University Authority and the Student [Reprint 2020 ed.] 9780520326798

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University Authority and the Student

C, Michael Often

University Authority and the Student The

l&erkeley

Experience

University of California Press • Berkeley, Los Angeles, London • 1970

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England Copyright © 1970, by The Regents of the University of California ISBN: 0-520-01607-6 Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 72-99485 Printed in the United States of America

To My Father

Loved in lije, missed in death

CONTENTS

PREFACE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 1. REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

ix xvii 1

2. AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

18

3. PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

38

4. DECLINE OF STUDENT AUTHORITY, 1919-1930

77

5. PATERNALISTIC BUREAUCRACY, 1930-1945

106

6. THE POSTWAR YEARS, 1945-1958

136

7. MANAGERIAL BUREAUCRACY, 1958-1964

159

8. THE PAST, THE PRESENT, AND THE POSSIBLE

189

BIBLIOGRAPHY

207

INDEX

215

PREFACE

In the very early stages of this research, I planned to do a comparative study of Berkeley and other institutions. But the ambition quickly withered for lack of a common theoretical perspective and proper kinds of comparative data. I decided then to do a case study concentrating on Berkeley (but taking into account the other University of California campuses) — a project designed to raise hypotheses and generate new theory, rather than verify existing theory. Despite the extensive literature on authority, a subject that is central to much of the sociology of politics and organizations, there is relatively little empirically grounded discussion of university authority. What does exist was not always useful. A common approach in these studies would be an application of Weber's notion of bureaucracy to university administration. Yet such a simple superimposition of a legal-rational model onto the university scene ignores the enormous gap between the almost anarchic style of most college administrations and the rigid structure of the typical business bureaucracy. Furthermore, there have been few attempts to systematically categorize the shifting patterns of authority over students. ix

PREFACE

X

The task, as I see it, is to set up a model of university governance which will combine existing theory with the unique qualities of educational institutions. At the same time, the model must comprise a historical perspective that will clarify the transition from paternalism to formal control, from relative placidity to present-day rebellion. And finally, the conceptualization should suggest alternative courses of action that might determine future developments as well as some tentative predictions. Although research stages are usually mixed and not consecutive, the work has proceeded in a manner which can be broken down into three stages: preliminary conceptualization, data collection and the construction of substantive categories, and reduction of categories. The third stage also includes an attempt to encompass past trends and present tensions in a more general theory capable of shedding some light on the bureaucratic trends of modern society. Preliminary

Conceptualization

This first stage comprises development of a preliminary formulation of the concept of authority. The breakdown of this concept into tangible dimensions has enabled me to isolate the phenomenon. Since everything is related to everything else, without some limitation on the scope of the concept, the task would have been endless—and meaningless. For example, if authority had been broadly defined as control—instead of as power justified by beliefs held in common by subordinates and superordinates—then collection of extensive data on the public pressures on the university would have been required. Research would have had to include an analysis of legislative control, of informal pressure groups, and many other factors. However, given this alternative definition of authority, I have been able to ignore problems of public pressure except insofar as they explicitly impinge on relations between students and the authorities. Furthermore, the quite general formulation of the various concepts has allowed me to tie the research into existing theory, which has then provided further clues for understanding the phenomena under study. Durkheim's concept of "mechanical solidarity" is rich with suggestions for comprehending the essence of paternalism. So too, Weber's category of legal-rational authority provides many clues for understanding the internal tensions of contemporary university authority. Needless to say, this constant interplay between the general concepts and the specif-

PREFACE

xi

ics of history has been most useful in putting facts into some kind of order and in developing ideas. Finally, the specification of categories within a general framework of existing theory has allowed me to move toward formal theory that might have application to organizations other than universities. Data Collection and the Construction of Substantive Categories The second phase of the project has been concerned with uncovering the actual historical events and developing substantive categories out of them. This work has not simply consisted of collecting data and coding it for preconceived categories, but has involved the reconstruction of the university's past in a way that would encourage development of substantive categories capturing the unique pattern and style of a specific period. It was at this stage that the general concept of authority was broken down into types such as authoritarian paternalism and paternalistic bureaucracy. Unfortunately, I was well into the laborious process of data collection before discovering the relatively efficient method of category construction provided by focusing on crises. As long as administrative actions concerned mainly routine matters, they were widely accepted by the students and there was little discussion of the principles, the scope, or the concrete operations of authority. It was in the nonroutine matters—that is, in a crisis—that its authority was challenged, its workings revealed. A single case, such as the expulsion of a student for the "mere existence of a court record," could tell far more about authority than any cross-sectional survey of student opinion on the subject. Even were such ex post facto surveys possible, they would not necessarily have exposed the principles, the lack of appeal procedures, the focus of power, nor the arbitrary nature of authority. A crisis typically reveals the structure of authority by forcing the administration to defend its actions. In a real sense, arguments over specific actions performed the job of research. Once having exposed the operations of the system, it is then possible to construct and label the substantive categories by comparing their properties—principles, scope, and structures—over a period of time. There would be a comparison, say, of character-building with narrower definitions of educational function, or a contrast between the "not too friendly chat" of old and the later implementation of elaborate procedures of due process.

xii

PREFACE

This "constant comparative method"—moving easily from data to categories and back again, and from one time period to another—produces a classification out of the data itself and not from an arbitrary superimposition from the lofty reaches of grand theory.1 Hopefully, this kind of category construction provides a link between concrete historical events and the more abstract categories such as mechanical solidarity or legal-rational authority. Still, it might be asked, how valid are the substantive categories? How do we know, for example, that the category we have called "paternalistic self-government," which has only been arrived at through an abstract reconstruction of past events, is an adequate formulation of this pattern of authority? Obviously, we cannot survey a student body long since graduated to test their loyalty, nor can we interview the dead or the very old. Yet there is some ground for confidence in a formulation where such a close connection exists between substantive categories and data. To a large degree, the categories grew out of the continual historical comparison, and thus were the product of inductive analysis— any preliminary notions of authority only serving as rough classifications for coding the data into principles, scope, etc. The variety of sources also lends credence to the categories. When different views of the same event either support or else do not contradict one another, then confidence about the nature of the events is well based. This does not mean that the witnesses necessarily interpreted the action in the same way, but rather that they agreed on the basic facts. For example, all the relevant observations about one period during the regime of President Wheeler points to the intense solidarity characteristic of the time. Not all agreed on the value of solidarity, but all agreed it was there. To Vern Smith it may have been coercive, to others it meant cooperative harmony, but all thought solidarity existed. By compiling observations from a variety of sources, confidence is built concerning one's understanding of the true nature of the period. There is, finally, the attainment of a "theoretical saturation," and this, too, supports the belief that one's research is on the right track.2 Whereas in early stages of category development each new source of data adds another aspect to the conceptualization, after a period of 1

Barney Glaser, The Discovery

of Grounded

Theory:

Strategies

for

Qualita-

tive Research (Chicago: Aldine Publishing Co., 1967). See especially Chapter 5. My methodological explanation owes much to Glaser's work. "Glaser, p. 61.

PREFACE

xiii

time, no matter how varied the sources, the data neither contradict nor add anything new to the conceptualization. To make a clarifying analogy, a piece of sculpture begins with a block of stone. A few chips here and there produces an outline that, however rough, unmistakably resembles a human face. A few more chips bring out distinct features and finally one is able to fully identify a particular person. This point is akin to our theoretical saturation with data. More work might be done to further refine the sculpture, but a distinct identity—if that is the aim— has already been achieved. Somewhere there may exist a vast cache of data the implications of which would radically alter both categories and conclusion. But such seems unlikely to one who, having already compared data from many diverse perspectives, has found nothing to contradict the present conclusions. The problem of data collection and conceptualization became a great deal easier for the period after 1934 and the advent of written rules. After all, written rules are by their very nature explicit, public, and open to debate, thus allowing the researcher to focus immediately on the central elements of government. To say, however, that rules are a point of entry into the core of a complicated system is not to suggest they are taken at face value, but simply that they function as a starting point for analysis.3 Rules, based as they are upon some community consensus, reflect the nature of the community, its aims and its governing principles. If there is conflict within the community, such conflict is clearly reflected in the rules. Written regulations are also useful devices for understanding the position of the university in relation to the larger society, for they are often written in response to public relations crises and then used to justify retroactively specific administrative actions that had been criticized by either the students or the public. In short, written rules make the pattern of authority, and the challenges to it, more explicit and open. Finally, a few words are in order on the data itself. In any historical study that is fundamentally exploratory, all available data is useful. At the start of research, data collection was directed toward a rough reconstruction of the major events of university history. Since no carefully researched histories of the university existed, one learned to make do with the typically nostalgic narratives published for the alumni. These were found useful—however embellished they were with institutional glorifi3 1 am grateful to Philip Selznick for bringing to my attention the crucial significance of written rules.

xiv

PREFACE

cation—for their frequent references to certain outstanding events. Another source were student periodicals—the newspaper, the literary magazines, the humor publications, the multitude of short-lived journals, and even the political leaflets. These publications helped me in building up a chronology of events and indirectly contributed to the story by developing what is essential in the researcher, an intuitive feeling for the times. In the 1920s the student newspaper dropped its coverage of strictly campus affairs and turned to national and international news. Again, in the late 1930s, the campus humor magazine briefly turned away from its thirty-year-old jokes about sex to politics. Noticing such seemingly trivial changes led to impressions which were at times later verified by more substantial documentation. But it was the first, fresh reading of a volume of student publications that always provided immensely rich and rewarding insights. Students are peculiarly sensitive barometers of the times. They are informed enough to know what is going on, but are often naive enough—or is it bold enough—to present things just as they see them. Of particular interest are the dissenting publications. In the nineteenth century there was an avowedly antifraternity paper; in the 1920s, self-consciously sophisticated literary journals; and beginning in the 1930s, a huge number of radical periodicals. These outsiders served useful functions as "informers" on the system. The metropolitan press has been less valuable than one might expect and has been used primarily as an indicator of the university's relations with the larger community. Frankly, until the last few years, newspaper reporters did not seem to know much, or care much, about campus affairs. Personal letters, biographies, and memoirs certainly provide some insight into the subjective attitudes of participants, but they do little to help one reconstruct the total context of past events. Still, using all possible sources of information, it has been possible to place the official documents forming the hard core of the analysis into a larger perspective. Bland-sounding official reports indeed come alive when placed within a historical setting. Even more useful were the occasional court records covering the cases of expelled students which laid bare the actual university governance proceedings unencumbered by the moralistic trappings of institutional loyalty. For the era after the 1930s, the presidential files become the most important source of data, since they contain the memos, letters, and legal opinions that have gone into the construction of the regulations. The comparisons of these private documents with the related public pro-

PREFACE

xv

nouncements, in addition to the juxtaposition of successive regulations and modifications against the changing pattern of the times, becomes a valuable foundation for later analysis. Of course, no single source of data has made the whole story. Rather, the reconstruction and interpretation of events has been built on the constant comparison and checking back and forth among all sources of data. By this method, even apparently trivial pieces of information— such as the existence of a bench on which no one ever sits—take on great significance. Reduction of Categories The final stage of analysis consists in returning to the general concept of authority which is now enriched with the concrete facts of history and the substantive categories. In the concluding chapter, the aim is to move beyond the specific experience of Berkeley and, however tentatively, reach toward a more formal theory of university governance and organizational authority. The method of extending theory and generating new hypotheses is achieved for the most part by reducing the substantive categories to a few manageable variables and then proceeding to deductive speculations. For paternalism the organizing principle was loyalty and for legal-rational authority, the self-contained, rationally consistent cosmos of rules. The abstract models serve several functions. They have been used to organize a myriad of events into consistent patterns, to clarify contemporary crises, and to specify possible outcomes. For example, the decline of solidarity meant the end of paternalism, while the emergence of a legal-rational system brought with it not only new methods of control but also the seeds of its own transformation. All such interpretations and tentative predictions can be more clearly presented through the use of simplified models, which in turn help the researcher make stronger assertions about particular cases. The models also serve to promote the case study to a higher level of abstraction, thus allowing wider applicability. Rather than simply analyzing the specific regulations of university governance, it has been possible to work on the form of legal-rational authority. A case study of Berkeley can then suggest some inherent problems as well as potential changes in the bureaucratic form of organizational authority. No pretense to proof is asserted here but only a tentative hypothesis. To go beyond the case study would require a comparative analysis which would

xvi

PREFACE

help clarify, prove, or disprove the substantive ideas about universities and the more formal theory about legal-rational authority. Although this particular study is circumscribed by the limitations of the case study approach, hopefully the findings combined with tentative gropings toward a more formal theory will cast some light on two critical issues of modern society—the crisis of university authority and the difficulties of individual freedom in the organizational society.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In a real sense, all books are community efforts. They borrow from the past and benefit from the contemporary comments of numerous friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. I have been especially influenced and inspired by Professor Philip Selznick's general concern with the complexities of freedom in an organizational society. More specifically, I have made liberal use of his published writings and helpful suggestions throughout the entire project. Professor Phillippe Nonet offered invaluable ideas which helped me to clarify the argument and prune away some of my favorite, but alas irrelevant, anecdotes. At two critical points Dr. Sheldon Messinger helped me over frustrating hurdles in the work, in the beginning urging me to think about the patterns of authority and toward the end prompting my reflection on the workings of legal-rational authority. Out of these suggestions came the central ideas. Professor Raymond Sontag read the manuscript and made several suggestions, but mainly he provided a unique example of deep sympathy for committed men who struggle, often in opposite directions, for what they think is right. I would like to thank my friend and colleague xvii

xviii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Mary Haywood Metz for her assistance in coping with the conceptual complexities of organizational authority. Finally, I owe to Paul Jacobs the inspiration to strive for clear writing about important issues. The study would not have been possible without financial support from the Russell Sage Foundation, administered by the Center for the Study of Law and Society, University of California at Berkeley. Nor would the hours of work have been as pleasant or as productive without the constant whirl of ideas at the Center. The office staff there deserves special thanks. Mary Aldrin, Judy Dowing, and Emily Knapp not only handled the drafts with professional competence but, more important, they bolstered my sometimes sagging morale during the laborious months of writing. Many staff members of the University of California supplied me with information and aid. Mr. James Kantor, Librarian of the University Archives, and Mr. Robert Johnson, Office of the President, were particularly cooperative. Others, such as Herman Meyling, made contributions through their actions and reactions which revealed the frequently obscure realities and hidden meanings of social life. My wife Patrice would have helped a great deal, she tells me, but by a major mistiming on my part we met after the manuscript was completed. Thus, I bear the sole responsibility for errors of fact or interpretation.

1 REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

Only a few short years ago the Free Speech Movement at Berkeley electrified the academic world. It was a revolution! Students were all at once demanding—not respectfully petitioning, as before— the right to solicit money and members for political causes and the right to invite any speaker they wished, whether approved by the administration or not. And not only did they demand these rights, but instead of discussion to gain their ends, they sat-in and struck against the university. While the American flag waved over the campus demonstrations, Joan Baez came by to sing the "Lord's Prayer." From the perspective of the early seventies, the free speech revolution is bound to seem rather quaint. In 1969, the National Guard was patrolling the Berkeley campus. Black militants were threatening to burn the administrative records at Duke University. San Francisco State College was virtually closed for four months. And students and faculty of Columbia University were still binding up their wounds from their fierce encounter with policemen's Mace, clubs, fists, and words. Each month and each week the list of disturbances grew, as the smell of tear gas drove out the nostalgic odor of autumn leaves burning in front of the fraternity house. 1

2

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

Clearly, something is happening to American colleges. Students have always been rebels, but they have never before been so openly defiant and morally righteous in their mass rebellions. For instance, in contrast to the contemporary militancy, in 1881 nearly every member of the sophomore class at Berkeley was expelled, and they did not so much as write a complaint against the authorities. In fact, "they expressed themselves perfectly willing to abide by the consequences [of their actions]." To show what good sports they were about it, they "shouted the 'jolly sophomore'," after which they formed a long procession and, "class pins inverted" and "crepe on their arms," solemnly marched off the campus.1 University authority is under attack. Students do not typically "abide by the consequences," but question, confront, defy, and then demand amnesty. What is happening? Where is university control headed? These are the questions that will be explored here. It will be shown, for one thing, that the older paternalistic style of control broke down with the decline of community solidarity and that legal-rational authority, bringing with it a whole new set of problems, replaced personalized control. It will then be argued that the legal-rational system has certain built-in tensions which give it a potential for developing new patterns of control. Finally, the problems of university authority will be placed within the broader context of the general movement of protest against the bureaucratic control that dominates our organizational society. The study is largely based on a highly detailed account of the problems of authority at the University of California at Berkeley. Although the framework of analysis and explanation grows out of the experience of a particular institution, it should have wider application. The Berkeley crises of the past, the present, and probably the future seem litde different from the past and present tensions and traumas of other colleges. Whether it be Columbia, Wisconsin, San Francisco State, Michigan, or San Fernando Valley State College, the underlying issues are the same.2 In nearly every case a militant campus group has objected to a specific university connection with racism, the military-industrial complex, or simply the status quo. Demonstrations are staged and the administration reacts. The militants then, interpreting administrative re1

Berkeleyan, October 31, 1881. 'For an interesting analysis of the common pattern of student revolts, see John R. Searle, "A Scenario for Student Revolts," New York Times Magazine, December 18, 1968, p. 4.

REBELLION A N D BUREAUCRACY

3

sponses as one more example of the complicity they see between academia and the unjust society at large, generalize their cause, intensify their tactics, mobilize the moderates, and call for a general strike which usually ends with a mass arrest. The dynamics of college crises bring several issues to the surface. First, as to the role of the university in modern society, American colleges have been famous (or infamous depending on one's values) for their ability to serve the more privileged classes and established economic institutions of the country. But such services are called into question as more and more students become sensitive to the problems of racism, militarism, imperialism, and bureaucracy. The new vision, hoping to broaden educational opportunity so as to service large numbers of the poor and nonwhite—the students of the "Third World"—is in effect pressuring the colleges and universities into becoming agencies of social change. It is thought by some, however, that such a radical alteration of function—from teaching and research to social change through political action—would undermine the precarious equilibrium that the universities have worked out with the larger society, and it is this conflict that lies at the heart of the problems at Berkeley and elsewhere. Second, there is the issue of the ultimate control of university governance. Most if not all American colleges and universities have absentee managers called trustees or regents. These officials, who are usually appointed, are predominantly wealthy and conservative, besides being quite far removed from the immediate campus situation. Of this group, it has been reliably reported that "64 percent . . . would exclude professors from decisions regarding academic tenure and only 1 percent would include students in these decisions. 96 percent still cling to the notion that college attendance is a privilege, not a right." 3 Professors, not to mention students, are seldom represented on these boards of control. Indeed, judging from this report, trustees by and large do not think either group should be represented. Only in the late 1960s were some moves made to appoint young recent graduates to these boards. Not only do trustees usually adhere to a managerial authoritarianism, they back up their perspectives with genuine power. The third problem has to do with disciplinary procedures and due process. Student involvement with serious political issues and rights has raised important questions about student liberties versus institutional "The San Francisco Chronicle, February 24, 1969, reporting on the results of a survey conducted by Rodney T. Hartnett for the Educational Testing Service, Princeton, New Jersey.

4

REBELLION A N D BUREAUCRACY

functions. To handle student protest against war and racism by the methods that were once applied to the drunken, brawling sophomore is clearly inappropriate. Deprivation of a college degree amounts to a denial of citizenship in an advanced technological society, and such deprivation cannot justly be allowed for exercise of lawful civil liberties—no matter how obnoxious that exercise may seem to the political moderate. Nor can the colleges justly punish the student for crimes which are properly a matter for the civil courts and not the college administration. Yet order must be maintained if the traditional university functions of teaching and research are to be protected. Most campus crises indeed involve very complicated questions of due process. One further important issue concerns campus rule-making procedures. To put it in political terms, this problem has to do with "legislative," as opposed to the "judicial" concerns—rule enforcement and due process—touched on above. At Berkeley and most other academic institutions, the boards of trustees and the chief campus officers make the major policy decisions. Seldom are students seriously represented at administrative meetings. Furthermore, student government, which operates best in the context of the traditional collegiate activities, is increasingly ignored by the new generation of student activists. Students frequently view their existing government as an impotent pastime devoid of any real power. To disagree on such fundamental issues as university function, control, rule making, and discipline is to deny the very legitimacy of academic authority. Such disagreement underlies the presence of armed control on the campuses. The case of Columbia University provides a good example of this. The Cox Commission Report, an independent study of the Columbia campus crisis in early 1968, concluded that the major difficulty was that the authoritarian structures did not allow the "natural student leaders" to participate in university governance.4 The Report urged that ways be found immediately to allow students to "meaningfully influence the education afforded them and other aspects of the University's activities." 5 The Columbia student government provided no meaningful lever of change, influence, or representation. Similarly, the university's "outmoded disciplinary procedures" were better suited to a past era of personalized paternalism than to a period 1 Crisis at Columbia, The Cox Commission Report, Report of the Fact Finding Commission Appointed to Investigate the Disturbances at Columbia University in April and May 1968 (New York: Vintage Books, 1968). 6 The Cox Report, p. 198.

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

5

when a student's current draft status "may even attain life and death importance." 8 And yet, although the students had undergone a remarkable transformation over only a couple of generations, the old rigid and authoritarian control by the Columbia administration continued. This new generation of students is, according to the Cox Report, the "best informed, most intelligent, and most idealistic the country has ever known, . . . the most sensitive to public issues, . . . the most sophisticated in political tactics." 7 Thus, the clash between the new kind of student and the old style of governance underlies most campus conflict today. Again, the Cox Report stated the basic issue: "At a time when the spirit of self-determination is running strongly, the administration of Columbia affairs too often conveyed an attitude of authoritarianism and invited distrust." 8 This "spirit of self-determination" that manifests itself so strongly must be taken seriously into account. To ignore it is to invite disorder. While it is possible to maintain order with the help of local and state police forces, it is a fact that "the government of a University depends, even more than that of a political community, rests upon the consent of the governed to accept the decisions reached by constitutional processes." 9 There are, unfortunately, few "constitutional processes" by which the voice, not to say the power, of students can be heard within the university. The gulf between students and administrators only widens and the crisis spreads. The situation can also be stated in more general terms. University authority, as it stands, is not a legitimate form of government in the eyes of a large number of students. And because it is not legitimate, it finds itself unable to govern by moral persuasion and must increasingly fall back on physical force to control dissent. Only the radical restructuring of the present system would appear to offer a possible alternative to the ever increasing use of force. AUTHORITY IN AN ORGANIZATIONAL SOCIETY

The outcome of the struggle within the universities is important in itself, but perhaps even more important, the universities' struggle brings to trial the very nature of modern society. The modern world is an organizational society increasingly controlled by large bureaucratic 6 7

The Cox Report, p. 96. The Cox Report, p. 4.

8 8

The Cox Report, p. 193. The Cox Report, p. 197.

REBELLION A N D BUREAUCRACY

6

structures. Whether it is called "corporate capitalism," the "technological society," the "techno-structure," or the "organizational society," the fact is that the focus of power, the shape and tone of our society, indeed the very way we think is dependent upon the products and information processed by large organizations.10 Such being the case, either the power of organizations must be constrained to render justice to the individual and service to the larger society or modern man will live under tyranny. It may be air-conditioned, tastefully decorated, artificially scented, and oppressively friendly, but it will be tyranny nonetheless. Max Weber saw the problem—though in somewhat different terms—and he consistently emphasized the notion that bureaucratic organization, not class conflict, is the dominant feature of the times. Who will control? How will organizational power be constrained? These are the central questions, and the universities are just one setting—albeit the most dramatic—where the questions are being asked. The revolt in the colleges, then, is not simply a revolt against college administrators; it is the clash of a new mentality against the older forms of organization. The universities and colleges just happen to be the most immediate and at present most vulnerable target for the new generation of antiorganizational militants. But what will happen when these battle-hardened, risk-taking militants begin to direct their individualistic, antiorganizational attitudes toward General Motors, the major political parties, the Army, the local zoning board, and the PTA? To comprehend the challenges to organizational authority, the present must be seen in a historical context. Given their total impact on society, large-scale organizations are an extraordinarily recent phenomenon. Indeed, the rapidity of organizational emergence, coupled with its far-reaching implications, may account in large part for the spontaneous, ad hoc nature of the challenges. There is a sense of groping for a comprehension of organizational reality as well as for control of its centralized, bureaucratically structured authority. The antiorganizational movements are open to experimentation, and their participants often "flow with it," making sense out of the situation as it develops. Lacking a clear understanding of organizations, the movements for change are frequently criticized for not having any clear goals other than destruc10

A great many authors have commented on the growing dominance of large-scale organizations. Among the more recent books are Michael Harrington, Toward a Democratic Left (New York: The Macmillan Co., 1968), and David T. Bazelon, Power in America (New York: The New American Library, 1964).

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

7

tion of the "system." But it would seem that the myriad of protests are all responses to essentially the same complaint, since all reflect the same effort to cope with the reality of organizational dominance in every area of life, ranging from medical care to food production, from birth to burial. It is little wonder that the antiorganizational New Left groups seem confused. Their "enemy" is too new to be fully comprehended. Until very recently technology was simple, and a man could prosper with little more than hard work. Now 85 percent of the population works for someone else. It is estimated that just five hundred huge corporations control two-thirds of the economy, and the centralizing trend increases with every corporate merger. The very complexity of modern technology requires immense organizations capable of rationally coordinating a great number of intricate and specialized tasks. Whether we are concerned with the possibility of a nationwide, computer-controlled, centralized credit bureau or with the inability of a student to obtain the courses needed to graduate, the problem of individual freedom in the large organization becomes the central issue in modern society. Since organization means power, what will be the ideological guidelines for authority? What will be the structural constraints—which are usually quite inefficient in terms of time, temper, and money—against organizational dominance? In the political sphere, elaborate controls such as elections, a bill of rights, a constitution, courts, petitions, etc. already exist. These were developed during a period when the government was the only real power over the individual citizen. But we are in a new era where power is not the monopoly of government but dispersed throughout the organizational fiefdoms. The college president usually affects the student's livelihood and liberties far more than the town mayor; the employer more than the local congressman; the credit bureau more than the state assemblyman. Yet where the individual has channels of redress against the elected official, he has few, if any, formal channels against the all-important nonpolitical powers. Evidence abounds that a restless few are groping toward a containment of expanding organizational power. Bishops are challenged, teachers go on strike, the poor demand a voice in government. Welfare recipients fight the agencies, professors are forced to make their classes relevant, college trustees are picketed, old union leaders are thrown out, Catholics even ignore the Pope. Some observers look out from behind the once secure ramparts of the status quo and see anarchy. They feel that so-

8

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

ciety is coming apart. This study offers another interpretation. These manifestations of unrest, no matter what their immediate cause, reflect the same issues—who will be in control and how will organizational power be constrained. In the past, the compliance of the governed could often be gained by little more than an appeal to a generalized deference toward established authority. Now the once revered voices are sometimes drowned out by the shouts of protest. University authority, along with other kinds of authority, is being stripped of the traditional justifications for its existence. Demands are being made to justify it on the basis of public purposes and membership needs, and not simply on the basis of private property, sacred founding, God's will, or a charter from the government. This trend can be called the "secularization" of authority. Persons assuming authority roles are being relieved of the magic aura of those roles and of the privileges accruing from their prestigious positions—which is, parenthetically, one of the reasons irreverent style is so important to contemporary protest. Such ideological rationales as private ownership are no longer sufficient to justify certain types of managerial decisions, nor are the chancellor's appeals to old-time institutional loyalty enough to placate the advocates of student power. To repeat the telling phrase of the Cox Report, "The spirit of self-determination is running strongly." Obviously, these broad assertions about such disparate phenomena cannot be irrefutably proved. Rather, they are offered as an interpretation, as a thesis that grows out of the events at Berkeley and other colleges. As to this kind of detailed study of a single university, there are, along with admitted limitations, some clearcut advantages. The fairly recent founding and the traceable lines of growth of the Berkeley campus make a historical study of its authority manageable. It is relatively easy to move back to the time during the early years of the University of California when only 200 or 300 students lived in the pleasant countryside. Through official records, personal documents, and uncomplicated student journals we can trace the increasing complexity of the institution and the growing cosmopolitanism of the San Francisco Bay Area. We discover the mixed feelings about the coming of the railroad, the ever multiplying ties between the little self-contained college on the edge of the continent and the larger world. With the introduction of the radio and the automobile, the tone of student life changed. Ideas and loyalties that once held students close to the "family's glorious old

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

9

mother" gave way to the sophistication of the early 1920s, whose youngsters satisfied their literary appetites with the daring works of D. H. Lawrence, Ernest Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Eventually the Depression, the war, and television made the outside world more real and more important to many students than any self-contained locally based collegiate culture. There is thus a kind of ease and clarity in the history of a single institution which makes it possible to glimpse the outlines of the larger organizational revolution. As we have begun to see, the university is a microcosm of our society, and indeed few groups reflect new social trends more rapidly and completely than do students, and few institutions must respond more immediately than universities.

THE CONCEPT OF AUTHORITY

To encourage the fullest comprehension and criticism of the structure of this analysis and the methods of arriving at conclusions, we will attempt to place the subject in a more general framework. We begin with the critical fact that organization means power. Further, organizations—especially university organizations—must operate with legitimate or justifiable power, another term for which is authority. Authority thus stands in contrast to power based on force, fear, or fraud. "Where force is used, authority itself has failed." 11 Authority rests on voluntary compliance motivated by the belief that the issuing office is justified on the basis of principles held in common by officials and subjects. The ideological basis of this justification may include a variety of principles. At one time, for instance, a college president's authority rested on an intense community loyalty to the best interests of the revered alma mater. Punishment of students was eminently justifiable on the basis of protecting institutional reputation—i.e., the "good name" of Cal. More recently, presidential authority has come to rely much more on legal statutes than on institutional loyalty and personal persuasion. The basic point, however, is that regardless of the specific justification, authority must rest on a shared moral order, not on force. Of course, people typically comply with authority for any number of reasons. Fear, generalized deference, self-interest, or simply habit may motivate compliance. Indeed, habit is probably the prevailing motive "Hannah Arendt, "Authority in the 20th Century," Review of Politics, March 1956.

10

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

for compliance, but that does not mean it should be the central concern in a study of the changing patterns of authority. Just the opposite. Changes occur at precisely those times when past habits are being broken and new definitions of the old relationships are being formulated. Similarly, fear of punishment will be ruled out as a major consideration in our study of legitimate authority. While an arsenal of punishments may be brandished in the face of insolent youth, except for very short periods such threats can hardly be the basis of compliance in an academic community. The discovery and dissemination of knowledge requires a community based on mutual consent. True, the suppression of militants by the police has come to characterize many campuses, and while this method may be temporarily effective in quelling mass outbursts—though more often it seems to have the opposite effect—it cannot persist without destroying the foundations of academia. Hence, our basic assumption is that changing conditions require new justifications and new patterns of authority, that fear, force, and manipulation are inadequate bases for university governance, and that campus rulers must persuade to control. The content of administrative arguments for compliance must reflect the common consensus between officials and the student community. And it is the congruence between the social context of the student community and the control exercised in relation to it that will be the central focus in this study. Of course, the actual content of this consensus will vary according to the nature of the community and the people involved. But, whether the community is religious, economic, political, or educational, trust is a critical element in its relationship to authority. For, without trust there is no genuine authority. There may be coercion and manipulation, but authority does not exist in terms of willing compliance to its demands. Throughout the 1960s, trust between students and administrators rapidly diminished. And this was so not just at Berkeley but throughout the country and even throughout the world. As the Vietnam war and institutional racism arose as major issues, students came to doubt the college authorities' commitment even to truth, reason, and justice—not to mention any commitment to the proper sort of academic atmosphere. Without this bare minimum of mutual trust, each party became suspicious of being cajoled, manipulated, infiltrated, undermined, and betrayed. Over the years, students and authorities have at last concluded that they do not share the same sort of self-interest, the same political

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

11

commitments, not even the same morality. Although the gulf between the two forces can be attributed in part to the war and to racism, there is a further explanation to be had in the argument that the very nature of the large-scale organization contributes substantially to this problem of mutual alienation. In a simple society—whether a college or an Australian tribe—with a small population, few specialized roles, and strong social bonds, authority can also be simple and practically indistinguishable from the community as a whole. But as the system becomes both large and complex, authority must become more specialized and hence more visible. In the simpler society personal relations themselves are the basis of trust, whereas in the larger, more complex system trust is based on a rational coordination and specification of duties around explicit goals. Put another way, trust, in the legal-rational authority system, is not based on personality so much as on sharply defined, formal rules that are consistent with the shared aims of the organization. Clear goals, consistent rules, and rational administration motivate compliance from all those who consider themselves members of the system. In short, rationality replaces emotion. Durkheim's notion of "mechanical solidarity" is useful in understanding these abstractions. In the early years at Berkeley the common culture gave rise to widely shared standards of conduct which when violated called forth strong community reaction. This "common conscience" manifested itself in all the seemingly trivial collegiate fun— songs, rallies, the Saturday game, and all the rest. "Cal" seemed almost a sacred institution, and the welfare of the whole took precedence over mere individual interests. Social unity prompted a spontaneous and diffuse—if informal—reprimand against those who darkened the good name of the university. And control of dissidents amounted to more than the simple restoration of order to maintain a smoothly functioning system. Control carried moral overtones, and in a real sense authority did have sacred overtones because—to use Durkheim's terms—it "embodied" the "sacred beliefs" and "common sentiments" of the community.12 The president and the student leaders were quite consciously seen as the incarnation of the highest moral ideals of the community and of a culture transcending both individuals and consecutive student generations. u Emile Durkheim, Division of Labor (New York: The Free Press, 1933), p. 196. Certain of these terms appear in their own context in a passage for Durkheim quoted in the last section of Chapter 3.

12

REBELLION A N D BUREAUCRACY

For a variety of reasons this mechanical solidarity gave way to institutional complexity. University authority lost its sacred overtones when it no longer symbolized a deep moral unity, but had become a tool of rational regulation. Again, Durkheim's analysis is illuminating: "No doubt, [authority] still enjoys a special situation, . . . but that is due to the nature of the role that it fills and not to some cause foreign to its function, nor to some force communicated to it from without. Thus, there is no longer anything about it that is not temporal and human." 13 The contemporary "secularization of authority" can hardly be overemphasized. Authoritative actions, supposedly consistent with the communality of interests and supposedly justifiable on that basis, are now open to public criticism. This study consists principally of a detailed account of the emergence of the rationalized, secularized, and functionally based pattern of university authority which gradually replaced the beloved colorful presidents of past years. The cogent phrases of Clark Kerr capture this transformation: the "mediator-initiators" have replaced the "great man" rulers.14 In order to trace this transformation an explicit definition is needed, one that will allow for a systematic discussion of authority over several different time periods. The general concept of legitimate authority, as it has been broadly defined, will be broken down into more manageable dimensions. First, we will talk about the principles which justify both the general pattern and the specific actions of authority. Principles are statements—sometimes implicit, but tending toward increasing explicitness—which reflect the moral order and shared commitments of the community. For example, in the nineteenth century the presidents were committed to the formation of "Christian gentlemen," and creating gentlemen required constant vigilance against the sins of intemperance, foul language, and "loose morals." The latter meant sex. Such educational principles justified an authority far wider than that expressed by the present-day administrative duties which are restrained within the relatively narrow domain of "educational functions." The second consideration in developing a fully operative concept of authority is its scope and jurisdiction. Since, for instance, the ideal of the "Christian gentleman" included the assumption—largely based on the Yale brand of old-time Calvinism—that youth was inherently sinful 18

Durkheim, p. 181. "These phrases are used extensively throughout Clark Kerr's The Uses of the University (New York: Harper & Row, 1963).

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

13

and rebellious, those stern molders of student character had to extend their detailed and often coercive control to off-campus as well as oncampus behavior. Then, as character-building became secularized, the dominant principles of student behavior and good citizenship gave way to more narrowly defined intellectual considerations, and the jurisdiction of authority narrowed. The latest thrust toward this same secularization rests on principles of students' rights as full citizens, thus tending to further restrict administrative jurisdiction over campus political activity. The operating structures of authority are the most concrete component of our conceptualization. In the beginning, the president and the regents were the principal agents, but this arrangement eventually gave way to faculty control, then student, and finally a return to administrative control. The procedures actually followed are also an important facet of the structures. For instance, investigation of rule violations has ranged from a dean's cursory reading of the newspaper to a defense attorney's cross-examination of high university officials. In times past, hearings were usually closed and highly informal affairs, and seldom were any records kept. At present, the trend is toward more formal procedures insuring due process. Finally, the prevailing standards of right and wrong must be considered, having changed from the old strict, Calvinistic codes of personal behavior to an elaborate set of written rules governing primarily group—not individual—activities. By means of this conceptualization, it is possible to set up some criterion for the depth of criticism of authority. Since principles are the most fundamental of its components, to challenge the principles is to challenge the very legitimacy of authority, whereas changing the scope and jurisdiction of the operating structures is much less comprehensive in its effects. For instance, advocating that students, not administrators, make the rules is far less radical than disputing the very purpose of the rules. The depth of challenge becomes important in the later chapters because student criticism had significantly moved beyond specific administrative actions to the very principles underlying the whole pattern of authority. Authority is more than a static pyramidal structure cemented together by a shared set of principles. Rather, it is the very heart of a continual process by which the institution adapts to constant change and struggles for power. In terms of external circumstances, the economic basis of the state has evolved from primary industry to sophisticated

14

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

technology, and political power has alternated between liberals and conservatives, from friendly to the university to hostile. University income has depended on the fluctuating contributions of the legislature, the interest and generosity of the rich, and institutional reputation. Just as important, public morality and shifting political alignments have traditionally forced the administration to walk a tightrope between the old way of doing things and significant innovation. Internally, too, the philosophy of education undergoes change, student interests move from one cause to another, and the composition of the student body is modified. The pattern of authority is thus the product of a continuing administrative search for equilibrium between conflicting forces and ever changing conditions. For clarity's sake, the forces impinging on authority will be broken down into two categories, system needs and social context. System needs, or organizational requirements, revolve around four main functions: the achievement of certain goals, such as teaching and research; the attainment of resources—i.e., money, property, and personnel; the integration of all the institution's complex parts into some kind of cooperative unity; and the maintenance of essential institutional values, such as academic freedom and quality education.15 Striking a balance among these needs is the difficult task of administration. Complications abound because the needs are not harmonious but present dilemmas, the most acute of which has been the choice between maximizing freedom and attaining resources. Promoting the idea of academic freedom in classroom and laboratory as the basis for high-quality education has proved a useful device for easing this particular conflict. However, the precarious equilibrium built upon traditional academic freedom has been upset by activist students promoting their much more extended notion of political freedom in the university. Since formal regulations are one of the most important tools for establishing a balance between conflicting powers and needs, the examination of written rules forms the hard core of this analysis. Indeed, rules reveal much about the community. Based as they are on widely accepted principles, they tend to be compromise statements, expressing some sort of reconcilement of conflicting forces. They are also useful as public relations devices in justifying controversial administrative deci16 This conceptualization of organization needs is derived from the work of Talcott Parsons. See his "General Theory in Sociology" in R. K. Merton's Sociology Today (New York: Basic Books, 1959).

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

15

sions. Given the function of rules in regulating the overall system, it is understandable that administrators are reluctant to relinquish control over rule-making and enforcement. One point about the administrative role will be touched on here, although much will be made of it in the later chapters. The major task of administration is to look after the welfare of the entire university. Administrators have the essentially protective job of holding the institution together and acquiring the wherewithal to do it. In this sense, they are managers, pure and simple, whose job is not primarily therefore to dispense justice, protect citizens' rights, nor act as elected officials representing internal constituents. SPECIFIC THEMES

The analysis will revolve around several substantive themes, such as the decline of paternalism, the rise of legal-rational authority, the rise and decline of student participation, the politicalization of the university, and institutional vulnerability. The story actually begins in mid-nineteenth century New England, the home of Henry Durant, who, after traveling west around the Horn with "college on the brain," would become the first president of the university. From the founding of the university in 1869 until about the turn of the century, the pattern of authority was both authoritarian and paternalistic. There was little student participation and much public criticism. Around 1900 the pattern of authority changed and the era of paternalistic self-government was inaugurated. Student participation increased, paternalism became more subtle, and the institution became more comfortably situated in relation to the rest of the state. The 1920s saw an increase in student-administrative conflict, renewed public criticism, and a sharp decline in student-government participation. These trends continued more or less throughout the 1930s, with the additional factor of radical politics. Student involvement in unconventional politics amounted to a revolutionary change for the university and called for a new kind of authority characterized by legalism and rationalism. At the same time, paternalism held sway. Hence we can call this pattern paternalistic bureaucracy. For a long period following the end of World War II, the same style of authority continued, although the militant anti-Communism of the times had the result of further undermining the already precarious posi-

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

16

tion of the university within the state. Then, toward the end of the 1950s, the rules governing the political uses of facilities were liberalized. Concurrently, President Sproul, who perhaps alone among the chief administrators since Wheeler was able to rule in a personalized way, retired. At this point, in order to accommodate certain liberalizations without jeopardizing the strictly academic functions, governance became more formal and the rules more elaborate. The paternalistic element in the regulations receded in favor of a form of managerial bureaucracy. The 1960s brought a fresh vigor to radical politics, along with repeated threats to the institution. To further complicate the picture, students began to demand more participation in formulating those rules which had hitherto been the exclusive domain of the administration and the regents.

ASSUMPTIONS AND BASIC PROPOSITIONS We have begun with the basic assumption that authority rests on voluntary consent. Compliance is voluntary, and where coercion is used real authority is lacking. The motive for compliance comes from a community's shared principles and goals, the common culture and similar interests of its members. Legitimate authority must in this sense "fit" the social context. However, the specific pattern will not automatically take shape merely out of shared principles, but is constructed ad hoc out of the field of conflicting forces impinging on the system's managers. Such forces we have summarized under two headings, "system needs" and "social context," which we then further characterized as having developed out of something akin to mechanical solidarity toward a pluralistic aggregate. Having made the assumptions explicit, we can now state the general propositions guiding the study as a whole. University authority at one time was based on a kind of mechanical solidarity. Student participation was high under this system because student-administrative conflict was low, but as solidarity was replaced by a pluralistic aggregate and increasing conflict, participation declined. Paternalism, and similarly the kind of student participation based on solidarity, was replaced by a legal-rational authority originated and enforced by officials. But the rationality of this system was limited by a managerial perspective which, while well suited to the requirements of the system per se, did not al-

REBELLION AND BUREAUCRACY

17

ways entirely mesh with new developments in the social context. Varying levels of revolt ensued, and demands were made for explicit consideration of the rights of the governed and their consent. It will be argued in the final chapters that such demands logically follow when a legal-rational pattern of authority takes effect in a university context.

The atmosphere of college life shall be as pure and as invigorating as that of the best homes. President Reid, 1881 The [freshmen came] rolling, revelling home drunk . . . singing certain kinds of songs. They lowered themselves to the level of groveling beasts. Occident, 1880

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

Pervasive, strict, and arbitrary describe the pattern of university authority in the nineteenth century. Governance of students has always been a problem, but in the latter half of the nineteenth century adequate control of University of California students was considered especially crucial. The fledgling university tottered on the edge of disaster for many years, and student behavior continually threatened to plunge it into the abyss. Prompted to protect the struggling university and supported by their puritan philosophy, the faculty and the administration tried to restrain the college boy outbursts. In the following pages the pattern of authority is related to the changing social context and the organizational needs of the time. The major theme is that authoritarian paternalism was a functional response to the precarious position of the university and reflected the then dominant educational philosophy. The problems of this period were complicated by the rapid succession of university presidents. Of the seven who passed through the office in thirty years, only two left any noticeable mark, insignificance being the common quality of the other five. Disputes over money and 18

19

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

institutional autonomy and class conflict over the type of institution it was and should be also left their mark. For example, it was not until 1879 that the constitutional status of the university was clarified and responsibility for internal governance granted to the Board of Regents and not to the state legislature. This did not, however, prevent constant political and class conflicts over the uses of the university and the appointment of presidents. By 1899, the University of California was on the way to academic greatness. The president had been granted real power (at the cost of regental control), income was stabilized, autonomy assured, and the main uses of the university defined. But the pattern of authority that had evolved during the troubled years of the university's struggle for existence remained firmly established. THE SOCIAL CONTEXT: THE PRANK-PRONE UNDERGRADUATE

To fully comprehend the nature of authoritarian paternalism, the social context of this authority must be understood. The student community of the nineteenth century was far different from that of the twentiety century, and this difference goes a long way toward explaining the contrasting patterns of authority. Until about 1890, the university was extremely small. There were few students, and the proportionately large number of faculty members (see Table 1) spent much of their time overseeing the private lives of the student sinners. Such intimate student-faculty contact, permitted by the small size of the commu-

Table 1 : Year

1870 1875 1880 1885 1890 1895 1900 1960s

RATIO OF STUDENTS TO FACULTY

Number of Students

Number of Faculty

Ratio of Students to Faculty

93 310 246 243 401 1,336 2,299 23,974

17 47 53 72 92 162 207 1,019

5.5 6.6 4.5 3.3 4.4 8.2 11.0 24.0

SOURCE: Centennial Record, ed. Vern Stadtman (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1968), p. 215. a The figures and ratio are for the Berkeley campus only.

