–106, 150–151; racial and ethnic minorities at Diversity University, 20, 21, 28, 40, 74, 94, 102, 121, 122, 125, 126, 129, 144, 148, 164, 165; student body at Diversity University becomes less white, 151 Sturm, Susan, 10–11, 92, 93 tenure, tying ser­v ice work to, 180 thought, diversity of, 21, 46, 48, 54, 58, 60, 160, 168 tightly coupled systems, 80 tokenism, 10, 14, 41, 126 traditions, invention of, 23–24 undergraduate enrollment, 148, 149–151 underrepresented groups. See historically underrepresented groups University of Michigan, 9–10, 11, 48, 92, 93 University of Mississippi, 2–5, 195n4 Violet (professor), 70–77, 78 wage gaps, 14, 119, 169 Weick, Karl, 81

243

white Americans: advantaged by performative culture of diversity, 117; burdens of diversity work avoided by, 140, 179; condensation of diversity and differential access of, 79; diversity programming and white dominance, 67; Diversity University buildings named for, 26; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by gender, race, and rank, 156, 157; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by race and gender, 91–92; gender and racial repre­sen­t a­t ion among Diversity University leadership, 72–73; higher education opportunities for, 6; on higher education’s value, 6; maintaining whiteness as the norm, 49; on Obama’s presidency and African Americans, 195n2; percentage decrease in college admissions, 7; racial diversity benefits more, 8; respondents for this study, 186; in riot at University of Mississippi, 2–5; six-­year graduation rate at Diversity University, 151, 153; student body at Diversity University becomes less white, 151; unemployment rate for, 1. See also white supremacy White Citizens’ Councils, 36 white supremacy: attributed to Diversity University, 163, 164; Diversity University’s legacy of, 15, 18, 19, 34, 36, 40; Ku Klux Klan, 28, 38, 39; re­sis­tance to, 42; White Citizens’ Councils enforce, 36 ­women: Center for ­Women’s and Gender Studies, 70, 71, 101, 102, 104; discrimination against outlawed, 7; in Diversity Action Plan’s goals, 94; diversity programs and recruiting, training, and advancement of, 10; on Diversity University faculty, 155–157; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by gender, race, and rank, 156; Diversity University full-­t ime tenure-­t rack faculty, by race and gender, 91–92; gender and racial repre­sen­t a­t ion among Diversity University leadership, 72–73; harsh

244 Index women (cont.) realities of southern spaces for, 33; higher education creates more level playing field for, 6; increased ser­v ice demands on, 140–141, 178, 180; minority repre­sen­t a­t ion requirement

for search committees, 134; respondents for this study, 186; six-­year graduation rate at Diversity University, 151; undergraduate enrollment at Diversity University, 149. See also gender working class, 6, 33

About the Author James M. Thomas ( JT) is an associate professor of sociology at the University of Mississippi. His research centers on how racial categories and meanings emerge across dif­fer­ent sociopo­l iti­cal contexts and how social actors both enable and contest racism in routine practice. JT is the author or co-­author of four books and more than twenty journal articles, book chapters, and invited essays. JT’s last book, Are Racists Crazy? (with Sander L. Gilman) was featured in the New Yorker, Pacific Standard, and Slate. In addition to his academic writing, JT frequently provides commentary for regional and national publications. His writing has been featured in the Washington Post and Inside Higher Ed, among ­others. JT is also a semi-­regular contributor to the Jackson ­Free Press, a bi-­monthly magazine based in Jackson, Mississippi.