20

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

nity, is a prerequisite for paternalism. Unlike the legal-rational form of authority, paternalism is not built up by a careful, formal definition of authoritative status, but upon an unformulated system of personal relations between officials and subordinates. Paternalism is analogous in this respect to a family, where trust is built upon friendship, shared experiences, and a multitude of unstated but clear mutual understandings. In an institution with only a few hundred students, it could be presumed that they would know the difference between good and bad conduct. Also, justice could be distributed in the light of the authorities' personal knowledge of a particular student. With only six or seven students per professor, the authorities could formulate opinions about the relative virtue or depravity of each undergraduate. Thus, the standard of equal justice before the law was not the norm for university authorities; rather, justice was administered on the basis of the authorities' personal appraisal of the character of each offender. The size of the institution was also related to the kinds of issues which arose. Cheating did not become a major problem until the university grew in size and anonymity. On the other hand, hazing was a continual problem throughout the nineteenth century because everyone knew who was a green freshman and who was an upperclassman. Finally, no large, vocal radical student groups upset the conservative campus of the nineteenth century.1 Not only was the college small but it was also relatively isolated. Except for the occasional rally or beer bust that involved destruction of nearby private property, students in the nineteenth century were set apart from surrounding communities. This physical isolation accounts in part for student provincialism. Until 1876, cows and deer grazed in the Berkeley hills undisturbed by even a train whistle. Throughout the nineteenth century, the university environs remained essentially rural, and no modern media distracted students from the all-pervading importance of the freshman-sophomore rush. With two-thirds of the students living in the little village of Berkeley, local concerns were the big issues. For the most part, student life centered around campus officers, and extracurricular activities flourished. Class solidarity grew and class rivalry intensified. The phrase "outside world" and the idea that college days are "the happiest days of one's life" reflected the popular image of 1 Even if 3 percent of the students in 1885 had been radical, this would have amounted to only 7 students, whereas the same percentage in 1960 would amount to 800 radical students. The absolute numbers (800, as against 7) can make the critical difference in terms of organization.

21

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

college life during this period, an image which accurately portrayed the sharp separation of college and society.2 Given this essentially provincial focus, there were few, if any, deep conflicts over such issues as citizenship rights, the ideological basis of authority, or the legitimacy of administrative control. The conflicts remained fairly simple, rooted as they were in domestic campus concerns. Although student political action was practically nonexistent, it is worth briefly considering the topic in order to understand the student culture of that time. Neither a general strike, a near revolution, a serious depression, nor the presidential elections could lure students away from their beer busts and brawls. Few traces of radicalism were seen on the Berkeley campus, and the vast majority of students were comfortably ensconced in conservatism, as is evident from the Republican Party percentages given in Table 2. Furthermore, few students supported the more radical third parties. But even these loose political identifications

Table 2:

POLITICAL IDENTIFICATION OF UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SENIORS ( I N PERCENT)

Republican Democratic Independent No affiliation Other SOURCE:

1879 (64 seniors)

1881 (44 seniors)

1883 (42 seniors)

51 12 19 9 8

68 18 9

76 12

—

4

—

2 9

The Blue and Gold yearbooks for 1879, 1881, and 1883.

were seldom translated into organized action, and observers frequently mentioned student apathy. "The most prominent feature of the Berkeley College student is his utter inability to keep a deep interest in anything, . . . [his] absolute indifference, . . . sleepy, absent-minded manner, devoid of purpose or enthusiasm. . . . It is this wishy-washyness that renders him such a hopeless task for the reformer." 3 Debates 'This does not mean that the public ignored the campus—far from it, for it was always curious about activities on the campus, especially the more ribald affairs—but that the students, from their side, did little to initiate contact with the surrounding community. It is an important motif of this study that journalistic preoccupation with campus life and newsmen's diligent search for scandal has been and continues to be profoundly influential in shaping university authority. 3 Occident, 20 (November 9, 1893).

22

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

were the dominant political expression, but the style was academic, not propagandists: "Resolved the British Parliamentary System is Superior to the American System." Despite their general habit of indifference and "sleepy, absentminded manner," Berkeley students did organize political clubs in 1892, and occasionally around that time participated in local elections. There was even a little trouble when "two of the successful candidates furnished a keg of beer in return for the support of students at the polls." 4 The student newspaper at one point advocated participation in the Columbian League, which had been formed to fight "political corruption." The editors argued that membership would offer a "wonderfully fine opportunity for the organization of pure politics" and allow the "best fellows" to gain valuable political experience.5 Nonetheless, student political action continued sparse and sporadic, and the "best fellows" continued to concentrate on local campus affairs. Seldom indeed was college authority itself an issue. Besides the fact that no militant minority existed to challenge the very basis of authoritarian paternalism, the principles of gentlemanly conduct and the dire need to protect the reputation of the university were widely accepted. However, one aspect of authority did create certain problems. Students did not approve of the faculty as agents of control. Striking a by now familiar note, they complained that the professors were only interested in their research and publications, and neither understood nor cared about student problems. The tension between students and faculty on this matter was in part responsible for the establishment of student government—the Associated Students of the University of California (ASUQ—in the late 1880s. The small number of students, the isolation of the campus, and the lack of deeply divisive issues both reflected and prompted the emergence of a peculiar kind of student solidarity which we will call "collegiate culture." 8 The background and future goals of the students tells 1

Faculty Committee on Student Conduct, June 17, 1891, University of California Archives. 6 Berkeleyan, 36 (November 17, 1893). 6 There seem to be two models for life in American colleges. At one extreme is the English collegiate arrangement where students and professors live together in a total community and where curriculum and extracurricular activities complement one another. In the English system, which is patterned after the monastic life, development of the whole person is thought to be the aim of education. The German university is at the other extreme. Here each student lives his own life in his own way—his ties with the school being purely con-

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM,

23

1869-1899

us something about the campus culture they formed. Most were smalltown boys who came to college with high personal and academic testimonials from their prep school principals, and any student able to obtain such a good recommendation from the typically strict high school principal of the time was unlikely to be very rebellious.7 As for their aims in life, they came to college mainly to prepare for the professions, as Table 3 clearly demonstrates. Perhaps most important, undergraduate males made up by far the largest group of students (Table 4), and thus were the bulwark of collegiate culture. By 1880, there were eight fraternities, and more than half of the men lived in these houses. As late as 1894, only 3 or 4 percent of the students were from outside the state of California, and practically no foreign students were in attendance. This distinctive collegiate culture began to take shape in the early 1870s when various clubs and organizations were formed and the all-

Table 3:

ALUMNI OCCUPATIONS IN

1884

( I N PERCENT) Lawyers Merchants Teachers Miscellaneous Professionals Engineers Farmers Doctors Chemists Editors Clergymen Capitalists Total Number of Alumni Queried

25 14 13 13 11 9 6 3 3 2 0.8 400

SOURCE: Overland Monthly, July 1885. tractual, his bonds with other students and with the professors sharply defined and limited. The modern American "streetcar colleges" in some ways approximate the German model. For a fuller description of these models, see Frederick Rudolph, The American College and University (New York: Vintage Books, 1965). The nineteenth-century Berkeley campus fell somewhere between the two prototype universities. Many of the structures which Wheeler later used to control students had come into existence by that time. Although it was gradually becoming a total community, it was not yet a unified one, since the activities of one part did not complement those of another. ' T h e rules began, "All applicants . . . are required to present themselves first to the President of the University and satisfy him as to their testimonials." Minutes of the Academic Senate, 1 (May 20, 1872), 99.

24

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

Table 4:

CLASSIFICATION OF STUDENTS

( I N PERCENT OF ENROLLMENT) 1870 Undergraduate Men 88 Undergraduate Women 9 Graduate Students 3 Total Number of Students 93

1875 84 13 2 310

1880 75 25 —

246

1885

1890

80 16 4 243

73 21 5 401

1960" 42 24 34 23,974

Centennial Record, p. 215. The percentages and total number of students in the 1960 column are for the Berkeley campus only. SOURCE: a

important class structures emerged. The class of 1874 was the first to elect officers, and about that same time each class began selecting a historian to record the major class events, and thus help create a distinct class character. Each class also had its colors, its special garb, and its own cheer: Rah! Rah! Ro! Ho! Ha! Ho! '95! '95! Rah! Rah! Ro! But not everyone was pleased with the class organizations and activities that grew up in the 1880s. As President Holden told one freshman class, "I must tell you that I value college feeling over and above class feeling." 8 Among other things, he encouraged the formation of all-university athletic teams in an attempt to attract student energies away from the destructive interclass melees. The formation of the ASUC was also an important step in creating this all-university "feeling." Thus, the students had first organized into their separate classes, but as collegiate activities outgrew class structures and as the class structures themselves became sources of bitter conflict, the all-university student government, the ASUC, helped coordinate the disparate elements and create a semblance of university solidarity.9 Student activities and traditions provided the symbols of unity, the 8

Quoted in The Occident, 10 (May 28, 1886), 2. " The creation of the ASUC is illustrative of a common situation frequently conditioning student solidarity. Activities outgrow the existing structures of control, and a new basis of coordination takes shape out of the increasingly complex social context. However, the basis of student solidarity was not the formally organized structures but the informal student activities and traditions.

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

25

rites of initiation, and the social organization which bound the aggregate of individual students into a unified student body. Even such semibarbaric traditions as the bone-jarring "cane rushes," where the classes went at each other with canes, were defended on the ground of building solidarity. "It serves to give the Freshmen a formal introduction to college life, while the Sophomore becomes freed from some of his abundant class spirit. To the upperclassman it recalls vividly the experiences of his earlier days. . . . We believe the rush has a purpose in the student world . . ." 10 The organization of the student community was in fact so tight during this period that even deviance became institutionalized. Freshmen were expected to get drunk and make fools of themselves. Sophomores attacked freshmen, and the upperclassmen supposedly conducted themselves with manly dignity. However, just as the ASUC superseded the separate class organizations, so, too, the all-university traditions began to supplant strictly class customs. The founding of nearby Stanford University and the first "Big Game" between Stanford and Cal in 1892 stimulated unity against a common enemy, resulting in the creation of numerous Cal traditions. The most important collegiate events centered around sports; Saturday afternoon football and the spring baseball games soon became important rites of institutional unity. On the surface, such student activities may seem trivial, but they served the function of reinforcing and transmitting a culture, of defining standards of behavior, and of giving the student a sense of identity. The student belonged to a definite group—to his class and his university. He had a place, a purpose, a loyalty. One final statement should be made about the collegiate culture of the time. While it did bring students together very effectively, it was a main cause of dissension between students and university officials. Typical faculty resolutions and disciplinary decisions of the period show that hazing was a continual source of faculty resentment and bad publicity. Of course, when authoritative resentment was translated into disciplinary action, it only served to intensify the student-faculty alienation. It was not until President Wheeler gave the students a measure of disciplinary power over student conduct that this problem was ameliorated. In summary, the main characteristics of student life at Cal were well established by the 1890s, and that style would persist up to the 1960s. Student life focused on campus concerns and a sharp line separated col10

Berkeleyan, 22 (October 8, 1886), p. 4

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

26

legiate life from the "outside world." Activities organized around classes, special interest groups, and athletics set the tone of the campus. The dominant campus figure, the undergraduate male, cared little for political life or the larger issues of the day. Nor was he prone to challenge authority or demand representation. Yet all was not calm and content at the small state university basking in the California sunshine. The very activities which successfully unified the student body irritated the officials and threatened the institution. Initiation rites were a continual source of public scandal, and there were many other aspects of collegiate culture which hardly made it conducive to scholarship. The faculty became a natural enemy of the students, and the public retained considerable skepticism about the value of their state university. T H E P A T T E R N OF A U T H O R I T Y : F E W R U L E S B U T STRICT S U R V E I L L A N C E

In order to cope with the good-natured rebelliousness of the California youth of those frontier days (although sometimes paradoxically promoting it), a pattern of authority prevailed that was both extensive in power and harshly enforced. As the administration itself put it, "The rules of the University are few; the exactions are strict." 11 That sentence precisely lays out the general pattern of university authority. Although there were detailed regulations governing class work, when it came to personal conduct only one rule applied: "Good behavior, under all circumstances . . . [was] . . . expected from all students." 12 Daniel Gilman, the second president of the university (1860-1873), offset any doubt about the administration's serious intent in this matter: "The constant effort of the instructors has been to impress upon the scholars a sense of the advantages here bestowed upon them, and to let them know those who do not appreciate these advantages are liable at any moment to be deprived of them. This simple understanding has been sufficient to secure the respectful obedience of the pupils." 13 In short, respectful obedience was assured by fear of expulsion. Widely accepted moral principles as well as the need to protect the university's reputation legitimated the broad scope of authority. The 11

Register bulletin of the University of California, 1878, p. 36. Ibid. 13 Presidential Reports, 1875. 12

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

27

extra touch of harshness was derived from the then prevailing puritan view of what constitutes proper conduct and from the precarious position of the university. Moral discipline, not just intellectual training, was clearly a principal aim of education, an aim advocated by the presidents and apparently acceptable to most students. In the words of one student editor, "It is our duty to humanity that we prove higher education means higher morality; that highest education means highest morality." 14 For President Durant classical education, religion, and morality constituted a unified educational aim culminating in the formation of "manly Christians." John Leconte, who had also been a professor in the old College of California (predecessor of the University of California), adhered to the same philosophy, and W. T. Reid in his important inaugural address elevated moral training to the highest educational goal. "I have reserved as the last subject for consideration—University education as affecting the character of the student; and I have reserved it for the last because I regard it as far the most important. . . . If young men do not leave college not only more intelligent, but higher minded, more honorable, and more patriotic, the University has done ill work. . . . The atmosphere of college life shall be as pure and as invigorating as that of the best homes." 16 Holden expressed the same concern for manners and morals: "I ask you to cultivate courtesy in all your relations. Be respectful to your professors— they are learned men—be courteous to all women as you would be to your mothers and sisters." Then, perhaps fearing his comments were too vague, he exhorted the students: "Do not let me see any silly stuff in the college publications about the coeds." 16 One way or another, all the early presidents expressed deep concern for character development. And in fact the responsibility for character development necessitated paternalism, requiring as it did detailed control over every aspect of the student's life. The position of president was indeed analogous to the role of parent. The word "paternalism" in this context is no mere euphemism but an accurate description of the reality of administrative duty. Furthermore, there is evidence that presidents Reid, Holden, and Leconte got into trouble with the regents when they failed to fulfill their paternalistic obligations. Character-building and paternalism were complementary to the second principle of gover11

Berkeleyan, 9 (October 25, 1880), 2. Reid's inaugural, August 23, 1881, University of California Archives. 13 "Holden's Speech to the Freshman Class," Occident, 10 May 28, 1886, 2.

15

28

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

nance—protecting the reputation of the university. Public opinion, as expressed through the newspapers and the Board of Regents, demanded that educational officials enforce rigid standards of conduct, and student misconduct was an accepted indication of administrative failure. After a typical hazing incident or other prank, journalists frequently published some very negative opinions, such as the following, quoted by a student edition: "At best, this higher education business is a failure." 17 Public criticism and public outrage over student conduct elicited strict response inside the university, and public outrage was ground enough for expulsion. Following one student prank—publication of a bogus program for a university event—the faculty passed a resolution stating that "conduct of any kind that tends to bring discredit upon students or the University . . . will be a sufficient warrant for withdrawing from the offender the privileges of the University." 18 Students, as well as faculty, acknowledged the importance of university reputation and were often prompted to voice righteous indignation. On the occasion of one particular beer bust when the freshmen came "rolling, revelling home drunk . . . singing certain kinds of songs," the response of the student editors was that they had "lowered themselves to the level of groveling beasts." 19 Unfortunately, the rather common occurrence of drunk freshmen was often picked up by the newspapers and became a burning issue. "Some temperance people travel through the state and advise parents not to send their sons to a place where the benefits of education are overbalanced by the evils of corruption." 20 Newspaper criticism especially upset the more mature students who were worried because "Our State University is being attacked from all sides." 21 These public threats were serious and led to a vicious circle: the university lacked money, and since its poverty was interpreted as a product of poor reputation, it had trouble recruiting students and so could collect fewer funds. Student leaders responded to the public outrage by advocating that "All our actions must be controlled by the principle That we do nothing and say nothing which we are ashamed the world should know, and which we cannot defend on the grounds that it is rightl" 22 17

Berkeleyan, 12 October 31, 1881. "Faculty Committee on Student Affairs, December 6, 1882, University of California Archives. 19 Berkeleyan, 9 August 23, 1880. 20 Berkeleyan, 9 October 25, 1880. 21 Ibid. 22 Ibid. Emphasis added.

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

29

By 1880, the principle of protecting the best interests of the university had been formulated and accepted as a basis for discipline. The records demonstrate that throughout the late nineteenth century, protection of the university's reputation legitimized authority and justified a wide range of specific disciplinary actions. Even that somewhat outspoken student journal, the Occident, upheld the public relations principle. After the president expelled a number of students for participating in a class fight, the Occident editor expressed his approval: "Its [the University's] life is a public one. It lives only upon the esteem in which it is held and can increase only by extending that esteem. . . . It is this consideration that ought to constantly be in the minds of all students and govern them in all their actions." 23 Whether exercised by the president, the faculty, or the students, the scope and jurisdiction of university authority was extremely broad. Since a father concerned about the moral development of his children must be ready to offer guidance in all areas, so, too, academic officials were responsible for the total behavior of their students. Strict control was imperative whether students were being "renewed by the Holy Spirit" or being built into "good and moral citizens." The very assumption that "the University is largely dependent for its good name and its usefulness on the spirit and conduct of its body of students" required that the students be held fully responsible for that good name, which in turn necessitated wide authoritative jurisdiction.24 This all-encompassing jurisdiction became formal policy in 1881, when a new body of regulations was introduced. The system involved "the necessity for vigorous and effectual discipline and so provided for the ready dismissal of any student who has not the habits or instincts of a gentleman or the tastes and ambition of a scholar. It provided, too, for the prompt removal of the student who is known to be wasting his time . . . jeopardizing the good order of the University or the studious habits of his fellows, even though he has not been detected in and indeed may not have committed any single outrageous act." 2 5 The new policy is thus quite clear in not demanding any demonstration whatever of a supposed lack of the "habits or instincts of a gentleman." The student need not be tried for a specific infraction of the rules; a bad reputation was ground enough for expulsion. The sad case of Fritz Wittram illustrates the almost unlimited extension of a university authority 23

Occident, 10 May 28, 1886. Presidential Reports, 1890-1893. 25 Presidential Reports, 1881, p. 6. 21

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

30

based on vague notions like "instincts" or "reputation." Wittram was found guilty of battery in a criminal court for trying to grab a pitcher from his mother's hands, and the Faculty Committee on Student Affairs followed up by expelling him. However, the judge who had found him guilty felt sorry for him and wrote the faculty that their action seemed "unnecessarily severe." He felt that the boy had "no intention whatsoever" to commit a crime. "Personally," he continued, "it was not my fortune to have a University education. . . . Lacking the advantages . . . I can but too well judge the strength of the sentence which probably cuts short the young man's career." 26 But the faculty were not to be swayed from the path of righteousness by mere compassion. "They [the Committee] therefore recommend that the sentence of dismissal be rescinded; but [the Committee] strongly requests the young man's father to withdraw him on the grounds that the mere record of the court makes it undesirable that he should remain in the University." 27 Thus, the "mere record of the court" on a technical charge (i.e., the student's sudden bad reputation) was ground enough for termination. The case illustrates the extent of authoritative jurisdiction over all aspects of a student's life, whether the incident occurred on campus or off, or even whether it involved the university. Naturally, and unquestionably, this broad jurisdiction extended to the curriculum. From 1869 until about 1880, classroom activity and behavior was under extremely tight control. The minutes of the Academic Senate during this period reveal a constant preoccupation with classroom details: "Those who miss a University exercise must get permission . . . unexcused absences will be counted zeros and figured into the grade." 28 Seemingly because it occasioned as much rebellion as compliance, such tight classroom control was gradually relaxed. By 1878 daily marks were no longer required, and by 1880 a major revision of this policy was in effect. Interestingly, until about 1890 when the institution began to expand rapidly, cheating did not seem to be an important problem. Extracurricular activities such as sports, student newspapers, etc., were not part of the early college scene at Cal. However, by the mid1880s student activities had become so numerous and important that 28

ludge Allen to President Kellogg, June 16, 1891, University of California Archives. 27 Faculty Committee (on Student Affairs) to Judge Allen, June 22, 1891, University of California Archives. 38 Minutes of the Academic Senate, 1 (May 20, 1872), 99.

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31

some form of control over them was badly needed. By that time, for instance, the student cooperative book store was already taking in over $7,000 a year. Thus, in 1887 when the ASUC was organized it was put in charge of athletics, the cooperative bookstore, and all other extracurricular affairs. However, while the students were granted administrative power over these activities, the records show that the president and the faculty did not relinquish their ultimate power over student affairs. Student editors, managers, and leaders still had to answer to faculty committees. As for "noncurricular" activities such as hazing and rallies, the president and faculty retained full jurisdiction.29 Only the structures of authority, however, the actual committees and procedures, can reveal the true nature of authoritarian paternalism, for it was in ordinary day-to-day operations that abstract principles were transformed into the reality of action. The Agents of Authority

The Organic Acts, the legislative foundation of the university, charged the faculty and the president with the often unhappy task of controlling students. In the early days, the entire faculty would meet on matters of discipline; but as time passed, a special committee for student affairs was established. Occasionally, ad hoc investigating committees were appointed to deal with special cases. The presence on these committees of such men as Lieutenant Randolph of the ROTC and Professor Kellogg from the old puritan-inspired College of California hardly suggests permissiveness. In exceptionally important cases, the president would also sit on these committees. Thus, he was an active member in 1872 when the students hung in effigy the speaker of the state legislature, in 1880 when the entire sophomore class was suspended for hazing, and in 1891 when twenty-seven rifles were stolen from the ROTC armory. Although unofficially, the regents, too, were involved in student discipline cases. In 1872, the president and the faculty suspended a student, Lansing Mizner, for the effigy incident, but he had a friend on the 28

For want of a commonly accepted teim, "noncurricular" is applied to those areas of student life which are neither curricular nor extracurricular. Extracurricular has come to mean those things which are officially or semiofficially connected with the university, such as fraternities, dorms, athletics, student government, etc., which usually have official advisers and are frequently informal extensions of the standard programs. Private living groups, spontaneous rallies, defiant protests, collective exuberance, and, eventually, political activity are all in this sense noncurricular.

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32

Board of Regents who spoke up for him. "A petition from Lansing Mizner, Jr., endorsed by several Regents, was read, asking for a commutation of the sentence."30 A few years later the regents again got involved as a court of last resort, although in this case they decided against the student: "A private session of the Board of Regents was held last Friday. The charges against President Reid, made by the parent of a suspended student, were dismissed." Regental interference with internal discipline subsided after that incident, for it was noted that "all such cases will hereafter be referred to the Academic Senate on appeal from the decision of the faculty [committee]." 31 From then on the faculty was clearly in control of student discipline. Standards

of

Conduct

The standards of conduct which formed the basis of accusations and the criterion of disciplinary judgments were quite simple and were clearly stated in the registrar's bulletin: "Good behavior under all circumstances, regularity and punctual attendance at all appointed exercises, diligence in study and the maintenance of thorough scholarship are expected from all the students." 32 With minor changes in emphasis, these broad standards remained in effect up to the time of President Wheeler, whose tenure began in 1899. Upperclassmen agreed on the standards and exhorted the freshmen and sophomores to gentlemanly conduct: "Here there is but one broad comprehensive but at the same time laconic rule, BE A GENTLEMAN. . . . All that we ask of you, young man, is to be a gentleman and do your duty." 33 No controversies arose over the definition of a gentleman. Rather, the notion seems to have been widely understood, taken for granted, and seldom discussed. Cheating, of course, violated the standards. But cheating, as we have mentioned, was rare. The real problems endangering the institution and leading to expulsion of the culprits were drinking and class rivalries. Drinking especially was a problem for the university in the face of the puritanical pressure groups of the time. During the early 1870s students were being urged to take the nondrinking pledge, but no mere 80

Minutes of the Academic Senate, 1 (March 17, 1876). During this time the regents ran the university, and the faculty had few if any rights. Since tenure was not officially introduced until the 1920's, it is expected that the typical Cal faculty member of this period paid careful heed to regental recommendations. 31 Occident, 6 (May 8, 1884), 206. 83 Register, 1878, p. 36. 33 Occident, 10 May 28, 1886.

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33

pledge could offset the deeply ingrained student propensity toward drunkenness. In August 1880, a serious case arose when a group of freshmen drank too much and sang bawdy songs. The editor of the student newspaper urged the faculty to take strong action. "They can suspend or expel any student who becomes intoxicated and comports himself in an ungentlemanly manner. . . . Drunks should be suspended and expelled, every one of them." 34 They were. Sobriety was an important test of character. In 1894, C. C. Campbell protested that he had been severely hazed—shaved and painted red, etc.—and complained to the officials and the newspapers. Normally a victim of hazing would receive solicitous treatment, but Campbell's complaint fell on unsympathetic ears. "The [faculty] committee has every reason to believe C. C. Campbell is a young man of depraved character, . . . [who] was guilty of furnishing intoxicating liquors to students and others; of keeping a gambling resort. . . . While we disapprove of hazing of any kind, we are forced to recognize the irritating conduct of C. C. Campbell tends to mitigate the offense." 35 Drinking was a sign of depravity, and the depraved did not deserve the same protection as the sober righteous. But the whole administrative preoccupation with student drinking involved more than a paternalistic concern for the student's morality. Politics were involved. The public was adamant on the drinking problem. In the 1880s the secular university was considered a den of iniquity where drunkenness was a habit and immorality rampant. In the 1890s a movement gained ground that would abolish the despised saloons. A group of aroused "Citizens of Berkeley" invited the "hearty cooperation of all well-disposed citizens, and the faculty and students of the University, to crush the saloons that are now operating here and to guard vigilantly against the further opening of any like places." 36 (To this day "saloons" have not been allowed within a mile of the campus.) Alcohol was thus a continual problem, but if measured by the amount of official concern, hazing and class fights resulted in more suspensions, onerous publicity, and sheer administrative anguish than any other student activity. These fights began in the fall and continued through the spring, the cane rushes being especially popular. Yet de34

Berkeleyan, 9 August 23, 1880. Faculty Committee on Student Conduct Report to the President, December 14, 1894, University of California Archives. s ° Faculty Committee on Student Conduct, May 31, 1892, University of California Archives. 35

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

34

spite strong faculty feeling on the matter, the practice continued. The Academic Senate resolved that "this body recognizes in the practice of rushing as well as that of hazing a twin relic of the ancient barbarism of fagging, . . . repugnant to the spirit of the age and injurious to the good order and reputation of the University. [Their represssion] must be accomplished regardless of the numbers that may engage in them." 37 When President Holden fought to suppress the rushes, the students discovered other rites of initiation. "Gradually night hawking became a fashion. Men were seized on their way home after entertainments, masked, made to sing, spanked, inked, mucilaged, their hair cut, mustaches clipped, tossed in a blanket, and in some cases let go without part of their apparel." They even managed to squeeze in a little rush: "The rush was not such a death dealing institution . . . although I calculated that a hundred dollars worth of clothes were offered up almost as quickly as if they had been fired from a Krupp gun." 38 Almost every year officials had to confront University of California class onslaughts, which because of the personal danger, the flagging university reputation, and the intense interest of the press in the matter created serious problems. These examples show that the standards of student conduct were really only the general standards of society as a whole. The administration of discipline was uncomplicated by appeals to special student freedoms. "It is presumed that students are in attendance at the University with an earnest purpose and that they know the difference between good and bad conduct, between faithful and unfaithful work." 39 And indeed, President Reid's presumptions seem to have been correct. Students may have strayed from righteousness, but they knew it when they did, and they accepted the consequences.40 Procedures

Disciplinary procedures were personal and informal, to say the least. The accusation, the collection of evidence, the "trial," and the punishment, of course, all varied with the case. But the personalism was 87

Faculty Committee on Student Conduct (undated, but sometime during 1881), University of California Archives. 38 Freshman Class President, C. R. Glass to Faculty Committee on Student Conduct, May 16, 1888, University of California Archives. 29 Presidential Reports, 1881, p. 6. "In 1881, the janitor delivered a summons to all eighty-four members of the sophomore class. After three days of interrogation by the president, the whole class was expelled.

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35

intentional: "Moreover, each case will be judged in light of the attending circumstances, so that the same apparent offense in conduct or duty will not necessarily be visited with the same penalty." 41 Student discipline formed a system of personalized justice where the authoritative response depended on the nature of the offense, the character of the student, and the pressure of public opinion. The most common practice was to summon the accused to appear before the faculty committee, question him about the case, determine his guilt or innocence, and impose a sentence. The hearing was closed; there was no cross-examination of witnesses; and no records were kept. Once in a great while the students would complain about the informality of such procedures: "It cannot be doubted but that the faculty has limited means of obtaining evidence, and if therefore incapable of passing a fully equitable judgment upon matters of discipline." 42 But such complaints were really quite rare, and seldom—if ever—did the lack of due process become a challenging issue. INSTITUTIONAL NEEDS AND STUDENT DISCIPLINE

Institutional needs lay behind much of the authoritarian paternalism of the time. The public frequently attacked the university, and, compared to its counterpart a half-century later, the institution was defenseless against these attacks. It had little money, only a few students, and no alumni secure in powerful positions and ready to come to the defense of their alma mater. Nor did the state economy depend upon the products of university research or upon its technically trained graduates. Thus, for most of the late nineteenth century the institution was extremely vulnerable, with periodic outbreaks of scandalous student behavior threatening its very existence. Underlying many of these problems was the continuing conflict over the goals of the university, related to the intense political passions and class conflicts within the state. Henry Durant, the first president, was a devout Congregationalist and loyal Republican, who carried with him around the Horn a philosophy of education that mingled religion, classical education, and the New England notion of "refinement." He founded the College of California with the idea that "No pains [would] be spared to make duty, regularity, and obedience not only a necessity 41

Presidential Reports, 1881, p. 6. ** Editorial in the Berkeley an, 17 February 18, 1884.

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36

but a pleasure," and he wanted his men "not only educated, but renewed by the Holy Spirit, and [turned out as] manly Christians." 43 The gold diggers and farmers did not seem very interested in this sort of thing, however, and the little college nearly went broke. When the opportunity arose, the College of California attached itself to the state funds flowing out from the Morrill Land Grant Act, but the incongruous mixture of New England piety, classical studies, and training in the practical arts, all funded by tax money, continued stormy throughout most of the century. Of course, politics were involved. Refinement, religion, and Republicanism conflicted with the Democratic, industrial, and agricultural forces. This battle became quite explicit and almost destroyed the institution in the 1870s. The Populist Party of Henry George, having gained control of the state, was not happy with a university that was "teaching rich lawyers' boys Greek with farmers' money." 44 On the other side, President Gilman, who soon left Berkeley in disgust to become the first president of Johns Hopkins, resented the "effort on the part of the Grange to capture the University and turn it into a sort of low manuallabor school." 45 For a time the Populists dominated the state legislature and controlled the university through the Political Codes which made the regents little more than agents of the state government. But a new constitution in 1879 turned the university into a public trust and included a clause stating that it "shall be entirely independent of all political and sectarian influence." (The phrase is taken from Article 9, Section 9, of the State Constitution, which remains an extremely important part of university policy.) Granting constitutional power to the regents quieted some of the turmoil that had set department against department, embittered the regents, and prevented orderly administration and the development of a sound scientific and liberal arts curriculum. But it did not end the money problem and only increased regental interference with day-today operations. From 1875 to 1892, the university had four presidents, most of whom resigned because of the heavy-handed efforts of the board. The lines of authority verged on chaos. From student discipline to curriculum, it was never clear just who was in charge. a

Samuel Willey, History of the College of California (San Francisco, 1887),

p. 58 and p. 114. " T h e San Francisco 1 8 8 1 ) , 1. "Overland Monthly,

Picksylian.

Quoted in the Berkeleyan,

2 0 ( 1 8 8 7 ) , 357.

12 (October 31,

AUTHORITARIAN PATERNALISM, 1869-1899

37

Set against the background of such basic institutional problems, student conduct became extremely important. Not until the 1890s were substantial funds forthcoming, and in the ten years from 1878 to 1888 enrollment actually declined from 320 to 306. Many observers attributed the university's problems to its poor reputation among the "better classes." As one local journalist put it, "The outrage mill at Berkeley continues to grind out a monotonous succession of crimes and misdemeanors ranging from arson to assault and battery." 46 Students and administrators alike took such journalistic tirades seriously, and agreed that troublesome student activity had to be checked to save the university. Given the vulnerability of the institution and the widespread acceptance of its character-building functions, strict control of student activities became inevitable. Furthermore, in a community where everyone knows everyone else, the most severe punishment need not be mitigated by formal procedures. Discipline could be and was meted out on the basis of personal reputation and not according to objective standards, established precedent, or formalized procedures. 46

Quoted in the Berkeleyan, 12 (October 31, 1881), 1.

This University shall be the family's glorious old mother. . . . Love her. President Wheeler to the students, October 30, 1899 The conditions today are certainly delightful with all the strong, vigorous, and upright students cooperating wholeheartedly with the President and faculty in everything that looks to the welfare of the good name of the University. Charles Torrey, Chairman of Student Affairs Committee, 1913

3 PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

Tall, dignified, and dominating, President Benjamin Ide Wheeler (1899-1919) introduced a new ideology and a new kind of student control. He called it "student self-government," and to the vast majority of matriculants the new system did seem truly student-governed. And, relative to the preceding and subsequent eras, the system was undoubtedly free of internal dissent and remarkably successful in quelling student "riots." Perhaps there were some students who stood outside the enveloping atmosphere of cooperation, and to them the system may have felt like a dictatorship of the respectable. But if outsiders existed, they left little record of their discontent. Student self-government rested upon loyalty—a loyalty to the alma mater expressed through the team and written into the hearts of the alumni. This phenomenon, which became a dominant feature of American higher education, was experienced with great intensity by the major universities. Indeed, institutional loyalty still characterizes a great many aspects of undergraduate life. Loyalty looks to the good of the whole. It serves as a self-imposed check against behavior that might harm the in38

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

39

stitution, and becomes a commitment uniting the community and justifying administrative action. At Berkeley under Wheeler, a strong community, largely reflecting the collegiate culture, was an outgrowth of the strong institutional loyalty. Self-government was a product of mechanical solidarity, with the system as a whole manifesting, in the students' own words, the "California Spirit." Yet viewed from another perspective, student self-government at Berkeley was a fiction. Students certainly manned the positions of power and authority, and exercised tremendous responsibility, but it was within the narrow limits implicitly defined by the community enterprise of protecting the best interests of the "family's glorious old mother." Conflicts, special interests, and independent power groups had no place in paternalistic self-government. Perhaps the new ideology was best captured in the words of President Wheeler himself when he spoke about the "glorious future that I discern for this University . . . [depending on] one thing that in my idea is fundamental to the life of the University . . . loyalty. . . . This University shall be the family's glorious old mother, by whose hearth you shall sit down. Love her." 1 Wheeler's outlook was not unique. President Van Hise of Wisconsin and President Angell of Michigan, both personal friends of Wheeler, expressed similar sentiments. This general view of loyalty and service was also bound up with Progressivism. Incidentally, this was Wheeler's first official speech, and, significantly, it was addressed to the students and not to the faculty or the public. THE SOCIAL C O N T E X T : S T U D E N T C U L T U R E AS A BASIS OF CONTROL

President Wheeler's speech proved more than a rhetorical commentary inspired by a salubrious climate. From inauguration until retirement, he skillfully worked to build community solidarity based on the spontaneous impulses of student life. Much of his inspirational work, which had highly practical consequences, began in a secret room located near the center of the Berkeley campus. The room was the clandestine sanctuary of what became known as the Golden Bear Senior Men's Honor Society, a club composed of each year's outstanding sen1

Quoted in Benjamin Wheeler, The Abundant Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1926), pp. 23-29.

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

40

ior men who have held important student offices and have manifested good, sound moral character. Even in the mid-1960s, the society's meeting room remained so secret that no member would discuss it, and very few students even knew of its existence.2 Wheeler established the Royal Order of the Golden Bear as soon as he became president, turning it into a vital source of mechanical solidarity and "public opinion." To use Wheeler's own terms, it was public opinion which legitimized the student discipline committee and justified both the wide jurisdiction of university authority and the standards of student behavior set up under it. Ultimately Wheeler himself was the motivating force behind public opinion. But his paternalistic influence was so subtle that the administration could remain in the background and grant self-government with impunity. To understand Wheeler's highly effective system of control, reference should be made to the total social context of the university at that time. For the fact is that the pattern of authority was a fair reflection of the relatively small size of the university, the (again) relative simplicity of issues, the students' deep involvement in local campus affairs, and, most important, a co-opted student leadership. Wheeler became president just after the most explosive period of growth ever experienced by the university. From 1890 to 1900, the institution had expanded from a little college of 400 students to a major university with nearly 2,000. This rapid growth changed the pattern of authority to allow for two important developments. First, the increased enrollment necessitated a new kind of student control, the old forms having been outgrown. Second, despite rapid growth, the (still) relatively small size of the institution continued to allow for highly personal relations between president and students. Rapid growth of course only intensified the problems of a faculty authority which had always been arbitrary and ineffectual. The studentfaculty ratio more than doubled in a decade, from 4.3/1 in 1890 to 10/1 in 1900. Where authoritarian paternalism had required a large number of faculty members to rule over a small number of students, the new ratio forced a drastic change in the system. More students also meant expanded student activities. In 18981899, the student cooperative bookstore grossed $32,000. The 2

The society met during the Free Speech crisis of 1964. The fact that it had little or no impact on the matter is highly indicative of the great changes which have taken place within the last decade. The FSM was probably the first major institutional crisis in sixty years in which the Golden Bear did not play a prominent role.

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

41

sudden importance of athletics, still run by the students, created new problems. And the custom of hazing became a public scandal and a personal terror. Brawls were bad enough with classes of 100 students, but with classes of 400, friendly interclass fights became dangerous wars. Something had to be done. Although growth necessitated new student organizations and different forms of control, the university was still small enough to initiate reforms within a personalized framework. For instance, the president, who often addressed the students as "my children," hardly needed an intermediary to deal with them. He was his own dean, and the most common form of disciplinary action was a not-too-friendly chat with Benjamin Ide Wheeler. Indeed, the whole university was still run on the same personal basis. In 1901 only eighteen administrators were listed in the bulletin, none of whom specialized in student affairs.3 As for the university budget, Wheeler himself would sit down with a blue pencil and, without committee help, prepare it. To get to the heart of a serious personal or academic problem, the student did not have to go through a maze of secretaries, appointments with a subordinate dean, and reels of red tape. He went directly to the president. Wheeler had time to spend with students. "He was in constant attendance at meetings of student societies. He was never absent from athletic contests, rallies, etc." 4 The dignified president, mounted on his black horse, was a familiar sight on the campus. The relative simplicity of the issues was another precondition for paternalistic self-government. Unlike the students of the 1960s, students of this period were seldom actively involved in world or state affairs. The local campus continued to be the preoccupation of the student leaders. The issues were still—as in the late nineteenth century—such things as interclass brawls, athletic eligibility, ungentlemanly conduct, and cheating. Neither political protest nor militant social action complicated life for the chief campus officer or members of the all-important student judicial body, the Student Affairs Committee. Quarrels over fundamental civil rights, the definition of university functions, and standards of conduct—as opposed to the violation of same—were almost unknown. If students other than an occasional isolated individual with a grievance challenged the very structure of authority, their cases 3

Register (bulletin of the University of California), 1901, p. 115. 'Wheeler, p. 17. Remarks are from an Introduction by Monroe Deutsch.

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

42

did not become public, and their challenge did not alter the system of governance. Perhaps most interesting was the fact that hardly any controversies gave rise to legal problems. Student "crimes" did not typically involve serious punishment which could be taken to the courts, and anyway it was seldom that basic citizenship rights were at issue in a case. Furthermore, the courts tended to support the "in loco parentis" type of control by the university. "It must be understood that, in practice, the great mass of judgments rendered by the student committee do not involve the assignment of any such definite punishments as would raise the legal questions of rights." 5 If the crimes and the punishments had been more serious, the "household tribunal" of the Student Judicial Committee (Student Affairs Committee) would have foundered. To put the matter crudely, the success of the system depended upon the triviality of the issues—triviality in the sense that few severe punishments, fundamental rights, or basic ideological conflicts were involved. The history of paternalistic self-government is thus the history of local campus problems. The records show that cheating was the most frequent issue brought before the Student Affairs Committee. Data from the committee's report to the president for the year 1914-1915 is given in Table 5. Student political involvement could have raised complicated questions about citizenship rights, but it did not. Rather student involvement, where it existed at all, was low-keyed and relatively noncontro-

Table 5:

STUDENT AFFAIRS COMMITTEE CASES

(1914-1915)

Number of Incidents

Offense

Mutilation of library book (i.e., underlining) Liquor ads in student publications Minor hazing Noise in a fraternity house Cheating on exam

2 1 1 1 14

Offense

Campus policeman struck by drunken student Football team drunk on Southern Pacific train Disrespect for faculty "Unprofessional" use of drugs"

Number of Incidents

1 1 1 1

SOURCE: Student Affairs Committee File (the Vern Smith case), 1915, University of California Archives. a This case involved supplies stolen from the Chemistry Department 5

Presidential Reports,

1914-1915, p. 28.

43

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

versial. Most of the political activity centered around the presidential elections and the established political parties. There was a socialist club on the campus; but judging from the percentages in Table 6, it had an extremely small following. The straw votes, political clubs, speeches, and debates of the time suggest that students were interested in elections, but that their activities remained within the well-defined limits of mainstream American politics. Externally, the public was not particularly outraged by student politics, and—unlike the situation in the 1960s—state officials did not condemn the university as a haven for radicals. Internally, political cleavages along party lines or otherwise were not superimposed upon the problems of student government and university control. Table 6: S T U D E N T / N A T I O N A L VOTE IN THE 1 9 1 6 PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION ( I N P E R C E N T ) Party

Candidate

Student Vote

National Vote

Democratic Republican Prohibition Socialist

Wilson Hughes Hanly Benson

59 38 1 2

49 46 1 3

1,672

18,528,000

Total Number SOURCE:

of

Voters

Daily Californian, 1916.

By and large, students were simply not involved in the off-campus environment. And as rowdyism diminished, the newspapers gradually withdrew their leering looks from the university, leaving it to its own pursuits. Lucy Sprague Mitchell, the first dean of women, described the prevailing lack of political concern among women students: "It was very unusual for girls at the time to be interested in civic affairs. . . . There was nothing in the University to tempt them." 6 Nor were the men any different in this respect. The university was a buzzing, booming place; but very little student activity was directed toward off-campus social and political issues. Even the campus political clubs did not mobilize for off-campus action. In fact, except for the League of the Republic, they were organized on a strictly temporary, ad hoc basis. "Oral History, Bancroft Library, 1962. The dean, being an old friend of Jane Addams and John Dewey, tried to offset student lethargy by conducting tours to the waterfront, orphan asylums, and poorhouses.

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

44

The student newspaper seems to have accurately reflected the general lack of concern for significant off-campus events. During the spring semester of 1913, the editor did a content analysis of six issues of the paper, the results of which are shown in Table 7. There is no reason to doubt that in the main the paper's concentration on internal events followed the direction of student interests. Student government elections were "real life" for the students, and the felt significance of these elections was not materially diminished by any awareness of either the impending World War, the marine invasion of Santo Domingo, or the brutal suppressions of the IWW.

Table 7:

EDITORIAL CONTENT OF STUDENT NEWSPAPER

Category Athletics Dramatics Debates Journalism Lectures and Courses Classes Clubs Official Notices Other

Percent of Content 17.4 3.2 3.1 5.3 17.4 7.6 13.1 92 23.7

SOURCE: Daily Californian, February 5 , 1913. NOTE: The same issue (February 5, 1913) included a discussion on changing sexual mores and the "waning of patriotism."

As we have seen, student solidarity was the energizing force behind paternalistic self-government at Berkeley. Because of it, subtle socialization could replace faculty coercion, the power of personal shame could replace the fear of expulsion, and self-government could replace external constraints. One of the most prominent student-body presidents told how it looked from the student's point of view: "The secret of success of student self-government is, I think, that it has grown up naturally with the advancing public opinion. . . . It has not been superimposed on the students from above." 7 7

Farnham Griffiths to Victor Merrit of Pomona College, February 24, 1913, University of California Archives (Student Affairs Committee File). Griffiths is an important name to remember. Thirty years later he would again be involved in ASUC affairs as a personal friend of President Sproul and as a regent.

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT,

1899-1919

45

A good composite portrait of the life style of a freshman circa 1912 will illustrate the above points. In the description that follows, each event cited actually occurred in the year 1912-1913, having been mentioned in some university publication. Indeed, most of these events were rooted in the continuing annual traditions of the time. The description here is also built upon the memories of old graduates, whose recollections concur with the documentary evidence from that particular year. On the eve of World War I, the University of California seemed largely untouched by the coming technological and social revolutions. The average freshman probably had no idea that a major war and radical social change would be almost immediately upon him. Certainly he would not know that many of his classmates would die in France or that he himself would have to decide whether or not to volunteer for Professor Gayley's ambulance corps. These unknowns made this period of university history unique. The freshman felt that he was preparing himself for leadership in a new world of unlimited opportunities and never-ending progress. The world seemed made for him. Contentment, confidence, and optimism—not anxiety—set the tone of everyday life for him. Even a serious political event, such as a national election, seemed more like a Rugby game than a struggle for satisfying existence, for justice and possibly for survival. Charles Mills Gayley, one of the most prominent professors, summed up the buoyant, contented feelings of the time: "The world was never better worth preparing for. The panorama unrolled before the mind was never more gorgeous—a new renaissance revealing reaches unimagined; prophesying splendor unimaginable; unveiling mysteries of time and space and natural law and human potency." 8 This was probably the last time—within this century at least—that anyone could seriously make such a statement. Certainly no one has been able to express such unqualified optimism since 1916. Although this attitude was naive and misleading, providing bizarre backdrop indeed for the forthcoming horrors of World War I, it nevertheless serves as an important index to the student life of this period. Earl Warren, former 8 Charles Gayley, Idols of Education ( N e w York: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1910), p. 3. Over and over again, the fact that students are sensitive barometers to the general feeling of a given period is brought home to the researcher. If the world is troubled, students are disturbed, a state of mind which frequently creates problems for university officials. In 1913, however, students were distinctly untroubled.

46

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

chief justice, recalled those pleasant days in a newspaper interview: The students today work harder. . . . They're far more serious than we were, . . . more concerned with what's going on. . . . This is a country that was poor in protest . . . in the good old naive days. . . . We were almost completely isolationist. . . . Those were the days when no one thought there would be something like a world war. We were probably living in a fool's paradise. The thing I remember with such nostalgia in those days when there were 4,000, not the 27,000 [of today], . . . was the great fellowship we had, . . . the sense of camaraderie. Protests took a diiïerent form than is prevalent today. . . . [We would] protest against Stanford, our friendly enemy. . . . We'd get rid of our excess energies in big rallies of that kind . . . and afterwards students would go out . . . I did . . . and pick [up] a streetcar and put it off the track. . . . It was called a prank, not a riot. 9 Untroubled by world events, undisturbed by increasingly rapid communications, and unaware of any fundamental social changes, our freshman could prepare himself in a leisurely way for the anticipated "splendor unimaginable." N o wonder the university seemed so important to the student; it was his door to the happy world waiting to embrace him on commencement day. Like the majority of his fellow Cal students, the freshman of 1912 was a small-town boy from one of the rural California counties. He was met at the train by his senior adviser, who guided him through his first few days. 10 Shortly after arrival, the freshman walked over to fraternity row to look up the fraternity man who had tried to recruit him sev* San Francisco Chronicle, June 16, 1967. Judging from the way the records of those years read, we can say that Justice Warren recalled the times with great accuracy. It should be kept in mind, too, that since he himself was interested in politics as a student, he would have been quite sensitive to the more serious student affairs. "Wheeler frequently observed that a disproportionate number of students came from small towns and rural areas, a key factor no doubt in perpetuating the provincial atmosphere of the university. The senior adviser system was established in 1908, the object being to assign each incoming freshman a senior student adviser who would "cultivate an intimate social and personal acquaintance with [him]". (Presidential Reports, 19081910.) In performing these duties, the adviser was allowed to review all records of his advisee. The system lasted until about 1915 when the relationship was judged "perfunctory and artificial." Eventually, when it was found that the seniors were apparently giving the freshmen bad academic advice, the adviser system was limited to strictly nonacademic life. "This procedure should tend

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT,

1899-1919

47

eral months before. The chances are that he, along with some 33 percent of the entering male students, would join a fraternity. 11 Despite long registration lines, fee payments, and all the other bits and pieces of red tape—complaints about "red tape" began in the late 1880s—the university seemed a friendly place. The common plight of all green freshmen cemented them together against a common, sophomore foe; in fact, the mild hazing and harassment gave the freshman a sense of identity and belonging. Three days after the semester began, he attended his first rally, which made him feel he was really becoming a member of the community. The rally, sponsored by the YMCA, had "California Men" as its major theme. The session opened with a song, after which the captain of the soccer team spoke on the merits of buying an ASUC student-body card. For a mere $2.50, the card would make our freshman a member of the Associated Students, allow him to vote in the student elections, to hold office, and to attend the preliminary football games, as well as give him a subscription to the student newspaper and membership in the student co-op. To be a full-fledged "California Man," it was mandatory to buy a card. 12 After he spoke, there was a long discussion on the important Cal traditions, such as the following: Big "C." The University initial, which stands on a hill overlooking the campus, was built in 1905. The "C" symbolized the Cal spirit and the peaceful end of the Charter Hill rush. The following spring (1913) the care of the Big "C" would be entrusted to the class of '16. Big "C" Circus. This was a full-scale circus sponsored by the men's athletic society. In 1913 it grossed $14,000. Big Game. The annual football game between Berkeley and Stanford was the high point of the college year with numerous rallies, reviews, dances. to strengthen the customs, the traditions, and ideals of the student community [by] those intrusted to maintain them." (Presidential Reports, 1914-1915, p. 158.) " T h e practice of fraternities recruiting prominent high school students before they graduated was formally discontinued after 1913. Also, by 1913 they had to look for competent scholars as well as popular men and good athletes. 12 In the fall of 1912, ninety-five percent of the students bought the card. (University Chronicle, 14, 479 and 500.) This remarkable response to a voluntary purchase testifies to the student solidarity of the times. Ralph Merritt, comptroller of the university in this period and by 1913 one of the chief university lobbyists in the state capital, initiated the card system when he was ASUC President in 1906. Incidentally, Robert Sproul, a senior in 1912-1913, would take over Merritt's job as comptroller in 1917. The co-op store that year would take in $78,381 and make a profit of $6,891. (University Chronicle, 14, 500.)

48

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

Class Clothing. Over the years, the classes had developed their distinctive garb. For example, the seniors wore badly battered top hats called "plugs." The Freshman-Sophomore Brawl. After the Big "C" was built, organized games such as pushball and tug-of-war replaced the old, unorganized fights. In the fall of 1912 four thousand spectators watched these new games. Labor Day. On Labor Day each leap year, the entire student body turned out to do some outdoor construction project, tree planting, path building, etc. Because of their numbers, often as many as 3,000, their results amounted to instant parks. North Hall Steps. This was the center of student activities, a place where student politicians could canvass and watch the girls go by. It was equivalent to the Sproul Hall Steps of the 1960s, except that the politics are now the politics of social revolution. Girl watching, of course, has remained a constant even among today's campus rebels. Parthenia. In 1911, the first dean of women, Lucy Sprague Mitchell, organized an outdoor pageant based on a student-written script. The general theme was always the transition from girlhood to womanhood, and each girl would personify a particular virtue such as truth, beauty, joy, or sorrow. Rallies. At least one rally a week livened up the campus. Many were impromtu, but some were old, honored annual traditions such as the Ax Review, the Freshman Rally, or the Pajamorino Rally. Senior Men's Bench. The bench, located at the North Hall entrance, served as a gathering place for senior men. The Senior Men's Honor Society, or the Golden Bear. This society was upheld as the ideal. Time permitting, our freshman would have been told about other traditions, but these were among the most important. The rally ended with a wrestling match and loud cheers led by Stan Arnot, class of '13, the chief campus yell leader.13 The freshman's first all-university meeting occurred the next day, August 19. Continuing the custom which began many years before, every other Friday at 11 A.M. classes were dismissed and the entire university gathered in Harmon Gym for meetings which, whatever the ostensible matters being discussed, were powerful in building community solidarity. As President Wheeler himself said, "They [the Friday meetings] have been a potent force for good. . . . They have made the University community realize itself as a whole." 14 The editor of the u 11

Daily Californian, August 19, 1912. Presidential Reports, 1900-1902, p. 21.

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

49

student newspaper urged everyone to attend, "for this is the newcomer's first chance to see the Big California family gathered, faculty and students together, in one great body." 13 Prominent members of the community spoke, everyone yelled out the favorite school cheers, and, as always, the meeting ended with the school song, "All Hail." He had been in Berkeley only four or five days and already the young freshman had some idea of what it meant to be a "college man" — first and foremost, loyalty to Cal. And, adding to the family feeling, President Wheeler announced that students could come in to talk with him any morning from 10:00 to 10:30.16 During the next two weeks, the freshman's life would be filled with activities of all kinds. He would learn that the seniors had decided at their weekly Senior Singing that all freshmen must wear blue and yellow caps, that the seniors themselves had voted to wear sombreros instead of "plugs." The YMCA held more meetings for him and his classmates. 300 turned out for the class Rugby team, and 4,000 fans from a student body of about 4,000 watched the freshman-sophomore "brawl" while the freshmen yelled, Red and Mean Red and Mean California 16 In 1966, a similar event was called off because not enough students showed up to make the team. The really big event—the one he had heard so much about—was the Freshman Rally. For days, the class of '16 had been busy gathering up wagonloads of wood for the enormous fire. By the day of the rally, the Daily Cal editor had become nearly ecstatic over the impending rite: [The Freshman Rally is] an event the normal college man forgets no more than a small boy forgets the circus. . . . It is a wonderful revelation to the freshman, a disclosure of a new side of California life. Now comes his first big, uproarious, ear-splitting rally. . . . It's a magnificent thing, this seeing the whole California family together in celebration . . . for at this first rally of the year the freshman realizes that there are some things bigger than books. The last doubt is wiped out. It is no longer a question of California or somewhere else. It is California or nothing. . . . Every thought is cast into a torrent of unselfish devotion and love. . . . Allegiance sworn at the freshman rally is no great mistake. 18 M 18

Daily Daily

Californian, August 19, 1912. Calif ornian, September 5, 1912.

50

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919 Long before dark that night thousands of students crowded into the

Greek Theater, a huge open structure which, with the grassy knoll surrounding it, held over 12,000. In a few moments it would be jammed to capacity while hundreds more were left outside the gates. As the huge fire lit up the whole area with an orange glow, ASUC President Torrey introduced the theme of the rally: Senior Control. Torrey told the audience that the Freshman Rally could be characterized as a "religious festival" meant to welcome and celebrate the class of 1916, "not merely as new men in the University but as new Californians." The faculty men said in effect, Welcome and do your work. But full-bearded, beloved Henry Morse Stephens, often called the "father of the freshman class," had stronger advice: "Obey the seniors. Don't ask them why—they know." Then to prepare the young men for their coming part in selfgovernment: "Learn by obedience to assume the responsibilities [you] will later be called upon to perform."

17

As the wood was used up, and

the flames slowly died, the classes formed long lines and proceeded down to the center of the campus. Standing on the steps of Wheeler Hall, they cheered, yelled, and as a grand finale sang "All Hail." We can easily imagine that our young freshman from rural California was overwhelmed with excitement, awe, and very possibly also that "torrent of unselfish devotion and love." He had, indeed, taken part in a "religious festival," in which the collectivity had expressed and reinforced its unity through traditional symbols and chants. He was now a member of a very rich community which, via the long alumni procession itself, reached into the past and projected toward the future. He had felt the presence of his "California family." But these expressions of community solidarity continued throughout the year. When the football season ended, track and baseball followed. In December there was a special commemoration of the seventieth birthday of Phoebe Apperson Hearst (wife of the mine and newspaper magnate), which completely filled the gym. A whole week of nostalgic traditions was set aside for the seniors. The women, too, had their own special affairs such as the Parthenia. There was a constant stream of meetings, events, and ceremonies to fill up the student's time. All these events—and indeed many more—made the freshman feel himself part of a wonderful community. He was neither alienated, lonely, nor isolated. He was part of a world he considered important. A great deal of attention was focused on him. He was happy and having " Daily Californian,

September 13, 1912.

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT,

1899-1919

51

fun, and this made him loyal. It also limited his horizon. For, beyond the narrow range of the freshman's world, irreversible events were revolutionizing life in the United States, not to mention human life on the entire planet. 18 In the realm of foreign affairs, for instance, during 1912-1913 the United States was continuing its policy of expanding global commitments. That year (1912) the marines would land in Santo Domingo for the stated purpose of restoring order and protecting the Dominican customs service. And in the spring of 1913 President Taft, under pressure to invade Mexico, would mobilize 4,000 troops along the Mexican border. A short time later, President Wilson recognized the new Republic of China. Senator Lodge, as a member of the influential Senate Foreign Relations Committee, would urge application of the Monroe Doctrine to non-European nations when it was rumored that a Japanese land company was buying real estate in southern California. A short time later, Congress would pass the Alien Land-Holding Bill, outlawing land ownership by aliens. California's increasing hostility toward Japanese immigrants was one of the forces behind the bill. Also on the domestic front, the Progressives would nominate Hiram Johnson, a Cal alumnus, as Theodore Roosevelt's running mate. Even closer to home, San Diego was just recovering from a takeover by desperate citizens who were fearful of the IWW anarchists. The good loyal patriots had captured the town, and their vigilantes, with the tacit permission of the regular police, were kidnapping, terrorizing, and torturing fellow citizens. These events are mentioned because they reflect exactly the kind of issues which would deeply trouble students of a later era. Except for persons, places, and dates, some of these incidents are almost identical to contemporary political events which have given rise to mass student opposition. Yet with the exception of the presidential election, apparently not one of those events stirred the students of 1912 to organize. They are scarcely mentioned in student publications, not even in a " T h e university, too, was about to undergo a revolution. Simply in terms of gross statistical differences, it would hardly be the same institution some forty-seven years after our freshman entered. When our freshman arrived, it was truly an institution devoted to teaching, with 72 percent of its income coming from the state, endowments, and gifts. In 1960 only 32 percent of its income was derived from these sources, with 58 percent coming directly from the federal government. Furthermore, by the '60s, some 48 percent of the total university income was earmarked for federally supported research projects. In short, by 1960 the University of California had become a national research institution.

52

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT,

1899-1919

newspaper column headed "Free Speech." Although the word politics was frequently seen, it needed no further qualification. It meant student politics—class elections and the like. During our freshman's first semester the Daily Cal had, by a rough count, 32 editorials on local campus concerns, 23 on the Cal spirit, 21 on athletics, and 2 on newsworthy personalities. There was one editorial on politics, but it was only to warn that "national and state politics offer no suitable field for University activity." 19 The aim may have been to maintain institutional neutrality, but the result was apathy. The presidential election of 1912 was, as we have noted, probably the sole exception to the rule of student political noninvolvement in those years. Presidential elections had always been the high point of outside political interest, but that year there were some special reasons for Cal students to follow the campaign. Teddy Roosevelt, running against the former Princeton president, Woodrow Wilson, and against the amiable President Taft, was a close friend of Wheeler, and had even been the Cal president's houseguest on September 16. It was said that Wheeler had almost singlehandedly written the Bull Moose platform. Finally, the Rough Rider's running mate was the popular alumnus Hiram Johnson. All these things stimulated student loyalty to the Bull Moose Party, and indeed, as Table 8 shows, the Progressives got much more support from Cal students than from the nation as a whole. The political activity started early that school year, but the keynote of caution was quickly sounded. On August 30, an alumnus writing to the Daily Cal raised a "serious complaint" against the California League of Republic (Progressives): "If there are two institutions in this world which ought to be kept out of politics, they are the Church and the school." He urged all those "who place allegiance to [their] alma mater above [their] political aspirations to unite in putting an end to . . . political exploitation." 20 This letter did not, however, result in any formal public policy on the matter of political activity, and the political clubs continued to meet both on and off campus. (On September 6, the Democrats met in the YMCA; September 11, the Progres19

Daily Californian, October 1, 1912. Table 7, above, provides data pointing to the same fact—the parochial interests of the large majority of readers and editors. 20 "Free Speech Column," Daily Californian, August 30, 1912. The letter, a persuasive example of the power of institutional loyalty, seems to indicate that the writer takes for granted that most of his readers would place allegiance to alma mater above political aspirations. In later years, such a notion would seem ridiculous to many people.

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

53

sives met in Boalt Hall; October 2, the Socialists met in California Hall, etc.) For the first time, the election returns were heard over the "wireless" set up in the gym. To keep the students from getting bored, the band played and the yell leaders shouted school cheers.

Table 8: STUDENT/NATIONAL VOTE IN THE 1 9 1 2 PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION ( I N PERCENT) Candidate

Student Vote

Wilson (Democrat) Roosevelt (Progressive) Taft (Republican) Debs (Socialist) Other Total Number

of

Voters

National Vote

43 45 6 4 2

42 28 23 6 1

2,137

14,796,000

SOURCE (for student vote): Daily Californian, October 31, 1912. NOTE: This particular straw vote provides relatively sound data. Ballots were placed in several strategic areas of the campus, and to be allowed to vote students only had to show their registration cards, not their ASUC cards. Again, it is interesting that student support of socialism that year was smaller than the public support. This is true despite the fact that the local Socialist party ran several highly qualified candidates in that election.

But on the whole, despite the pre-election excitement, there was a dearth of political participation and enthusiasm; students met for discussion, not action. Yet the following spring the freshman would find several other opportunities to learn about politics and social problems. The League of the Republic, having decided not to disband after the election, worked with professors in the political science department to sponsor a number of lectures by outstanding public figures and politicians. Furthermore, since no student publication dealt with important political matters, the League established Brass Tacks, a paper dedicated to "construction not destruction" and to the publicizing of important political events. Bob Sproul, then president of the YMCA, was one of the editors. That year also the YMCA set up a "social service" program in which students could work with San Francisco boys' clubs; provide English, civics, and citizenship instruction to immigrants; and conduct Bible classes. (This was not the first such venture into the world. In the early 1890s, students had organized a type of Hull House, but the project foundered.) While on the surface these things may suggest that students were

54

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT,

1899-1919

deeply involved in politics, such is definitely not the case. Except for the League of the Republic, all the party clubs disbanded after the election. It should be understood that the League talks were given for academic credit, and Brass Tacks would probably have died without heavy support by the faculty. The YMCA project nearly failed for lack of interest; and, of course, no groups were organized specifically for political or social protest. 21 The freshman closed the school year with a deep sense of the Spirit of California—a kind of collective consciousness hovering over the individual student and his class. To speak of it as a kind of disembodied soul influencing each student, extending into the past and reaching into the future, is not merely to superimpose a sociological metaphor onto reality. That is the way the students themselves saw the Cal spirit. Cheers and yells, winning teams, the great fires, the rallies, the yearbook, and all the rest were simply manifestations of a community that existed over and above the particular student, his class, and the events he took part in. Individuals and classes would come and go, but the traditions and customs carried over each four-year "generation." 22 We have seen something of how this student solidarity was sustained. But the California spirit and public opinion which nourished it did not just happen, but were themselves built on an elaborate and deliberately contrived organization, skillfully working its way into the five vital areas of undergraduate life—athletics, student government, the class system, publications, and the fraternity and sorority system. The success of paternalistic self-government lay in the fact that these five areas had been brought together and molded into a single powerful structure of control called public opinion. To put it another way, the student leadership based on genuine student concerns had been co-opted into the pattern of authority. President Wheeler took advantage of existing undergraduate organizations and customs and welded them into a communications system 21 A professor defended the "peace movement," but there does not seem to have been a local chapter. 23 It is probable that one of the reasons colleges and universities are so tied to traditions is that the cultural continuity in these institutions is actually so tenuous. Every four years there is a complete turnover of student personnel, and if certain traditions were not perpetuated, there would be little substance to identify with in the institution and thus little sense of continuity. A lack of traditions also intensifies the problems of authority, for traditions help both to pattern student behavior and instill loyalty. At the present time, Berkeley visitors are often struck by the lack of traditions.

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT, 1899-1919

55

resembling a vast sociometric network. Wheeler, his graduate secretary, and the men of the Golden Bear were at the center of the network, and radiating out from this nucleus were the Senior Singings, the all-university meetings, the fraternities and sororities. As to the graduate secretary, this office was Wheeler's own quite brilliant invention. Each year he would hire one of the most outstanding senior men as his own private secretary. Every secretary had been an active campus leader who "commanded the confidence and respect of the students." 23 Records indicate that these secretaries were unofficial, but persuasive advisers to the students and a powerful source of reliable information for the president. Thus they were vital in keeping open the channels of communication and trust in the system. The secretaries were certainly important for communications in the system, but the Golden Bear Senior Men's Honor Society was probably the most influential element of control. Sworn to secrecy, the members of this highly esteemed society shared with Wheeler the hidden problems of university administration, and shared with him, too, the burden of looking after the good name of the university. Only selected senior men could belong to the society, although all senior men, just by virtue of being seniors, stood at the top of the prestige hierarchy. Thus the very class system which had grievously plagued previous presidents became a powerful factor in campus control. In fact, the co-optation of the traditional class rivalry was so successful that the phrases student self-government and senior control were interchangeable. "Obey the seniors . . . don't ask them why. They know." Senior prestige was indeed important, but individual reputations also supported the power of the Golden Bear. Each member, having climbed up through the ranks of the competitive structures dominating student life, was a proven leader, an aristocrat on the campus. Each of the dominant areas of undergraduate life was well represented on the Golden Bear, as a sampling of yearbook biographies shows. For example, of the 22 members in 1913, 11 were prominent athletes who proudly wore the coveted Big "C." (A spot check of the membership in other years revealed the same high proportion of athletes.) The yearbook and student newspaper editors were there. So, too, was the head yell leader. Finally every man in the Golden Bear was a member of a fraternity or living club.24 In other words, all the important areas of 23 Wheeler, p. 14. Remarks are from Deutsch's Introduction. Nearly all of Wheeler's secretaries rapidly became very prominent figures in public life. * Spot checks for 1905, 1914, 1915, and 1917 reveal the same pattern of

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student life were brought together within the secret room of the Golden Bear. The sphere of influence of this secret society was, of course, not limited to the campus. Some of the most powerful men in state politics and on the university faculty were continuing members. The 1913 membership list includes, among other active alumni, Hiram Johnson, then governor of the state; Guy Earl, a very powerful regent from 1908 to 1934; and Ralph Merritt, one of Wheeler's secretaries. The affairs of the Golden Bear have never been public, and it is still hard to get information about its activities. William Campbell, one of Wheeler's successors in the presidency did, however, disclose some of their activities in a private letter to Marshall Coe of the Connecticut Agricultural College: It has been advisable in this University to have a small group of Senior men students . . . banded together in a society or order, existing for the purpose of service to the University. The order considers problems of the University and determines its sentiment on them without voting. Without publicity the members radiate this sentiment over the campus. This order avoids all show; calls its members for service; and decides its problems on the basis of the good of the University. . . . The function of this order is generally unknown outside. . . . The usefulness is unlimited and the devotion of its members remarkable. 25 It is worth pondering the salient points of President Campbell's letter. First, the Golden Bear was a small and thus manageable group. When such a group of powerful student leaders had fully considered a problem and come to a group decision, the members would return to their various organizations and "spread the word." Notice the criterion of judgment: "the good of the University"—not the good of the Daily Californian, the football team, or the fraternities, but the good of the entire university. Certainly the cooperation of genuine student leaders with membership backgrounds. Robert Sprout's Cal career, as highlighted in the 1914 yearbook, is a typical one for a member of the Golden Bear: Abracadabra (club); Golden Bear; Winged Helmet; EIO; Class President (jr); YMCA treasurer (jr); President (sr); Fresh Track Team; Varsity Track (sph) (jr); Blue and Gold Staff (jr); Curtain Raiser; Student Welfare Council; Interscholastic Circus (jr); Chairman (sr); Undergraduate Student Affairs Committee (sr); Senior Extravaganza; Cadet Captain (sr). * President Campbell to Marshall Coe, November 26, 1924, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File). The secrecy of the organization was so valued that one of its top administrators objected to Campbell's letter on the grounds that it disclosed too much about the Golden Bear.

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university authorities would be of unlimited usefulness to the administration. Public opinion on any issue was thus generated throughout the entire university by the Golden Bear's informal but highly influential means. But there were also more structured lines of transmission—the Senior Singing, the mass meeting, and the fraternity-sorority-club system. A typical Senior Singing opened with President Wheeler himself leading the men in song. The "Golden Bear," written by Professor Gayley, probably the most renowned of the faculty, was one of the most popular: Oh, have you seen our banner blue? The Golden Bear is on it too A Californian through and through Our totem he, The Golden Bear. When they had finished singing and emotional unity had been established in the rustic log cabin, Wheeler would launch a serious discussion of university problems. The students were flattered, and seemed to appreciate Wheeler's consulting them on university matters. That the president also found the meetings useful is clear from his 1918 commencement address: "It is essential to the plan [of self-government] that it should find certain trustworthy mechanisms for ascertainment of public opinion and its stimulation to action and defense. For this we have found the Thursday night 'Senior Singing' good. . . ." 26 Beginning in 1906, the singings were augmented by all-university meetings which performed similar functions of communication. And last, but certainly not least, the fraternities, sororities, and living clubs were vital in spreading public opinion. Again, the administration itself wrote about the importance of these groups: "Discussion at the various societies in the University and at fraternity and house club meetings greatly contribute to the same end and tend to disseminate the views that spring from the experience and loyalty of the senior class." 27 Thus the very same living groups which had previously embarrassed the university were now an integral part of the controlling mechanism. Indeed, they had become so useful that the dean of the lower division argued that they should be made a formal part of the administrative system.28 26

Wheeler, p. 14. Remarks are from Deutsch's Introduction. Presidential Reports, 1912-1913, p. 8. 33 Presidential Reports, 1913-1914, p. 110. 27

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In summary, public opinion, as the social-control facet of student solidarity, welded the main forces of student life into a unified system of control. This system was built up on a skillful combination of collegiate culture and student activities, organizations, and mechanisms for molding and disseminating public opinion. It was a natural system and, in the words of Dean Hutchinson, it did seem that the administration had discovered the "fundamental forces, the springs of action in the makeup of the student." 29 Control was founded on the students' own system of class prestige, their own activities, and their own living groups. The pillars of paternalistic self-government—California spirit and public opinion—were actually outward manifestations of the deepest student concerns. THE P A T T E R N OF AUTHORITY: TRUST AS A BASIS OF CONTROL

Students had genuine authority, and President Wheeler made it clear, both privately and publicly, that he supported student control. As he said in one of his annual reports to the Governor, "It [student selfgovernment] must be, outright, a student affair in its thinking and its doing, otherwise student self-government will be a farce. It will be faculty government with a sweater." 30 But student control was still a peculiar kind of authority in which student discretion was sharply— though voluntarily—restricted to the narrow confines permitted by institutional loyalty. The usual language of power does not have an adequate word to describe this so-called power given to students. Students did have vast control and real power over their fellow students. Yet this power had been delegated to them because they could be trusted to use it properly—that is, the way Wheeler himself would use it. In one sense this was power; but in another sense it was simply an extended administration of presidential policies. Wheeler's genius lay in his ability to motivate people to act in accordance with his own wishes without overtly imposing his will. Some might call this ability "manipulation," but the term does not adequately describe his administration. Wheeler was not cynically manipulating students. Everything was aboveboard. Wheeler was not laughing behind their backs, nor were the students being consciously used. Rather, M 30

Presidential Reports, 1910-1912, p. 128. Presidential Reports, 1914-1915, p. 27.

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they were pleased to demonstrate that they were responsible and could be trusted with the enormous discretion given them. Thus I have chosen to call student control not power, not manipulation, but rather "autonomous responsibility" or simply responsibility. The Associated Students (ASUC) and the undergraduate Student Affairs Committee were the two important structures of student government. Although the committee was the law enforcement agency, which will be the next focus of our interest, the two structures are related, and the ASUC organization should be briefly considered before discussing the Student Affairs Committee. In 1899, twelve years after its establishment, the ASUC found itself in debt for $4,000 and was forced to reorganize. A student-faculty committee led by John Eshleman, after whom the present-day student office building is named,31 was given much more power over campus affairs than it had formerly had. As a result of their efforts, the ASUC became a big and powerful enterprise, and a highly centralized government was established.32 After all, extracurricular activities were more than just diversionary pastimes; they were an inherent part of university life. Practical experience in the ASUC was part of the educational process and a training ground for citizenship. But the ASUC was also big business, controlling " N o t only does Eshleman's career personify Wheeler's ideas, but it also tells us much about the position of the university in the state. Eshleman, active in student affairs and a good scholar, became deeply involved in the new California Progressive Party soon after graduation. The Progressives were, by and large, Protestant Midwesterners by birth, and highy literate. Although they belonged to the upper-middle class, they saw themselves as nonpartisan brokers between the conflicting class interests of big business and organized labor. (See George Mowry, The California Progressives (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1963). California government was greatly in need of the ameliorating effects of the Progressives. The principal city, San Francisco, was under the control of the notoriously corrupt labor-political machine of Ruef and Schmitz, and the rest of the state was run by the Southern Pacific Railroad. (The SP literally ran the legislature and dominated California business.) After four or five years of struggle, the Progressives were finally able to put Hiram Johnson into the governor's mansion in 1911. Eshleman was appointed chairman of the all important Railroad Commission, but, having always been in poor health, he died shortly afterward. Cal's legacy from John Eshleman and the Progressives was lasting. The student office building was named after Eshleman, who was long revered as the model student and a worthy alumnus. And several founders of the Progressive movement—Phelan, Dickson, Rowell, and C. Wheeler—were appointed regents, Dickson and Rowell being especially powerful members of the board. Dickson served from 1913 to 1956, and Rowell from 1914 to 1948. m "Present Organization of the ASUC," Daily Californian, January 22, 1909.

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significant areas of student life. In 1905 the student organization built field bleachers seating 14,000. In 1909 they took over the student newspaper, and four years later, took control of the student cooperative bookstore. Student judicial power grew alongside student managerial power. In the fall of 1903, the Executive Committee of the ASUC voted to set up the Student Affairs Committee. Through their demonstrated responsibility, trust was accumulated, and this new committee grew in power, stature, and perhaps a certain wisdom. Officially, it remained part of the ASUC, but in actuality it soon became an independent organ of authority and discipline. The records of the committee show that student authority in disciplinary matters was genuine. Students reprimanded, suspended, and even expelled rule violators, while the president almost automatically approved their recommendations, the faculty having withdrawn from active participation. There were two principles which shaped and legitimized the paternalistic self-government of this period—the development of character and the protection of the university. Both, it is true, had been operative in the nineteenth century, but under Wheeler they took on different nuances of meaning. If sound character was a principal aim of education, self-government, exemplified by student activities, was essential to character development. Character in this sense means more than intellectual achievement; it requires moral decisions, responsibly made and effectively executed. Student self-government gave the young man real experience in the great race of life. It taught him clean living, personal honesty, and public integrity. Of course, it all took time away from books, but what did that matter compared to the benefits gained? Man was more than mind, and education was more than intellectual training. Wheeler and his personal friends, who were powerful men on the faculty, made it clear that sound moral character was the most important and lasting product of university education: "What we are likely to gain from out of a University life is not bits of knowledge, is not maxims and rules for getting this or that—it is character." 33 Scholarship was implicitly played down because it was only one criterion for judging the successful student: There is a type of man from whom one may expect a successful life. He does his college work faithfully and stands well in his class. He takes part in student sports and student affairs. . . . He is clean in manners, morals, 33

Wheeler, p. 25.

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and dress . . . holds the solid respect of his class . . . plans his work, keeps his appointments, moves toward a goal, and spends little time watching himself. It matters little whether such a man is valedictorian or not. 34

Wheeler took that last phrase seriously. Character training through action—not introspection and self-analysis—had social implications: the future of democracy supposedly rested on the citizenship training of students. They would raise the moral tone of America by extending the ideals and practices of student self-government to the whole society. The assumed links between school and society, between student self-government and democracy, between collegiate loyalty and national patriotism reflected the Progressive movement which Wheeler, together with many other college presidents, championed. Such phrases as "student self-government serving the purposes of democracy" were commonly heard. The justification for character training had expanded from personal morality to social betterment. Curiously, Wheeler's notion of education is very much like the ideal of the student activists of the 1960s, for whom intellectual training is only part of education. Students—then and now—should also learn to make moral judgments about important social problems and be able to act on these judgments. The ability to make moral decisions and express them through committed actions, seasoned with courage, is a product of accumulated experience and not mere analysis. Education must include action in order to be relevant. There is a difference, of course, between Wheeler and the modern radical. Where the radical wishes to challenge the existing order, Wheeler stressed noncontroversial action designed to strengthen and improve the existing order by small changes. Yet, despite this fundamental difference, there is a deep similarity in their educational philosophies. Neither saw the university as a quiet sanctuary for scholarly research and self-reflection. Both saw it as an instrument of social betterment. "The best interests of the University," the other vital principle behind paternalistic self-government, was tied up with clean living and sound character. The idea had taken form on the nineteenth century, and it remained much the same under Wheeler, although by his time a much stronger loyalty, combined with the pride of student self-government, had sharply increased student commitment to the good name of the uni34

Wheeler, p. 102.

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versity. Indeed, student loyalty to the whole university took precedence over personal and partisan interests and rights. Should the system be threatened, the administration and the students would work together to protect the university as a whole. The temperance crisis of 1914 is a good example of the practical uses of student loyalty. Organized citizens mounted another one of their attacks on the terrors of saloons and the evils of drink. After discovering that a student publication was advertising liquor, they began a campaign against the advertisement of sin. The Student Affairs Committee quickly summoned the publication's editor, pointing out to him that "adverse criticism had arisen, and [that] especially in view of the coming election . . . no University papers should in any way antagonize, through its advertising, political factors in the state." 35 Without making an issue of the committee's request, the student editor removed all liquor ads. Student loyalty to the good of the university motivated compliance, even though it meant relinquishing a lucrative ad. The depth of such loyalty is highlighted by the fact that fifty years later, almost to the day, a similar alleged outside pressure during an election year precipitated a full-scale student rebellion. In 1914, and through most of the period under discussion, the student reaction would most always have been entirely different because everyone shared a common definition of and commitment to the university's "best interests." Judicial authority, of course, had to be broad. The development of sound character required pervasive guidance, and the protection of the university called for constant vigilance over every aspect of student life. As in the nineteenth century, jurisdiction was never officially defined; but the lack of definition meant only lack of limits, not laxity of control. For example, a mother complained that she and her daughter were insulted while walking home from a university affair. The student committee took up the case when they were told that the lady had seen the young man enter a fraternity house. The files are filled with similar cases of citizen complaint and committee follow-up. The vague yet comprehensive jurisdiction was summed up by President Wheeler when he noted that the Student Affairs Committee recommends punishment "in all cases involving dishonorable conduct of examination or behavior prejudicial to the best interests of the University." 36 The questionable behavior did not have to be directly 36 Memo dated October 14, 1914, University of California Archives (Student Affairs Committee File). 36 Presidential Reports, 1912-1913, p. 8. The same concept of authority was

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related to the university; it was not even necessary that it take place on campus grounds; it simply had to reflect badly on the institution. So long as the public or the university authorities thought the action "prejudicial," it was grist for the morality mills of the Student Affairs Committee. Although the system was inspired by the ideas of Progressivism, which were sweeping through the major universities across the country, it was not the product of a preconceived plan. Rather, the specific problems gave rise to a response conditioned by old customs that were being given new meanings.37 Agents

Never before had students exercised such control. Even the high and powerful regents acknowledged the extent of student authority. When the temperance movement petitioned the regents to put a final stop to the evils of collegiate drinking, the board members replied that the Student Affairs Committee was the proper "method of dealing with student offenses" and that granting their petition at this time would "mean the abandonment of the system of control which has proved such a gratifying success." 38 Regental action was even more convincing than their published compliments. They blunted the temperance attack by telling the movement that the whole issue lay in the students', not the regents', control. This was the nearest the Cal students have ever come to receiving an official delegation of power.39 written into a statement by the Board of Regents on March 11, 1913: "Hence it is that no formal set of rules governing student conduct has ever been adopted by this board. But . . . it by no means follows that there is no provision for the regulation of student conduct. It has always been the law of the University, recognized in innumerable instances, and established by years of precedent, that any conduct detrimental to the welfare of the institution, or injuriously affecting the individual in his relation to it, is cognizable by the University authorities." 37 "On the campus, the Progressive movement left its mark in three aspects of undergraduate life which came to be characteristic of many American institutions of higher learning: student government, the honor system, and senior honorary societies. . . . Fostering self-government in the colleges was a typical agency of Progressivism." Fredrick Rudolph, The American College and University (New York: Vintage Books, 1962), p. 169. If this were true for other campuses, how much more was it true for the whole state of California, where the Progressives were in control. 38

89

University

Chronicle,

15 (January 13), 294.

Nevertheless, the regents still pointed out that they had the ultimate responsibility in such matters. The problem of delegated or nondelegated authority was to become important at a later time.

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The transference of control from faculty to students had been welcomed by the professors. Although the Organic Acts, which formed the original legal base for the University, put the faculty in charge of discipline, they really did not want the job. They were interested in teaching and research, and were under pressure to publish. Policing students was time-consuming, unpopular, and demeaning to an ambitious scholar. Furthermore, professors were inept policemen. Even as late as 1904, local newspapers were carrying front page banners telling of "RIOT AT THE UNIVERSITY," "TWELVE RUSHERS TAKEN IN HAND BY STATE UNIVERSITY AND BOOKED FOR EXPULSION," followed by the story of how "Professor Cory and his armed forces put handcuffs on as many as they could capture and held them until they could get their names." 40 The faculty also resorted to guns and searchlights, all of which suggests that they lacked true authority. The time was ripe for a new system of control. Real student authority first took form in 1899 when "Big Jim" Whipple played in the Stanford game against faculty orders. Big Jim's football prowess was not matched by his scholarship, and he knew he was committing academic suicide for the glory of the team. Such was his loyalty that he thought expulsion was not too high a price. The faculty, on the other side, felt that "the law had been defied, and the culprit must suffer the severest punishment." 41 But the young man who was a "culprit" to the faculty was a hero to the students, and the two sides were deadlocked. Wheeler appointed a committee not of faculty but of responsible seniors to resolve the issue, which was the beginning of student self-government. The above-mentioned "riot" of 1904 further accelerated the transfer of authority to the students. In the spring of 1905, students voted to strengthen the Student Affairs Committee, and ten years later the president could report that notifying the faculty of serious disciplinary matters was simply a formality and that "the findings of the Student Affairs Committee . . . appear to have a standing of their own, independent of any support by the faculty." 42 Procedures A typical procedure of the committee was simplicity itself. A student would be accused of some infraction by a professor, a fellow student, an irate mother, a policeman, a streetcar conductor, or an in'"San Francisco Bulletin, March 31, 1904. 41 Wheeler, p. 110. 43 Presidential Reports, 1914-1915, p. 27.

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terested citizen. The accused would be called before the committee and asked to present his side of the case. Further evidence would then be obtained, a sentence passed, a recommendation sent to the president, and the faculty notified. Complications were not introduced by the slow speed and inefficiencies of due process. The hearings were closed, and there was no cross-examination, no confrontation with the accuser, no official record. Occasionally the accused was not even told of the crime he had committed. "It seems that there is no set order of business, nor method of procedure in the meetings of this committee. They are entirely informal." 43 This lack of formalized procedures was deliberate. The committee did not define itself as a court. Wheeler called it a "household tribunal." "The Student Affairs Committee has always avoided legal form. It assumes rather the guise of a family council." 44 It was expected that students accept the procedures of the family tribunal and, as the records show, they usually did so: "Very seldom has there been any case in which the defendant has refused to cooperate in finding out or revealing the facts, or has sought to hinder the inquiry by concealment." 45 The case of J. E. Boyer is a good illustration of the committee's investigation and punishment procedures. In the fall of 1912, an instructor reported that Boyer was cheating on exams. Newton Drury notified Boyer to appear before the household tribunal. Boyer admitted his guilt, and the committee recommended that he be suspended for a semester. The recommendation was then sent to Wheeler's secretary, Farnham Griffiths. As usual, Wheeler accepted the recommendation, and Griffiths passed on the notice of punishment to the recorder of faculties with a short memo attached: "The president has received the following communication from the Undergraduate Student Affairs Committee, which he accepts and approves." 48 The punishment was recorded, and the suspension went into effect. In the more serious cases involving expulsions, Professor Cory, chairman of the Faculty Committee on Student Affairs, would also be notified. The accused could appeal his case to the Faculty Committee on Student Conduct. However, it is a persuasive tribute to the authority and power of the student com43

Student Affairs Committee president Peabody to Wheeler, undated but sometime in August 1919, University of California Archives. "Wheeler, p. 111. From his Commencement Address, 1918. 15 Presidential Reports, 1914-1915, p. 15. 46 Undated memo, University of California Archives (Student Affairs Committee File).

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mittee that "only once in fifteen years has a new investigation by the faculty even been requested by the student." 47 Standards

of

Conduct

Everybody knew the standards of conduct, and what it meant to be a gentleman and a Cal man. The President and the student leaders personified such standards. Rules of conduct were never written down, for they were part of the common culture, part of everyday life. Students seemed to have actually, as the Cal bulletin declared, "set and observed amongst themselves a proper standard of conduct." 48 The accused never argued that insulting a person on the street, getting drunk on the train, swearing in public, or giving "bad example" to the freshmen was justifiable behavior. The accused might proclaim his innocence, but he never protested the standard. Indeed, the standards of conduct were simply specifications of the very principles which upheld authority in the first place, namely, the development of character and the best interests of the university. Gentlemanly conduct was also expected from the student when he appeared before the committee. The accused was supposed to show proper respect for the household tribunal, honesty and frankness about his "crime," and sincere repentance for having committed it. Since one object of the committee was to promote good behavior at all times, if the accused showed gentlemanly conduct in his appearance before the committee, he would be given a lighter sentence. For example, the tribunal was particularly impressed with John Patterson for "the honest way in which he confessed his guilt, the apparent sincerity of the man, his age . . . and the assurances on his part of future honesty." 49 An interesting and not uncommon case of ungentlemanly conduct took place in the spring of 1914. The incident shows the benefits of cooperation with the committee, as well as the moral preoccupations of the community. A small group of senior men visited nearby Oakland, had dinner, and then "imbibed sufficiently to be feeling in a jovial mood." They were slightly drunk. They came back to Berkeley about midnight and noticed lights at the Big "C." 50 They struggled up the 47 University Chronicle, 18 ( 1 9 1 6 ) , 143. For a discussion of the Vern Smith case, see next section of this chapter. 48 Register, 1896-1920, under "Discipline." "Student Affairs Committee president to Wheeler, August 24, 1914, University of California Archives. 60 The Big "C" is a school emblem—a large concrete letter—overlooking the

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slope, but fortunately for them "they carried no liquor to the Big 'C' nor does it appear from the evidence that their conduct was disgusting." Nevertheless, the drunk seniors gave a bad example to the freshmen who were manfully guarding the "C" against impending sophomore assault. "If the men had been freshmen it seems clear that the facts set forth above would justify no stronger action than a warning and lecture on college ethics by the Student Affairs Committee." However, "to the committee these men seem[ed] guilty of an act of extreme indiscretion, hardly calculated to affect the good name of the University otherwise than detrimentally." Normally such an indiscretion would be met with severe punishment, but there were mitigating circumstances. The seniors "reported the incident in a straightforward, candid manner, and with honest humiliation that their acts should have been such as to bring them before this committee." Not only were they humble and contrite, but "it appears that all of these men . . . have been among the most prominent and most highly respected in the undergraduate body." 61 The case of the drunk seniors at the Big "C" illuminates several aspects of student standards of conduct of that period. Especially during prohibition it was wrong to get drunk publicly, for it brought dishonor to the university. Furthermore, it was highly improper for senior men set a bad example for the freshmen. The inebriated seniors, however, were not really depraved, for they had conducted themselves as gentlemen before the tribunal and, very significantly, they were among the "most prominent and respected men." Vern Smith was not so fortunate, nor, apparently, so respectable. His case provides one of the best opportunities to observe the system in operation for it developed into one of the most important controversies in the entire history of the Student Affairs Committee. Vern Smith was an "outsider"—i.e., a dissenter and a radical. He cared not a whit for the ASUC. He thought the Student Affairs Committee was illegal, irresponsible, and arbitrary. He was unwilling to abide by the unwritten rules. He refused to cooperate and, most astounding of all, he seemed to welcome the opportunity to publicly condemn the whole system and defame the "family's glorious old mother." While the case reveals the inner workings of the committee, it also shows quite clearly how the Berkeley campus. Its construction in 1906 by the joint efforts of the freshman and sophomore classes marks the official end of rushing. 61 All quotations from a report by the Student Affairs Committee to Wheeler, April 16, 1914, University of California Archives.

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system was able to absorb such an all-out attack on the principles, jurisdiction, and structures of paternalistic self-government. Actually, this lone case—the only one in over twenty years that had openly challenged the system—shows how truly viable that system was. For several months articles had been stolen from the men's gym, and students were watchful. Paul Cadman happened to see Vern Smith picking up clothes in the men's locker room, and he and another witness immediately reported the incident to their friend Peabody on the Student Affairs Committee. On March 29,1915, Smith was summoned before the committee. According to sworn statement, he was not told what crime he was being accused of and was not allowed to face his accuser. Rather, the members of the tribunal asked him about his friends and his enemies, why he did not buy an ASUC card, what he thought about President Wheeler and Professor Plehn, Chairman of the Commerce Department, and whether or not he smoked. Smith thought it significant that they questioned him about his activities in the Cosmopolitan Club, which was a socialist organization seeking peace through international understanding. After warning him about openly discussing the secret hearing, the committee found him guilty and suspended him for twelve months—an extremely heavy punishment in view of the fact that it meant delaying graduation for one year. By his own admission, Wheeler failed to review the case thoroughly before approving the committee's recommendation, and Smith was irate. On April 20, 1915, Smith gave a sworn statement to the Oakland Tribune and the San Francisco Chronicle sharply condemning the whole system of control. "Smith declared the charges against him are trumped up and that he has been railroaded out of college on account of socialist activities at Berkeley." 52 The statement further implied that the faculty and the president may have been ultimately responsible because of their disgust with the Cosmopolitan Club. The day after the release of this statement, Smith requested a retrial. Wheeler agreed, assuring Smith that he could have a record of the proceedings, an account of the charge, and the right to cross-examine his accuser. Nonetheless, the Student Affairs Committee still found him guilty. Smith then took advantage of his legal right to appeal to the faculty of his particular college. (Under the provisions of the Organic Acts, the faculty were still legally responsible for discipline.) In his letter to the faculty committee, 63

Tulare California Register, April 12, 1915. A similar account appeared in many other newspapers.

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he pointed out that there had been no due process and that the "bearing of the committee [had been] arrogant and insulting." This trouble arose largely through the bad system of administration of what is called student self-government. The judicial authority of a great University has been handed over, not to the students but to a private organization consisting of a portion of students (ASUC). . . . Arbitrary power, working in secret and irresponsibly, must someday overstep itself. . . . The contention that the Student Aifairs Committee is not a court is nonsense. It summons the accused before it, takes testimony, judges, and condemns.53

The appeal was in vain. The Commerce Department members, including Professor Plehn, not only upheld that he was guilty but added that he had poor character. The Organic Acts gave Smith one final recourse—an appeal to the Academic Senate itself. However, since the senate had not been active in disciplinary affairs for some time, a special committee headed by Professor Barrows was set up to handle the case. They had been informed by the regent's counsel, W. Olney, that Smith should be given a statement of the crime, the right to cross-examine and a completely fair trail in all other ways. After a review of the entire case, the senate said there was some question about whether Smith was even in the gym at that time, and further pointed out that one of the students who said his knife had been stolen could not even be found after the initial accusation— the student committee apparently "lost" the name of the victim. The committee of the Academic Senate unanimously rescinded the previous decisions, and Smith was exonerated.54 Smith's attack had been total. He had challenged the legitimacy of H

Report by the Faculty Committee on Student Affairs to Wheeler, June 1, 1915, University of California Archives. "There was also a subplot in the case. After Smith had been accused, he presented a friendly witness, a Madame de Berri, who testified that she had been with him at the very hour the "crime" was supposed to have taken place, presenting her diary as evidence. The Student Affairs Committee summarily disallowed the diary as evidence, saying that the entry had been made only at the request of Smith. She became incensed at this insult and wrote President Wheeler that if the committee members did not take back their remark she would bring "legal action" against them. She said she would be glad to present her entire diary before a valid court, but "I will not hand [it] over to a bunch of irresponsible boys, one of whom I have myself caught in lies." Madame De Berri to Wheeler, May 29, 1915, University of California Archives. The outcome of her anger is not recorded.

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the Student Affairs Committee, the validity of its procedures, and even its definition as a friendly type of household tribunal. In several important respects, the dissenter was absolutely correct. Judicial authority had indeed been "handed over . . . to a private organization." The ASUC and its Student Affairs Committee did constitute a private corporation, since only those students who bought ASUC membership cards were allowed to vote in campus elections. Secrecy did hide its moves, ostensibly "for the protection of the accused and for the good reputation of the University." It had no fixed procedures assuring due process, but acted in utter informality. At the same time, it was assuredly a court, for the committee did in fact summon the accused, take testimony, judge, and condemn. To call it a mere household tribunal, implying it was not a court, concealed more than it revealed about the institution. Whether or not the Student Affairs Committee acted out of vindictive motives or ideological bias in the Smith case is more difficult to ascertain. Yet, there were no formal stated guarantees assuring that it would act otherwise. Only personal honor and a sense of responsibility prevented the committee from being arbitrary and irresponsible in most of their decisions. In view of the real merit of several of Smith's accusations and the possible merit of still others, the question naturally arises, how widespread was dissent? If it was not widespread, why wasn't it? The evidence overwhelmingly suggests that open dissent in terms of organized opposition or appeals to the faculty was practically nil. No student publication or student organization opposed the committee. Furthermore, individuals cooperated with it and accepted its punishment. The University Chronicle, an unofficial journal dealing with university affairs, made the following statements after the Smith case: "Never before in the many years since President Wheeler gave self-government to the students of the University has the question been raised by the accused student as to the essential justice of the final recommendation arrived at by the undergraduate Committee on Student Affairs. . . . Only once in fifteen years has a new investigation by the faculty been even requested by a student." 55 Paradoxically, the Smith case indicates the power, not the weakness, of student government. For one thing, it was the only incident of its kind during Wheeler's era. For another, it was the only time anyone balked at accepting the student committee's decision and appealed to 65

University

Chronicle,

18 ( 1 9 1 6 ) , 143.

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1899-1919

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the faculty. Even though many of Smith's criticisms were simply statements of fact, the system continued to be generally accepted, and this is strong testimony to its profound legitimacy in the eyes of the vast majority of the students. SELF-GOVERNMENT IN SUPPORT OF INSTITUTIONAL NEEDS

The delegation of autonomous responsibility to students seemed to support the needs of the institution. The university prospered under Wheeler, and although financial success cannot be attributed solely to effective student control, judging from the nineteenth century situation such control was important. Income increased 1,000 percent in the twenty years of Wheeler's tenure. Private gifts increased in the same dramatic way—from $14,000 in 1900 to $111,000 in 1920.56 Also important, although difficult to measure, the university began to accrue nationally famous faculty members. Finally, enrollment increased in that period from 2,229 to 9,967. The tradition of hazing, which had caused so much onerous publicity in the nineteenth century, was finally stopped by the students themselves. "To mention only [one] of the results of government by the students, it is the students who have abolished rushing." 57 Destroying the reputation of rowdyism could not help but improve the position of the university in the state. But student self-government permitted other, more subtle forms of good relations between the university and powerful state leaders. Wheeler did not pay his secretaries much, but while serving in his office they met the most important people of the state. The secretaries usually found worldly success very soon after leaving the university. The Henry Morse Stephens boarders are another illustration of the uses of selfgovernment. Stephens, for whom the present student union building was named, lived in the men's faculty club, sharing his quarters with an outstanding senior man. During the summer Stephens, and often his protégé, would move to Bohemian Grove, the extremely powerful California men's club and retreat. Without doubt, the presence of an out66 These figures are from The Centennial Record of the University of California, ed. Vern Stadtman (Berkeley and Los Angeles; University of California Press, 1967), p. 293. m "California is Distinctive in the Reign of Student Control," Daily Californian, May 6, 1915.

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standing student casually conversing with the financial and political leaders of the state enhanced the university reputation. The easy transfer of student leaders from campus power positions to prominent roles in state life may have been one reason for the intense interest in local campus affairs. For the connections between student politicians, campus officials, and state leaders were close and intimate. The often completely vague term "power structure" has specific meaning and genuine reality in this case. The training of good citizens, as we have seen, schooled in the skills of democracy and committed to honesty in public life, was one of the main university goals under President Wheeler. Both the abstract goal and its concrete, living manifestation—student self-government— helped to legitimize the university in the eyes of the public. In the 1912 college yearbook, Governor Pardee expressed his gratitude for the good, responsible citizens who were coming out of Cal. After a long, impressive litany of the university's material contributions to the state economy, the governor concluded that "they [the material contributions] are not the only thing the University is doing for the state. . . . Her sons and daughters are busying themselves . . . more and more with their politics, the politics of the state. They are giving California politics a higher tone; they are fighting political corruptions." 58 In an indirect way student self-government probably helped to upgrade the academic quality of the institution. Wheeler's successful recruitment of outstanding faculty was very likely related to his policy of student control which freed the serious scholar from disciplinary tasks which—by academic standards—were both trivial and time-consuming.59 The effectiveness of student self-government also helped to bind the university together. Class rivalry was finally controlled. The faculty was 68

Governor Pardee, "University and the State," The Blue and Gold (1912). How different these comments are from those made in the 1940s and 1950s when state officials were suggesting that the university was producing disloyal traitors and Communist dupes, or in the 1960s when an ex officio regent accused the university of being a four-year course in "sex, treason, and dope." ™ Later on, the problem of simultaneously asserting student power, faculty freedom, and university autonomy becomes a critical one, because in actual practice—apart from the vague phrases—student power and political freedom are detrimental to academic freedom in the classical sense. Student politics almost invariably disturb the public, and a disturbed public reacts against the university, thereby undermining the university autonomy which is the first line of defense of academic freedom.

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relieved of the distasteful duty of discipline, and animosity between faculty and students diminished. Needless to say, self-government brought students and administration together. In short, student self-government seemed beneficial to most observers. There was a time in our past history when there was certain tacit antagonism between the faculty and students. . . . But through the wise and broad-minded influence of President Wheeler, another spirit has been gradually brought about . . . a spirit of friendly cooperation. . . . The result has been that the good name of the University was never so safe. . . . The time and energies of the faculty, which were largely diverted to disagreeable matters of discipline, have been saved for their proper work of instruction.60

PATERNALISTIC SELF-GOVERNMENT IN PERSPECTIVE For many years afterward, and to a certain degree even in the 1960s, President Wheeler's era seemed like the Golden A g e of administrative-student relations. A warm community of administrators, outstanding faculty, and students mitigated the sense of personal isolation; and students had a genuine feeling of control over their own affairs. Because the era so often seemed like a model, it is worth examining some of the prerequisites for paternalistic self-government more carefully. First, the students had real authority, but it was intimately related to a special kind of community. Second, the president allowed the students to make decisions, but they were not given the right to make them. The system rested on personal trust and institutional loyalty and not on legal "Samuel B. Christy, "A Plea for the Larger Spirit of Cooperation at California," an address before the 16th Annual Convention of the Caifornia Miners Association (December 11, 1912). Reprinted in the University Chronicle, 15 (1912), 280. While student self-government did bring various elements of the university closer together, this does not necessarily imply that all was smooth and harmonious within. Although treatment of this aspect of Wheeler's administration lies beyond the scope of this book, it is interesting to note here that the faculty did not get along too well with Wheeler. Wheeler was a benevolent autocrat, but an autocrat still, who would personally recruit, promote, and dismiss faculty members. He also failed to secure raises for them. Despite the fact that the cost of living increased about 300 percent in the twenty-year period of his presidency, the record shows that faculty salaries hardly increased at all. In 1900 a professor earned $3,188; in 1920, only $3,814. The situation was so bad that as soon as Wheeler retired the faculty staged a revolt to gain more power. (See Chapter 4.)

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rights, autonomous student power, or the ability to challenge. Third, the system required a peculiar harmony between students, administrators, and the political power structure of the state. The underlying theme uniting these preconditions of viable self-government is that participation was high because conflict was low, and further, that conflict was low because the whole system more or less supported the existing order. As to the first, the system of control, it was an expression of the intense solidarity very much like that in the governmental system described by Durkheim: "Whenever we find ourselves in the presence of a governmental system endowed with great authority, we must seek the reason for it, not in the particular situation of the governing but in the nature of the societies they govern. We must observe the common beliefs, the common sentiments which, by incarnating themselves in a person or in a family, communicate power to it." 61 The Student Affairs Committee and the Golden Bear were the embodiment of community ideals, the expression of the collegiate culture. This is what gave them their moral force over the students. In Durkheim's terms, "the common beliefs, the common sentiments" were "incarnated" into these organizations. Because such groups as the Golden Bear and the Student Affairs Committee were the living expression of community ideals, they possessed profound legitimacy in the eyes of both the students and the president. It was the moral unity—the "mechanical solidarity"—that gave power to authority. The governors were not an aggregate body of value-neutral experts who rationally administered the needs of the system. They were the fulfillment of community aspirations. The power of this moral unity is shown by the fact that the Student Affairs Committee was neither formally representative nor democratically elected. As to the second, student authority was only allowed, not granted as a right. It rested on personal trust, voluntary cooperation, and loyalty to the best interests of the university. But the conclusion does not follow that self-government was thus simply a mask for administrative manipulation. Since there was no conscious conflict of interests between students and administration, there was no need to deceive. The term household tribunal captures the cooperative nature of authority and, quite realistically, does not imply either democracy or formal representation. Student control had nothing to do with legal contracts, written 61 Emile Durkheim, Division p. 196.

of Labor

(Glencoe: The Free Press, 1933),

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statutes, or formally delegated power. Students were granted what later became known as the privilege of self-government, because they had shown they could make "responsible" and "correct" decisions based on administrative definitions. The system had nothing to do with rights. The regents' reply to the temperance petition in 1912-1913 was the closest the students have ever come to gaining formal governmental powers. Yet even those laudatory remarks clearly asserted the regents' ultimate authority. And finally, the harmony or consensus which allowed student participation was possible because students did not deeply criticize or openly challenge the prevailing socioeconomic system. The major conflicts— whether the immediate reason was a collegiate prank or political action—have always come from students upsetting powerful sectors of the state who, in turn, react on the administration. With relatively few exceptions, no outspoken radicals upset the equilibrium. The students' support of the status quo was a logical extension of their loyalty to the best interests of the university. To challenge the socioeconomic system on which the university rests—a challenge implicit in radicalism—certainly would not have been in the best interests. During Wheeler's tenure, the Progressive ideology further reinforced the harmony between students, administrators, and the state officials. The Progressives, playing down the notion of class conflict, stressed cooperative action for the common good. Politics was supposed to be the unbiased, scientific administration of public policy, not the selfish promotion of special class interests. Neither big business nor big labor were deemed capable of such unbiased administration. However, the morally righteous, well-educated, enlightened individuals—such as the uppermiddle class Cal graduates—could, in the words of Governor Pardee, give "California politics a higher tone." This same social class, represented by the fraternity and sorority people, and this same Progressive philosophy, were infused into student self-government. By governing themselves at college, outstanding students could learn the skills of democracy and develop the unselfish devotion required for community service. It was only natural that the clean, respectable, and responsible young men who controlled student government would move quickly after graduation into important power positions in civic affairs. Although the collegiate culture and its peculiar emphasis on loyalty was not an outgrowth of Progressivism, it did fit the ideology. In stressing unity and familylike bonds, the collegians always tended to mini-

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mize the perception, articulation, and propagation of any exclusively student interests which might collide with the welfare of the whole community. In short, paternalistic self-government institutionalized cooperation rather than conflict. The system bore little resemblance to the trade union versus management situation where fundamentally different interests are stabilized by structures designed to contain conflict. In fact—and in theory—the paternalistic system was devoid of manifest power and conflict. Viewed from within, paternalistic self-government was profoundly apolitical, and it is significant here that its imagery was derived from the family and not from politics. The symbols of love, trust, guidance, family, and loyalty manifested the deeper ideological structure and much of the visible reality.

The dark days of rah-rah boys are over. . . . Many of them drink, neck, and steal fire axes. But all of them think a little. College administrators are beginning to get worried. Students are showing signs of getting out of hand. Occident, September, 1926

I am only one of thousands of mothers crying out because of the undoing of the teachings of the home. Letter to President Campbell, 1925

All administrative actions taken, were taken by me without consulting Dean Hart, Woods, or anybody else. President Campbell, on banning two campus publications

4 DECLINE OF STUDENT AUTHORITY, 1919-1930

No dramatic crisis killed paternalistic self-government, but it died just the same. Overt administrative control expanded at the cost of autonomous student responsibility. Conflict began to replace the dissent-smothering consensus which had bound the students and administrators together. The university became a place not of familiar affections but of intellectual competition. Student activities were played down, scholarship stressed, and public pressure against flappers, booze, Bolsheviks, and petting intensified. Some understanding of the background and personality of two of the men who followed President Wheeler in the university presidency is helpful in comprehending these changes. The burden of adjusting to new times first fell on General David Barrows, who was Wheeler's personal choice for a successor. General Barrows was not a distinguished scholar, but he was a capable military tactician, an astute politician, and had been a good colonial administrator in the Bureau of Non-Christian 77

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Tribes of the Philippine Islands. 1 Although President Barrows was popular with most students, he had trouble controlling the growing student dissent. H i s term, which ended with his resignation in 1923, was further complicated by a group of regents w h o actively opposed him

2

and by a professorial uprising. T h e faculty revolt, which took place shortly after President Wheeler retired, was in essence a reaction against the somewhat tyrannical control exercised by Wheeler and his favorites o n the faculty. T h e faculty rebels did manage to wrest control from the administration in several important areas, but perhaps the most critical outcome for our purposes, was the betterment of educational standards and a new-found emphasis on the natural sciences. Professor William Campbell took over the presidency in 1 9 2 3 and served in that position until 1930. It is significant that he was probably the foremost scientist on the faculty, and his election may be viewed as symbolic of the increasing importance of that body in university affairs. For thirty-two years he had lived on top of Mount Lick, distinguishing 1

Barrows was a colorful and amiable man, committed to action and taking positions on important public issues as they presented themseves. It was said that he would get bored even as president of the university, that he would put on his boots and drive off to some National Guard event or pursue excitement in the Mexican revolution. One of the high points of his military career, which continued after his term of presidency, was his command of 5,000 troops against the striking San Francisco Longshoremen in 1934. As he said about this event, "Repeatedly in the industry of this country, state troops and militia have been called upon to protect factories, cities, railroad connections and to disperse armed bodies of men whose passions are frequently inflamed beyond the point of selfcontrol. . . . I went over to San Francisco's ferry terminal about daybreak with a sense of pride in my command." David Barrows, "Memoirs," p. 224, University of California Archives. Because Harry Bridges was in control of the waterfront, General Barrows was convinced that the Communists were in complete control and that revolution had to be prevented by armed intervention. The General died in 1954. A campus road, Barrows Lane, and the social science building, Barrows Hall, on the Berkeley campus are named for him. a Another group was also promoting Ralph Merritt for president. However, Merritt was an active supporter of Barrows. Parenthetically, Merritt's career is indicative of the various power groups within the university. As president of the ASUC in 1906, Merritt established the ASUC card membership system. He served as Wheeler's secretary from 1907 to 1910, and from there moved on to university comptroller—1913-1917—in which capacity he became a very successful liaison between the legislature and the university. During World War I, Merritt became the federal food administrator f o i the State of California. One of his most significant actions in this office was rounding up about 1,200 "Wobblies" (IWW unionists) and putting them in jail, a fact not forgotten by his liberal opponents in the university. Later on, he became a very active supporter of Herbert Hoover.

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himself in those years as one of the world's great astronomers. He was often in fact popularly billed as "one of the twelve men who understands Einstein." Although Campbell was the faculty favorite for the top administrative job, he was neither politically astute nor administratively skilled, and the regents frequently interfered with his control. Nor was he popular with the students; some indeed commented that he looked at them as though "through the wrong end of a telescope." THE SOCIAL CONTEXT: THE BREAKDOWN OF SOLIDARITY

Presidential personalities were, however, but one factor to be understood in accounting for the changes in authority which took place in the 1920s. The very basis of paternalistic self-government began to fall apart. Evidence of change was everywhere. New groups emerged which no longer shared in the former rich commonality of interest and outlook. The Great California spirit declined. The Student Affairs Committee was at first criticized, then ignored. The honor system lost its grip. Class traditions which had been crucial to senior control withered away: the seniors no longer wore their special hats, and their bench was suddenly "overlooked, rejected, . . . the resting place for sparrows." 3 The students were very much aware that things had gone wrong. "Something has changed in the spirit of the University. Perhaps it was the war, . . . the large enrollment, . . . etc. Whatever it is, the student body feels as much responsibility as a bunch of youngsters making mud pies in the backyard." 4 In 1924, every candidate for the ASUC ran on a platform promising campus unity and the end of indifference. But their platforms were useless; the very nature of the institution was undergoing transformation and the mere platforms of student politicans could not bring back the prewar years. Increasing size was partly responsible for the change. In 1917, Cal students numbered 6,000; within three years they numbered 10,700. Although it is difficult to measure the specific effects of size, the rapid growth seems to have added to the breakdown of community solidarity; it certainly intensified the financial problems. Editorials about alienation and impersonality at the university became more frequent. Even 3 4

Daily Daily

Californian, March 16, 1922. Calif ornian, August 20, 1920.

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the seniors did not know each other—to correct this, they tried to institute a policy whereby all seniors would greet each other when meeting on campus—and the freshmen appeared totally lost. One reason for the establishment of the Dean of Men's office was to offset the impersonality which was attributed to university growth. Furthermore, the growing demands on the president limited his time with students. Finally, with an enrollment of 10,000 it was easier for the students to build and sustain at least a few pockets of dissent. Only 1 percent of 10,000 would equal 100 students, and this number is more than enough to establish a publication, pass out leaflets, arrange for meetings, etc. For the first time in the history of the University of California, students began to rebel about something other than football rallies and freshman-sophomore rushes. And not only in Berkeley, but all over the country, there sprang up a new kind of rebellion—"against cultural barbarism, against aggrandizement of fraudulent gods, against the shackles imposed by the ideology of success." 5 The young rebels, who, though small in number, were highly vocal and influential, were not rooted in political radicalism but in literary dissent. As one contemporary radical observer, Norman Thomas, put it, "The prophet of the minority of youth is Mencken, not Marx." 6 Still, the fight against provincialism did raise fundamental issues of a sort which quickly led to new tensions within the university. Underlying the new problems was the fact that students were very quick to reflect the more liberal literary and moral standards while the administrators, subject to public pressures and personally adhering to more traditional codes, were shocked. The quick translation of personal shock into restrictive action brought a prompt student counterattack. There are any number of accounts of the deepening rift between officials and students. The following is a fairly typical example. In 1925 the students scheduled a debate: "Resolved, that the family is unnecessary to the progress of civilization." President Campbell thought the topic smacked of free love and suppressed it. The debating commissioner, Harely, quickly acquiesced to the administration's demands, and urged the students to do the same: "It seems most unfortunate that there should appear any dissenting opinion with regard to President Campbell's attitude in this matter, . . . [since the] subject would 5 James Wechsler, Revolt on the Campus (New York: Covivi-Friede, 1935), p. 39. 'Quoted in Wechsler, p. 39.

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have involved difficulties before a public audience. . . . President Campbell's action should be regarded as one intended to guide a group of students [who were] supporting a discussion not proper for the University platform." 7 As Harley saw it, the issue involved neither free speech, academic freedom, or the jurisdiction of presidential authority. It was simply a question of what was "proper for the University platform"; and the president had ultimate authority over matters of this sort.8 However, the students were no longer willing to accept presidential guidance unquestioningly, not to mention authority. Some thought a deeper issue of free speech was involved. As the editor of a local newspaper rather snidely said, "The 'free speech' exhorters, always eager for some straw to grasp, found here a boon of which they made the most." 9 Other newspapers held that "free thinkers" were behind the conflict. Free thinkers, like the latter-day hippies, was the catch-all journalistic term for the dissenting minority of college students. Free thinkers meant atheists, un-Americans, antiprohibitionists, free-love advocates, and other practitioners of enticing evils which a puritan public could find on the campus. Although the debate controversy faded, the incident highlights the changing relations between university authorities and the new type of dissenting students. An articulate few were no longer willing to bury their differences for the sake of loyalty to the university and its best interests. In fact, they had become quite sarcastic: "The debaters having exhausted the ten questions they had been debating since 1904, and being familiar with certain Platonic heresies, . . . proposed to examine . . . the mere necessity of the family as an institution. Through force of habit, the University authorities suppressed the affair." 10 7

Daily Californian, November 20, 1925. 'There is an interesting sidelight to this problem. In the middle of the dispute, Campbell sought advice from Dean of Men Hildebrand, who suggested that the president prepare a statement on classroom freedom which would at the same time reserve the president's right to approve or disapprove anything discussed on any public platform on campus. About ten years later, Dean Hildebrand himself would draft a very similar statement which would become general policy. Called Regulation 5, this policy would determine the use of university facilities for thirty years. More specifically, the policy directly related to the Free Speech Movement of 1964 actually made its first appearance in 1925. 8 The Vallejo (California) Chronicle, November 28, 1928. "Editorial in The Occident, March 1926. Throughout the country, as well as at the University of California, conflicts over what constitutes good taste

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Again, Berkeley was not alone in this experience. Throughout the country, the struggle between the small-town puritan way of life was coming into conflict with the more liberal cosmopolitanism. Since the more sensitive and well-informed students are always quick to emulate the latest fashions in literature, living styles, and political trends, campuses are a major battleground for this sort of conflict between cultures. Then, as now, the better students prided themselves on adhering to the new cultural standards. For example, they were among the first to copy the sarcastic, anti-middle class stance characteristic of Menckenism. Furthermore, national student organizations and publications such as the New Student were being formed, and the major universities began to use each other as reference groups. Student involvement in national politics did not cause any major problems, but a review of the political scene of the 1920s provides helpful background information. The 1920 campaign inspired the most intensive activity of the decade, an activity mainly attributable to the Mills Bill, which was a constitutional amendment to increase university revenue. Newspapers were contacted; county organizations established by students, faculty, and administration; thousands of letters sent home; and to top it off, General Barrows' friend Hap Arnold, supplied U.S. Army airplanes for leafleting the more remote towns in the state. In mobilizing for the Mills Bill, the students also organized clubs which met on campus, used the university name in their literature, and sent their memberships out to campaign in the surrounding communities. It was said that student orators talked to 1,500 people each day in the Bay Area. 11 appear to have reached their peak about 1924. Campbell was so concerned over such problems that he felt compelled to discuss the situation with the governor, observing that "several fold as many issues involving normal artistic and intellectual issues were raised in one year as the two preceding years combined." He then went on to point out that he would never allow students to "represent the University upon a low plane of ethical and technical merit." Presidential Reports, 1924-1926, p. xi. James Wechsler notes that after 1924 conformity and conservatism set in on American campuses. Wechsler, p. 32. 11 The university ran into a little trouble over its intensive campaign. Seavy, on the powerful State Board of Control, accused the university administration of coercing students into supporting the bill. Also, the Daily News, a workingman's paper, charged that the bill would take control of the university out of the hands of the people. Similarly, organized capital, the old Hiram Johnson machine, the powerful Southern Pacific Railroad, and the various agricultural organizations opposed the bill. Daily Californian, November 8, 1920. Perhaps in reaction to all such complaints, a bill was introduced into the

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However, because of the Mills Bill no doubt, the campaign of 1920 was an exception. Off-year elections inspired little action, and even the presidential contest of 1924 between Coolidge, Davis, and LaFollett could not move the lethargic majority. In view of the issues at that time, the campus apathy is somewhat surprising. Extremism was rampant; the KKK blazed through the Middle West; and reds, radicals, and anarchists were thought to be lurking in the shadows of every social problem. The Daily Californian expressed the anxious mood of the times in its cartoon series, "Billy Stiff." Billy Stiff was a typical Cal undergraduate who had been hired by the government to do undercover investigations of the "Bolsheviks" and "bomb throwers." In all likelihood, the placid indifference dominating the campus came from student conservatism. In the 1924 election 75 percent of the student straw vote went for Coolidge (while nationally he received only 54 percent), and neither the socialist nor the Communist candidate garnered a single campus vote. Even the 1928 presidential election between Al Smith and Herbert Hoover—which brought color and exciting bigotry to the national political scene—did not have an especially stimulating effect on the campus.12 What about campus radicalism in the 1920s? When a contemporary observer asks an alumnus of that period, he will probably be told about Herman Meyling. Old, spastic Herman, who spoke with a heavy German accent, would wobble up Telegraph Avenue pulling a red toy wagon filled with radical literature, and park himself outside Sather Gate (the main entrance to the campus). Combining radicalism with self-interest, the old man sold his books and pamphlets in the vain hope of raising enough money to return to his German sweetheart whom he had not heard from in fifteen years. Sometimes students would set his state legislature in 1923 which would have made the regents an elective body and reduced their terms from sixteen to eight years. Behind this attack were labor and agricultural interests, moved to act at least in part by the big business background of the regents. 12 There is contradictory evidence about the use of facilities during the period of this campaign. The student newspaper discussed various scheduled meetings and speakers, yet there exists a letter from the dean of students to president Sproul, dated February 16, 1932: "No permission for rooms . . . would have been given to the 'Vote for Hoover' Club or the 'Al Smith Boosters' or even the 'Drys' or the 'Wets' meeting separately." (Quoted in Robert Johnson, "Traditional University of California Policies Regarding the Use of Its Facilities and the Conduct of Its Students," an unpublished report dated March 11, 1965, available in the President's Office.) Apparently the dean was mistaken in his report to Sproul.

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wagon on fire and make sport of the old man as he flitted about trying to stamp out the flames. Eventually he was incarcerated and given an insanity trial. Old alumni still recall Meyling, and if there were other campus radicals, they are seldom mentioned and never remembered. The most significant campus political event of the late 1920s did not even involve the students. On October 18, 1928, a group of professors and deans sent the Berkeley Gazette a copy of their telegram in support of A1 Smith. Forty of the 48 signers prefixed their names with "Professor" or "Dean," although they did not directly affiliate themselves with the University of California. Campbell was irate all the same, and wrote the Gazette insisting they had introduced the name of the university into a political campaign: "I am trying to keep the University out of politics. . . . [The] University is a state institution. . . . I regret some members were so thoughtless and inconsiderate as to use their academic titles to lend weight to the political views they hold." The professors replied that Campbell was wrong, and that in any event he had not even held a hearing on the matter. The Daily Californian sided with the professors on the specific issue, although somewhat ambiguously. The editor's statement, which perhaps reveals one reason for the campus political lethargy, held that in an otherwise "stupid" campaign one might expect "reason [at least] from the University." Instead there was silence, "silence produced by fear of the attitude of the administration exemplified by President Campbell. . . . Professors refuse to express themselves because of fear of official censure." The remarks were probably well founded since even the campus political clubs had great difficulty getting speakers and sponsors.13 Yet for all their basic political noninvolvement, paradoxically student concern for the larger world increased in the 1920s, and the change had enormous consequences for the campus. As students began to mirror the hostilities and conflicts of the outer world, the student body itself became more sophisticated, more controversial, and more divided within itself. It would take the Depression to finally and very forcefully drive home the fact that the university was inextricably involved in the whole society, but such awareness certainly began in the 1920s. To grasp the extent of the social transformation, let us consider again, for a moment, the life of the freshman of 1912. The university seemed to him quite isolated from the state, and the state from the "Gazette article quoted in the Daily Californian, October 31, 1928.

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country. The train trip across the country still took four long days. The Orient was three weeks away, and the Atlantic crossing took seven days. Prior to World War I, events in these faraway, foreign places seemed to have small effect on the local campus. Then all at once, so it seemed, an almost unbelievable revolution in transport and communications had shrunk geographical distances, making physical isolation a thing of the past. As late as 1920, the Daily Cal was still commenting on each appearance of an airplane over the campus. Ten years later the airlines were an established fact, and airmail was taken for granted. In October 1928, students watched the Graf Zeppelin fly over the Golden Gate, reducing the time necessary for global circumnavigation from months to days. Telephones were a commonplace. And in 1930, some 20,000 cars converged into a massive traffic jam trying to get to the Big Game. The airplane, the telephone, the news wires, the auto and paved roads, and the movies brought the campus into society, and the society onto the campus. Suddenly China was only five days away by air, and by radio no farther than the neighboring town of Oakland. The student newspaper was hooked into the national news wires, and front-page emphasis changed from football and rallies to politics and world events. Debates and discussions became more common. The Occident emulated the modern writers, and student publications such as the Laughing Horse began to publish writers not only outside of, but even hostile to, what they felt was the typical campus life. Gradually, under the sophisticated and cynical glances of students schooled in the literature of F. Scott Fitzgerald and sharpened by the sarcasm of H. L. Mencken, the provincially oriented collegiate culture with its post-adolescent concerns withered away. The jean-clad sophomore became painfully aware of his cloddishness in comparison with the suave, debonair Oxford debaters successfully arguing against prohibition. Because students were taking sides on issues, experimenting with new moral standards, and writing more sophisticated articles, the public renewed its interests in the university. Pejorative reports about petting parties, women smokers, and drinkers in general became common newspaper copy in the early 1920s. The keynote for the breakdown of solidarity and the common culture was set by the editor of the Occident: "The University of California student body is no longer cemented. It lacks organized solidarity necessary to instill and maintain the true California Spirit." 14 The honor sys14

Editorial in The Occident, April 1921.

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tem against cheating which heavily depended on community solidarity ran into serious problems. Some thought that codification of the system would help; others argued for a freshman course in California traditions. At least one professor was apparently willing to sacrifice classroom time to invoke the old Cal spirit: "Kindled by fiery challenges from the lips of Dean Paul F. Cadman who addressed his class in Econ IB, a reminder of the old-time California spirit burst forth when a roomful of students thundered out 'Fight for California' in support of the California varsity football team. . . . Cadman himself started the singing as he concluded a stirring talk." 16 But not everyone thought the "old-time California spirit" was worth reviving; some even thought it stupid. The country was in the middle of a deep recession, but the old spirit was supposed to support the construction of a million dollar football stadium. Such exaggerations led one writer for the Brass Tacks to object that he was tired of getting behind every "ridiculous idea" in the name of the California spirit and that he was fed up with remarks such as, "Gee, these Bolshevikee people make me sick," or "he hasn't any California spirit." 16 Significantly, the undergraduate class structures, which had been central to paternalistic self-government, lost their power. It will be remembered that self-government and senior control were once interchangeable phrases, yet in the 1920s the senior class no longer had any distinctive identity and observers were continually bemoaning the apathy of the fourth-year man. Other traditions were also dying, and their demise was a constant theme. Many customs and celebrations were no longer spontaneous outpourings of the spirit but had to be artificially blown up by oratory. As early as 1922, one Daily Cal editor was arguing that if the "silly old traditions" no longer fit the reality of student life, then they should be gotten rid of. A few months later, he even suggested that the all-university meetings be dropped for lack of interest. In the same vein, small turnouts at the once mighty rallies were lamented. Toward the end of the decade, even the freshmen began to ask wistfully about why there was no hazing. Fewer and fewer students at15

Daily Californian, November 10, 1926. Quoted in Wechsler, p. 42. Cadman was now acting dean of men, and his name will appear in the next chapter also as one of the three authors of the all-important Regulation 5. 18 Brass Tacks, November 23, 1921 (University of California Archives). It is interesting that as early as 1921 dissenters were being called Bolsheviks. While the accusation was not serious in this case, the pattern of labelling dissenters as conspirators was taking shape.

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tended class dances, and the Senior Singings were almost completely dead by 1929. The great California spirit was indeed quite "cloaked with indifference" by this time. Ironically, the very success of certain collegiate activities and traditions began to undercut their contribution to community solidarity. A student could be lured into activities solely for the sake of money— "gravy," as the students called it—and not from any "torrent of unselfish devotion." In 1923, the Blue and Gold yearbook made a profit of $9,000. The manager, the editor, and the class split the profit three ways. In other words, the editor and the manager of the yearbook both earned $200 more than their assistant professors that year! 17 The same professionalization and profit motive swept through organized athletics and the ASUC. Athletics became big business after the completion of Memorial Stadium in 1923 at a cost of over $1,000,000. Still, there seemed to be enough sentiment—despite the corrosive effects of financial self-interest—to consecrate the field with the ashes of Coach Andy Smith. The annual ASUC income by 1922 was $1,250,000 to $1,500,000 a year, while the co-op store that year made a profit of $48,000 on a gross of $400,000. One further factor contributing to the decline of collegiate culture was the rapidly increasing proportion of graduate students. In ten years time, from 1920 to 1930, the proportion of graduate students doubled. (See Table 9.) The specific consequences of their larger numbers are difficult to trace, but it is clear that graduate students were not in any sense enthusiastic supporters of the collegiate culture. Graduate students in English also formed a nucleus of dissent through their activities in the English Club.

Table 9:

GRADUATE ENROLLMENT FOR BERKELEY CAMPUS ( I N PERCENT OF TOTAL ENROLLMENT)

Graduate Students Total Number of all Students SOURCE: 17

1900

1910

1920

1930

11 1,985

13 3,272

11 9,689

22 9,202

Centennial Record, p. 215

Campbell thought the students should earn no more than $600, and wrote as much to the dean of men. Campbell to Hildebrand, December 20, 1923, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File). Although detailed documents on the subject are hard to find, there is much comment suggesting that student leaders frequently made money on their activities.

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DECLINE OF STUDENT AUTHORITY, 1919-1930 T H E P A T T E R N OF A U T H O R I T Y : T H E P R E S I D E N T ' S R E S P O N S E TO S T U D E N T DISSENT

Although the conflicts seem minor by today's standards, the emergence of the new cultural and political issues, along with higher academic standards, prompted significant changes in the pattern of authority. Wheeler was the last president to affirm consistently the principle of character building. All who followed him in the presidency would place intellectual training above character. They would use the terms of moral education and claim to uphold the same values on ceremonial occasions, but they would not be willing to make the intellectual sacrifices necessary to fully implement the ideals of character building. In a sense, the University of California first became a secular university in the 1920s. It had always been more or less nondenominational, but it had never given up the aim of character training in terms of Christian Protestant morality. Protestant prohibitions against gambling, drinking, and sex persisted, but for different reasons than previously. They were upheld to only protect the institution from the public and not to save individual souls from sin. As early as 1919, academic standards were gradually tightened—a change which probably reflects the growing power of the professors. Under the new criterion of minimum scholarships, 387 students were disqualified. Using the old standards, only 265 would have been dismissed. In the eyes of the administration, better conduct was linked to better scholarship: "We believe that many problems of conduct and welfare will be solved in no way so effectively as by continuous effort to improve the academic standards of the University." 19 But the improvement of scholarship required more than just forcing students to get better marks and disqualifying nearly one-tenth of the student body; it also required cutting back on collegiate fun. President Campbell made this quite clear in his first Presidential Report: "Inasmuch as real study and reflection . . . demand tranquility of environment during many of the hours of the day and many days of the week, we have sought not only to eliminate physical noises from the campus, but to reduce to a minimum the number of distractions social and otherwise." Then, being very specific, Campbell added, "Student socializing should 18

Occident, April 22. " Presidential Reports, 1919-1920, p. 174. In 1921, 640 students were eliminated, and in 1923, 740 turned in their registration cards and headed for new occupations. J

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be limited to weekends." In the same report, the dean of the Undergraduate Division got right to the point about the conflict between activities and studies: "Much of the mediocre scholarship of our undergraduate student body is due to the actual conditions permeating the institution. The excessive attention given to undergraduate activities and social affairs among student organizations, and the relegation of scholarship to a secondary place by many students, are the chief cause of the conditions [of mediocre scholarship] to which I refer." 20 The time was long since gone when President Wheeler would proclaim that the "successful student" is one who "takes part in student sports and student affairs . . . [is] clean in manners, morals, and dress." Clear thinking, not cleanliness, was the new criterion of success. Although difficult to prove, the ascendance of science and the decline of the classics were probably a major cause for the lessening moral emphasis in a Cal education. After 1919, scientists became powerful members of the university. For example, the four leaders of the faculty revolt were all scientists—Hildebrand (chemistry); Louderback (geology); Lewis (chemistry); Leuschner (mathematics). Unlike Wheeler, who was a classicist, President Campbell was the most distinguished scientist in the university; and Hildebrand, the first dean of men in 1923, was an outstanding chemist.21 Science began to be regarded at this time as an amoral intellectual pursuit which stressed value neutrality, objectivity, and empirical verification. Certainly the scientific philosophy was indifferent if not antithetical to character building, moral judgment, or political involvement. As for the rapid decline of the classics after about 1910, this is still another indicator that character building and the cultured-gentleman philosophy had fallen upon bad days. Greek and Latin had been the core of the traditional education of the whole man, as opposed to his mere intellectual training, but they were no longer popular subjects. The long-standing principle of protecting the university by controlling student behavior persisted throughout the 1920s. But in contrast to 20 Presidential Reports, 1922-1923 (Campbell's statement is found on p. 5, Putnam's on p. 28). The emphasis on scholarship probably reflects a faculty victory. Most professors never enjoyed the rah-rah aspect of college life, since it has always conflicted with their main interests—research and teaching. 21 The new scientific philosophy of the university, with all its implications, is an important theme in the next chapter. In 1934, Hildebrand drafted the policy which proclaimed the neutrality of the university in religious and political matters, basing his document on the scientific attitude and traditions of the German universities.

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earlier periods, protecting its best interests now implied the president's legal powers rather than cooperative action against a common threat. Increasingly, it meant that regardless of the students' wishes restrictive action would be taken by the administration to protect the institution. Where Wheeler could count on student loyalty to back up his decisions, his successors could not, and they more and more tended to stress their legal responsibilities at the expense of student authority. When General Barrows insisted that there were "few or no rules governing student conduct other than that the student's behavior shall be for the 'good of the University'," 22 the students quickly provided an opportunity to translate principles into action. The Pelican, the campus humor magazine, had launched one of its periodic assaults against good taste and, by implication, against the university's reputation. Although the ASUC had the power to appoint and fire the editors of the magazine, the Pelican was sponsored by the powerful and prestigious English Club, whose members decided to fight this outrageous "censorship." Their defenses, however, did not hold up long, for the ASUC was armed with the big guns of the president's office, and his mission, as stated, was to protect the institution. Barrows wrote to the English Club "the interests of the University and of student government are that the English Club activities and all other student activities on this campus should be under the general responsibility of the Executive Committee," explaining the reason for his "clear conclusion": "[The University's] reputation for good taste is to be maintained." He ended his letter with a statement that denied the whole spirit of Wheeler's philosophy: "I am acting fully within the powers of the president. . . . The English Club has rights—rights which should be most considerably treated; [but] it has no legal rights against the University itself." 23 Of course, the same was true under Wheeler, but he always avoided statements stressing his own legal powers over and " President's Report, 1921-1922. 21 Barrows to Baldwin MaGaw, September 28, 1922, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File). The tone in the exchange of letters is indicative of the changes in authority that were then taking place. MaGaw's initial letter to Barrows was conciliatory and even apologetic about the bad newspaper publicity that the Pelican had given the university. Barrows' reply was authoritarian and uncompromising. The students meanwhile were divided on the issue. The Daily Californian more or less supported the ASUC, and in a classic case of fence-straddling the editor pointed out that, while he disapproved of censorship, A S U C control would not mean censorship except in those cases which were "detrimental to the University." Daily Californian, October 10, 1922.

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above student responsibility. Barrows' letter unwittingly reveals that the common ground between students and the administration was by now greatly diminished, and that conflict not cooperation, legal power not commonality of interests were becoming the basis of government. The Pelican issue also gave rise to one of the first of a long series of complaints about administrative "hypocrisy." Members of the English Club pointed out that the ASUC sponsored the Men's Smokers, which frequently featured lewd performances, and that the president himself faithfully attended. While the club's facts were correct, their implications were not, since they failed to mention that the Pelican was public and the smokers more or less private. After Barrows stepped down, President Campbell reiterated the same principle—that of the administration's legal and moral responsibility to protect the institutional reputation—in a number of cases. For instance, following an extremely bitter fight with the semiannual humor paper, Raspberry Press, Campbell banned it, justifying his action in a letter to the Journalistic Society: Raspberry Press of the past have seriously violated the proprieties on this campus. . . . The people of the State of California and the Regents have not gone to the editors of the Raspberry Press and asked why such offenses have been committed; they have gone to the President. . . . In my opinion, the people of the State and the Regents of the University were absolutely right in their belief that the President was responsible.24 This compact statement, given near the end of Campbell's tenure, asserts the main conditions justifying this new use of university authority. First, students had violated public standards of taste, disturbing the people of the state and the regents and marring the already blemished university reputation. Second, the people and the regents had gone to the president, being "absolutely right in their belief that [he is] responsible" and, by implication, not the students. But for better understanding, the events should be translated into contemporary terminology. Protecting institutional reputation actually meant paying heed to and probably giving in to "outside pressure." If President Campbell were to return in the 1960s, he would no doubt be surprised to find students accusing the administration of "giving in to outside pressure." In his day, the vast majority took it for granted that the president heed the opinions M

Campbell to Journalistic Society, March 8, 1929, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File).

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of important people. Just who was "important" at any particular time is an interesting question. Both in principle and in practice the university in this period retained its wide authoritative jurisdiction over students. The principle of protecting the good name of the university logically justified strict surveillance of any student action which might upset a respectable and powerful segment of a largely conservative and puritanical public. In actual practice, the jurisdiction of university authority—whether exercised by students, faculty, or administration—probably increased. Constant public criticism of student life forced the authorities to be ever watchful and keenly sensitive to opprobrious behavior. Furthermore, with the establishment of the Office of the Dean of Men in 1923, administrative supervision became more efficient. Finally, the personal moral standards of President Campbell probably worked to extend authoritative jurisdiction. For example, in the late 1920s, he allegedly became so upset by the uninhibited sexuality of stray dogs on the campus that he issued a regulation banning them from the campus. Needless to say, he was personally shocked by Occident and Pelican articles reflecting the new literary tastes. Campbell acted quickly on his moral judgments. He had a habit of reading the local papers fairly thoroughly, and if he saw something he did not like, the dean of men would be informed. 25 One morning he read that a student had stolen a life preserver from the ferry boat. By 10:00 a.m., Dean Hildebrand had a note on his desk: "I do not know whether the University administration should give special attention to this case, . . . but I think the student self-government ought to take note of it and give sound and emphatic advice to the offenders." 26 Such cases were not uncommon, and they reveal the tone of the administration, and the wide scope of its authoritative jurisdiction. In the 1920s the use of university facilities by political groups began to emerge as an area of administrative jurisdiction.27 A one-sided "debate" against prohibition prompted Campbell, on his own and without regental advice, to issue a statement of policy on this matter: 28 ^Author's interview with Hildebrand, March 1967. 20 Campbell to Hildebrand, March 17, 1924, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File). 37 The administration's control over the use of facilities is mentioned here not because it was a particularly important aspect of authority in the 1920s, but because it emerges later on as the central problem of university administration. 38 Records of both open and executive sessions of regents' meetings about this time disclose no discussion of this issue.

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Concerning the Oxford-California symposium of January 19th on the prohibition question, I fear there is some misunderstanding as to my position. . . . The President's representative approved the application of the debating council for the use of Wheeler Auditorium to stage a debate. . . . The actual live-to-one symposium was a one-sided affair. . . . In the Presidential campaign last October the University was asked and pressed to assign a hall for the use of a speaker in behalf of Candidate LaFollette; we were also asked to assign rooms for speakers in behalf of other candidates, and we refused such requests. It is contrary to the policy of the University to provide such facilities for one-sided or partisan programs of that sort. The auditorium was provided, however, for a balanced program of speakers, representatives of the three leading candidates for the Presidency. . . . The wisdom of this policy must be clearly evident to all, . . . this policy provides adequately for "free speech." 29

Here, then, is the beginning of a general policy which will in later years direct decisions in the highly controversial matter of the use of facilities. The administration decides who shall be allowed to speak; a "balanced" program is required to remain nonpartisan. As we have seen, both President Barrows and President Campbell proclaimed their high regard for student self-government, but their actions often belied their proclamations. For one thing, the president had become the sole legal authority responsible for the governing of students. Whereas the Organic Acts had placed the faculty in charge of student discipline and internal governance, in April 1921 the faculty voted to withdraw itself from disciplinary functions. Although this was merely formal recognition of a situation which had existed for twenty years, it did strengthen the hand of the president. He could now defend his actions on the basis of legal authority, a defense which both Barrows and Campbell proceeded to use.30 For another, where Wheeler conveyed to the students a real sense of their own responsibility, neither Barrows nor Campbell worked as hard or as skillfully, or spent the time to gain the deep confidence of the stu29

Daily Californian, February 3, 1925. The faculty's abdication of disciplinary powers represents a victory for them, not a defeat. The faculty never wanted the policeman's job, regarding it as beneath their dignity. It also took time from their research, and made them the natural enemy of the students. Because the faculty forced students to work and because they handed out the grades, the two groups had always been at odds. Thus, for the faculty to add disciplinary functions to their professorial status only worsened matters. In the light of this experience, it seems paradoxical that the radical students of the 1960s wanted to take the disciplinary function away from the administration and turn it over to the faculty. 30

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dents. Even when Wheeler had to "guide" the students, he tried to operate through subtle personal influence rather than overt power. In sharp contrast to his persuasive approach, Barrows and Campbell always referred to their own legal responsibility. The change of emphasis was apparent as soon as Barrows took office.31 Just after the students had publicly stated that the president never overrides the decisions of the Student Affairs Committee, President Barrows felt obliged to correct the record by pointing out that he had the final responsibility. "He [the President] is entirely responsible to the Regents, the senate, and the student concerned. He is also undoubtedly legally responsible, should the action taken [by the students] fail to be within the procedure laid down for conduct of public educational institutions." 32 Again, the statement said nothing that was not already known, but the authoritarian tone signaled a break with the past. And Campbell was even more blunt than Barrows had been. "The President is, and must be, and should insist that he be, responsible for all [student] organizations permitted to function." 33 These were assuredly not the phrases of Wheeler, whose style always emphasized the spirit of cooperation. Still a third action testifying to changes in university authority was the restriction of the autonomy of the ASUC. The history of student government in this period is complicated, for the official jurisdiction of the Associated Students expanded, while its actual autonomy, paradoxically, contracted. In April 1922, with only 10 percent of the votes turning out (1,026) a new constitution was approved which gave the Ex Com (the ASUC Executive Committee) the power to coordinate all student activities. On the surface, this looks like an extension of student power, but subsequent events suggest the opposite. Justified on the basis of the new constitution and supported by President Barrows, the ASUC moved to take over the English Club and its publications. The move was clearly an attempt to regulate the content of the Pelican and Occident. Then, to further extend its power, the ASUC passed a resolution giving itself control over "any dramatic or other entertainment on 31 The reader should not assume that Barrows and Campbell had a low regard for students and were therefore simply out to increase their own power and prestige. Rather, the whole situation of the university and the nature of the student body had changed since Wheeler. This chapter is an attempt both to show the change of authority and to assign some reasons for this change. 33 Quoted in Teresa Sevilla, "Student Authority," an unpublished dissertation, University of California at Berkeley, 1968, p. 243. 33 Ibid., p. 245.

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the campus." President Barrows' great interest in extending the powers of the A S U C derived from no strong affection for student self-government. Indeed, he hardly mentioned the subject in his letter to the English Club. Rather, he rested his case on the Pelican's impairing the reputation of the university. T o put it simply, the A S U C was the administration's tool for cleaning up the dirty magazine. T w o other circumstances also indicate the increased administrative control over the A S U C . N o t only did the dean of men, whose office was created in 1923, spend a good deal of time on A S U C matters, but the administration acted to take over the critical job of supervising A S U C finances. A constitutional amendment was passed "making the comptroller of the University [Robert Sproul] the treasurer of the ASUC, and setting up a finance committee, with duties of preparing the budget and

advising

matters."

the

Executive

Committee

in

regard

to

financial

34

Finally, there is a fourth event signaling the decline of self-government. The once proud Student Affairs Committee faded into oblivion. Under Wheeler, the six senior men on that committee had stood at the pinnacle of student prestige and power, but in August 1929 the Daily Cal editor described them as a "little known committee." In 1 9 2 4 the committee was still active—it tried 106 cases—but its proximate demise was indicated by the fact that the administration itself disciplined 7 4 students for "neglect of university regulations." 34

35

Presidential Reports, 1924-1926, p. 229. In all likelihood, the administration was motivated to remove the $40,000 debt accumulated by the ASUC. With football's burgeoning popularity and the building of the new stadium, athletic events had recently become very big business. Furthermore, the ASUC was currently raising money to build the new Henry Morse Stephens Student Union, which was completed in 1923 at a cost of $310,000. The ASUC itself raised $225,000 of this amount. Henry Morse Stephens was previously mentioned as a champion of the student self-government, "father of the freshman class," speaker at the freshman rallies, personal friend of Wheeler, etc. 35 Figures from the Presidential Reports, 1924, p. 28. If all the reported cases of discipline and sanctions for that year are added up, it amounts to a rather large number—74 for "neglect of University regulations" and 106 tried by the Student Affairs Committee, which amount to a total of 180 cases. Seven of these portended future problems, since they concerned the refusal to march with the ROTC. Students could not get a release from ROTC at Cal on any ground—even religion—and President Campbell got into some trouble because of this. In November 1925, Leon Elliott Gold was expelled for refusal to participate in the military exercises. The expulsion became a public issue, with Campbell arguing that the ROTC was compulsory under federal law. The Occident had already pointed out that this was not the case. But Campbell

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The inability of the honor system to prevent classroom cheating was the clearest evidence of the committee's failure. Cheating had always been their chief concern, and many campus observers saw the honor system, enforced by the students, as the very foundation of student self-government. However, it began to falter, and stop-gap measures such as signing noncheating pledges in the back of exam booklets were not working. Even pep talks by the Daily Cal editors could not revive the ailing system. Thus, after a good deal of debate, the Academic Senate voted on January 30, 1928, to repeal regulation 8444, which had recommended that the faculty absent themselves from examination rooms. In its formal acknowledgement of student failure to handle a major discipline problem,36 this action by the senate was a major blow to both the honor system and the Student Affairs Committee. There were several precedent-setting cases which further emasculated the committee and showed they could not be trusted to handle the really big campus problems. The administration valued fast, effective discipline over student self-government. Just as a series of student decisions, beginning with the great Whipple case, had built up trust and confidence in the students' capacity for self-government, these cases show the erosion of trust and the decline of autonomous responsibility. The first serious blow came in 1920. The Skull and Keys Honor Society had performed obscene initiation rites which, by any standards, were in poor taste. Normally, the students handled such violations of propriety, but in this case two members of the Student Affairs Committee were also members of the Skull and Keys. The committee turned the problem over to the faculty. Their action did not lead to an open jurisdictional dispute, but it did undermine confidence in the committee. In 1925-1926, the committee suffered another serious setback when Campbell was finally able to strike a hard blow for morality and crush would not rescind his decision, and further observed that in his experience those who dislike R O T C "have names, as well as thoughts, which seem to have come recently from Russia or thereabouts." Daily Californian, January 10, 1926. 88 The withering honor spirit is an important indicator of the decline of mechanical solidarity at this time. The honor system, which included both the detection and the reporting of fellow students, depended on a class community where the students knew one another and where they would stand behind any fellow student who accused another of cheating. Every loyal Cal man had to be a policeman, who would place community loyalty over and above the norm of not telling on his fellow students. Without community support, of course, the self-appointed policeman is hardly the great protector of the university's best interests and all that is good and noble, but merely a tattletale.

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the Occident for four years. The struggle had actually begun in 1922 when Barrows forced the magazine off campus. Capitalizing on its offcampus freedom, the Occident became a lively publication noted for its loyal opposition to university policies, its high literary tastes, and its stylish modern art. But serious trouble surfaced again in September 1925 when the editor, Lewis Russell, allowed publication of an issue with some off-color remarks in it.37 He was threatened with disciplinary action, but nothing came of it. Then, two months later, the Occident published "Immanuel" wherein God and Joseph discuss the parentage of Jesus. Campbell was deeply shocked, and his own shock reverberated in letters sent by dozens of irate citizens. The Student Affairs Committee took up the issue, but they recommended a punishment for Russell which Campbell thought too lenient. After reconsidering, the committee told Russell to resign, which he refused to do. In defense of editorial freedom, the entire English Club, not just the Occident which was already off campus, voted to leave the university premises. Three young professors presented the resolution to move. "It was the first time in the history of the University that professors had led students in revolt against the student governing body." 38 However, the administration did not give up the fight, and in the spring of 1926 they were able finally to kill the magazine. Russell had published an article called "Green" by Tom Tomson, which was about a sensitive young farm boy who was disgusted by the crude sexual exploits of his fraternity brothers. The most "vile" passage told of a fraternity boy parking his car and sharing a little bootleg booze with his girl; then "the second drink had loosened her up and it had been a cinch." 39 Campbell was offended and furious. In order to mobilize support in his fight against Russell, and also in order to head off the effect of Russell's father visiting the governor, Campbell wrote the governor himself: "The article 'Green' is unbelievably vile. The extracts from it, which describe two imaginary cases of sex immorality of the extreme type, compose the most obscene reading that has ever fallen to me as a duty." 40 The governor was equally shocked—or so he said. "The arti" Russell was supported by socialist muckracker Upton Sinclair, w h o telegraphed Campbell saying that if anything happened to Russell, he, Sinclair, would go to the newspapers. Telegram, Sinclair to Campbell, September 23, 1925, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File). 38 San Francisco Examiner, February 6, 1926. 39 This is probably the most objectionable passage in the whole article and has been included here to give some idea of the standards of the time. "Campbell to Russell, April 29, 1926, University of California Archives

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cle is so vile that a term in jail is too little punishment for the writer." Whether or not Campbell got the idea from the governor is hard to say, but the president now had a weapon—the threat of jail—by which he removed Russell once and for all. Still buried within the files is a sealed, stamped, and postmarked edition of the March 1926 Occident. If Russell had not left the university, this was to have been the critical piece of evidence in a lawsuit charging Russell with sending obscene literature through the United States mails. Fearing the threat of jail, he left, and the Occident died with his resignation. But in the last edition the editors fired a parting shot that was to be re-echoed by future dissenters: "We found that it was money and not light that the University most wanted." The Occident case is significant, for the entire situation was handled by the president's office. The students were supposed to reprimand Russell, but as soon as Campbell disagreed with the Student Affairs Committee, he simply ignored it. Clearly, the president did not think the students were capable of handling the really important cases affecting the entire institution.41 Probably the greatest single setback to self-government occurred in 1927, when Vice President Hart's "Gyp was Bared" by the editors of the Raspberry Press. The headlines ran "Hart's Gyp Bared," "Dean Ponzi Socks the University for 25 Simoleons; Small Fortune Asked by the Mogul for Lousy Lot," and the article went on, "Dean Vice President Walter Morris Hart, Ph.D., BS, Sol, cops the baby's elephant for hornswoggling innocent folks out of their coin. . . . It all started when Johnny Rockefeller gave the University $1,750,000 for the International House." 42 Campbell was neither amused by the language nor appreciative of the revelation. He provided a quick lesson in good taste (Dean of Men's File). Campbell had the "vile" passages carried personally to the governor, saying he was afraid to send the article through the mails. This personal delivery also ties into his lawsuit strategy against Russell (see below). a The case reveals much else besides the decline of student self-government: ( 1 ) The faculty supported the students against the administration; ( 2 ) the administration clearly felt responsible for anything which reflected on the university; ( 3 ) the students were placing aesthetic standards and free speech above institutional loyalty; ( 4 ) the university was caught between the changing mores of the younger generation and the traditional norms held by the public; ( 5 ) the public considered the administration responsible (in loco parentis) for all student actions, a view shared by the president. 42 The local newspapers picked up the story, and the Daily Californian claimed the accusation was based on fact. The editor of the Daily Calif ornian was then suspended for his defense of Raspberry, but he argued that the real issue was whether or not the Raspberry Press accusation was correct.

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by banning the publication and removing the editors of the Daily Cal and the Raspberry Press. The ASUC immediately saw in Campbell's impatient move a death blow to the ailing student government, and fired off a letter to him. "The action of the President in refusing to admit jurisdiction of the ASUC Student Affairs Committee with respect to the alleged offense . . . is contradictory to the unbroken precedent established in the administration of President Wheeler and is inconsistent with student government." 43 Although the students were wrong about the unbroken precedent, they were correct in principle. Campbell's action was indeed a precedent-setting case, and his decision did violate Wheeler's tradition of student self-government. Most important, Campbell himself quite explicitly used the case to limit the role of student government. His reply was more than a specific response to a single action; it was a general statement of policy: The real question is, shall similar cases be referred to the Student Affairs Committee for all time? A decision to that effect would be equivalent to saying that a student of any campus of the University of California may publicly and in print attack the good name and the motives of a member of the faculty, deans, regents, etc., and be amendable only to the Student Affairs Committee. . . . The University of California is not administrable on that principle.44 The president further argued that the students could not try other students in those cases involving the faculty's, the administration's, or the regents' good names and reputations. There were far-reaching implications in Campbell's policy. In effect, he denied students the right to publicly criticize the good name or motives of members of the institution. They either had to remain silent regarding the faculty, administration, and regents or say something nice about them. Furthermore, if they violated this policy, the administration, not the students, would take charge of the case. The students argued that such a policy would make student government a sham. But Campbell was not cowed by student recalcitrance, and four months later he banned the Raspberry Press and its sister publication the Dill Pickle, both for their displays of poor taste. Once more Campbell had moved fast, and moved alone. "All administrative actions taken, were 43

ASUC to Campbell, December 13, 1927, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File). "Campbell to ASUC, January 4, 1928, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File).

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taken by me without consulting Dean Hart, Woods, or anybody else." 45 Thus by the end of the decade, the Student Affairs Committee was no longer a very important agent of control. The president and his representatives were now the agents of discipline, with the faculty in charge of classroom honesty. Procedures The operating procedures of both the Student Affairs Committee and the administration remained informal. As the cited cases show, normal procedure for the administration was to act as they saw fit, the only guarantee of fairness being the personal integrity of the officials. It will be recalled that the procedures of the Student Affairs Committee were quite simple. The accused student would be called before the committee and asked to present his side of the case; then further evidence would be obtained, a sentence passed, and recommendations sent to the president. However, a growing number of prominent students were becoming disillusioned with the lack of due process. These students were not just the alienated underground, but reputable student leaders. For example, when a defeated candidate for the ASUC presidency was called before the committee and accused of foul campaign tactics, he found none other than his political rivals sitting in judgment on him as members of the committee. Naturally, he asked for a public hearing, which, of course, was denied. To add insult to injury, his "trial" received a great deal of publicity, while the verdict "not guilty" was hardly noted. 46 Standards The suddenly modern and sophisticated student of the 1920s reflected liberalized moral standards and the decline of the puritan ethic. Across the nation the salvation of the collegians was becoming a grave public concern. As F. Scott Fitzgerald was making very clear in such a book as This Side of Paradise, coeds were kissing before becoming engaged and sometimes on the first or second date. In fact, students were everywhere openly rebelling against the old standards. "Confused, disappointed, duped, the 'younger generation,' or a substantial part of it, determined to set out for itself along those paths most repugnant to 45

Campbell to Sibley, May 21, 1928, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File). 40 Brass Tacks, November 30,1921.

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its elders. . . . It was a busy season for soul savers. Societies for the Protection of Seduced Youth sprang up everywhere to warn of doom." 47 Increasingly the standards of conduct were derived from the public reaction to newspaper accounts of student capers. Although the actual standards were never written down or otherwise formalized, President Barrows had made them abundantly clear ("We have no specific rules of behavior. Conduct is judged as it reflects on the institution, good or bad"). If the public complained, the officials would act. In effect, Barrows was admitting that public opinion and outside pressure would set the standards for judging student behavior. President Campbell was so concerned with newspaper criticism that he felt compelled to explain the attacks in his report to the governor: "In nearly all cases the reports (especially on prohibition) are exaggerated, especially in the headlines; and in some cases the printed reports have not been justified in fact." 48 Since the messages to the governor only hit the highlights of university affairs, the mere mention of the newspaper problem suggests the seriousness with which public relations was regarded. The Occident obscenity crises provide an excellent example of this concern. The issue aroused literally dozens of mothers and ministers to write the president. The following is typical: I have a son and daughter attending the university. . . . I believe that the authorities of your University have been very lax and slow about punishment of these t w o young m e n [the editor Russell and the author T o m Tomson]. . . . The public demands their dismissal for the c o m m o n good not only of the thousands of students, but for the citizens of our beloved city. . . . I am only one of the thousands of mothers crying out because of the undoing of the teachings of the home. 4 9 " Wechsler, p. 25. '"Presidential Reports, 1924-1926. 49 A "mother" to Campbell, November 1925, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File). Not everyone took such letters seriously, but the editors of the Occident were somewhat amused by these communications and reprinted another one which beautifully captures the mood of public opinion toward the school, the issues of the 1920s, and some fundamental notions about the function of public education. The letter is quoted in full just as it appeared in the Occident of March 1926: Dear Mr. Russell: I see by the examiner that you have been suppressed. I am greatly pleased to learn that the University under Dr. Campbell has taken steps to change things there. I have heard personally that you are not good, a drunkard and don't believe in God.

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President Campbell was certainly not one to undo "the teachings of the home," and he sincerely felt the public was completely justified in holding him responsible for the "filth" pouring out from student publications. A s he, himself, had said, "The people . . . were absolutely right in their belief that the President was responsible [for offenses of an obscene character]."

50

But there was a new twist to the old problem. Despite the self-righteous official concern, students were n o longer willing to accept administrative-public standards. While dissent still was limited to a sophisticated few, w h o opposed the president o n the basis of aesthetic tastes, a new attitude was gradually taking hold. In 1923, the same year that Sinclair Lewis published Main Street, the Occident

picked up the theme of

lowbrow versus highbrow culture. In the eyes of the new writers the basic split was between the elite and the masses, between the new literary tastes and the old middle-class conservatism. T h e most serious attack o n the administration's standards came from a small publication called Laughing

Horse. Printed o n brown wrapping

I would not let you be known to either of my daughters whom I am proud to say are good girls. If you were not a flapper but a hundred percent American you would believe in war. If your country was invaded you would lie down like a dog and run away and let the women save your skin, which we would not do, Thank God. You believe in apes. You are one. If all those girls up there at college would not wear skirts showing their bare legs it would be better for all concerned, and always going to dances and flirting with men on the street car, even with my husband who has daughters of his own. It has gone far enough when young jumping jacks like you make fun of the President of the school who is old enough to buy and sell you. And I hope you are punished as you deserve. We do not send such as you to go to school and get Bolshivick ideas, and what was good enough for us is good enough for you. Anyway you ought to be out doing hard work instead of running to football games and making fun of sacred things. I have read both your papers from a friend of my daughters and I think your poetry is rotten to the core. I am not a reading women but I know what is rotten when I see it. If that is the way they teach you its too bad you can't make the words rhyme. Anyway, its no place for that, but to study hard and fix yourself to be a doctor, lawyer, etc. Everything is there—prohibition, evolution, literary taste, respect for authority, philosophy of education, antipacifism, girl's fashions, anti-Communism, and veiled sex. It is clear from such letters that Campbell was not alone in his decency campaign against the Occident. "Previously quoted (see note 32, this chapter). The phrase in brackets is his own; it appears earlier in this statement and is inserted here to clarify the meaning.

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paper, the Laughing Horse galloped onto the scene in 1923. One of the most remarkable literary publications in the history of the university, it was of high quality, and it was bitter. Its purpose was destructive criticism which, in view of the great value placed upon loyalty, was the ultimate heresy. Its contents made it the campus version of H. L. Mencken and Upton Sinclair. As Roy Chancelor, the editor, put it, "This magazine is designed as a healthful reaction to the whole timid, vacillating conservative spirit over this land." 51 After printing a letter from D. H. Lawrence—Lawrence satirically suggested castrating a bad author— the magazine was banned from the campus and the editor expelled. But killing the Laughing Horse did not end the conflicts over aesthetics, nor indeed end that particular dispute. Chancelor claimed that politics was the real reason for his problems with the administration. He said the magazine had actually been suppressed for its publication of excerpts from Upton Sinclair's forthcoming book, The Goose Step in American Education, in which the author alleged that President Wheeler had suppressed and insulted faculty members in order to please rich donors, that the regents, in conjunction with the American Legion, had established undercover student investigators, and that General Barrows, who had urged intervention into the Mexican Revolution, had large real estate holdings in that country.

INSTITUTIONAL N E E D S A N D P U B L I C RELATIONS

As the presidents themselves admitted, the needs of the university were crucial in determining their reactions to the students. From the perspective of the president's office, the university had some continuing serious organizational problems.52 First of all, there was the 61 Laughing Horse, 1st issue (precise date unknown, but sometime in February 1922), University of California Archives. When the magazine was banned, it moved first to Mexico, then reappeared in Taos, New Mexico, where it became the voice of Taos' famous art colony. D. H. Lawrence continued to be a prominent contributor. 52 See Presidential Reports, 1924-1926, p. x; 1919-1920, p. 11; 1923-1924, p. 5. The need to protect the reputation of the institution was also mentioned in Barrows' letter to MaGaw, September 28, 1922; in Campbell's to Harley, November 20, 1925; and in Campbell's to the ASUC, January 4, 1928. Although nearly everyone agreed that institutional reputation must be upheld, there was disagreement on the extent to which authorities should suppress in order to control. Mrs. Ralph Ellis, for one, wrote Campbell that in banning the Occident he had been subject to "illiberal outside influences" and that some

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ever present financial crisis. In the early 1920s professors were so badly underpaid that their wives organized to fight for increased professorial pay. Despite an enormous rise in the cost of living during the period from 1900 to 1920, faculty salaries had hardly changed.53 In 1899, as was mentioned earlier in the chapter, a full professor earned $3,250; in 1919, only $3,753. At the same time, to cope with the crisis of growth, new facilities had to be built.54 Yet the country was experiencing a deep recession in the early 1920s, and in California a major bill to support the university was defeated. To further threaten the institution's financial stability, a strong movement arose to separate the agricultural college from the university, which would have meant a one-third reduction in university income. Trouble persisted throughout the 1920s, reaching a climax of sorts in 1927 when Governor Young cut $500,000 out of the $13,000,000 university budget. Parallel to the financial crisis and reinforcing the insecurity of the administration, the press was continually discovering sin and politics on the campus. Sex was an especially enticing topic—"Cooing Coeds . . . Moon-Mad Males . . . Petting Parties and Simpering Sweeties" were the headlines of one edition. Still another paper exposed the "fact" that 2,000 painted flappers had draped themselves around the university grounds.55 THEORETICAL CONSIDERATIONS

In a private interview with the author, Dean Hildebrand recalled that in the 1920s students were bored with self-government and, typical students that they were, tested their will against authority. From of those people who had instigated charges against the magazine had done so out of "fear of newspapers, fear of fundamentalist points of view, fear of the public morals." Mrs. Ralph Ellis to Campbell, January 12, 1926, University of California Archives (Dean of Men's File). However, in view of the above-stated policies regarding the university reputation, it is difficult to see how the charges against the Occident could be denied. One might argue over the definition of "illiberal" or "fundamentalist," but one cannot deny that presidents suppressed objectionable behavior because of public opinion. " T h i s is another example of how the faculty, not the students, were the "underprivileged class" under President Wheeler. However, the professors' lot was about to improve somewhat. In 1929, a full professor would earn $5,549. "Finances were not the only problem. In 1923, as was noted above, the legislature threatened to make the regents elected officials and diminish their term of office from sixteen to eight years. a Daily Californian, February 1924. The public attack on the universities

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the perspective of the 1960s, it seemed to Hildebrand that the 1920s were just another decade in the never-ending conflict between youth and adults. The dean was right in one sense and wrong in another. There has never been a time when all students placidly go about their private academic pursuits. But Dean Hildebrand was wrong in not seeing the period as somewhat different qualitatively from the previous eras. The conflict had deepened. The Laughing Horse and Occident controversies were not problems of the same order as, for example, that involving the senior men climbing up to the Big "C" after having imbibed in Oakland. The issues of the 1920s were rooted for the most part in more fundamental principles of free speech, the role of authorities, and standards of right and wrong. Nor could the deepening conflict be ignored. The public demanded that something be done, and public hostility appeared capable of becoming a political threat.56 In response, President Campbell, for one, thought the outrage against student behavior was perfectly justified on the basis that protection of student morality was a presidential function. Thus, unable to rely on student loyalty, diffuse community sanctions, or structures of student self-government, the presidents of this period gradually fell back on their legal powers which were ultimately supported by the physical force of the state—a pattern of authority that would be effective as long as there were only a few dissenters. However, from the 1920s through the 1960s the ideological conflict would deepen and spread. At the same time, the intermittent use of coercion against the students—who remained convinced they were intellectually, morally, and legally justified—would only widen the gulf between them and the administration. The troubles which erupted in the 1960s had their beginning in the 1920s, and in the next several chapters we will chart the gradually widening gulf between students and administrators. and student morality was a nationwide phenomenon by the early 1920s. See Robert C. Angell, The Campus: A Study of Contemporary Undergraduate's Life in the American Universities (New York: Appleton, 1929). 66 There seems to be a pattern to newspaper "discoveries" of campus wrongdoings. It always takes place during periods of rapid social and/or political change, and once the discovery is made, there is no trouble finding news items to fit the pattern. For anyone can find some sex, some radicalism, some drunkenness, and recently some marijuana, on any campus at any time. Having aroused the public interest, the papers usually continue such stories until the public gets bored or editors latch onto some other sensational topic. Such publicity was not of course amusing to administrators, and it frequently caused deep concern.

PATERNALISTIC BUREAUCRACY, 1930-1945

By the national presidential election of 1932, a new, activist, politically involved group of students was for the first time challenging the dominance of the traditional collegiate culture. Numerically the new group was small, but political sophistication compensated for numerical weakness. The activists openly scorned the traditional collegiate way of life, and they bitterly attacked the existing patterns of student-administrative relations. The militants were too powerful to be ignored—the press followed their actions closely, embarrassing the administration—yet they could not be controlled by Wheeler's method of cooperation, co-optation, and trust. Indeed from the administration's point of view, the activists were irresponsible and even disloyal to the best interests of the university. From the militant student's point of view, the best interests of the university were just a facade for catering to the rich, the powerful, and the conservative. To them, the institution was hardly the family's "glorious old mother," but had instead a rather less honorable female occupation—catering to the pleasures of big business. 106

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As always, the administration felt compelled to control student political activities. The pattern of control, the reasons for that pattern, and its consequences will be the theme of the remaining chapters. More specifically, it will be shown that a legal-rational, bureaucratic form of authority grew up alongside the old structures of paternalistic self-government, eventually supplanting them. Although the hard edge of bureaucratic impersonality was softened by the uniquely personal style of President Sproul, who presided over the university longer than any other man (1930-1958), the final upshot of the change was a growing alienation on the part of student activists and an erosion of the administration-student consensus. Except for the personal style of the president, an observer from the 1960s or later will find much that is familiar as he looks back to the 1930s. The extent of student protest was much larger in the 1960s, but President Sproul and his fellow administrators faced the same basic issues. One very important similarity is the fact that by the advent of the Depression, the University of California had already become a "multiversity." It was big, complicated, bureaucratic, deeply committed to academic excellence, and unmistakably politicized. The inherently political nature of the institution becomes quite clear in the light of two circumstances. First, as students turned toward highly controversial and widely publicized radical politics, newspaper editors and citizens grew incensed, their outrage being transformed into a focused threat through the weapon of the state legislature. Second, budget cuts and anti-Communist investigations were a common threat and sometimes a reality. The deep fear of a Communist conspiracy added a new dimension to public hostility—a dimension stretching far beyond the citizen's previous disgust with drunkenness and literary dissent. At the same time, it became apparent that a principal obligation of the administration was to moderate between the forces of conflict. Public hostility, aroused by student political activity, upset the now tenuous equilibrium first established by President Wheeler. Under Wheeler there had been high consensus, relative stability, and much student participation in government. With the deepening of the conflict, participation declined. The emergence in this period of administratively established formal rules is of some importance for the conduct of this study, since the existence of written regulations permits a different kind of analysis. While in the past we have had to rely mainly on case histories, this approach

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can now be supplemented by the "hard data" of rules, with their explicit definition of principles, scope, and controlling structures.1 T H E SOCIAL C O N T E X T : RADICALISM A N D THE B R E A K D O W N OF C A M P U S U N I T Y

The size of the university and its rate of growth no longer plays the important role it did in the previous analysis. By the 1930s, the Berkeley division was already large and its rate of growth somewhat stabilized, although the overall statewide system had expanded with the addition of two new branches: UCLA and the farm school at Davis. The absorption of UCLA, which had been a local teachers college, was especially important because its administrators, some of whom retained their old-time paternalistic attitudes within the new setting, tended to be reactionary. Nearly all of them were more authoritarian and more conservative than Sproul, as abundant evidence will show. The biggest innovation of the 1930s was the rise of serious student political concerns. Relative to past apathy, the campus became immensely politicized, thus disturbing the more conservative public and eventually creating a breach between the student activists and the administration. No precedent existed for this tremendous expansion of student political activity. The National Student League, the Young Communist League, the Social Problems Club, the Young Trotskyists, the Student League for Industrial Democracy, the Young People's Socialist d u b , the Student Workers' Association, the Committee Against Compulsory Military Training, the Student Rights Association, the Congress for Student Opinion, the Progressive Student Forum, the Sentries of American Youth, and the American Federation of Teachers were just some of the groups. And this is the campus that a few years 1

Here is a chronology of the development of the regulations: April 30, 1934—Sproul writes a memorandum to the chief campus officers outlining the principles for the use of university facilities. August 30, 1934—Regulation 5, on "Academic Freedom," becomes the official policy for the uses of the university. March 22, 1935—the regents ban the distribution of political literature and empower Sproul to make further rules. May 15, 1936—The April 1934 memorandum becomes the official Regulation 17, which then gives rise to the following implementations: September 15, 1936—Sponsoring group must pay for policy protection. February 10, 1938—Ban against raising money for "unauthorized activity." December 13, 1938—Rules applied to "spontaneous rallies."

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before was considered politically alive if the Democrats and Republicans organized once every four years in October only to disband in November. Furthermore, the new groups were active. They did not just debate such questions as "Resolved: The British Form of Parliamentary Government Is Superior to the American System." 2 They picketed, pamphleted, organized, struck, infiltrated, fought, and argued against the status quo.3 Antiwar sentiment and protests against socioeconomic injustices prompted most of the radical activity, which quickly aroused the opposing powers of police, vigilantes, and anti-Communist patriots, which in turn gave rise to secondary issues of free speech. Within the university, student action created a whole new set of issues bringing into question the pattern of authority itself. Intense political activity set in motion a sort of cycle of dissent which developed eventually into the breach between the administration and the students. First, students would demonstrate or otherwise take a stand on one of the larger sociopolitical problems of the day, which would typically be followed by detrimental publicity and pressure. Then university officials would move to divorce the institution from the onerous student action. The activist students would perceive the administration as only the agents of control for the original opponent, and begin to turn their protests against the external opponent upon the university administration itself. In acting against the administration, the students would start the cycle moving all 2

See Chapter 2, p. 22, above. A few examples will bring home the point. In 1932, students participated in the Dixon farm workers strike. In March of that year, they protested the war. In September 1933, there was a riot at Sather Gate as students disrupted the Social Problems Club rally. In October 1933, they were again involved in a farm strike. During 1933, students petitioned the regents to end compulsory ROTC. In May 1934, they served as strikebreakers in a waterfront strike. In July 1934, they formed vigilante groups against radicals. In October 1934, they organized a free speech strike. From 1935 through 1938 there were antiwar strikes and demonstrations by students. In March 1935, students were arrested for distributing handbills. In September 1935, they fought against the speakers ban. In September 1934, they formed more antiradical vigilante groups. In April 1936, 5,000 students attended a Sather Gate peace meeting. The fall of 1936, more students were arrested in farm strikes. In the fall of 1937, liberal-radicals took over the editorship of the Daily Californian and struck out against everything from Santa Claus to capitalism. In September 1937, they protested the police red squad. These are just a few of the dozens of examples that could have been brought forward to demonstrate that students were by far more politically active than they had ever been before. Quite literally, there existed nothing on the campus prior to the 1930s which could compare with these activities. 3

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over again. This superimposition of external involvement on internal governance was critical in reinforcing the conflict between students and the authorities, and as such was a major turning point in the history of the university. The cycle was not wholly new, but previously it could be broken by appeals to loyalty or the threat of expulsion. Dissent was fast eroding the ideological foundations of authority. In fact, by 1934, the hostility to authority was so great that the students called a "free speech strike" to protest administrative actions. The strike took place against a background of hysterical fear of a Communist takeover. This fear is significant, too, as the context in which the most important regulations governing student actions were written. The academic year 1933-1934 began with the demand for an investigation "to determine whether or not the University is turning out radicals." 4 Also that fall, two alleged agitators were kidnapped from the nearby San Jose jail, tortured, and murdered by a lynch mob. Governor Rolph of California praised the mob for being "good patriots." Then in February, the Examiner, a Hearst paper, ran a series of articles about campus reds, making Berkeley a special target. For those fearing the impending revolution, the 1934 San Francisco waterfront strike was a most terrifying event. The piers were tied up for weeks until eventually the strike was broken by the National Guard under the leadership of General Barrows. The trouble leading to the student strike flared at UCLA when the National Student League, a left-wing campus organization, was refused permission to hold an open forum on the forthcoming state elections.® The group held their meeting anyway, which infuriated Provost Moore. Without so much as a private hearing, Moore expelled five students leaders, claiming they had used their position "to further the revolutionary activities of the National Student League, a communist organization which had bedeviled the University for some time. . . . [The five] are using their offices to destroy the University by handing it over to the communists." 6 Students called a strike to protest the arbitrary expulsions, and two days later Moore himself ap4

Daily Californian, October 30, 1933. Provost Moore had been hostile toward the NSL ever since one of its members had made an "easily recognizable Communist speech" and the league had, as he put it, gone against their promises as to the format of another meeting. 6 Moore's public statement was quoted in full in the Daily Calif ornian of October 30, 1934, and appeared in other publications as well as the presidential files. 6

Standing outside the Senior Men's Hall, which contains the secret room of the Golden Bear, is a young gentleman who embodies the ideals of President Wheeler and the Senior Men's H o n o r Society—clean lines, discipline, and dignity. (Courtesy Bancroft Library.)

As this graduating portrait of the early 1870s suggests, the classes were small and the decorum correct. (Courtesy Bancroft Library.)

One of the first fraternity houses built on the Berkeley campus stood among the grazing deer and the open hills on the present site of the football stadium. (ca. 1880).

The "family," as Wheeler often called the campus community, is gathered around the present site of Sather Tower to hear the president's first official speech which was significantly addressed to the students. He urged them to love their alma mater and thus defined the moral basis that was to guide the relations between students and the university for over half a century.

During the pre-World War I era, rallies attracted thousands of persons and were important events for building community solidarity. The enormous wagon load of firewood passing under Sather Gate was to be used for the Freshman Rally of 1912.

For many years, and especially during the time of President Wheeler, when this photo was taken, the entire student body would give their energies to improving the university grounds by planting trees and flowers and making trails. Their loyalty and work, which often resulted in a park built in a single day, accounts for much of the natural beauty of the Berkeley campus.

President David Barrows was an active and involved man who seemed to be at ease in academic, political, military, and educational roles. He served as university president from 1919 to 1923. He is shown here on one of his many travels throughout the world. (This photo was reproduced from a picture that hangs in the Barrows Room, Barrows Hall, University of California, Berkeley.)

President Wheeler served the university f r o m 1899 to 1919. His tenure coincided with the emergence of the Progressive Party, and he enjoyed the personal friendship and advice of its leaders. President Theodore Roosevelt was especially close and is seen standing to the right of President Wheeler.

Because of his righteous indignation against the morally liberated student generation of the 1920s, President Campbell, a world renowned astronomer, had the reputation of austerity and distance from the students. He was president from about 1923 to 1930.

During the days when the college was small, the freshman-sophomore brawl was one of the biggest annual events. This particular battle was fought in 1900 and took place on the present site of the Life Sciences Building. (Courtesy Bancroft Library, University of California.)

In the late 1920s, a mass rally welcomed home the champion athletic teams. This was probably the peak of popularity for collegiate sports.

Each student era has its own special kind of activity, which may seem bizarre to the following student generation. In the fifties collegiate activities such as the straw hat band, as well as panty raids, were popular pastimes.

As never before, students, faculty, and even their serious political concerns in the late 1960s. Like tions, this particular protest was directed toward connection with the military-industrial complex (spring 1966).

families turned toward many other demonstrathe university's alleged and the Vietnam War

Clark Kerr replaced Robert Sproul as president in the late 1950s. However, his career as a liberal administrator was caught between the clashing forces of student activism and the rise of Governor Ronald Reagan.

Amiable, likeable, and politically active, Robert Sproul served as university president longer than any other man—1930 to 1958. A combination of face-to-face meetings, personal persuasion, and legally based rules set the tone for his long administration.

Fire destroyed the blue and gold ASUC activities tent, while student rebels battled police (at base of building in background) amid clouds of tear gas. Sather Gate has been the scene of many events—triumphal athletic processions, rallies, and political speech-making. But street fighting was an entirely new activity as the university entered its second century.

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proved the organization of a vigilante committee of "UCLA Americans," composed of 150 athletes dedicated to "purge the campus of radicals." At Berkeley a similar group pelted sympathy strikers with eggs.7 To head off the growing crisis, President Sproul rushed south. Meanwhile, the Berkeley ASUC took their classic stance on loyalty by asking for a calm student reaction to the strike and for "absolute faith in the president to settle this problem fairly and sensibly." Sproul immediately reinstated four of the five student leaders, saying that he could find no evidence they had approved of the league, not to mention destroyed the university by "handing it over to the communists." But he did find the four guilty of "pursuing a course of action, in connection with the campaign for a student-controlled forum, directly contrary to the instruction of the provost. This is insubordination, whatever the merits of the student position. . . . In no American University which I know is the determination of rules to govern campus assemblies left to the students alone. . . . Tradition is built up out of understanding. . . . But in every case the Administration has the deciding vote." Sproul went on to express regret about the red label attached to the four. The case of the fifth, Celeste Strack, was under investigation. (Actually, Sproul wanted to reinstate her immediately, but Moore would not agree.) 8 This first strike for free speech illustrates the problems which still plague administrators. First, the widening split within the university. ' There is no evidence that President Sproul approved of the Berkeley groups, although there were anti-red investigations on the Berkeley campus. There is evidence, however, in the form of sworn affidavits that Assistant Dean of Undergraduates Louis O'Brien encouraged the men of Sigma Chi Fraternity to form vigilantes. On November 8, 1934, the Daily Californian reported as follows: "Radicals on Campus Overplayed: Student Agents Appointed by Americanism Groups Get Communist Data: Use Undercover Men: University organization to be permanent: works with the state, federal units. . . . Student undercover agents been working for 2 months. . . . Directed by George A. Rader. . . . These students are mostly seniors, members of fraternities, level-headed and have been carefully chosen. . . . Collect all data possible on the Communist affiliations and actions of both faculty members and students. It is a joint committee working with the American Legion." The article on student investigators was presented as a factual report, the information having been supplied by Rader, w h o claimed to head the organization. The next day the administration denied such an espionage system, but the American Legion publicly stated it was conducting investigations. * Sproul's full statement was reprinted in the Daily Californian, November 13, 1934.

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And second, the fact that challenges to authority, and the administrative responses, now involved the very basis of authority—namely on what grounds and on what issues can the administration legitimately govern? The fight started when some students thought they had the political right to sponsor an open forum on the campus. Moore saw the problem differently. To him, the issue centered on his obligation as provost to put down revolutionary activities on his campus. Operating as though UCLA was still a local teachers college, Moore did not bother with written rules, explicit standards, or fair hearings. To his way of thinking, bad character and destruction of the best interests of the university were grounds for expelling five students. Sproul disagreed, changing the whole issue from "revolution" to "insubordination"; it was insubordination toward the president's specific, legal obligation to govern the internal affairs of the university. Sproul's shift not only narrowed the scope of authority, but signaled the end of the old overt paternalism and the beginning of a new kind of authority. Sproul may have shared Wheeler's personalist image of the university, but common loyalties, based on self-sacrificing commitments to the "family's glorious old mother," no longer united the campus. An aggregate of opposing forces had replaced the mechanical solidarity, with the basic split being between the administration which valued the welfare of the university above all else and the liberal-radical student activists who were strongly committed to social change. The situation was further complicated by the existence of a conservative student establishment, even more conservative administrators, and student vigilantes. These conflicting commitments, one to institutional welfare and the other to social change, led to disagreement about many aspects of university life—the nature of the university, the proper role for the administration, the foundations of student government, and attitudes toward student activists. In comparing these conflicting views, our purpose will not be to ascertain their validity but rather to discover the minds of those who were inevitably involved in the process of negotiating a pattern of authority. The President President Sproul's decisions were nearly always guided by the belief that the primary function of education was the "discovery and dissemination of knowledge" and that academic freedom for teaching

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and research was absolutely essential for this function. The view was clearly stated in Regulation 5, which was instituted August 30, 1934: "Essentially, the freedom of the university is the freedom of the competent person in the classroom." Notice that this does not include freedom of the press, freedom to organize, or any other freedom normally associated with political, as opposed to academic, rights. The nature of the university was scholarly, not political, and all non-scholarly functions were to be subordinated to the traditional academic ones.9 Student activities, such as self-government, were not directly related to the central academic functions, and as a result they were considered privileges, not rights. Sproul felt that academic freedom was constantly endangered by extremists who exploited their institutional connections for their own private political ends. "Both radicals and reactionaries would use the university as an agency of propaganda." Propaganda was not education, and a hard line had to be drawn between the two. To Sproul, the task of drawing and enforcing the line between education and exploitation was the responsibility of the administration, who at the same time had to steer a precarious middle course between the radicals and the reactionaries. It followed from this view that no university organization would be allowed to jeopardize the central educational functions, a principle which applied to student government as well as to political groups. Student leaders had to act "responsibly"—that is, not undermine the welfare of the university—or the president would be forced to reluctantly exercise his veto power.10 As the troubled years of the Depression rolled on, the president be9 In the 1930s, Sproul was adamant and uncompromising on the freedom of professors to teach and do research. More than once he got into trouble with the red hunters of the state legislature on this issue. However, in the 1940s and early 1950s Communist professors were made an exception to the professorial freedoms when it was held that party membership automatically disqualified a Communist from objective scholarship and hence from a faculty appointment—a position reversed by the statewide Academic Senate when, in September 1969, the regents summarily fired a newly appointed assistant professor for reason of her Communist Party membership. 10 As the president wrote, "It has been my normal practice to observe the autonomy of the student government in the conduct of purely student affairs—that is in those areas which do not concern directly or importantly other members of the University family, including alumni, . . . faculty and administration." In other words, students could deal with purely student affairs, but larger issues must be supervised by the president. Quoted in George Pettitt, Twenty-eight Years in the Life of a University President (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1966), p. 102.

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came convinced that the purposes of the activist students were diametrically opposed to the legitimate interests of the university.11 Though they were only a small minority, he believed that the more radical elements of the student movement, led by the Communists, were out to exploit their university connections, manipulate their fellow students, and finally oppose all authority. They were not committed to the university, but only to their narrow political philosophies. Still, Sproul and his fellow administrators held that only a very small number of students were radical. For example, in an important speech before the Rotarians, the president claimed that only fifty or sixty students belonged to the Social Problems Club, and he asked his audience, "What other community can boast of so small a percentage of those with un-American tendencies?" 12 Thinking this militant minority only sought to use their university connection, he explicitly designed the famous Regulation 5 to prevent such political prostitution of the university's name. 13 But the activists, those "disciples of discontent," sought to exploit their fellow students as well as the institution, according to Sproul. "The very youngness and inexperience of youths make them easy victims of those who would use them for ulterior purposes." They were being merci11 In the early 1930s, Sproul seemed to have welcomed the radical movement for its stimulating effect on the university, and even as late as 1935, he was insisting, "The University is open to all who wish to study and think clearly. We even accept members of the Communist Party, for it is a recognized party. . . ." Pettitt, p. 100. "Quoted in the Daily Californian, June 13, 1935. The same notion was expressed by Pettitt, who served as a presidential assistant: "Most students don't create problems, because they are too busy with studies. . . . But it requires only a few students at one time to establish a nucleus around which problems accumulate." Pettitt, p. 98. One can safely assume that the views of Sproul and Pettitt would bear close resemblance to each other. 13 The problem of preventing exploitation was often mentioned. For example, as Sproul wrote in a statement to the Daily Californian, November 14, 1940: "No individual student or student organization can be granted the use of University facilities to carry on propaganda for or against a movement having no direct concern with student affairs on campus." Here he was trying to bar student organizations from taking stands on "off-campus issues" or other nonstudent concerns. At another point he tried to further clarify the muddy distinction between free discussion (approved) and organization for "disorder" by the "disciples of discontent" (not approved): "The University never had, and hopes it never will stifle freedom of discussion, but there is a difference between liberty and license, . . . license to organize disorder." Judging from the rest of this speech, he would define those who demand such license as "enemies of an ordered program . . . [in] violent abuse of all who are in authority . . . [who make] appeals to prejudice and hatred, [and] attempt to stir your worst emotions." Quoted in Pettitt, p. 99.

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lessly exploited, too, by the social racketeers who told them that "America is not the fair land of hope and opportunity that, always and everywhere, it has been pictured to be." 14 Here then is a portrait of the sincere young idealist being attracted to a worthy cause by an emotional, idealistic appeal, only to be used for ulterior purposes. Finally, as the president saw it, the militants were also "constitutionally opposed to all authority" and were under orders from their New York office "not to get along with the administration of the University." To Sproul, the old good will and cooperation between members of the family had greatly deteriorated under the corrosive influence of the radicals.15 Conservative

Administrators

Sproul's fellow administrators did not always share his fairly subtle analysis or his devotion to freedom. Provost Moore's image of radicals has already been cited. They were bad, whereas the good Americans were the 150 athletes, the "UCLA Americans" who would "purge the campus of radicals." Walter F. Howard, director of the Davis branch of the university, expressed a similar—though less fearful—attitude toward the militants: "I am glad to have definite regulations that will permit me to speak positively to propagandists, religious zealots, and the like, that they cannot use the University rooms or grounds for their purposes. . . . Propagandists are about the only pests that we have to be on guard against, and their purpose is usually obvious. Doubtful cases will hereafter be rejected of course." 16 Little effort is needed to imagine what his feelings were toward the radicals as well as his interpretation of the difference between knowledge and propaganda. The Student Establishment By and large, the student establishment was conservative, composed as it was of fraternity and sorority people who were usually in control of student government. Although they took an ideological stance akin to that of the administration, their perspective was less modified by the difficult synthesis of conflicting principles. In many re11 Sproul to the National Education Association, June 3, 1936, quoted in Pettitt, p. 106. 15 Daily Californian, April 8, 1940. "Howard to Sproul, forwarded by Dean Hutchison. Presidential Files (May 1934).

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spects, their single-minded, uncritical loyalty was the same as that which prevailed under Wheeler. In the turbulent 1930s, they were still dedicated to the best interests of the university—that is, they were not radical and they did uphold, as Alden Smith put it, an "absolute faith in the President" and a "loyalty to the finer things of the University." 17 The establishment conservatives were continually at odds with the radicals, who, they argued, cast a red shadow and a black name over the beloved institution. As Alden Smith said, "the average agitator [radical] is a grandstand player. . . . An audience is his great aim in life." The self-seeking, publicity-prone radicals were unnecessarily dragging the good name of the university through the mud. "The issue [is] not free speech; even the most reactionary of college students will grant that, when it does not become obnoxious. . . . The issue is whether or not a small group of students by calling a strike, publicizing it for their own personal satisfaction, own personal glory, could blacken the name of the entire University." 18 The conservatives' definition of the problem reflects their allegiance to the university above all else including free speech. The notion of granting free speech so long as it not "obnoxious" was a common idea, its adherents not even noticing its implicit self-contradiction. Student

Vigilantes

To the right of the conservative establishment stood the "brutal vigilantes," to use President Sproul's phrase, who sought to wipe out the radicals through investigation and violence. For example, Freck, who originally belonged to the liberal Social Problems Club but later defected to the vigilantes, attacked the club as a tool of the Communist Third International. 19 He said he was just "sick and tired of radicalism," although he confessed deep fear that he would "probably be murdered" for his disloyalty. The show of strength of student reactionaries was brief. After 1934-1935 the number of vigilantes and undercover "The phrases appeared in an open letter to the Daily Cal from the President of the ASUC during the 1934 "free speech strike." "I want to reassure . . . the people of the state, the governor and the legislature that these few students [the strikers] are not representative, that their actions are futile . . . and generally objectionable . . . we students have absolute faith in the President. . . . I ask all students to show their loyalty to the finer things of the University by absolutely refusing to pay attention to these demonstrations as curiosity seekers." Daily Californian, November 16, 1934. 18 Daily Californian, November 20, 1934. w Daily Californian, September 27, 1933.

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agents for the American Legion diminished, and Freck was not murdered. The Student

Activists

The activist student radicals differed from all the other groups in that their overriding commitment was to social change rather than the traditional academic freedoms. Knowledge existed to act on, learning was a tool, and, manifesting these principles, they set out to organize a strong student political force. To the radicals, the university had always been committed to the status quo, and they pointed to men such as General Barrows and the oligarchs of the Board of Regents to prove their point.20 The basic policies governing the university seemed to them farcical. Besides, they asked, what was neutral about an institution run by capitalists and administered by conservatives? Even if a stated neutrality did determine the use of facilities, the refusal to take sides amounted to taking the side of the status quo, for, as the radicals argued, the institution was inherently biased in that direction.21 The activists had little faith in the ASUC, considering it a tool of the administration and an expression of the conservative sorority and fraternity group, and their criticism was succinct. Student government, they argued, was a basic right, not just an administration-granted privilege. With the aim of becoming a viable national and international political force, the activists identified themselves closely with student political leaders from other countries. The original platform of the Social Problems Club outlined this self-image quite clearly: [The Social Problems Club] met for the purpose of organizing a society that believes that the extracurricular activities of the University student should not be restricted to football, fraternities, sororities, and teas. . . . [Members discussed] the puerile and ignominous role played . . . by American students as contrasted with the mature, significant political potency of students in practically all countries. The Club frankly sets out to remedy this condition. . . . It invites all students not interested merely in studies or in sports to join and help establish the American Student as a political force. 2 2 20 There had never been an ordinary workingman on the board, which was composed entirely of the most financially prominent and politically powerful in the state. "The right wing in the state had essentially the same view of university "neutrality" as the radicals did, but to them, of course, the institution was biased in favor of the Communists. 23 Student Outpost (organ of the Social Problems Club), February 19, 1933.

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Did the radicals view themselves as the vanguard of the revolution or, more modestly, as militant student activists out to ameliorate social injustice through reform? Were they conspiratorial revolutionaries, as the public by and large saw them? The question is certainly difficult to answer, but at the same time it is basically irrelevant.23 This is so not only because the Communist Party itself was legal at the time, but because the issues with which the student radicals dealt—war and peace, job discrimination, wages, student government, housing, etc.—were fundamental to the whole society and, as such, open to widely divergent political interpretations. If the radicals did in fact organize for revolution, manipulate their fellow students, create false issues, deceive their fellow students, and lie to the administration, these are facts in themselves, and it contributes little to our analysis to add that these students were Communists.24 It is sufficient here to point out that the student activists held an ideology fundamentally opposed to that of the administration. In short, the university, and all that went with it, seemed to the activists to be just one more institutional prop holding up the status quo to which they were avowedly disloyal. They were constitutionally opposed to both the socioeconomic system of which the university was an essential part and to all those offices representing and perpetuating that system. In establishing policies which prevented liberal-radical students from using the campus, the administration seemed to be opposing 23

The Communists were well entrenched in all the various movements, and until about the mid-1930s made no effort to hide their affiliations. According to William Wadman, who was a campus security officer in the 1930s, the campus Communists were organized in the early part of the decade and remained continually active thereafter. He said there were not many of them— about 200 or so—but they would frequently make up the nucleus of leadership in important student organizations. The main fear seemed to be that they would "infiltrate" worthy causes and from such vantage points, under the leadership of their sophisticated, nonstudent, adult guidance, would gain control of the campus. Nor was the fear completely unfounded, since various administrative records, reports, and publications reveal that the Young Communist League, the National Student League, the Student League for Industrial Democracy, the American Student Union, and the peace movement, were frequently, if not at all times, dominated by the Communists. Of course, the same pattern was true of various fraternity groups which did infiltrate and did gain an important measure of control under the guidance of nonstudent adults. So, too, was this true of undercover student investigators for the American Legion. 21 The peace movement did, indeed, discredit itself by suddenly reversing its six-year-old antiwar policy when Russia was invaded and by failing to condemn the Russian invasion of Finland.

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any organizing for change and—if not voluntarily, at least under pressure—perpetuating status quo conservatism. The emergence of these five opposing groups marked a deep change in the nature of the university. For the first time in the history of the institution, conflict had been rationalized into coherent ideologies which, in turn, were capable of mobilizing groups into opposing forces. The power of the old ideological basis—the supporting consensus—had been reduced to a minimum, and from this point on, conflict can never be successfully ignored, eliminated, or quietly suppressed. Just like football games and fall bonfires, it is from here on part of university life.

THE PATTERN OF AUTHORITY: INSTITUTIONAL NEUTRALITY AND FORMAL REGULATIONS

Although President Sproul retained the family imagery for use on certain occasions, it was the constitutionally based policy of nonpartisanship and his legal responsibility for internal governance that were the operating principles of his authority. In reference to students, however, Sproul's ideal of the university—and, by implication, certain of its governing principles—was much like that of Wheeler. Especially when dealing with the student government, Sproul would operate within a family framework. The university was still something of a cooperative unit in which the students had the "gift" of government for their own affairs while the president had ultimate power. A clear statement of this practice appears in a letter Sproul addressed to the editor of the UCLA student newspaper: "Such powers as their [student] organizations exercise are by delegation only, and subject always to the approval of the President as head of the University family. Obviously, such a relationship can be maintained only upon the basis of mutual goodwill and cooperation between all members of the family, with the interests of the University as a whole always in mind." 25 If as "head of the university family," Sproul were to grant students "complete freedom of action," this would, in turn, depend on the students' ability to act with "intelligence and discretion." The administration would of course judge what 28

Pettitt, p. 102. It should be remembered that Sproul was a prominent student in the years 1909-1913, the heyday of Wheeler's regime, and that he has served the university ever since. For more on Sproul's background, see Chapter 3.

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was discrete and what was intelligent, basing their judgments on what seemed best for the welfare of the entire university. 26 The paternalistic principles were simply explicit statements of past policies, except in the areas of political action where there were major shifts of emphasis. Here it was the policy of neutrality that became the single most important influence shaping authority. It was this policy that gave rise to most of the conflict culminating in the free speech crisis of 1964. President Sproul spent five or six months in consultation and revision before completing the statement of institutional neutrality which became known as Regulation 5 (on Academic Freedom). The function of the University is to seek and to transmit knowledge and to train students in the processes whereby truth is to be made known. To convert, or to make converts, is alien and hostile to this dispassionate duty. Where it becomes necessary, in performing this function of a University, to consider political, social, or sectarian movements, they are dissected and examined—not taught, and the conclusion left, with no tipping of the scales, to the logic of the facts. The University is founded upon faith in intelligence and knowledge and it must defend their free operation. It must rely upon truth to combat error. Its obligation is to see that the conditions under which questions are examined are those which give play to intellect rather than to passion. Essentially the freedom of a University is the freedom of competent persons in the classroom. In order to protect this freedom, the University assumes the right to prevent exploitation of its prestige by unqualified persons or by those who would use it as a platform for propaganda. It therefore takes great care in the appointment of its teachers; it must take corresponding care with respect to others who wish to speak in its name. The University respects personal belief as the private concern of the individual. It equally respects the constitutional right of the citizen. It insists only that its members, as individuals and as citizens, shall likewise always respect—and not exploit—their University connection. The University of California is the creature of the State and its loyalty to the State will never waver. It will not condone actions contrary to the laws of the State. Its high function—and its high privilege—the University will steadily continue to fulfill, serving the people by providing facilities for investigation and teaching free from domination by parties, sects, or "The complete quote reads as follows: He wished to ". . . extend to students complete freedom of action, but such freedom of actions with prescribed limits as they prove capable of using intelligence and discretion." As time went on, it became clear to the administration that the students were woefully inadequate in the responsible exercise of authority. They continually transgressed the prescribed limits by "exploiting" the good name of the university through using its name and facilities for political purposes.

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selfish interests. The University expects the State, in return, and to its own great gain, to protect this indispensable freedom, a freedom like the freedom of the press, that is the heritage and the right of a free people. 2 7

The statement outlined a basic philosophy of education, and it established guidelines for present and future uses of the university. On the one hand, there were proper functions and guiding ideals (the discovery and dissemination of knowledge, the training of students, the faith in the intellect and in the power of truth to combat error, and the freedom of the classroom). On the other hand, some things were to be avoided (disseminating propaganda, proselytizing, passion, exploitation by unqualified persons, etc.). In short, the university functioned for reflection, not for action; for analysis, not for conversion; for training the intellect, not for character formation. The roots of this policy had a long, important tradition, extending back, at least, to the German universities in the nineteenth century where it was used as an argument for institutional autonomy. It is probably relevant that the main author of the regulation, Dean Hildebrand, had attended German schools. Similar arguments were used in American universities during the long faculty struggles for academic freedom. 28 As a matter of fact, the statement goes a long way toward explaining the dominant American philosophy of higher education. Notice, for example, that the freedom of the university lies in "the freedom of competent persons in the classroom." Academic freedom, a central value of the university, is the faculty's freedom to teach and do research, not the students' freedom to organize political groups on the campus. Finally, the policy of university neutrality had roots in the history of the University of California itself, having first been formulated in the batdes for autonomy in the 1870s. President Wheeler mentioned the basic philosophy, and Campbell explicitly applied the idea to students. But it was President Sproul who elevated the principle into an official university regulation and moved the idea to the center of internal governance. "This statement was announced to the Academic Senate on August 27, 1934. It became known as Regulation Five and was published under the heading "Academic Freedom." The Regents endorsed the regulation on January 4, 1946. The regulation remained in effect at least until 1964. It appears in numerous official publications of the period such as the "Faculty Handbook," the University Bulletin, and most other documents concerning policy and regulations. 29 See W. Metzger, Academic Freedom and the Age of the University (New York: Columbia Press, 1955).

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The president had the job of interpreting and implementing the general policy—the ultimate responsibility of the president over matters of internal governance was another principle. His duties were formally recognized on March 22, 1935, when the regents in a closed meeting passed the following resolution: N o meeting, parade, or other demonstrations of any sort shall be held or conducted . . . [on the grounds of the University]. Nor shall any student, or group of students . . . promote, organize, or participate in any such meeting, parade, or other demonstrations, unless . . . approved by the President. . . . N o poster, circular, handbill, newspaper, magazine, or pamphlet shall be posted, distributed, or circulated . . . except with approval of the President. . . . The President of the University of California is hereby authorized to promulgate rules and regulations, and to prescribe conditions which he shall deem necessary to carry out the purpose and intent of this resolution. 29

Here, then, was an official statement outlining the policy regarding student political activity on the campus and granting the president full powers of implementation. Sproul made the same point on numerous, less formal occasions. First, in 1934: "In no American University which I know is the determination of rules to govern campus assemblies left to the students alone. . . . In every case the administration has the deciding vote." 30 Again, in 1938: "Nor can it [the university administration] grant to student groups final responsibility in determining what meetings shall be held on the campus or what speakers shall be invited." 31 And again in 1940: "When important differences of opinion arise the last word must be with the President." 32 The statements speak for themselves, and their lesson was clear. The president, and he alone, had the final authority over the use of university facilities. Though no one seems to have realized it at the time, the two main principles which had guided university authority since the founding of the institution had either been discarded or redefined beyond recognition. Character building was no longer a viable principle, and along 29

Quoted in Robert Johnson, "Traditional University of California Policies Regarding the Use of Its Facilities and the Conduct of the Students," an unpublished report dated March 11, 1965. M 31

32

Daily Californian, Daily Californian,

November 13, 1934. January 25, 1938.

Sproul to McCabe, on "Student Self-Government," Presidential Files (April 17, 1940).

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with it, paternalism declined. The "best interests of the University" had been narrowed down to the carefully defined policy of neutrality. By the mid 1930s, the ideological and legal basis for a new kind of authority had been formulated and partially implemented. Governance was rapidly moving from paternalism to legal-rational bureaucracy. But the sharper definition of governing principles and the increasing legalism actually narrowed the scope of authority over student life. Under the old ideal of character building, the authorities could legitimately concern themselves with the student's total well-being. Similarly, the policy of disciplining students for marring the university's reputation meant that any public complaint was reason enough to take action against the wrongdoer. In contrast, under the principle of neutrality, university authority no longer reached into private lives and off-campus behavior. As the alumni director said in response to pressure to expel a student who, as an "outside agitator," had been arrested for inciting a riot during a farm strike, "We have no control over [students'] activities as private citizens." 87 The new limits on university authority were made public in 1934 when Sproul, in a speech which stands as a bench mark in the ebbing tide of paternalism, told the Rotarians, There are many who criticize the University because it does not smash those obnoxious groups small though they are. . . . This is the approved theory of education in fascist Italy, Nazi Germany, and Soviet Russia. . . . However dangerous and harmful they [the subversive groups] may be . . . it [the University] has no authority to lay down rules for the regulation or control of public and private conscience, or for the government of group or individual conduct except . . . insofar as may be necessary to ensure the maintenance of order upon its campus and in its classroom.34

To fully appreciate the change in university jurisdiction, compare Sproul's statement and typical decisions to Campbell's suspension or expulsion of students who merely marred the university's good reputation. The administrative jurisdiction over traditional collegiate violations ^ Daily

Californian,

June 29, 1933.

"Address to the Rotarians, June 8, 1934, printed in the Daily Californian, June 13, 1935. The speech is typical of Sproul's way of operating—namely, to appear before a generally hostile group, confront the issue, demonstrate that he understands and even shares their view of the situation, then state his own position based on law or principle. This is only one of hundreds of similar incidents.

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of decorum appears to have become a settled issue in this period. In fact, beginning about 1930 and lasting until the mid-1960s, administrative discipline of student misconduct gradually ceased to be a source of open disagreement with the students except in the relatively few cases that had political overtones. Yet the lack of dispute did not reflect any lack of drinking, obscenity, and destructive rallies. In November 1932, 1933, 1934, 1936, 1937, 1938, and 1940, hundreds and often thousands of students massed for the Big Game rallies, lighting bonfires in the street, stealing fire equipment, chopping up fire hoses, harassing firemen, and smashing movie theaters. Dozens were arrested, and the administration and the Student Affairs Committee did the punishing. Once the Raspberry Press accused some professors of throwing nude parties, and the publication was banned. No one protested that discipline or any other. There are probably several reasons for this general lack of protest. The collegians tended to be loyal and friendly toward the administration, and even agreed with the administration that their behavior was childish. But perhaps most important, the public seemed to have come to accept childish behavior as a natural—if negative—part of student life. They no longer seemed to think the president was personally responsible for every drunken or riotous freshman and every printed obscenity. The bureaucratic trend and related decline of student participation could be seen in the writing of the rules. Experts, not students, wrote Regulation 5. There was no democratic pretense of community participation.35 Likewise, the managers wrote Regulation 17 which applied to the use of facilities for nonacademic purposes. Regulation 17 began with a memo from Sproul to the chief campus officers, took on further weight at the March 22, 1935, regents' meeting, and became a formal regulation on May 15, 1936. Neither original draft nor subsequent revisions appear to have been in any degree the product of student consultation. Presidential files contain no correspondence from students on the topic, and do not mention any need to consult them. Nor did student publications usually discuss the regulations in advance. Even after they were officially promulgated, there was seldom any widespread public debate concerning them. The content of the rules was also managerial: "In no circumstances 35 Hildebrand, the principal author of the regulation, was assisted by H. Kingman and Paul Cadman. The name of Hildebrand should be recognized by now— he was the first dean of men. Cadman was also dean once. Kingman was head of the YMCA, which was frequently the only place near campus which had a

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shall any speaker . . . be invited to address any meeting . . . except upon invitation of the president or his direct representative." (Later versions of the rule said the same thing.) 36 Students did, however, play an indirect role in implementing the regulations, since the ASUC had the responsibility of recognizing student organizations. (Recognition meant the group could use university facilities.) However, if the ASUC did not act "responsibly," they would be warned that what the president had granted them could also be revoked.37 Two cases—one involving the American Student Union and the other the Social Problems Club—illustrate the ASUC's restricted authority and often conservative operations. Incidentally, the cases are also important in themselves, since the two clubs were the most prominent radical organizations on campus. Beginning in 1931, the Social Problems Club introduced an entirely new chapter in the history of the university by trying to build a student political force on a broad range of issues. They opposed compulsory ROTC, racial discrimination, budget cuts, fee increases, restrictions on academic feedom, and suppression of the worker. They also fought to eliminate the $10 ASUC membership fee, and attacked the ASUC itself as nothing more than a "refined racket . . . controlled by the alumni and the faculty." 38 Absurd as it may seem, the club had to get permiscompletely open forum policy. Kingman and Sproul were old friends, and Sproul served on the board of directors of the YMCA. 36 Notice that this memorandum was sent out April 10, 1934, which was a full year before the Regents' Resolution on March 22, 1935, a circumstance strongly suggestive of the notion that Sproul was the chief architect of both policy and regulations, while the regents simply supported him. 37 Recalcitrant self-governors were reminded of presidential powers on many occasions. "[Student government] . . . is not an inherent right of the student body." (Daily Calijornian, September 1, 1932.) Or, "It may not be amiss for me to remind you that student self-government of the University is a gift of the President." (Daily Californian, September 1, 1939.) Or, "The President will normally observe the autonomy of student government but reserves the right to intervene in matters affecting the welfare of the University." (Daily Californian, December 14, 1940.) Incidentally, student disciplinary responsibility was further limited when all classroom honesty cases were taken over by the faculty. Despite an occasional flourish of energy under such leaders as Robert McNamara, Class of '37, later Secretary of Defense, the Student Affairs Committee continued its descent into oblivion. 38 The club first met January 16, 1931, and in 1932 they became affiliated with the National Student League. Their alignment of the administration with the forces of the status quo further deepened the separation between students and authority, and marks a critical turning point in the pattern of authority.

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sion from the ASUC in order to carry on its attack against student government—a requirement hardly conducive to fair decisions. The Executive Committee of the ASUC denied the club permission to sell its publication on campus: "No student publication bearing the name of the University or intended for circulation among the students of the University can be sold or distributed until responsibility for the material in such publication be definitely fixed to the satisfaction of the Executive Committee, and . . . authorized by the President." 39 The Executive Committee did allow the club to have a dance on campus, but when they applied for permission to hold a meeting, they were refused: "If at any time the Social Problems Club can come before the committee and prove that they are a responsible organization, the matter will be reopened." 40 The liberal-radical students then appeared before the Executive Committee, which was dominated by fraternity men, and attempted to prove that they were "responsible." Although not explicitly defined, "responsible" in fact meant not making trouble. Needless to say, the Social Problems Club was never recognized. It is hard to understand what the rules of organization recognition actually were, but in any case they were changed on March 11, 1936, when the Executive Committee passed a motion: "We amend our present rules for recognition, that no student group shall be denied the use of student buildings simply because they advocate . . . a controversial question." 41 Within about two years of this redefinition, the radical American Student Union was recognized, and from 1938 to 1940, it championed many controversial activities. For a short period the ASU was actually in control of the Associated Students. However, in 1940 a new wave of extreme pressure was exerted on the administration to rid the university of its red reputation, and so, on the occasion of the ASU's circulating a petition against a City of Berkeley antinoise or29

Minutes of the A S U C Executive Committee, April 13, 1922, quoted in T. Sevilla, Student Authority, University of California at Berkeley, Ph.D. dissertation, 1967, p. 367. 40 Minutes of the A S U C Executive Committee, January 11, 1933, quoted in Sevilla, p. 370. Other groups met similar rebuffs. The Student Workers' Association could hold meetings on campus, but nothing more. The Committee Against Compulsory ROTC could not meet on campus. The Student Rights Association wanted to jointly sponsor a meeting with the A S U C , but was turned down. "Minutes of the A S U C Executive Committee, March 11, 1936, quoted in Sevilla, p. 371. It would seem that if the A S U C did not like a group and that group defended itself, then there would be controversy and the group could not then be recognized.

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dinance (a euphemism for an antirally ordinance), Sproul complained they were violating neutrality by taking a stand on an "off-campus issue." 42 Shortly after Sproul's complaint, the Associated Students recommended withdrawal of recognition of the American Student Union, citing a long list of reasons: its continuous violations of ASUC requests, especially in reference to publicity; being a constant source of unpleasant publicity; making childish and unreasoned statements and conducting activities which have brought unfortunate publicity to the ASUC; fomenting unrest; the similarity of organization names (ASUC and ASU); advocating all the principles of a political party—i.e., Communist; not being representative of any student faction of any size and at the same time including among its members many nonmembers of the ASUC; being the most violently left wing of all members of the American Youth Congress; being a delivery belt for un-American principles; and attempting to regulate various aspects of student life that properly belong to the ASUC. At the same time, it was acknowledged that while the ASU had admittedly done some good, this was overbalanced by other negative attributes, and that in any case, withdrawal of recognition would not put it out of existence.43 The upshot of this remarkable set of grievances was that the ASU lost its recognition in April 1941.

INSTITUTIONAL NEEDS: STAMPING OUT THE RED REPUTATION

Money and academic freedom were absolutely essential to the modern university, and student activists were undermining both. The old chain of events—student action, public hostility, administrative reaction—became the dominant administrative worry as the legislature increasingly threatened, and at times carried out, budget cuts and political investigations. To break this fearsome cycle, the administration made efforts to improve the university's reputation through skilled public relations. Indeed, the public relations experts not only were put 42 The evidence overwhelmingly suggests that Sproul was acting under recommendations from the university lobbyist. One should keep in mind that as of December 13, 1938, Regulation 17 would apply to rallies on the campus. Passing the ordinance would thus stop all rallies. The fact that two of President Sproul's friends and advisers were on the City Council and both supported the ordinance suggests that the administration itself was not entirely "neutral" on the subject. "Minutes of the ASUC Executive Committee, February 12, 1941, quoted in Sevilla, p. 378.

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to work explaining the university to influential outside groups, but also assumed a decisive role in internal governance. T h u s did external threats m o r e and m o r e shape the internal governance of the university. 4 4 T h e authors of R e g u l a t i o n 5 demonstrated a strong sensitivity to public opinion. I n the covering m e m o to the regulation o n academic freedom, the authors paid h e e d to public attacks o n the university. It [Regulation 5] should aid in a public explanation of the policy of the university. . . . It should indicate that these policies h a v e been well considered in advance of particular incidents and are designed t o preserve the m o r e essential rights and privileges rather than to repress a particular group. This should aid in preventing the University f r o m becoming an undignified party to a controversy with an outside organization. 4 5 " S o m e of the red-hunting threats to academic freedom have been sketched above. The financial crises were just as important. In 1934—1935, professors' pay was cut from $5,124 to $4,902, and the year before the cut, the total operating income of the university was sliced from $11,999,000 to $9,976,000. Financial problems remained acute right up until WW II when federal contributions leaped from $855,000 in 1940 to $13,790,000 in 1944. During the same period state contributions actually decreased from $8,563,000 to $8,381,000! Thus the federal government, not the loyal people of the state, bailed the university out of financial trouble. It is common to see increased federal spending as also involving increased control. Yet, as the table here shows, the university was steadily becoming, with federal aid, considerably freer of the more restrictive state legislature. SOURCES OF UNIVERSITY INCOME, 1913 and 1960 (in percent) Source of Income Student fees State of California United States Endowments Gifts & Private Grants Sales, etc. Auxiliary enterprises Federal Research Total Income (in dollars)

1913 8 54 4 14 4 15 — —

$1,674,000

1960 4 28 10 1 2 4 4 47 $403,204,000

"Financial Affairs," Centennial Record, p. 295. In 1960 the university comprised several campuses in addition to Berkeley. SOURCE: NOTE:

15

It will be remembered that Regulation 5 was forged during a period of extreme fear of a Communist takeover. Although the general situation at this time has been described early in this chapter, I have not, unfortunately, had access to

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Thus even this policy, which essentially offered a uniform guide to internal governance, kept an ear tuned to possible outside pressures. By 1937, however, the close connection between external relations and internal authority was made semiofficial when the Public Relations Committee was given the job of reexamining the whole peace strike situation.46 Notice it was the Public Relations Committee, and not those groups most affected—administration, faculty, and students— which was given the task of examining the campus student rallies. Two years later, Sproul informed Dean Putnam that he wanted to place one of the most controversial matters—the invitation of outside speakers— in the hands of the Public Relations Committee. "I am wondering," he wrote, "if the Committee on Public Relations would not be better than the group you suggested [a group of nine people composed equally of faculty, administration, and student members]. . . . This Committee [on public relations] is constantly considering the problem of the relation of the University of the public." 47 Sproul wanted this group of experts to decide all requests having controversial aspects. The makeup of this committee reveals a lot about the prominent pressure groups. Hildebrand was a very important power in faculty governance and the author of Regulation 5; Crocheron was director of the Agricultural Extension Service which was an important agency for the San Joaquin Valley agriculture interests; Nichols had been Director of Athletics at Berkeley and briefly served as secretary to the Board of Regents; R. Sibley was the executive manager of the alumni; and G. Pettitt was presidential assistant and an active public relations man.48 But the greatest impact of this concern with the external relations of the university was sustained in the fall of 1940, with the issuance of an the "confidential" files dealing with supposed subversion in the university. Such files do exist, and they were reviewed by administrative officials from time to time. Security Officer William Wadman kept files on various radical activities and individual leaders, and he worked closely on these matters with the presidential assistants and sometimes with the president himself. After World War II, the presidential files occasionally make casual references to FBI reports. Furthermore, legislative investigating committees mention having had the administration's cooperation. The exact role of the confidential files in determining matters of internal governance is difficult to ascertain, but they no doubt helped to establish as well as reflect the dominant administrative ideology. "Peace strikes" (rallies) were annual affairs which gave rise to a great deal of maneuvering between administration and students. " Memorandum from Sproul to Putnam, Presidential Files (September 15, 1939). 48 See Dean Putnam's memorandum to the President, Presidential Files (September 5, 1939).

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urgent statement from the Public Relations Committee calling for immediate and far-reaching action to rid the campus of its Communist reputation: On the basis of information supplied by Corley, Ellis, and Sibley, the Committee felt that action to free the University from suspicion of being a center of communist propaganda and general subversive activities is immediately necessary. The Committee accepted the opinion of Corley and Ellis that if something is not done, and done promptly, to place the University of California in a more defensible position, the state legislature will hold the budget of the University as a stake to force action. . . . Evidence was presented, also, that the legislature would not lack support in this movement, either from the press or the public. . . . [It was also] recommended that . . . the existence of the ASUC as a chartered government be properly recognized by issuance of a definite charter defining and limiting the privileges of self-government in matters concerning affairs on campus under the authority of the President. 49 Responses to this message clearly show how system needs and external relations of the university conditioned its internal governance. For, almost immediately afterward, new rules on campus speakers were issued, the regents fired a Communist professor, Sproul invited an impartial investigation of the university, the city of Berkeley began agitation for an antinoise ordinance (in reality little else than anti-Sather Gate rally ordinance), the American Student Union lost its recognition, and, again, the A S U C was reorganized. 50 The background of the three urging immediate action is signifi48 "ASUC Student Government," minutes of the Public Relations Committee, Presidential Files (September 30, 1940). 50 Dates for these events are as follows: October 30, 1940; October 14, 1940; October 22, 1940; April 9, 1941; and March 21, 1941. The Daily Californian, various issues 1940-1941. There were other events which were probably related to the public relations crisis. Sproul made speeches on military preparedness, and became head of the California Organization Committee of Fight for Freedom. He also made a major policy speech defending the concept of the free press both for campus and community newspapers. Then, in an apparent effort to offset the university's "red" reputation, the administration devised a questionnaire for parents of students, the results of which were widely publicized. The questions, although somewhat loaded, showed that 95 percent of the parents thought their children benefited from their education and that they did not become radical as a result of it. Despite such efforts, a state anti-Communist investigation of the university was started in the spring of 1941, the widespread support for it only showing how real the crisis was. The motion to investigate had passed the state Assembly by a vote of 47-to-25, and the state Senate 34-to-10.

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cant. James Corley was the university's chief lobbyist in the state capital and was rapidly becoming an extremely powerful figure in campus affairs; 51 Ellis was chief press man; and Sibley was the alumni director. Each official could thus speak for—and speak to—an important public sector: the legislature, the press, and the alumni. It was these public relations specialists, standing on the ever shifting boundary between the university and society at large, who would henceforth guide the internal affairs of the university. The rise of specialized public relations men to positions of power in matters of internal governance of the university was a new development in the history of the institution. R E F L E C T I O N S O N T H E C O N S E Q U E N C E S OF CHANGE

As we have seen, the changes in authority represent a steady movement away from personalized paternalism toward an impersonal, rational, bureaucratic pattern of control. A constitutionally based neutrality replaced the old best interests policy; formal, written regulations were substituted for the man-to-man method of establishing and upholding standards; and experts in management sitting in paneled offices replaced the Thursday night Senior Singings in the log cabin. Before 1930, the administration could appeal to student loyalty and simply, if need be, expel a recalcitrant student—as it did under the system of authoritarian paternalism. In any case, the students' intense loyalty was such that the administration could legitimately submit to outside pressure in matters of internal discipline. In fact, the whole notion of best interests or university reputation was often only a euphemism for acquiescence to outside groups, whether composed of outraged mothers, state legislatures, or the so-called better classes.52 With the new conditions prevailing after 1930 or so, the administra61 From here on, Corley will be an important figure in shaping the internal affairs of the university. From 1940 to 1949, he was university comptroller and, from 1949 to 1959, he was vice-president of business affairs. Among other administrative acts, Corley first recommended the institution of the loyalty oath in 1949. In private interviews with various officials in the state legislature, one gains the impression that Corley, who was identified as a "Sproul" man and not a "Kerr" man, was extremely popular. He "talked the language of the legislators." They seemed to "like" him and "trust" him. 62 Except for the brief interlude of the Workingmen's Party in the 1870s, California politics were controlled by the better-off classes, and so the appeal to loyalty was, in effect, an appeal to submit to the more rich and conservative elements of the state. Ordinary working people were not highly organized and, by and large, not too powerful.

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tion turned again toward the old constitutionally based policy of political nonalignment which, with its long and respectable tradition in academia, had special appeal for faculty interests. Furthermore, formal rules provided the kind of predictability and consistency demanded by the courts. It was also understandable, though objectionable to some, that the administration—the managerial experts—not the faculty or the students, would now make the policy, and write and implement the rules. The use of facilities affected the entire university, yet only the administration seemed capable of making decisions concerning such uses. Administrators were the only campus group whose role brought them in contact with other significant groups—the legislature, the regents, the media, the alumni, other campuses, the faculty, and the students. From the administration's point of view, the disloyal, activist students no longer seemed responsible—that is, willing to seriously consider the "welfare of the entire University." 53 The consequences of change were many. To a small group of student activists, their conflict with the administration had deepened to the point where authority seemed fundamentally wrong in policy and implementation, and did not deserve voluntary obedience. Neutrality seemed a farce, implementation seemed biased by outside pressure, and there were complaints about the lack of participation on the part of the governed. Some of the student criticism may have been rooted in Communist ideology, but setting aside the "constitutional opposition to all authority" attributed to the radicals, many of the criticisms had validity. The problems stemmed from the overly strict interpretation given neutrality and from the administration's taking the whole responsibility for deciding in each instance what was partisan. More important, political nonalignment could just as well—and just as logically—have been preserved by throwing open the facilities to all political groups rather than closing them to all political groups. Of course, an open policy would have resulted in more political activity on the left because the left was more active than the conservatives. Still, an open policy could have been justified as official nonalignment. K The law put the administration in ultimate control, but they could delegate power. In fact, the law governing the university has changed very little since 1879, although the locus of power has shifted perceptibly. Law only sets up the broad framework within which struggles for power and the dominant ideology are fought. Thus, although the president's legal role has not changed drastically, in reality the modern president has far more control than his nineteenth century counterparts but far less control than Benjamin Ide Wheeler.

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The central problem implicit in the closed policy, at least insofar as it applied to the civil liberties of professors, was succinctly stated by President Lowell of Harvard: If a University or college censors what its professors may say, if it retains them from uttering something that it does not approve, it thereby assumes responsibility for that which it permits them to say. . . . Either the University assumes full responsibility for permitting its professors to express certain opinions in public, or it assumes no responsibility whatever, and leaves them to be dealt with like other citizens by public authorities according to the laws of the land.54 The political role of professors is analogous to that of students. As soon as the administration takes on responsibility for restraining certain activities, it implies approval—even sponsorship—of others. Administrators felt they could not simply say to the public that "all legitimate groups have a right to be on the campus—we may not like a particular one, but that is the price of freedom." Rather, the politically oriented speaker always had to be justified on educational grounds—a criterion open to many and varied interpretations. Given this policy, the administration had to struggle continually for justification of their controversial decisions as to what constituted an educational experience, and continually strive for consistency. Even if every decision had been consistendy unbiased—and many were not—they could not please everyone. For what was politically dispassionate academic analysis to one group was unadulterated Marxist propaganda to another. In practice, the only possible neutrality would have to do with purely technical subjects, irrelevant abstractions, or subject matter without obvious social or political implications. For the most part, the radicals were right in accusing the administration of making consistently biased decisions against liberal-radical speakers. But the "bias" did not necessarily stem from the personal values of the administrators, although this was certainly a factor. At a more fundamental level, bias was built into the criteria for deciding what was politically partisan and therefore impermissible. Since the notion of neutrality is necessarily abstract and without content, it provides no guidelines in itself for determining what is politically partisan, and some other criteria was required. Thus, it happened that in actual prac54 Quoted in Charles Wagner, Harvard: Four Centuries of Freedom (New York: Dutton Co., 1950), p. 454. This statement was made in response to public pressure to fire pro-German professors during World War I.

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tice, partisanship was largely determined by the amount of controversy a speaker could be expected to stir up. The speakers causing controversy in small or large degree were clearly "partisan" and "propagandistic." Furthermore, given the strongly anti-Communist mood of the state, the criterion of controversiality meant that the most "partisan" speakers were the left-wing radicals receiving "controversial" treatment in the conservative press. Thus, far more speakers from the left than from the right were denied permission to appear on campus. But there was nothing particularly devious about this circumstance. The radicals simply invited far more speakers than did the moderates and conservatives. The same kind of "bias" appears in the banning of various political organizations. Moderates and conservatives, who could express their support of the status quo simply by doing nothing to change it, normally did not bother to form groups unless in temporary reaction to the left. Hence banning groups from campus essentially meant banning the liberal-radical elements, which constituted the majority of organized groups. The accusation of administrative bias carried still a further significance in implying that the administration was submitting to outside pressures from the alumni, the media, the established classes—the very groups whose opinions had once defined the university's reputation and best interests. To the liberal-radical students, such acquiescence was no longer legitimate because these groups were now the students' avowed enemies. Furthermore, by advocating a policy of political nonalignment in the first place, the administration had explicitly committed itself to not bowing to political pressures. Thus, if the charge of bias was as well-based as it seemed to be, it meant that the administration was not even complying with its own rules. The charge of "hypocrisy" could now be heard on the campus. The administration, having established a precarious equilibrium between institutional needs and the social context, paid for it by alienating the liberal-radical student activists. So long as the group remained fairly small and isolated, the equilibrium could be maintained, but as the dissenters grew in numbers and power, the administration faced increasingly serious challenges. The war temporarily blunted the conflict. "Our college generation has been fighting a losing battle for its ideals," wrote the editor of the Daily Cal. "[Now that] the inevitibility of war is presented to

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us, . . . [the senior] accepts [this] prospect . . . with dull resignation and a sense of futility. . . . But the one straw which should keep idealism afire is the hope of rebuilding a better world." 55 Student "idealism" made a brief appearance after the war, but it was weakened by the vocational seriousness of returning veterans and eventually beaten down by Senator McCarthy. Ignoring social problems, students turned to panty raids, and for a short time a relative tranquility built on apathy possessed the campus. M

Daily Californian,

May 2, 1941.

Academic freedom is not universally accepted by the public, and could possibly be lost by attempts to extend it beyond the classroom. Presidential

Adviser

to Sproul

Tolerance is Treason. Jack Tenney, Un-American

Chairman of the California Activities

House

Committee

on

THE POSTWAR YEARS, 1945-1958

It was a panty raid, not a political protest, that set off the biggest—and incidentally the most destructive—Berkeley rally of the 1950s, on the night of May 26, 1956. Not even sports—to say nothing of social or political problems—could arose such collective enthusiasm as was displayed that evening. To one skilled in the intricacies of psychoanalysis, there was probably a twisted rationality in the conjunction of fear, apathy, McCarthy, consensus, corporate security, panty raids, and the dominant features of Jayne Mansfield and Dagmar characteristic of the mid-1950s. At least there was a chronological connection between the Tenney anti-Communist investigations of the campus, strict regulations, and student apathy. Although it is impossible to measure such a phenomenon, a researcher in the period gets the distinct impression that student boredom reached unprecedented depths in the mid-1950s. In the nineteenth century collegiate activities seemed important to students. In the early twentieth, Wheeler's self-government provided a sense of excitement and responsibility. In the 1920s, students were busy flaunting nine136

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teenth century Protestant morality. The 1930s had their political radicals. But the 1950s developed only a mild brand of social criticism prefaced with nervous affirmations of personal loyalty and ritualistic disclaimers that things were worse in Russia. Given the vacuum left by the uncommitted student of the time, administrative control extended itself further. The ASUC lost much of its authority, the coverage of Regulation 17 was extended, and neutrality was more strictly interpreted. In short, the prewar policies were by and large continued. Administrative authority did meet an important new counterforce, however, as the faculty slowly gathered to back student action against the restrictive Regulation 17. In general, faculty support greatly strengthened student causes—a change which should not be minimized—and forced more systematic administrative attention to the emerging power of the internal constituents. Negotiating a defensible pattern of authority became intensely difficult for the administration during the troubled postwar years. Externally, powerful groups were exerting pressure for the elimination of Communism, radicalism, and even liberalism. Internally, some students and faculty members, pushing for liberalization of the rules, refused to subordinate their aims to the administration's interpretation of institutional welfare. Not only was the administration caught between these two forces, but neither could they fall back on the old appeals to loyalty to protect the university's reputation. The outside pressure groups were still considered the enemy of the radicals and even of the liberals. The situation can only be understood in the context of the peculiarities of the postwar years. It is a major assumption of this study that a university is not an isolated ivory tower, an island of tranquility in a sea of turmoil, but a part of the larger society. Nowhere is there more evidence for this assumption than in the immediate postwar decade. Within just a few months after the war, optimistic hopes for a better world through international cooperation were brutally smashed. By March 1946, Churchill spoke of an "iron curtain descending on Eastern Europe." Czechoslovakia fell by coup, and the Russian army came to dominate Eastern Europe. Throughout the late 1940s and the early 1950s, war with Russia seemed inevitable. Berlin was blockaded, the Communists took over China, and in June 1950 North Korea was invaded. All this took place under the shadow of the Stalinist regime and atomic weapons, and in the next three years, the Korean War made real the worst fears of Communist aggression.

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Within thirty years, Communism had gained control of more than 800,000,000 people. To many Americans, including some regents, the world seemed on the brink either of atomic holocaust or Communist terror of the Stalinist variety, and the international struggle for survival quickly became linked to supposed conspiratorial activities within. There were many who agreed with President Sproul when he said that Communism was not just one political party or ideology among many, but a fifth column directed from Moscow. Nationally, it all came to a head with Senator Joseph McCarthy's accusation and innuendo, and the conspirator label was attached to all who had participated in prewar Communist causes and front groups. California—especially Berkeley—had its own problems in those years that were directly tied to the Russian Communist threat. Jack Tenney and Sam Yorty resumed their prewar un-American investigations. Richard Nixon from California soon moved into the politically rich patriotism field. Professor Chevalier at the University of California, a close friend of Robert Oppenheimer, was passed up for promotion (in 1947 he had supposedly became a contact man for an international atomic spy ring); 1 a teaching assistant was removed for alleged activities in the spy ring; and a pianist in the girls' gym was summarily fired for being a Communist. In 1949, the imposition of a faculty loyalty oath tore the university apart. For nearly three years the "family's glorious old mother" was wracked by probably the most serious crisis since the Workingmen's Party threatened to take control of the state in the 1870s. And in the middle of this critical time, President Sproul was publicly attacked by the Tenney Committee and one of the regents for being, to their minds, soft on Communism.

THE EXTENSION AND LIBERALIZATION OF REGULATION

17

With the end of World War II, an organized effort was made to change Regulation 17. There were two movements. The first began in 1947 and resulted in only minor modifications, while the second, organized in 1957, culminated in a major liberalization of the rule. In the 1 See Haakon Chevalier, Oppenheimer: The Story of a Friendship. ( N e w York: Pocket Books, 1966). Oppenheimer was a brilliant young physics professor at Berkeley in the years before he became associated with the atomic bomb project. He and Chevalier were active in many of the activities and organizations mentioned in the previous chapter, especially the American Federation of Teachers.

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interim, there were many heated arguments on problems connected with the strict enforcement of the policy of neutrality. It should be noted, though, that in all discussions of changes and implementation the old managerial style was maintained. For instance, nearly all the significant discussions prior to 1956 took place in meetings of the President's Administrative Advisory Committee which included key administrators from the California campuses plus a few of the president's personal advisers. No one officially represented the students, and only occasionally were a few trusted faculty members invited. In the spring of 1947, the time of the first attempted change in Regulation 17, cold war policies were fast taking shape in the country. Jack Tenney renewed his anti-Communist investigations, the tone of this work being reflected in his phrase "tolerance is treason," applicable to any forum where Communists were allowed to speak. In the middle of the red scare, Henry Wallace spoke out against cold war policies and immediately became a catalyst for the whole spectrum of the left, including the Communists. The Wallace movement aroused student curiosity, and in May 1947 they petitioned Provost Deutsch for permission to invite him to speak. After denying their request, Deutsch gave Sproul his reasons for the move: "My own feeling is that in this and all other cases, the principle should be laid down that no speaker should be invited to speak . . . save at the invitation of the administration of the University." Provost Deutsch made it quite clear that he did not favor any change from the old prewar policy on speakers. "In effect the students [would] be running university meetings . . . [and] they might embarrass us greatly by proposing speakers whom for one reason or another we do not desire to invite." 2 This postwar reassertion of the prewar policy brought student criticism, and for the next two years attempts were made to change Regulation 17. It is interesting that this effort represented the first time student leaders had initiated a criticism which compelled the administration to take official notice and seriously consider major changes. It also 2 Deutsch to Sproul on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (May 7, 1947). The students were told on May 14, 1947, that "auditoriums are not public halls in which the advocates of any particular program have the right to insist that the spokesman shall appear. University buildings are primarily for instruction." They were not told, however, that they might not invite "embarrassing" speakers. By and large, students no longer considered public pressure, embarrassment, and decline in university reputation as legitimate grounds for decisions about speakers.

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marked the first time that the faculty officially—if only briefly—entered the dispute about the use of facilities. As for the administration, although officials were divided on the issue, all agreed that they must retain control and that public reaction was the paramount consideration. It happened that a few weeks after Deutsch's denial, presidential assistant George Pettitt opted for liberalizing implementation of the rule, but not for a change in principle. One of the more liberal spokesmen, he urged that the regulation be given a "positive" interpretation. Pettitt knew that criticism would continue if such changes were made, but he felt that "The [main] purpose of the policy is . . . to protect the University. We cannot afford to change or to compromise this policy, regardless of what passing criticism we may receive, because in the long run [such] criticism would overwhelm us. However . . . we might administer this policy less negatively and more positively, by giving greater attention to the phrase, 'Where it becomes necessary to consider political, social or sectarian movements, they are dissected and examined.' " He also recognized the educational necessity of discussing important controversial issues: "When political, social, or sectarian questions arise which are of concern to a considerable number of students, the University of California should actively move to see that they are discussed on the campus under conditions consonant with principle and policies [as mentioned above]." 3 During the summer of 1947, student agitation temporarily subsided only to be resumed in the fall. In the meantime, California was in an uproar about the alleged international spy activities of certain Berkeley professors, Oppenheimer's rumored disloyalty, the placing of a student group on the Attorney General's list, personal attacks on Sproul, and the Czechoslovakian coup. That fall, the Daily Californian editor fired the first shot against Regulation 17 by pointing out that the University of Wisconsin had an open policy of nonpartisanship which allowed practically any group to use facilities. The students then rallied against Regulation 17 under the leadership of the American Veterans Committee. Dean Stone reacted with his usual conservatism: "Before the movement . . . comes to the state of demands on the Dean and appeals to the President it should be carefully scouted and thoroughly analyzed, and a clear decision as to what the University position should be and why—not a trading posi3

Stone to Sproul on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (June 4, 1947).

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tion, but our final position." 4 In other words, find the facts, outline a position, and don't negotiate with the students. Over the next couple of weeks, Stone did some "scouting" of his own through various student leaders, and found that agitation was "limited to campus student groups of known political zeal. I have noticed the Haldane and Merriam Clubs, Students for Wallace, American Veterans Committee, American Youth for Democracy, and the Young Socialist League as the most prominent, all of which are decidedly to the left if not more so." With seeming relief, he noticed that religious groups were not involved, which led him to the conclusion that "it is simply a move on the part of radical student off-campus groups, which we would do better to watch in silence now, than to oppose." Still further investigation showed him that the groups were "spearheaded by the Students for Wallace Committee, with the full but unidentified strength of the campus Communists back of them," 6 and that the aim of the movement was ultimately to establish a less restrictive basis for recognition of clubs or groups, which would then allow more of them to use facilities for meetings and speakers. Subsequent staff meetings showed that not everyone shared the dean's automatically negative attitude toward liberalizing changes, but all recognized the dilemma they were faced with, between public relations on the one side and pressures for liberalization on the other. Almost everyone finally opted for good public relations in the hope that the student pressures would be eased somewhat by the administration itself promoting discussion of significant issues. Meetings devoted to such discussion might "help clear the atmosphere and relieve [the administration] of charges of suppressing liberal or even radical viewpoints." At the same time, the administration was committed to not giving the "impression that we [are] turning our facilities over to radical elements as a sounding board." 6 To establish a defensible position between these two power groups was a difficult task indeed, and the difficulties only increased as anti-Communist pressures mounted. Significantly, the administration did not consider civil law an important element in the negotiating process as Sproul said, "It is clear to all of us that any University regulation established by the President is the 'law' insofar as the students are concerned." They took it for granted 'Stone to Sproul on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (November 20, 1947). 5 Stone to Sproul on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (December 11, 1947). See also n. 25, p. 148, below. "Stone to Sproul on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (December 31, 1947). Stone was here reporting the gist of an administrative staff meeting.

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that the questions students were raising were simply concerned with university issues having nothing to do with matters of citizenship, inherent rights, or student freedoms. The problems were purely administrative. Sproul shared this view, taking rather a casual attitude toward the law in such matters. "I would pay no attention to the rulings of the [regents'] attorney. We can get almost as many opinions on the subject . . . as there are attorneys in the state. The important point is, not what legal defense we can set up for such rules as the University administration may choose to make, but rather what the best and most enforceable rules in the circumstances with which we University administrators are all too familiar." 7 To Sproul, the power groups—the hostile state and the critical students—were the major consideration, not the law, which must determine the regulations. Throughout the spring term of 1948, the chief administrators of the various campuses remained divided. Dean Hutchinson at Davis felt that "under no circumstances . . . may [facilities] be used for partisan political or sectarian religious meetings or purposes." 8 This was the hard line. Others opposed the existing regulations, in the words of Dean Hahn at UCLA, "as a matter of educational theory." But he, for one, did not, as an administrator, "wish to advocate amendment at the present time." 9 And George Pettitt continued to argue that Regulation 17 was defensible if it was not used to stifle discussion of "current social problems." Meanwhile that spring, the ASUC gathered information about other universities, and in April, came forth with evidence that the universities of Chicago, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Harvard University, and Reed College had open policies which in practice allowed just about any speaker on any topic. The student government also presented recommendations for new rules for recognizing student groups, and consequently for the use of facilities. The comparative study and the student recommendations forced the administration to search for a deeper rationale for their own relatively strict policies. Pettitt seemed somewhat doubtful that the university's regulations could be justified to the students, but he still thought they were necessary. His reasoning is quite revealing of some of the difficulties faced by the university, particularly in regard to maintaining aca7

Sproul to Stone on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (January 22, 1948). "Dean Hutchison to Sproul on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (January 26, 1948). "Hahn, of the President's Administrative Advisory Committee, Presidential Files (March 31,1948).

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demic freedom. This freedom is "essentially the freedom of the competent instructor in the classroom. There is no right . . . which permits students to usurp that privilege of the classroom. . . . Academic freedom is not universally accepted by the public, and could possibly be lost by attempts to extend it beyond the classroom. In the mind of a considerable segment of the public, a student is a minor who is to be told what he should believe rather than allowed to make his own choice." The implication of Pettitt's remarks was that students had no right to invite speakers, that such a right would seriously jeopardize academic freedom in the university, and that the public would never accept it. Pettitt's was a philosophy of student obedience, not student power: "It is the responsibility of the students to accept adverse, as well as favorable decisions." But behind all his statements lay a fundamental premise: "The rights of students at the university are definitely limited by the nature of the institution." 10 Despite the evidence demonstrating that Cal was indeed more conservative than other schools, Dean Stone remained steadfastly opposed to the ASUC recommendations for broadening recognition. "Knowing the background of this proposal I am confident that the primary interest is securing recognition of student political groups . . . and the right to invite any off-campus speaker they may wish to have address them." What is more, he felt the existing policy could be defended. "The record shows that we have not tried to control student thinking by disapproving off-campus speakers whose views we might not like. My suggestion is that we continue our present policy . . . rather than set aside Regulation 17 and attempt to supervise the hodgepodge of student organizations with no control whatever over their off-campus speakers, and consequent jeopardy of our public relations." 11 In sharp contrast to Stone, Dean Hahn liked the student proposal: "General impressions: if public opinion in California is such that relatively complete autonomy of student organizations can be granted, I believe the proposal (of the ASUC) is an excellent one. . . . The administration must, of course, weigh the force and direction of the public opinion in this regard." 12 It is interesting here that even one of the most liberal advisers would place "public opinion" above the "complete autonomy of student organizations." 10

Pettitt to Sproul on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (April 28, 1948). Stone to Sproul, Presidential Files (June 8, 1948). u H a h n to Sproul on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (June 14, 1948). u

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However, no action was taken on the ASUC proposals the rest of that year, and in the fall student energies seemed to have been diverted to interest in the national election, the Henry Wallace campaign, and the Berkeley city officials' reluctance to grant table permits to student political groups.13 But the following spring (1949) agitation resumed with, significantly if only briefly, faculty support. The refusal to allow two University of Oregon professors, who had been fired because of accusations by the House Un-American Activities Committee, and British socialist Harold Laski to speak on campus marks what is probably the beginning of faculty interest in the use of university facilities. Finally, on June 1 a new version of Regulation 17 was passed by the President's Administrative Advisory Committee, but the changes were minor to the point of insignificance. The administration retained all powers of implementation of the rules, although a more liberal introduction did incorporate Pettitt's suggestion for a "positive" approach to outside speakers. "The university recognizes a responsibility to invite or approve the inviting of qualified outside speakers on important public problems . . . for the purpose of promoting intellectual development of its students and preparing them for intelligent participation in society." Not that such a notion would satisfy the activist, or for that matter the graduate student or the veteran. They were interested in real action in the present tense, not just "preparing" for it. Administrators knew that students would not all be pleased. "It would be hopeless to expect that the revision will satisfy all students. All it does . . . is to give us [the administration] a more logical ground on which to stand." In other words, the revised Regulation 17 would legitimize certain decisions which would have to be made. But it was felt that these minor changes would be at least temporarily sufficient, for "it is quite probable that [the students] will be diverted for some time to the faculty oath." 14 This was Pettitt's judgment, and he was right. From 1949 until the mid-1950s the major battles 13

The City of Berkeley had passed an ordinance, unquestionably directed toward students, requiring all informational or organizational table users to obtain a city permit. About this time, the City Council adopted highly restrictive standards, supported by A. Harris and J. Corley, for issuing such permits. (See Daily Californian, October 14 and October 20, 1948.) In effect, this was the city's own brand of Regulation 17 which allowed it to approve or disapprove certain student groups. 11 Pettitt to Sproul on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (April 28, 1948).

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centered on the "great oath controversy," which arose when the regents, acting on the recommendation of both Sproul and Corley, required each faculty member to swear his loyalty to the nation and state as a condition of continuing (or initial) employment. An extraordinarily intense battle raged which was followed intently by the press. Many professors quit and some were fired for refusing to sign the oath. These events, of course, marked a major deterioration in what had heretofore been Sproul's carefully nurtured relations with his faculties, and as a result played an important—if indirect—role in arousing faculty sympathy with the students move against Regulation 17. Although the students' interest in liberalizing the use of university facilities and the professors' interest in traditional academic freedom were certainly part of the same problem, the oath fight made it seem as though they were identical complaints. Despite changes in the regulation that would supposedly legitimize many decisions made in its name, arguments continued over its implementation. The disputes were important, for they prompted a deepening faculty concern over the use of facilities. In 1951, Dean Stone refused to allow the prominent socialist Max Schachtman to speak on the campus. Stone explained that it was not university policy to invite speakers who belonged to groups on the Attorney General's list of subversive organizations. In a private letter, Dean Hahn of UCLA told Sproul he was operating under a similar criterion. Any speaker recently accused of a felony or reputedly a member of "the Communist party or a front group" was banned from the UCLA campus.16 The implications of the policy are far reaching, for in practice any prospective speaker could be banned just for being publicly accused of belonging to an organization labeled a "front group." Although it was probably unknown to the faculty at the time, the UCLA administration sometimes cleared speaker prospects with the FBI, an organization hardly noted for its scholarly competence. In January 1951, for instance, the Anthropology Department wanted to sponsor a Negro History Week. Of the ten names of prospective speakers sent to the FBI, only one was cleared, after which Hahn 15

For the background of the loyalty oath controversy, see D. Gardiner, The Great Oath Controversy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967). The issue was not really dead until December 1967 when the state Supreme Court declared the oath unconstitutional. 16 Hahn to Sproul on Subversive Activities, Presidential Files (November 23, 1951).

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wrote Sproul, "I am rejecting the [Anthropology Department's] request after checking with the FBI since the latter will only clear the name of Mr.—." 17 This denial was too much for the anthropologists, and they balked. It was the first time the Academic Senate, as a group, took an official stand on Regulation 17, recommending that the speaker's "competence and integrity," and not a "blanket list of organizations," be made the criterion of approval. The Senate's Academic Freedom Committee further pointed out that the department chairmen—and by implication not the administration—were the best judges of speakers. If any disagreement about approval arose, they asked that the case be referred to the Academic Freedom Committee. Sproul said he agreed with the "competence and integrity" criterion, and with allowing department chairmen to judge it, but he did not believe referring problematic cases to the Academic Freedom Committee would be "practical." 18 The faculty apparently did not dispute this opinion, at least no big controversy ensued. As an indication of the stresses and strains on the president at this time, it is worth noting that Regent Neylan strongly disapproved of Sproul's acquiescence to the faculty. The Hearst attorney, who was a strong anti-Communist and a bitter opponent of Sproul, was probably the most powerful man on the board. His objection to allowing the department chairmen to decide on speakers was based on the conviction that it would "decentralize" responsibilities for keeping Communists off the campus.19 Over the next couple of years, militant anti-Communism swept through the land. Concurrently, on the Cal campuses a strict policy of neutrality was enforced, which meant that presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson had to speak on a Berkeley street corner. Senator Joseph McCarthy reached the pinnacle of his power, and State Senator Hugh Burns bragged about firing 100 pro-Communist teachers from the state colleges and university. The city of Berkeley continued 17 Hahn to Sproul on Subversive Activities, Presidential Files (January 12, 1951). "President Sproul's Report to the Academic Senate, December 18, 1951. Actually Sproul said that in determining whether or not "an individual meets the requirement of Regulation 5" the administration would refer to the "Attorney General's list of subversive organizations," but that this would not be a controlling factor. 19 Report on regents' meeting on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (January 25, 1952).

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applying its own version of Regulation 17 by granting no table permits whatever, and when a student was arrested for setting one up anyway, a presidential adviser let it be known he "suspected" the student of being "part of the Communist conspiracy." 20 There were bitter protestations over university retention of a "contact man" who was rumored to be working at the same time with the California House Un-American Activities Committee, and a professor got into serious trouble for allegedly saying that "there is something wrong with a young person . . . who is not idealistically inspired to the point of belonging to a communist, socialist, anarchist, or other similarly inspired group." In the middle of all this, officials sought to extend Regulation 17 to off-campus living groups such as fraternities and sororities. This seemed necessary, to their mind, if the administration were not to "lay itself open to constant attack from within, and chaos." 21 Chaos or not, extention of the regulation was not forthcoming, possibly because of evidence that such a move would have been illegal. Fear, apathy, and silence hung over the Berkeley campus during the mid-1950s. Student editors wrote about the "silent generation," and one writer rhetorically asked if students were not, after all, "afraid to speak out in public meetings about our beliefs on current topics? " The implied answer was, of course, "yes." 22 The campus was so quiet that even that avowed conservative Dean Stone voiced concern. Then in the spring of 1956, the dormant decade was slowly aroused. In the next twelve months, the university liberalized Regulation 17, and nationally, the first Negro to enter the University of Alabama, Miss Autherine Lucy, was expelled, and the Montgomery bus boycott undertaken. Though these events were unrelated at the time, they portended a new era. A year and a half later a student writer could say with relief, "At least we do not have to say what apathy is but rather what apathy was. Because apathy is on the way out." Ironically—since liberalization nearly always means an opening to the left—it was the Young Republicans who initiated liberalization of Regulation 17.23 The Republican state convention, meeting in 1956 to " Daily Californian, April 3 and April 6, 1953. 21 Atkinson to Allen on Regulation 17, Presidential Files (November 5, 1954). 22 Daily Calif ornian, December 4, 1953. 23 The conservative Dean Stone was, of course, absolutely right in maintaining that a liberalization of the regulations would eventually embarrass the univer-

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prepare for the upcoming national elections, was urged by its younger constituents to recommend that the university allow candidates to speak on campus rather than in the city streets. In April, the Presidential Administrative Advisory Committee agreed to this change, stipulating, however, that a "balanced program" had to be offered by the "serial appearance of party candidates." The administrators also made it clear they still refused to recognize "political or social action groups," 24 which of course meant that only those groups already approved by the ASUC or by academic departments could sponsor a speaker. The question of how various groups would get together to present a "serial appearance of party candidates" was left open, yet it was soon apparent that deliberate nonsponsorship on one side of the political spectrum would automatically block the other side. In June 1956, students under the leadership of Peter Frank, Hank DiSuvero, and Pat Denton initiated a concerted, well-thought-out plan which culminated in the first major revision of the twenty-yearold regulation. This was a new kind of movement, for the leaders were prominent students of a distinctly nonideological cast of mind— Frank, for instance, was a member of the still powerful Golden Bear—and they worked closely with Chancellor Kerr and members of the Academic Freedom Committee.25 After numerous closed sessity. It is the active left which benefits from an open campus, and an active left is, by definition, embarrassing to the university. Californians, and the American public in general, are seldom comfortable with anything to the left of the Democratic Party. Since an open campus will continue to be a source of controversy, arguments favoring it cannot be based on improving the position of the university in the state. 24 Memorandum from Sproul to chief campus officers, Presidential Files (June 19, 1956). The memorandum embodied the gist of the Presidential Advisory Committee meeting. a Although it is not part of our aim to study the Communist influence at Berkeley, it is worth mentioning that the decline of Communism is probably related to these changes. From about 1935 to 1950, Communists were involved in most of the liberal movements, and their presence played a large part in student and administrative thinking. The public's attitude, briefly, was that a few Communists were capable of perniciously manipulating worthy causes by first luring idealistic students into a certain group, then creating an incident against the administration, and then using the incident to deepen the breach between the administration and the students. Several assumptions were involved here: idealistic students were very naive; Communists were exceptionally clever; given the naive idealist and the clever Communist, a few Communist students could quickly dominate worthy causes; Communists were not really concerned with the causes but had their own ulterior motives in participating; the short-run

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sions, the students announced their recommendation that nonrecognized student groups be allowed to use university facilities and that the panel format for controversial issues be officially dropped. (It had already been eliminated unofficially.) Recognizing that times were changing and that the cold war was beginning to thaw, both Chancellor Kerr and President Sproul had come to favor the broadened use of university facilities. So, too, did the Presidential Advisory Committee. And so, adding only the stipulation that groups using the facilities would be "exclusively" composed of students (not just "predominantly," as had been recommended), the committee voted on November 9,1956, to accept the recommended changes. However, on January 9, 1957, the Academic Freedom Committee presented further, more fundamental recommendations.2 (The accepted changes had not yet been officially promulgated by the Advisory Committee.) This was the first time that an official body of the Academic Senate made specific recommendations for fundamental changes in the regulation itself. The report began with a strong criticism of all university regulations, after which certain recommendations were made which went beyond those of both the students and the Advisory Committee. The faculty urged that "all bona fide student organizations," whether recognized or not, be allowed to have meetings on campus; that anyone, with the exception of Communists, should be allowed to speak; and that student groups should not be banned solely because some members might not technically be students.26 The report also argued that students should not be held responsible for presenting a balanced program of political views. And in conclusion the faculty thought the proposed revision was too restrictive and too vague on all these issues. Even though these recommendations were never approved, this demonstration of faculty concern was significant in itself. The president's "word" on the use of facilities was no longer the unchallenged "law" of the campus. In fact, the Academic Freedom Committee was irritated by the administration's casual response to their recommendations. The new Regulation 17 took effect on April 1, 1957. But, on balmotive was simply to make trouble for the sake of trouble and eventually overthrow legitimate authority. In most cases, the mere presence of the Communists tended to discredit a movement. Thus, the rise of a rigorously nonCommunist left in the late 1950s was of some importance politically, for the causes could no longer be classed automatically as illegitimate troublemaking. 28 University Bulletin, 6 (January 21, 1957), p. 109.

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ance, the reforms seemed minor indeed when compared with the continuing restrictions. Although the regulation did allow nonrecognized groups, if composed exclusively of students, to use facilities for special meetings (not membership meetings) and did officially drop the panel-format requirement, providing that political balance was achieved over a reasonable period, such as a month or two or a semester, many old restrictions were maintained. For instance, within the framework of the general rules (which allowed wide discretion), the administration retained full powers of decision-making on the following: approval of speakers; approval and distribution of all publicity; and approval of the nonrecognized student groups that would be allowed to use facilities. Also kept in force was the total ban against solicitation of political party membership and church affiliation, the ban against Communist speakers on campus, and the blocking of any proposed stand by the ASUC on an off-campus issue. The administration also continued to exercise full veto power over all proposed changes in the student government constitution. THE ADMINISTRATION AND THE CAMPUS NEWSPAPER

In the case of the campus newspaper, the degree of student control continued to be inversely proportional to the amount of conflict. And here again, anti-Communist public opinion was crucial. The trouble started immediately after the war and resulted in the cancellation by the Daily Californian of all advertising space purchased by the Communists. However, the paper continued to carry stories that aroused the ire of the conservative Executive Committee of the ASUC, which then tried, without success, to take over the paper in the late 1940s. It appears that Vice-President Corley initiated a second move for control of the paper in 1950, when he suggested to the Advisory Committee that "the self-perpetuating policies of student papers on the two major campuses . . . have created serious public relations hazards for the University." 27 In February 1951, the student gov" Minutes of the Presidential Advisory Administrative Committee, Presidential Files (May 17, 1950). The "self-perpetuating" refers to the tradition whereby the editors for one year chose the editors for the following year. It should also be remembered that in this period of the loyalty oath, the firing of a teaching assistant for espionage, spy allegations in the university, etc., students wrote the campus news, and students tended to take the liberal view.

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ernment took over the UCLA paper, and the editorial staff resigned in protest. A short time later, the Berkeley student government, prompted by the paper's publication of two radical articles, made its move. In the fall of 1951, a group of Berkeley students who had attended the Communist Youth Festival, wrote a couple of sympathetic articles on the meeting. Their publication stirred up the powerful Regent Neylan and Fulton Lewis Jr., among others. Neylan, an avid reader of the Daily Californian, alleged that it was a Communist group on the student newspaper which had pushed for revision of Regulation 17.28 Seizing the opportunity provided by such criticisms, the ASUC created a Publications Board in January 1952, composed of presidential^ appointed members of the ASUC, the Daily Californian staff, the faculty, the administration, and the alumni.29 Understandably, the board was not popular with staff members, but their appeals to the president to dissolve it were unsuccessful. THE ADMINISTRATION AND STUDENT SELF-GOVERNMENT

The student government (ASUC) grew up during a more simple era when students were preoccupied with football, school spirit, loyalty, and avoiding studies. The system of informal cooperation was not designed to institutionalize intensive conflict nor manage largescale business affairs. The more deeply student government cut into fundamental problems, which by their nature implicated the entire university, the less power was delegated to it. Certain changes in student government over the years substantiate these assertions. First, there occurred a decline in formal student authority. Second, the ASUC dependence on administrative largess was more and more explicitly spelled out and given authoritative support in various legal interpretations. And third, student government jurisdiction tended to contract as student interests expanded. Students were becoming more and more concerned with the very serious offcampus problems with which their "government" was not permitM Minutes of the regents' meeting, Presidential Files (January 25, 1952). The war in Korea was going badly, and the oath controversy was raging. ® At first the board exercised almost daily control, but this level of activity was soon decreased. However, it continued to supervise policy matters and appointments.

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ted to involve itself. Related to this, the increasing proportion of graduate students, with their more adult interests, were only temporarily represented in the ASUC. Actually, student government had run into serious trouble in the 1930s. It will be remembered that the radical American Student Union briefly took control of the ASUC, forcing the administration to consider a major revision of student government. At that time, the organization seemed in real danger of losing its tax-exempt status unless it could clearly be shown that it was an intrinsic part of the university. However, since some students claimed that student government was a "right," not a "privilege"—giving them the "right" therefore to ignore administrative "advice"—the ASUC's ties to the university were being questioned. Only the advent of World War II, with its quite different priorities, deferred a fundamental reexamination of the ASUC. After the war, officials continued to be disturbed by various financial, tax exemption status, and public relations problems connected with student government, and in December 1946, they resumed their study of the ASUC with the aim of complete revision of its operating basis. Farnham Griffiths,30 who significantly had been President Wheeler's secretary (1906-1907) and who later became a regent, expressed the dominant feeling of the administration's study committee: "My own view was and is that we cannot cure a long standing difficulty by tinkering with the machine but that the time has come to overhaul it thoroughly. It [student government] grew up in a somewhat haphazard fashion from President Wheeler's day and now does not work well." The committee, he said, should deal first with the immediate crisis brought about by firing the coach, and then "in due season formulate our conception of the true student-administration relationship and plan for its execution which the Regents would approve." 31 On February 5, 1947, an administration conference on ASUC matters was called which concluded that the nonstudent-dominated (i.e., faculty and staff) Finance Committee should heretofore control the key management positions of the ASUC, particularly those having to do with the hiring and firing of athletic coaches.32 30

Griffiths has been mentioned many times before. It is quite significant that he, along with Sproul, had been active during Wheeler's presidency, and also shared Wheeler's philosophy of student government. 31 Griffiths to Provost Deutsch on ASUC Student Government, Presidential Files (January 13, 1947). 33 Sproul was not happy with nonstudent domination, and he reiterated one

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After carefully formulating the suggested changes, the administration, through Dean Stone, notified the students of their recommendations in April. When the students then asked to see President Sproul, Stone warned him how important he felt it was "to press the changes in the ASUC constitution through without resorting to popular vote. . . . [These changes are] not understood by most of the students and in an election would no doubt fail in addition to arousing anti-administration attitudes." 33 The president then told the Executive Committee of the ASUC, which was itself pushing for compulsory rather than voluntary membership in the ASUC—that the regents would not approve compulsory membership unless the students also agreed on the Finance Committee. And so, with the understanding that the regents would approve compulsory membership, the Executive Committee voted to accept the Finance Committee. The regents, however, turned down compulsory membership in the ASUC, while approving the Finance Committee. Student leaders felt betrayed, and immediately sought student domination of the powerful new committee. Stone was, of course, steadfast against student control of student finances; it would, he said, "undermine the confidence of the key alumni and encourage students to 'take the bit in their teeth again'." 34 The students lost the fight, and with it much of their power. From that time on, student government at Berkeley continued down the road of irrelevance. The new era was visualized by one disappointed student whose proposal had been vetoed by the Finance Committee. "Elected representatives of the students feel that it is hopeless to introduce controversial legislation and senseless to spend hours upon hours in research and persuasion when the net result . . . is defeat without recourse, . . . It's all a farce. . . . The ASUC will become a mere plaything." 35 Subsequent references to the "ASUC sandbox" verified his fears. In 1950, in a long-contemplated move probably initiated by James Corley, then legislative representative, the ASUC lost control of athletof Wheeler's old statements that student government should not be "faculty government with a sweater on." Nevertheless, faculty and staff eventually did come to control the committee. 33 Stone to Sproul on ASUC Student Government, Presidential Files (April 23, 1947). 31 Stone to Sproul on ASUC Student Government, Presidential Files (October 8, 1947). 35 C. Maser to Sproul on ASUC Student Government, Presidential Files (March 5, 1948).

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ics. "Corley pointed out that the present ill-defined and not always consistent division of authority and responsibility between the Regents and administration . . . and students . . . is dangerous both financially and public relationswise." To make his point, Corley cited one UCLA contract which had cost the university $50,000 and then reminded the administration of the regents' responsibility for student-incurred debts. (Later developments indicated the regental liability was moral, not legal.) Within a few months of this discussion, Corley submitted his suggestions for change, which are actually more interesting for their philosophy than for their specific recommendations. The chief lobbyist said that while he believed in the principle of student government, the university has the responsibility "for guidance and education of its students." Further, the once small activities (mainly athletics) have grown to become large enterprises with tremendous public relations responsibilities. . . . There has been growing attitudes by representatives of some student activities to interpret student self-government as a right rather than a privilege. . . . Certain activities of student government in their independence have grown away from the University as an institution and the development of activities of the students tended to ignore the University as an institution and also to ignore public responsibility in sponsoring student activities. . . . The public interests, particularly that of the alumni, centers on many student activities and this, to these public and alumni groups, represents the University. . . . This factor alone is most vital to our public relations and requires the guidance and education of our students in the proper conduct of self-government.

He then urged nonstudent (faculty and administration) veto power over all financial matters "or the public welfare of the University would be jeopardized." 36 The precise role of Corley's recommendations in the battle for control of athletics remains obscure, although the outcome is quite clear: in 1950 the ASUC lost athletics, probably the most important traditional area of its formerly wide jurisdiction. It was also during the early 1950s that the old notion of student government as a "gift" received legal backing. In 1953, when UCLA students attempted to change their constitution, their efforts led only to a group of legal opinions on aspects of ASUCLA-administrative relations. To the question, for instance, Who has the legal power to interpret or alter the ASUCLA constitution? The answer, in the opinion of M

Minutes of Presidential Administrative Advisory Committee meetings, Presidential Files (May 16, 1950).

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attorneys O'Melveny and Meyers, was that the administration has such power. "The [student government] constitution was adopted by the authority of the president and relates to such matters as have been delegated by him." As to who might have the legal power to use ASUCLA funds, property, or employees for purposes not sanctioned by the Student Legislative Council, "It is our opinion that the administration has such power." The administration also had the legal power to remove voting privileges from ASUCLA fee paying graduate students.37 In short, it was the opinion of the attorneys that the university administrators, not the students, were the ones who were legally in control of the constitution, the funds, and the voting rights of the "student selfgovernment" system. Finally, as students were increasingly involved in off-campus concerns, they increasingly tried to use student government as a tool of political expression. In a sense, the blurred distinction between offcampus and on-campus issues has been all along the source of the ever mounting difficulties in this area. Nuclear weapons, the draft, war and peace, discrimination, government contracts, federal research, national and state elections are all on-campus issues from one perspective, since all deeply and immediately affect both students and the university as a whole. As soon as student populations had become serious enough to realize they were affected by the world, the university became for them a microcosm of all the major conflicts in the larger society. It was then that the administration, acting to prevent the political use of student government, imposed a ban against the ASUC's taking official stands on off-campus controversies. And it was the administration, not the students, who made the distinctions between on-campus and off-campus issues. One aspect of the ASUC ban became formal when student pickets in support of the 1945 Warner Brothers strike identified themselves as University of California students. The state legislature investigated, and on December 17, 1945, the regents passed a motion prohibiting students from in any way giving the impression in their off-campus activities that they represented the university. Two years later, Regulation 6 was passed, blocking members of the university community from contacting public officials about campus matters without the permission of the president. Eventually, the ban had an enervating effect on student government. As the Executive Committee put it, the function of the ASUC is to pro" "Student Self-Government," Presidential Files (May 15, 1956).

156

T H E POSTWAR YEARS, 1945-1958

mote "student welfare," or "the state of well-being and happy college life, attributed to various extracurricular activities which are sponsored and regulated by the Associated Students." 38 Promoting a "happy college life" did allow sponsorship of model U N programs and other educational games that enabled students to rehearse roles which they might play in later adult life, but when issues such as Miss Lucy's dismissal from the University of Alabama arose, the Executive Committee felt it could not express an opinion—civil rights was defined as an off-campus issue. CONCLUSION: THE OLD AUTHORITY AND THE NEW SOCIAL CONTEXT By and large, the same policies and same criticism continued in the postwar decade, with the administration in almost total control. Student government still centered on collegiate activities even though student interests had greatly expanded. Before 1956, administrators' consultation with students was cursory to say the least. Neutrality was not, in fact, impartial, since public relations remained the primary operating principle guiding administrative discretion. In the polemics of conflict, it was common to impute personal motives to official actions. 39 But this accusation obfuscates the essential point that any restrictive action only mirrored certain assumptions the various administrations almost invariably made—about students, the nature of education, the political mood of the time, and the vulnerability of the institution. Often unstated, but nevertheless real, was their assumption, first, that students were young and preparing themselves for full participation in the adult world. Following from this notion of stu38

Daily Californian, May 2 7 , 1 9 4 7 . The ban became formal in 1959. It was typically argued that administrators personally disliked radicals, and even liberals, and that they suppressed the liberal-radical movements because they (the administrators) were conservative. When dealing with Communism, this assertion was true. However, this was hardly a controversial position for the administration to take, since most people thought the Communist party was a conspiratorial weapon whose hidden presence subverted otherwise valid organizations for the benefit of Soviet Russia. Another confusion of the 1950s was the definition of Communism. Some men, such as Dean Stone, were more than a little vague about the distinction between Communism, Communist front groups, Communist causes, radical dissent, and even liberalism. However, with the exception of Dean Stone (whose power, by the way, should not be minimized), most officials had a somewhat clearer notion of these distinctions. 30

THE POSTWAR YEARS, 1945-1958

157

dents was the definition of the university as a special-purpose institution devoted to teaching in the classroom and research in the laboratory. This, in turn, meant that academic freedom was the only right, and that student extracurricular activities on the campus were a privilege. And finally, it was held that the administration, not students or faculty, was the only element able to properly grant those privileges and uphold the uncompromisable principles which would protect the institution and allow it to fulfill its special role.40 The combination of these assumptions with the positive administrative duty to protect the institution made a strict interpretation of neutrality the logical outcome. Some administrators—Hahn, for one— would have preferred an open campus, but when a seeming choice threatened between an open campus and jeopardizing academic freedom, they all chose to preserve traditional academic freedom. Still, in all probability, a more open policy could have been instituted if the Board of Regents had been willing to support it. The regents not only had great authority within the university, but also they owned, governed, or influenced some of the most powerful institutions in the state. However, as regents, they did not support an open policy and as individual businessmen or politicians, they were often its strongest enemies. Even as the prewar policies continued, however, important changes were taking place beneath the surface. In creating and implementing new regulations, "the university's best interests," "reputation," and all the other euphemisms for outside pressure were seldom mentioned publicly as a justification for administrative decisions, though, in fact, they were still powerful operative principles. The basis of student consent for university authority evolved away from institutional protection toward a more self-contained legalistic policy, a shift reflecting the 40

The first assumption was becoming increasingly invalid. Students were no longer young. First, the veterans were old chronologically as well as deeply experienced in the realities of life. Most were over twenty-one. Second, the university was rapidly becoming a graduate institution. In 1950, 26 percent of the enrollment were graduate students; by 1960, this figure had increased to 32 percent. Thus, by the most conservative estimate, well over one-third of the students were past the legally defined adult age. Furthermore, students were living like adults. Over 70 percent of them lived in housing units—such as apartments—that were entirely independent of university supervision. Significantly, most administrators had gone to college during the heyday of the collegiate culture when the "young student" assumption was correct. It cannot be accurately measured but it can be assumed from both the background and statements of administrators that the collegiate image remained viable in their minds long after it had ceased to be a true one.

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THE POSTWAR YEARS, 1945-1958

transfer of student commitments from institutional loyalty to political involvement, from the collegiate culture to sociopolitical concerns. Students were coming of age and so were the problems of governance. Finally, there was an important shift in power within the institution which necessitated a more systematic consultation with internal constituents, the faculty being the critical element in this change. In order to insure widespread voluntary compliance—i.e., legitimacy—internal constituents had to be seriously considered in the construction if not the implementation, of rules and policies. During the mid-1950s this new basis of legitimacy continued its evolution, but it would take the open rebellion of the 1960s to fully expose the gap between the pattern of authority and the social context, and drive home the point that the old basis of authority was no longer considered legitimate by the increasingly numerous and vocal activist students.

Authority . . . is rightly derived from the society's constituents, which in the case of a student community are the students and the administration. SLATE Leaders, 1961

The main idea is that we have to live as every segment of the University under the rules set by the administration. Faculty Adviser to the ASUC, October 23, 1959

7 MANAGERIAL BUREAUCRACY, 1958-1964

The Free Speech Movement (FSM) of 1964 has been called a "revolt," and indeed it was. But the assault on authority was more than a sudden temporary outburst, instigated by a charismatic leadership. Rather, it was rooted in the long-developing trend toward a new kind of authority and the politicalization of the student body. The appointment of Clark Kerr as president in 1959 accelerated the trend toward the legal-rational style of authority and spelled the end of traditional paternalism. The new president was the first in the history of the university who did not espouse character building, whether in the nineteenth century "Christian gentleman" style or the more modern "good citizenship" model of Benjamin Ide Wheeler. Clark Kerr seldom, if ever, used family imagery to describe the university, employing instead the symbols of large, modern collectivities such as cities and the "knowledge industry." 1 Furthermore, he was not an "Old Blue," a 1

Clark Kerr, The Uses of the University (New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1963). President Kerr, however, never spoke of the university per se as a "knowledge industry." Rather he said the university is at the "center of the

159

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MANAGERIAL BUREAUCRACY, 1958-1964

phrase significant among active alumni who use it to describe only the most tradition-imbued graduates. President Kerr also differed significantly from his immediate predecessor, the colorful and commanding President Sproul. Whereas Sproul preferred face-to-face methods, man-to-man confrontations and personal persuasion, Kerr utilized written rules, legal argument, and the energies of fellow administrators. The new president had neither the time, the personal inclination, nor the kind of community required by the old style of personal rule. Rather, he seemed to prefer—and indeed the situation required—the more rational, mediating style of the modern manager confronting a complicated aggregate of competing powers and interests.2 Perhaps most important, however, for understanding the new managerialism is still another comparison between the two presidencies. President Sproul, although operating under less politicized conditions, had taken a fairly "hard line," as his fellow administrators called it, against any threatened political use of the university. President Kerr, on the other hand, liberalized the restrictions to allow more controversial discussion. But as the distinction between permitted political discussion and banned political action became ever more difficult to draw, still more rules had to be established. Ironically, it was the "bureaucratization," not the substantial liberalizations, that caught the eye of the activist students.3 T H E P A T T E R N OF A U T H O R I T Y : T H E N E W M A N A G E R S

President Kerr had a penchant for rational synthesis, and one of his first administrative accomplishments was to bring together the varknowledge process," which, in turn, was part of the "knowledge industry" (p. 88). As implied in his term "multiversity," the university is many things to many people, an aggregate of interests and purposes. The point is that the Kerr image and the organization over which Clark Kerr presided suggested a vastly different enterprise from that dominated by the paternal Benjamin Ide Wheeler. 2 Ibid. See especially Kerr's description of the modern university president not as the "giant" of old but as the new era's "initiator-mediator," trying to keep peace through compromise and moderation while, at the same time, initiating progress (pp. 36-41). The image resembles that of the manager of a wellestablished industry far more than that of the ground-breaking, authoritarian ruler in the tradition of Wheeler. 3 Kerr's election, the attacks on him, and his final firing are all filled with irony. On October 21, 1957, the editor of the Daily Californian wrote that "Kerr's appointment is a surprise and victory—a victory of the liberal over the reactionary, humanism over the IBM machines, student interest over political and self-

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ious regulations into a unified whole which became known as the KenDirectives. The very existence of these directives, not to say their construction, implementation, and interpretation, highlighted the development of what we shall call "managerial bureaucracy." The Kerr Directives, which determined the use of facilities, rested on the same principles which had officially guided the university since 1934. For instance, the section called "General Policies" restated, among other ideas, the traditional version of neutrality: The "independence" of the university from "all political and sectarian influence" was required to "preserve . . . constitutional independence and to maintain an atmosphere in which teaching and research may be carried on free from interference or domination by parties, sects, or other outside agencies." 4 At the same time, though they were not entirely new under Kerr, certain liberal modifications were emphasized. It was recognized, for example, that "discussion of public problems on the campus plays a significant role in promoting intellectual development of its students and preparing them for intelligent participation in society." To guide the university between the Scylla of open discussion and the Charybdis of institutional independence, the directives stated that "it is essential the University facilities shall not be used in ways which will involve the University as an institution in the political, religious, and other controversial issues of the day." 5 But the balance between neutrality and relevant discussion of contemporary issues was not easy to maintain. In a speech at the University of California at Davis, the president made several points about the limited jurisdiction of university authority which became official policy: "1) The University should seek to govern [the student] and discipline him only in areas of direct University concern. 2) The student is also an independent citizen. . . . 3) The punishment for students and citizens should fit the crime. One punishment, not two, should fit one crime." 6 That third point was particularly interests, and intelligence over incompetency. . . . He will fight if necessary, . . . not [be] . . . a rubber stamp." Then, during the FSM struggles, he was constantly vilified for exactly the opposite reasons. Even the same phrases were used, but against him instead of for him. '"General Policies," Kerr Directives (November 1959 edition). 6 Ibid. "The speech, delivered in the spring of 1964 following an unprecedented number of civil rights sit-ins and arrests, is quoted from the "Byrne Report," which was reprinted in the Los Angeles Times, May 12, 1965. The Byrne Report, which is frequently quoted in this chapter, grew out of

162

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important, for the university was under powerful public pressure to prosecute Berkeley students who had been arrested in a series of San Francisco civil rights sit-ins. The president made it official that the university itself would not impose a sentence—"double jeopardy"—for a civil crime not directly related to the institution. In nearly every situation, as managers of all structures of control, the administration, and only the administration, had final authority for implementing the general policies. It was the Office of the Dean of Students, for instance, that approved speakers and publicity, and made the distinction between off-campus and on-campus issues, between approved discussion and disapproved action. And the same managerial pattern applied to the punishment of rule violators. The dean of students would initiate an investigation and decide the jurisdiction of the case. In cases of appeal and those involving severe penalties, the Faculty Committee on Student Conduct, appointed by the administration, could be called in, and could establish its own procedures for individual hearings. However, in any case involving suspension or expulsion, the chancellor had final authority. In a word, the committees were merely "advisory" to the chancellor. The managerial style also manifested itself in both the original construction of the rules and their subsequent modifications. The evidence strongly suggests that the Kerr Directives were formulated with only the most cursory consultation with the students. The rules were promulgated on October 23, 1959, yet as late as September 17, long after they had been drafted, Kerr told Regent Canaday that, although the various deans of students had been consulted, he did not know whether the rules had been considered by the students themselves. He agreed with Canaday that "each campus should informally discuss the drafts with graduate managers and, if desirable, with the student leaders." 7 Dave Armor, president of the Berkeley ASUC, said he was "not completely surprised" about the new regulations but that he had only been given "the general idea" of their content before publication.8 The Faculty Committee on Academic Freedom voiced the complaint that they were not given enough time to study the complicated matter and the 1964-1965 crisis. Commissioned by the regents as an analysis of the problems at Berkeley, the study was based on extensive interviews with students, faculty, and administrators. 7 Minutes of the Regents" Committee on Educational Policy, 2 (September 17, 1959), 98. 8 Interview published in the Daily Californian, October 23, 1959.

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that their main recommendation—to eliminate administrative veto power over outside speakers—had been ignored.9 It is clear from such responses that the president and his personal consultants plus the regents and not students or faculty were the chief architects of the rules.10 Subsequent modifications of the rules carry a similar managerial stamp. In November 1961, the advance requirement for filing prior notification of sponsoring a speaker was suddenly shortened from seven to three days. During the same period it was also judged, by the administration, that voter registration could be conducted on the campus. A bigger change occurred in June 1963 when the regents, under pressure of a lawsuit, lifted the ban on Communist speakers. Another lawsuit forced the elimination of the long-standing restriction against the distribution of literature on the UCLA campus. Finally, after vigorous faculty and student protests, as well as some legal discussion, the administration eliminated "recognition," allowing instead any student group meeting certain requirements to use the facilities for business and special meetings as long as these groups did not intend or carry out any "social and political action." 11 Thus did policy, rules, and operating procedures and agents of control remain in the hands of the administration. This was really nothing new. But the personal element had declined in the face of a more professional, legalistic administration.

THE SOCIAL CONTEXT: THE END OF CAMPUS ISOLATION Poliiicalization

of the Student

Body

At the same time that authority was becoming more formal, and hence more visible, the students, by now experienced in a variety of protest movements, were becoming more opposed to established authority which, to them, only upheld the onerous status quo. The intensity of student political involvement—nearly all of which was on the 9

See University Bulletin, 8 (November 2, 1959), 69. The managerial attitude, albeit with somewhat authoritarian overtones, was bluntly expressed by Professor Rapport in his capacity as adviser to the ASUC: "I think it is futile to fight it [the directives]. . . . The main idea is that we have to live as every segment of the University under certain rules set by the administration. . . . It is not within the student province to challenge the President." Daily Californian, October 23, 1959. "This decision became written policy in June 1961. 10

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left—was absolutely unprecedented in the history of the university and probably unprecedented in the entire history of American universities. Berkeley records show an enormous increase in the number of political speakers and organizations (see Table 10), not to say a tremendous growth in militancy.12

Table 10:

RISE IN N U M B E R OF POLITICAL SPEAKERS,

Year

1954-1955 1955-1956 1956-1957 1957-1958 1958-1959 1959-1960 July 1960-March 1961 1961-1962 1962-1963 1964-1965

1954-1964

All Speakers

95 122 119 128 154 178 154 (no data available) 251 294

Political

Speakers

7 7 12 13 30 37 65 —

68 188

SOURCE: Office of NOTE: Although

the Dean of Students, University of California at Berkeley. the sharp increase in political speakers at Berkeley after 1957-1958 can be attributed in part to the liberalization of the rules that year, it should also be noted that the number continued to climb long after the rule change. One further point that should be made is the possibility that we have overstated the number of political speakers for the years 1954 through 1958. The criteria used for classifying "political speakers" were extremely broad for those years. For example, for 1954-1955, "Development in Asia," "Problems in Asia," "Foreign Policy in Britain," "Foreign Policy-making in Germany," "U.S. Senate," and "A Symposium on the Philippines" were all classified as "political."

Not only did the number of politically oriented guest speakers sharply increase, but the tone of the talks moved from moderate to radical, from dispassionate analysis to exhortation, from open discussion to calls for action. To point up this change, compare the list of topics and sponsors of talks held in the month of November 1955 with those of the same month a decade later, as documented in Tables 11 and 12. With often angry exhortations on race and war replacing friendly chats on u The following data, although clearly indicating a sharp rise in political activity, by no means includes every student-oriented political meeting or event. For example, during 1963-1964, the nearby (but off-campus) YMCA building was used 36 times by CORE, 21 times by SNCC, 22 times by Young People's Socialist League, 15 times by SLATE, and 22 times by the Young Socialist Alliance.

MANAGERIAL BUREAUCRACY, 1958-1964 Table

11: SPEAKERS' TOPICS AND THEIR SPONSORS, NOVEMBER 1 9 5 5

Topic

Organizational Planning Andes Naturalist Personality and Dress Civil Engineers Art of Mentally Retarded Children Skiing Facts about Cancer Morocco Management Services Offered by Public Accounting Firms Employment Outlook for College Students Growth of Public Administration in Iraq "How My College Journalism Helped Me in My Job" Tax Services Offered by the Public Accountant Satire on Authorship as a Career Experiment in International Living New Methods of Marketing U.S. Foreign Policy in Europe SOURCE:

165

Sponsoring Organization or Group

Society for the Advancement of Management Cooper Ornithological Society Home Economics Club American Society of Civil Engineers Registered Nurses on Campus U.C. Ski Club Pre-Medical Society Arab Students Beta Alpha Psi Society for the Advancement of Management American Society for Public Administration Pelican

Beta Alpha Psi ASUC International Relations Board American Marketing Association Delta Phi Epsilon

Office of the Dean of Students, University of California at Berkeley.

the "Andes Naturalist" and "Personality and Dress," it was clear that in just one decade, the campus had been transformed from the political silence of the apathetic 1950s to the highly agitated involvement of the 1960s. And the sponsors of political speakers had also changed from the few moderates of the 1950s to the many militants of the 1960s. Here again, a comparison of the year 1958-1959 (after liberalization of the rules) and the year 1963-1964 (just before the Free Speech Movement) highlights the rapid and thorough politicalization of the Berkeley campus. (See Tables 13 and 14.) But more important than the mere quantitative increase in political interest was the qualitative change from discussion to action. University rules to the contrary, students began acting as well as listening. In fact, Berkeley students, taking the leadership role in a Bay Area-wide protest movement, soon became the national symbol of the activist generation. The era of action started about 1957 when a few Berkeley students,

Table 12: SPEAKERS' TOPICS AND THEIR SPONSORS, NOVEMBER 1 9 6 5 Topic

Bogalusa and Race Christian Faith Vietnam McCarran Act (No title) Peace Corps Cuba Vietnam Cuba Grape-Pickers' Strike Medical Aid to Vietnam Vietnam Cuba Peace Corps Farm Labor Strike French Atlantic Association Civil Disobedience Student Movement French-German Relations Tribute to Tillich Old Testament (No title) Grape-Pickers' Strike Railroads Tribute to Tillich Farm Labor Bogalusa and Race Peace Corps Tribute to Tillich Vietnam (No title) Vietnam Cuba (No title) Hungarian Affairs Poetry (No title) City Planning Synanon Cuba Vietnam Civil Disobedience Saving the Redwoods Cuba Kerista Poetry SOURCE: Office of NOTE: Repetitions

Sponsoring Organization or Group

CORE Cal Christian Fellowship Medical Aid for Vietnam Du Bois Club Young Democrats ASUC Progressive Labor Medical Aid to Vietnam Cal Conservatives American Federation of Teachers Medical Aid for Vietnam Vietnam Day Committee Cal Conservatives ASUC Industrial Relations Association ASUC Peace Center and ASUC SDS ASUC International Commission Gamma Delta Cal Conservatives American Federation of Teachers U.S. Railroad Club International Commission Industrial Relations Association CORE ASUC International Commission Vietnam Day Committee Young Democrats Vietnam Day Committee Progressive Labor Arab Students Magyar Panhellenic Association American Federation of Teachers American Institute of Architects ASUC Cal Conservatives Society of Individualists Peace Center and the ASUC Forestry Club Cal Conservatives Sexual Freedom League Occident

the Dean of Students, University of California at Berkeley. result from the same group sponsoring the same topic on more than one occasion.

Table

Sponsoring

13: NUMBER OF POLITICAL SPEAKERS,

1958-1959

Organization

Politically

Number of Oriented

Speakers

3 3 7 2 4 1 1 1 1

Young People's Socialist League Dissent International Relations Board Young Republicans Young Democrats ASUC Management Society Arab Students Phi Delta Kappa YMCA Law School Student Civil Liberties Union Total Number of Political Speakers

1 1 31

SOURCE: Office of the Dean of Students, University of California at Berkeley.

Table

Sponsoring

14:

NUMBER OF POLITICAL SPEAKERS,

1963- 1964

Organization

Du Bois Club SLATE ASUC Young Democrats Young People's Socialist League Law Students Women for Peace American Civil Liberties Union Democratic Socialists Delta Phi Epsilon Young Republicans Society of Individualists YMCA CORE SNCC Independent Socialist Alliance Chinese Students Arab Students Total Number of Political Speakers

Politically

Number of Oriented

Speakers

10 11 24 3 2 3 5

1 2 1 3 2 2 1 2 1 3 1

77

SOURCE: Office of the Dean of Students, University of California at Berkeley.

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MANAGERIAL BUREAUCRACY, 1958-1964

with prophetic foresight, organized a new campus political party, Toward a More Active Student Community. The TASC party, which later became known as SLATE, was broad-based in its membership and undoctrinaire in its interests. While not campus or ideologically oriented, TASC's founders deliberately sought to politicize the campus and mobilize students on significant sociopolitical issues. At various times, the group ran a slate of candidates for student offices (hence its later name), opposed capital punishment, fought for civil rights, demonstrated against the House Un-American Activities Committee, attacked compulsory ROTC, protested nuclear testing, and confronted the administration on various campus issues.13 It was not unlike both the Social Problems Club in its pre-Stalinist years (early 1930s) and the later movement known as the New Left. With SLATE leading the way, all kinds of sociopolitical action followed. From 1960 on, demonstrations increased rapidly, reaching a pre-FSM peak in the spring of 1964, when students staged a civil rights "shop in"; organized against the repeal of the state fair-housing law; jamned themselves several hundred strong into a small room to demonstrate the inadequacy of fallout shelters; and got arrested in a San Francisco fair employment sit-in. Observers of both the 1930s and the 1960s unanimously declare that nothing can compare to the frenzy of political activity of the 1960s.14 Although the administration often referred to the small proportion of activist students—probably to quiet a hostile public—such students were neither small in number nor weak in support. Indeed, a full 49 percent of the students at Berkeley, which amounted then to some 13,000, stated that they supported the militant tactics of the FSM. Furthermore, radicalism had spread that year to the point where 86 percent of Berkeley students agreed that "civil disobedience is warranted in cer13 In 1960, SLATE was able to elect Dave Armor to the presidency of the ASUC. To my knowledge, he is one of only two ASUC presidents whose major support came from the liberal-radical element, the other having been elected in the late 1930s. 11 One of the more reliable observers of both eras was William Wadman, campus security officer, whose job was to watch the radicals in the 1930s. Wadman states that, beyond a doubt, there is far more radicalism in the 1960s than at any time in the past. The only thing remotely comparable to political events of the later era were the so-called strikes against war and fascism, but these were actually peaceful campus rallies led by speakers standing on a city sidewalk adjoining the campus. Also the action of the 1930s typically involved relatively few people while that of the 1960s involved hundreds in arrests and thousands in demonstrations.

MANAGERIAL BUREAUCRACY,

169

1958-1964

tain circumstances," and 80 percent thought it "a good thing for students to take part in picketing for civil rights." 15 In short, whether allowed by the rules or not, unprecedented storms of political protest were blowing across the campus plazas, and, public relations myths to the contrary, such protests did indeed have the support of the majority. Students and the Administration:

The Widening

Gap

Politicalization of the campus pushed the administration into its now familiar position in the middle of the crossfire between a shocked public and demanding students. As in the past, it continued to defend institutional nonalignment, further formalized the rules, and then tried to convince students that administrative policies were correct and the rules reasonable. But unlike earlier radicals, those who now challenged authority had both highly developed political skills and wide student support. But to fully grasp the diminishing basis of consent to university authority, it is necessary to examine the almost continuous disputes over the Kerr Directives. Two points should first be made, however. For one thing, neither the students nor the administration seemed fully aware that students had in fact increased their demands. Though not necessarily in such clear progression, the students made their demands in roughly this order: the right to have more political speakers; the right to have off-campus organizational meetings on the campus; the right to have legal, peaceful demonstrations on the campus; the right to organize on campus for off-campus legal demonstrations; the right to organize for off-campus demonstrations without prior administrative judgment as to their legality. The underlying variable in these changing demands about the use of facilities was the move from discussion to organized action. While the students were extending their claims, the administration tried to fortify the university's besieged independence by applying old principles to new situations. But even as policies were liberalized, the modifications fell far behind the ever increasing student demands, and the widening breach gave rise to the belief that student "rights" were being whittled away, when in reality they had never existed. In fact, it was the administrative "right" or powers that were rapidly diminishing. 15 Kathleen Gales, "A Campus Revolution," British Journal of Sociology, 17 (March 1966), 16-17. Her study was based on a representative survey of Berkeley students conducted during the fall and spring of 1964-1965.

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170

Thus, while the students decried the limitations on their rights, the administration pointed to its liberalizations, but in effect, neither side was addressing the other, though each was speaking the truth. The second point to be made is that even though the general issue remained simple, the specifics had become extremely complicated. President Kerr wanted an "open forum," a liberal speakers program where every side of significant controversial issues could be "responsibly" aired by qualified speakers. At the same time, he wanted neutrality maintained. But as events were to show, this stated policy was not so easily projected into action. Nor was it even acceptable in theory as the students progressed from academic analysis to militant action, carrying the philosophy of Thoreau from Speech 1A to the streets of San Francisco. The arguments centered on four main sources of conflict: the rules themselves, the control of student government, the use of facilities, and the distinctions between recognized and unrecognized organizations and their relation to student government. The Rules. A general dispute arose immediately following the publication of the directives (October 23, 1959). The Executive Committee of the ASUC condemned especially the managerial method of construction: "we . . . protest the regulation on student government which was drawn up and established without the consultation of students." 16 As was mentioned, the Academic Senate voiced similar objections. Some critics rejected the philosophy behind the regulations. The editors of the UCLA student paper succinctly argued their opposition in terms of citizenship rights. "It's the same old story. The officials of the University of California still believe that civil liberties must be violated to keep the University free from politics." 17 For a time, however, the rules proved stronger than the critics, and after a few confusing "clarifications" opposition temporarily subsided. But in the spring of 1961, after the rules had been called upon to justify the removal of SLATE from the campus, conflict flared again. Two SLATE leaders, Ken Cloke and Roger Hollander, protested that the "philosophy of the directives itself contributed to the discouragement of meaningful participation," that the rules stifled "spontaneous" free speech by requiring prior notification and by requiring that outside speakers be "compatible with educational aims." Furthermore, they 18

Daily Californian,

17

Quoted in the Daily Californian, November 2, 1959.

October 28, 1959.

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171

argued that restricting social and political action to off-campus groups was deterimental to genuine education because true learning needed both practical know-how and the courage to act. And finally, they complained that student rights which had previously existed had been eliminated. 18 President Kerr rose to the public defense of his regulations, and there followed a series of letters with SLATE arguing whether the changes were liberalizations or restrictions. Probably more explicitly than anyone before, the SLATE leaders made the point which was to become a basic premise in the battles to follow. "In a democratic society the source of authority for such regulations is rightly derived from the society's constituents, which in the case of a student community are the students and the university administration." No one at the time systematically pursued the full implications of this assumption, but the radicals' notion about the "source of authority" was a direct challenge to the whole system of authority that had been developing over the years. The third and last major assault prior to the FSM took place in March 1962 when the American Civil Liberties Union met with Chancellor Strong, to discuss the creation of a "Hyde Park" free speech area, voter registration on campus, and off-campus groups being allowed to hold "special meetings" on the campus—all of which were granted over the next several months. Student Government. The 1959 regulations spelled out three restrictions on student government: the administration had to approve all constitutional changes; the ASUC could not take stands on offcampus issues; and all authority of the ASUC was delegated by the chancellor. Each of these was simply a restatement of past rules, but again, the explication of past policies seemed like a whittling away of those "rights" which supposedly existed in some idyllic past. The administration's veto power over the ASUC constitution provoked immediate criticism. In a joint editorial in the Berkeley, Riverside, and UCLA student newspapers, the editors attacked it as "unjustified, ill-considered, totally unnecessary," and continued, "precensorship of amendments to student government constitutions by campus officials is an infringement on our freedom of expression." But the original complaints changed nothing, nor did later arguments over the same issues. SLATE introduced at least two amendments designed to end administrative veto power, and the students actually voted in favor of one 18

From an open letter in the Daily Californian, November 13, 1961.

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of them—1,661 to 1,127—but it never went into effect. As the minutes of the regents meetings state, "It was the president's opinion, and that of Chancellor Strong, that such a procedure [elimination of administrative veto power] would be most unwise, and would unduly complicate the conduct of student elections . . . it would put the Chancellor in the position of acting after the fact to either endorse the students' action at the polls, or to rule adversely and thus nullify a vote already taken." 19 On another occasion, students, angered by their inability to contribute ASUC funds to civil rights causes, tried to take control of ASUC finances through a constitutional referendum, but they were blocked by the Office of the Dean of Students. Similarly, the administration formally imposed a ban on the ASUC's taking any stand on off-campus issues, a ban which had previously been more of an informal tradition than a regulation. Students objected that such distinctions were impossible to make and emasculating in their consequences, but again the regents supported the administration. At that same regents meeting, both President Kerr and Chancellor Strong argued against allowing the students themselves to decide what were on-campus and what off-campus issues. "While there were some reservations regarding the President's proposal [to have the administration retain the right to make the decision] . . . the final consensus of the committee was favorable to the action proposed by the President." 20 To understand the student objections to the administration's offcampus restrictions, it is worth reviewing some of the administrative decisions on the issue. The history is confusing and apparently contradictory.21 In 1955, there was a dispute about sending student delegates to a civil rights congress because the congress seemed like a political group. Eventually "representatives" were sent, rather than "delegates." In the same year, the state Assembly introduced a bill that would have removed the tax-exempt status f r o m any organization allowing "subver19

Minutes of the Regents' Committee on Educational Policy, 3 (May 17, 1961), 292. 20 Ibid. 21 The phrase "apparently contradictory" is used. In reality any particular decision may have contradicted the rules, but it might not contradict another criterion, namely, the degree of left-wing, especially Communist, influence thought to be involved in the issue. Thus, in light of the implicit criterion, it was perfectly acceptable to support students fleeing from Hungary in 1956, and not support civil marches, etc.

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sive" groups to use their facilities. This was a poorly disguised attempt to punish the local YMCA which had an open forum policy, and it would also have affected the tax-exempt status of the ASUC. The Office of the Vice-President informed the ASUC Executive Committee that taking a stand on the issue would violate university regulations. In the fall semester of 1965, the ASUC voted, with administrative approval, to solicit aid and send money for Hungarian student refugees fleeing the Russian counterrevolution. In 1957, the ASUC voted to support "Human Rights Day," sponsored by the United Nations. In 1958, the Executive Committee passed a resolution protesting Batista's repressive acts against Cuban students. In 1959, the dean of students blocked the ASUC from endorsing a Berkeley fair-housing bill and from supporting a local young people's march for integrated schools. When students discussed objections to the loyalty oath requirement on NDEA student loans, Dean Stone said such objections might prove embarrassing to the regents, who had fought to obtain these loans for the university. In February 1960, the dean of students approved the ASUC's sending the United Nations a formal protest against the Russian execution of Hungarian students. In May 1960, a major controversy arose over ASUC support for Professor Koch, who had been fired from the University of Illinois for advocating premarital sex. The chancellor declared that in taking this action the ASUC had overstepped their on-campus jurisdiction, making their support of the professor "null and void." In October 1960, a dean objected to the Executive Committee's discussing the case of Jane O'Grady, whose scholarship was taken away for her alleged participation in a demonstration against the House Un-American Activities Committee. 22 In April 1962, Dean of Students K. Towle ruled that an ASUC motion condemning the House Un-American Activities Committee constituted "social and political action" and was thus out of order. In October 1962, Chancellor Strong decided that a school bond issue, which would provide $92 million for the university, and the Francis antisubversive amendment, which would have permitted firing any professor taking the Fifth Amendment, were both on-campus issues.23 It is clear from these decisions that there was no one, single criterion used to distinguish between on-campus and off-campus issues. Besides stimulating charges of administrative inconsistency, their cumulative effect was the seemingly unintended one of severely weakening student ^Several of these incidents are given in more detail in Sevilla, pp. 23-33. See Daily

Calif ornian, April 24, 1962, a n d October 3, 1962.

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government. What had once been the pride and joy of the undergraduates soon became known as the "ASUC sandbox" where the children played their useless games. However, the resulting power vacuum would soon be filled by mass demonstrations bypassing the weakened "normal channels," for the really vital action capturing the allegiance of the trend-setting students had moved to the various groups involved in student protest, a movement from which the ASUC had been systematically excluded. Writing in the context of what was thus far the most politically active semester in the history of the university (spring 1964), the editor of the Daily Californian observed that "the role of student government on this campus is one of the least concerns of the average student. It is the topic of debate only for a handful active in the ASUC." 24 The following year it would be demonstrated that this lack of concern hardly reflected student apathy, but rather the high degree of political sophistication about major issues. Use of University Facilities. The basic policy of this section of the Kerr Directives was simple enough: "University facilities shall not be used in ways which will involve the University as an institution in the political, religious, and other controversial issues of the day." To implement the policy, all special meetings and events were required to have prior administrative approval, and be judged "compatible with the educational objectives of the University." 25 As the students moved from discussion to action and as "prior approval" appeared to them more and more like "prior censorship," such implementation, of course, became extraordinarily difficult—a factor which only added to the hostility. Evidence of the further erosion of trust between the administration and the students will emerge from a summary of a few major cases. In December 1958, SLATE nominated a group of candidates for student offices, and they held an unauthorized rally on campus. Dean Stone announced that no more rallies would be permitted because of the "congestion of traffic in the Sather Gate area." 26 But three days later he reversed his decision when it was found that the ban handicapped non-SLATE students and after SLATE apologized for holding the unauthorized rally. The casual disregard of the original "traffic" excuse hardly lent credibility to administrative criteria for "approval." About M

Daily Californian, March 3, 1964. Kerr Directives, November 1959. 2,1 Daily Californian, December 5, 1958.

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four months later, Stone ruled that SLATE could not hold a rally in support of a state fair-housing bill because, being a "recognized" organization, they would implicate the university in a political issue. Under prompting from the American Civil Liberties Union, the state attorney general, Edmund Brown, informally ruled in opposition to Stone, thereby further undermining student confidence in administrative decisions. Nor did the administration follow a plainly consistent policy in approving speakers. In May 1961, Malcolm X could not speak on the campus because he was a religious leader. Yet within a few days, Episcopal Bishop Pike spoke on the campus, and Billy Graham, the evangelist, had appeared before that. Just a few years later, Negro novelist James Baldwin spoke on the campus about racism in America, but James Farmer, as director of CORE, had to shout on a street corner. But the biggest problems revolved around the distinction between discussion and action, categories called on to prevent the facilities from being exploited while at the same time preserving an open forum. It was implicit in the liberalized neutrality policy that "discussion" would not involve the university as an institution in political affairs, whereas "action" would. It was in the early 1960s that students, seemingly without full awareness of the fundamental change, began to cross the blurred line between talk and action, as meetings and panel discussions turned into rallies for advocacy and demonstration. The administration was provoked by the various forms of protest against discrimination, compulsory ROTC, American Cuban policies, and House Un-American Activities hearings and ruled that off-campus groups could use university facilities for membership meetings as long as they did not use such meetings "to plan or implement any social or political action." 27 However, the mere explicit statement of a hitherto implicit policy did not solve the general question of what has come to be called advocacy. The ban against action applied not just to campus action but to planning and advocating off-campus action as well. SLATE was warned they could not post notices on the campus concerning off-campus po27 Daily Californian, September 18, 1962. Later regulations specify the same limitation: "Under certain conditions, off-campus organizations may be authorized to use campus facilities . . . subject to the limitation that they shall not be used for the purpose of formally or informally planning or implementing off-campus social or political action. University facilities may not be used to support or advocate off-campus political or social action. . . ." From Information for Student Organizations, 1964-1965, Office of the Dean of Students, University of California, Berkeley.

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litical meetings, not to mention sit-ins or other demonstrations, and in the spring of 1963, a representative of the Campus Women for Peace was told that she could not set up posters announcing locations and times for picket lines, demonstrations, or marches to be held off campus. As happened so often before, the original policy, in itself highly controversial, required complicated extensions of the rules which were neither understood or accepted. Thus, liberalizing the rules to allow "discussion" but not "social or political action" meant increasing bureaucratic complications and student alienation. The events centering around Charter Day 1963 are a good example of the almost incomprehensible complexity involved in applying the regulations. For the Charter Day festivities, the administration invited astronauts and defense officials to commemorate the institution's contribution to the space effort. Far from celebrating, some students wanted to picket. But the protest was scheduled to take place on university property, and the administration pointed out that such group "action" was not allowed on the premises. However, since it could not prevent individuals from protesting, Vice-Chancellor Sherriffs ruled that, for reasons of "traffic control," any demonstration by individuals would have to take place at some distance from—in fact almost out of sight of—the ceremonies. All of this was quite irritating and more than a little confusing, so the protesting students, with the backing of the American Civil Liberties Union, decided to stage a legal test case. Unfortunately, it rained and the protest was held elsewhere. Anticlimactic though it was, the event did add to the fast-rising tension over the university rulings. Ironically, even very unambiguous liberalizations became sources of conflict. For example, when the regents lifted the Communist speaker ban, they also approved the following: "Whenever the respective Chancellor considers it appropriate in the furtherance of educational objectives, he may require any or all of the following: 1) [that the meeting be] chaired by a tenured member of the faculty. 2) . . . that the speaker be subject to questions, [and] 3) . . . that the speaker be appropriately balanced in debate." 28 There is no question but that, as the 1960s progressed, implementing the old policies in their modified state had become so complicated a task that credibility was often swamped by confusion. Recognition of Student Groups. 28

To consistently maintain the

"Policy on Off-Campus Speakers," in Information for Student

Organizations.

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nonalignment policy, no overtly political groups could be recognized as an official part of the university. However, the student movements of the 1960s spilled over the previous definitions of "political," raising new problems of rule enforcement and even more complications. As it will be recalled, prior to 1957 only recognized groups could use the facilities, and no group remotely political could be recognized. The 1957 liberalizations allowed nonrecognized groups to use the facilities for "special meetings" so long as they did not involve the university in partisan matters. More specifically, nonrecognized groups could have speakers, educational delegates, etc. (with administration approval), but they could not have membership meetings on the campus. The Kerr Directives of 1959 broadened the basis of recognition to include all groups not "affiliated with partisan political" organizations. Trouble arose when it was discovered than a protest group could be intensely political and still not "affiliated with a partisan political" organization. Many of the following events arise out of this innovation. Under the 1959 modifications, SLATE could gain recognition because it was unaffiliated, and taking advantage of this status, its leaders set up offices on the campus and proceeded with political actions. Then, in the spring of 1961, after repeated warnings about calling itself a university political party, SLATE was thrown off the campus. 29 Some saw in this strong evidence of outside pressure, pointing out that state Senator Hugh Burns, a member of the California House Un-American Activities Committee, had accused SLATE of being Communist dominated and predicted the organization's loss of campus rights. The truth or falsity of Burns's accusation is irrelevant to the fact that it served to deepen the students' accumulating distrust of the rules and their implementation. Although in another context, President Kerr did discuss the underlying reasons for the action against SLATE: The overall effect of the new and more liberal regulations [1957 and 1959] has been valuable. . . . [There has been a] wide variety of opinions expressed o n the campuses, . . . [and an] open forum policy with respect to political speakers. . . . In one respect, however, the new regulations have created problems which require solutions. "Recognition" by the Uni®A hue and cry of protests from both faculty and students followed the action. Critics pointed out that the students were thus faced with a fait accompli. Then, when the administration turned down an offer by fourteen faculty members to hear the case, and instead submitted the issue to an administratively appointed committee, there were charges of procedural unfairness.

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versity of certain groups has been followed by: a) their use of University facilities and the name of the University not only for the quite appropriate discussion of political and social issues, but also for political and social action as well.

He then acknowledged that the 1959 policy had discriminated against certain groups which, although "easily identifiable as 'political,' " were hardly different in this or other respects from some "recognized" groups.30 Kerr's statements served to justify new regulations which were presented to the university community just four days later. In these new rules, effective in August 1961, the "recognition" category was dropped, and all groups intending to use the facilities were required to have a faculty adviser, a basically student membership, and separate administrative approval on the merits of each request. Some SLATE members considered massive civil disobedience against the new rules, but decided to argue their points through legal channels.31 As had become common by the 1960s, some faculty members joined the students in complaints about the new rules. A group of nineteen professors, for example, expressed "dismay" at the application to students of Section 9, Article 9 of the state Constitution—the neutrality article—when it was meant to apply only to the regents. They urged instead a "sympathetic neutrality" that would encourage, not discourage, political groups.32 As this brief review should make clear, all of these inconsistencies, complications, arguments, charges, and countercharges that developed between 1959 and 1964 flowed largely from attempts to apply versions of a nonalignment policy that was itself, however liberalized, becoming objectionable. Both administration and students seemed confused by efforts to adjust old policies to new circumstances, and in the confusion, distrust replaced trust, legalistic maneuvering replaced the relatively clearcut compliance or noncompliance with the old simple, if more restrictive, policies. As both sides came to believe their own polemics, which were only partly rooted in reality, they grew even farther apart. At this point, the only things lacking for a major confrontation were a precipitating incident and the mobilization of discontented students.33 30

University Bulletin, 10 (July 31, 1961), 18. It was this action that prompted the ACLU meeting with Chancellor Strong. 33 Robin Room, "The Story of SLATE," mimeographed paper, p. 8, University of California Archives. Room quotes the faculty statement in full. 33 In discussing the issues between 1959 and 1964,1 have intentionally omitted 31

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THE FREE SPEECH MOVEMENT: T H E LOCUS O F P O W E R REVEALED

All the issues that had been festering since the student followers of socialist Norman Thomas first challenged the university administration in 1932 came to a head in 1964-1965. In the unprecedented intensity of the conflict that year, factions were polarized, positions articulated, and underlying issues brought out into the open. Indeed, the clarification of issues that emerged from the now well-known Free Speech Movement constitutes a fitting end to this historical analysis. Never before had campus problems been so thoroughly discussed and never in fact had the true lines of authority been so openly exposed.34 From this point, the conflict will be analyzed in terms of the specific regulations, the methods of enforcing the rules, and the governing principles or philosophy behind the notion of nonalignment. Also to be touched on are the critical general demands for both greater participation and procedural fairness which cut across specific issues. This discussion will make no attempt to treat every issue, but only what emerge as the particularly long-standing or fundamental ones. It should be noted, too, that by the end of 1965 we are no longer dealing with relations between the administration and a small minority of students—if that ever was the case—but with the 83 percent of the student body who said they agreed with the goals of the FSM.35 the more colorful rhetoric that frequently passed between the opposing parties. Charges of "left-wing conspiracies" and "dupes of the right-wing reactionaries" were sometimes made by the major participants, but they amounted only to ad hominem arguments and gross distortions of reality. Behind the verbal assaults lay the real issues which I have attempted to discuss independently of the polemics. What may be lost in terms of color is hopefully compensated for in terms of accuracy. 34 The discussion that follows should not be read as an attempt to explain—or even describe—the Free Speech Movement. For a review of the particular events of the movement, three sources are recommended: Seymour Martin Lipset and Sheldon Wolin, The Berkeley Student Revolt (New York: Doubleday, 1965) provides a valuable collection of readings. Terry Lunsford, "The 'Free Speech' Crisis at Berkeley, 1964-1965: Some Issues for Social and Legal Research," Center for Research and Development in Higher Education and Center for the Study of Law and Society (Berkeley, 1966), analyzes the issues in great detail, making this study one of the most important sources for the following pages. Finally, Max Heirich, "Demonstrations at Berkeley, 1964—1965" (unpublished dissertation, University of California at Berkeley, 1967) is a careful and complete analysis of the movement. 35 Kathleen Gales, "A Campus Revolution," British Journal of Sociology, 7 (March, 1966), 1-9.

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Although something of an oversimplification, one could say that four positions emerged on the issue of the governing principles of nonalignment, each of them possessing a variety of nuances. The major variable differentiating the positions was the meaning assigned to political involvement. On one side—largely represented by the administration and the regents but including professors of the more traditional cast of mind as well—stood those who upheld the historical interpretation of neutrality, with, however, some modifications allowing for an open forum which would encourage free discussion of public issues for the sake of "intellectual development" and as a "basis for intelligent participation in society." 36 While rejecting the extreme "ivory tower" notion of the university, adherents to this modified policy still held that the university was a special-purpose institution which, while exposing students to controversial views, would nevertheless regulate sociopolitical activities to protect institutional autonomy. In President Kerr's words, "The University is an educational institution—and not to be used for direct political action." 37 Given the institution's specifically educational purposes, it was not only legally permissible but imperative that the administration act to protect academic functions even if this meant some limitation of certain political rights assumed to be guaranteed in the larger society. Action was not conceived as an intrinsic part of education, and indeed, it could even be detrimental to intellectual development. Again, as President Kerr put it, "Their [student activists'] actions—collecting money and picketing—aren't high intellectual activity." 38 Such action leaned toward passion, slogans, and opinion, not toward reason, analysis, and facts. It was argued even more strongly that if intense student political activity were to become more than an extracurricular affair, it would "significantly interfere" with teaching, research, and orderly administration. It was also assumed by this group that the role of the nonstudent, full-time political organizer had to be restricted. But this time-honored position on neutrality, even with President Kerr's liberal modifications, was now being sharply criticized by students and by a very large proportion of the concerned faculty.39 The 38 Phrases from the University of California Policies Relating to Students and Organizations (September 1963), introductory statement by Clark Kerr, pp. 2—4. "Statement made September 25, 1964, quoted in Lunsford, "The 'Free Speech' Crisis," p. 9. 38 Quoted in Lunsford, p. 56. 39 The policy received bitter criticism from the right as well as from the left.

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most resounding repudiation of the thirty-year-old policy came on December 8,1964, when the faculty voted almost 9-to-l to end all administrative restriction on the "content of speech and advocacy," allowing only the simplest housekeeping restrictions as to "time, place, and manner." 40 That was a revolution! In a single three-hour session, the faculty, probably without complete awareness of all the implications of their action, recommended retirement of the poor beleaguered policy that had been tinkered with for thirty years. If these recommendations had been consistently acted upon, everything would have been removed—recognition policies, the requirement for balanced programs, administrative approval, and the distinctions between discussion and action and between legal and illegal activity. But the faculty had no real authority in the area of general policy making, having at best only a temporary power which arose from their own vital interest in saving the university from impending destruction. Only the regents had official authority in this area, and they subsequently modified the December 8 resolution. This faculty repudiation of administrative policies reflected an important shift in their assumptions about the nature of education and the functions of the university.41 The basic idea seems to have been that— far from undermining education—extending maximum freedom of action to students would enhance their education. This notion was further articulated in the spring of 1965 when a group of the faculty took issue with the new rules being proposed by the regents. "The perennial ideal of a University as a community of scholars and students can be stated in many ways," they wrote. "But the unequivocal condition . . . is freedom. Academic freedom which includes minimally the right to teach, to inquire, and to communicate without fear of reprisal presupposes something less tangible, something like a condition of openAs one publication put it, "These [Communists] and other Marxist-backed groups operate freely at the campus under Kerr's well-publicized 'open forum' policy." Quoted in Lipset and Wolin, p. 235. 40 Phrases from the December 8th resolution. See California Law Review, 54 (March 1966), 16. 41 Not everyone saw the faculty resolution as a repudiation of the past. Herbert McClosky, one of the chief architects of the statement, claimed that the resolution merely extended President Kerr's policy of an open forum, of making students "safe for ideas and not ideas safe for students," and of not punishing students for actions taken off campus. But in the light of the more extended past, McClosky's view seems incorrect. The faculty recommendations may have been logical extensions of Kerr policies but in practice they marked important changes from them. See Lipset and Wolin, p. 257.

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ness." To grasp the full significance of this apparently moderate statement, compare their notion of "minimal" rights to the philosophy behind Regulation 5 where such freedom was upheld as the "only" right. The new philosophy was a major extension, if not a repudiation, of the old policy.42 As the available data suggests, a majority of the students, too, felt that political activity was part of the educational process. In one study, the results of which were based on a representative sample, 73 percent of the students agreed that "participation in political activity" was a "necessary part of the educational process." 43 The same study showed that 46 percent thought the university had no right to impose a (possibly additional) separate punishment for on-campus violations of society's laws, a view that was central to the faculty's liberal December 8 resolutions. Yet an even more militant philosophy had appeal among some students. Even more than the liberal-minded faculty, the activists moved social and political action to the center of the educational stage. First inspired by the civil rights movement, then stimulated in their university conflicts, students claimed to be learning a great deal about society, politics, administration, and power. A passionate concern with morality, clarified by study, documented with facts, and expressed through action—not just term papers—became the activist style of learning. The activist philosophy encompassed a variety of interpretations. At one extreme a few simply gave up on the university, which they thought was hopelessly enmeshed in the racist-militaristic-industrial status quo. Building a radical student movement was their aim, the university their tool. Learning to them was inseparable from action. But this extreme, admittedly "disloyal" stand, implying little or no allegiance to the university, does not seem to have been widespread. Such views did lead to sporadic outbreaks and subsequent heated discussions about the role of the "nonstudent," but they do not seem ever to have been the prevailing mode of thought. The majority of students, however, did indeed support a freer use of facilities. As we have seen, an open campus was a central goal of the FSM, a movement which generated enormous popular support. What "The quotations are from William Kornhauser, et. al., "Campus Autonomy and the Regents: A Reply to the Meyer Report," mimeographed statement issued at Berkeley (April 1965). Emphasis added. 43 Robert Somers and Kathleen Gale, "Mainsprings of Rebellion: Berkeley Students" (Department of Sociology, Berkeley, California). For a detailed description of this study, see Lipset and Wolin, pp. 530-557.

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the December 8 resolutions and the representative surveys of the period demonstrate, then, is that the principles which were supposed to make administrative actions morally right and hence worthy of voluntary compliance had lost their old persuasive power. Put another way, the pattern of authority had lost its ideological basis for legitimacy. No one could say what such a radical criticism of authority portended for the future, but it was clear, for the moment, that the existing pattern was unsatisfactory. Closely related to the acceptability of principles and policies was the question of who should formulate the guiding philosophy in the first place. And behind this, of course, lies the most basic question of all: Who or what is the source of authority? 44 Like so many problems connected with university governance, placement of official responsibility was indefinite and seemed to depend more on immediate circumstances than on clearly established lines of authority. But vague allocation did not mean a lack of regental control. Far from it. As the Byrne Report explained, "The President and the Regents have failed to set explicit policies in many areas because they expected and wanted decisions in these areas to be deferred to them." 45 Students complained about their total lack of influence—not to mention their lack of power, authority, or responsibility—in policy formulation and rule-making. As Jack Weinberg, a member of the powerful FSM Steering Committee, understood it, "The students' basic demand [was] the demand to be heard, to be considered, to be taken into account when decisions concerning their education and the life in the University community are being made." 46 Complaints about "bureaucracy" implied the same sense of powerlessness. Mario Savio, another 41

A group of faculty members sharply protested the regents' deep involvement in such detailed matters of internal governance. "The fundamental fallacy [of the regents] is to establish detailed regulations for all campuses of the University. . . . Apparently they never questioned the advisability of having regulations drawn up by a body which can pretend n o special expertise in education; which has no continuing relations with the students; and which does not have daily contact with those for whom it is legislating." In point of fact, the professors' report was correct. Almost without exception, the regents have had no immediate experience—other than as students themselves—with education, and they had no formal and only the weakest informal ties with student leaders. Kornhauser, et al., "Campus Autonomy." Other studies, such as the Byrne Report, make the same observations. 45 Reprinted in the Los Angeles Times, May 12, 1965. 46 Jack Weinberg, "The Free Speech Movement and Civil Rights," in Lipset and Wolin, p. 223.

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prominent leader in the FSM, put it another way: "We find functionaries who cannot make policy but can only hide behind the rules. We have discovered total lack of response on the part of policy makers." He continued, "We are asking that regulations ought to be considered as arrived at legitimately only from consensus of the governed." 47 The events of 1964-1965 did little to resolve the genuine dilemma of regental control and the students' demand for meaningful participation and responsibility. Committees of all kinds were established, but the ultimate authority and the responsibility for actual decisions remained with the governing board. 48 Even if the policy and policy-making procedures had been acceptable (which they were not), their clear, consistent, and just implementation had become immensely difficult. Conceivably, several different responses could all be consistent with the nonalignment policy. For instance, to the question, What is the permissible content of speech on the campus? the administration could answer (1) Cannot discuss controversial political matters; (2) Can discuss but not advocate action; (3) Can both discuss and advocate legal action on the campus; (4) Can both discuss and advocate legal action off the campus; or (5) Can discuss and advocate all action subject only to the civil courts and the university's "time, place, and manner regulation." Similarly, to the question, What are the conditions for having speakers? the administration could say (1) Must have administrative approval based on the content-of-speech specifications; (2) Must provide debate format to assure political neutrality; (3) Plan a "balanced program" over a "reasonable period of time"; (4) Balanced program not required; or (5) No administration approval required. And for one more example, to the question, What groups can use the facilities? the response might be (1) "Recognized" groups for membership meetings only; (2) "Recognized" groups for membership and special meetings; (3) "Nonrecognized" groups for special meetings only; or (4) "Nonrecognized" groups for special and membership meetings. Furthermore, "recognition" could be based on being politically unaffiliated; being concerned solely with student welfare; or not being a social-political action group. "Mario Savio, "End of History," in Lipset and Wolin, pp. 216-219. See also Lunsford, p. 86. 18 This observation remained true of the late 1960s. When, for example, in February 1968 President Hitch issued new statewide regulations, the extent of

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Who was to enforce the rules was a problem which could, and did, puzzle the most skilled legal minds. Decisions could quite literally go from a secretary in the Office of the Dean of Students, to the dean himself, to the vice-chancellor of student affairs, to the president, and finally to the regents. We have already mentioned the regents' role in formulating policy and writing rules, and they also "permitted operational questions to be brought to them for decisions." 49 The events of the FSM show their continual concern over rule enforcement and other operational questions, and as this study has cited there is a substantial history of regental involvement in such matters. Students, of course, seldom saw such high-level administrators as the regents. Most often they confronted the people in the dean's office, who adhered to the traditions of the past era. The personalized, informal approach often demanded by the radicals was the dominant style of the dean's office. Yet paradoxically the individualistic concern so well suited to personal problems became a source of irritation when applied to essentially legal issues. Without calling into question the integrity, compassion, or good intentions of the various deans, it can be said of most that their typical background had not prepared them for the immensely complicated legal questions that bewildered some of the most distinguished law professors.50 Procedural questions were related to the problems of enforcement. In one sense, due process for individuals was an entirely new concept, for, with two or three exceptions, discipline for political crimes had been directed toward organizations.51 The term due process was used several different ways, but there was a core of demands concerning it: participation differed little from that of the first presentation of Regulation 5 in 1934. 19 Byrne Report, reprinted in the Los Angeles Times, May 15, 1965. m D e a n Stone was replaced by Professor Shepard (1959-1961), and Dean Towle took over the job in 1962. Prior to working in the dean's office, she had been the first director of the Women's Marine Corps. Arleigh Williams, who first came to the office in 1959 and was appointed dean in 1965, was a Cal alumnus and had previously served in other administrative and athletic positions in the university. 51 Although the record is not entirely clear, there seem to have been only three earlier incidents of so-called political crimes. The first was Provost Moore's blatant expulsion of student leaders at UCLA, a decision which President Sproul quickly reversed. The second occurred in the early 1940s when a student was expelled as an alleged "Communist." The third took place in the racially charged spring of 1964, when a young black man was arrested on campus for not showing his registration card (the charges were dropped and no action was taken).

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The rules, it was argued, should be specific, clear, and well publicized. Rule violators should be notified of the specific charges against them, and they should have a prompt hearing before an impartial body. At the hearing they should have the right to confront their accusers, and a written record should be kept of the proceedings. If the defendant wished, he could have professional counsel.52 How poorly the actual enforcement procedures at Berkeley measured up to these standards is suggested by a statement issued by the Office of the Dean of Students just a few months before the rise of the FSM: "The Directive concerning conduct gives us wide latitude of authority. We can exercise the power of the University over any student for any conduct violation committed at any place and at any time from his original enrollment." 53 A more detailed discussion of discipline structures is contained in the November 1, 1961, regulation on "Student Conduct and Discipline," apparently in effect during 1964—1965, which gave the dean of students responsibility for the discipline of minor infractions and the initial investigation of more serious ones. In some cases, including those being appealed, the administration-appointed Faculty Committee on Student Conduct could be called on. But all cases involving sentences of suspension or dismissal had to be referred to the chancellor, who also had the authority to establish procedures for the hearing. The structures of enforcement were put to the test in 1964-1965. One of the most controversial cases of that period required creation of a special appeals court, the Ad Hoc Committee of the Academic Senate, chaired by Professor Heyman of the Law School. While the committee's report acknowledged that the students in this case had clearly violated the rules, it added, 62 For a more thorough discussion of due process in the university, see Arthur H. Sherry, "Governance of the University: Rules, Rights and Responsibilities," California Law Review, 54 (March 1966), 23-40. The entire issue of CLR deals with legal problems connected with university governance. For a more complete discussion of the meaning given "due process" by the FSM, see Lunsford on the "Free Speech Crisis," especially p. 125. 53 "Discipline: General Policy," pamphlet issued by the Office of the Dean of Students, University of California, Berkeley (June 8, 1964). The statement goes on to qualify itself by adding that "generally" the actions in question would be those taken within the "geographical borders of the campus." It also points out that the university does not punish the student for "violations against society," neither does it "ignore him in his role as a citizen, . . . and more frequently than not, we admonish him because of his violation and we counsel him."

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On the other hand, the procedure by which the University acted to punish these wrongdoings is subject to serious criticism. The relevant factors are: first, the vagueness of many of the relevant regulations; second, the precipitate actions taken in suspending the students sometime between dinner time and the issuance of the press release at 11:45 PM; third, the disregard of the usual channel of hearings; fourth, the deliberate singling out of these students (almost as hostages) for punishment . . . ; and fifth, the choice of an extraordinary and novel penalty—"indefinite suspension" which is nowhere made explicit in the regulations. 54

Thus it seemed the administration was rule-maker, prosecutor, judge, and jury, and therefore incapable of rendering a just decision. CONCLUSIONS

Seen in perspective, the year 1964-1965 had no historical precedent, and it marked a major turning point in the hundred-year history of the Berkeley campus. That year, clearly and decisively, the pattern of authority that had developed from the personalized traditions of President Wheeler and the administration's legal-rational response to politicalization had proved totally unacceptable to large numbers of students. Agonizing confrontations clarified the conflict over principles, regulations, enforcement, and responsibility, but clarification did not solve the problems. What emerges very clearly from those events is that there exists a basic tension built into the very nature of the university. The institution requires freedom based on autonomy if it is to survive with integrity to its own values. But if such freedom exists and students continue to be preoccupied with significant issues—not emulating their collegiate predecessors—there will be trouble. The public assumes that the free use of university facilities (overwhelmingly utilized by the left) should not be tolerated, and in fact should be prevented by the administration. Therefore, to protect institutional autonomy, the administration has most often taken its legal prerogative of ultimate responsibility for internal governance quite literally. To protect academic freedom, the chief administrators acted on the basis of their own authority and adopted the strategy of neutrality. That policy, as we have seen, and the pattern of authority which grew 64

"Report of the Ad Hoc Committee on Student Conduct," California Monthly, February 1965, p. 84. After the FSM, the administration instituted far more rigorous procedures insuring greater procedural fairness.

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up around it, now lacks credibility for a large and important sector of students and faculty, who argue that the very function of the administration, which places them on the border between public pressure and internal governance, renders them incapable of both sound policy formation and impartial rule-making and makes them more sensitive to public relations than to the demands of justice. The university was born out of conflict—Robert Gordon Sproul was probably the only president who did not resign under extreme duress— and conflict will continue. But the question—more acute than ever before—of how to deal with tension and at the same time build a valid form of authority is still unanswered.55 65 Looking back over the years, it seems to us that the contemporary tensions pose unique problems and dangers. At no time in its history has the university been the center of protest for such a deeply divisive issue as the war in Vietnam. Students have always mirrored the larger social conflicts, but they have never before been the most prominent leaders in such a controversial movement. Nor have students ever been so sophisticated and so skillful in expressing and acting upon their social and political beliefs.

It is my view that greater decentralization would help solve many of our current problems. Authority should be vested in lower levels within smaller units. . . . More than anything else [decentralization] requires confidence by the higher levels of goverance in the ability of the lower levels to exercise mature judgment and good sense. Chancellor Heyns, Speech to the American Jewish Committee, March 24, 1969 I suggest that it is time for those boards [of regents] to reassess their own goals, . . . and the degree to which they have delegated away responsibility and abandoned principle. . . . A sick campus community in California in many ways is responsible for a sick community around those campuses. Governor Reagan to the regents, June 7, 1968, following the assassination of Senator Robert Kennedy

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President Kerr, among others, noted a curious anomaly in the Free Speech Movement. Its leaders, decrying the impersonality of the multiversity and harking back to some idealized version of the Oxford system, at the same time called for increased legalism which by its very nature is impersonal. A t the source of this contradiction lay the largely unrecognized difference between two kinds of legal-rational authority: on the one hand, managerialism, and on the other, private government. 1 1

Still another source of contradiction is the frequent confusion of two aspects of university authority. The central relationship has traditionally been the one between faculty and students, but it is undercut by the emergence of professionalism and the modern definition of professorial success. The conflict between teaching and research, which first emerged at Berkeley in the late 1880s and which may ultimately be the biggest source of malaise in the modern university, reached major proportions in the years following World War II. As Clark Kerr, 189

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T h e tension between private government and managerialism has been part of the university since the promulgation of the first written regulations in 1936. Internal constituents increasingly demand a kind of self-contained, autonomous, sovereign statelike system which provides a formalized legal system even while maximizing participation and internal freedom. But at cross purposes to this ideal is the fact that the institution is dependent on external forces that it cannot control. T o put it simply, institutional needs and social context are frequently incompatible. But the problem transcends the boundaries of the University of California, or for that matter any academic community. In a world increasingly dominated by large-scale organizations, the question of h o w the systems are m a n a g e d — a n d who controls the managers—is critical for the quality of modern life. Are w e moving toward the totally bureaucratized world so chillingly described and pessimistically forecast by Max Weber? This passion f o r bureaucracy . . . is enough to drive one to despair. It is as if in politics . . . we are deliberately to become men who need "order" and nothing but order, who become nervous and cowardly if for one moment this order wavers, and helpless if they are torn away f r o m their total incorporation in it. . . . It is in such an evolution that we are already caught up, and the great question is therefore not how we can promote and hasten it, but what can we oppose to this machinery in order to keep a portion of mankind free f r o m this parcelling out of the soul, f r o m this supreme mastery of the bureaucratic way of life. 2 among many others, has pointed out, it is the undergraduate who suffers most from professorial professionalism. The subject of this study is, of course, the other aspect of university authority, the relationship between students and administrators. While administrativestudent authority relationships are conditioned by student-faculty relationships, it is a major assumption of this study that the two are quite separate entities and that what applies to one may not apply to the other. For a thorough analysis of the professionalizing tendencies in faculties, see Christopher Jencks and David Riesman, The Academic Revolution (New York: Doubleday, 1968). 3 Quoted in Reinhard Bendix, Max Weber, An Intellectual Portrait (New York: Doubleday, 1960), p. 445. However, quoting Weber is not to say that his description of the bureaucratic tendency in modern life is directly applicable to the university setting or to the people in that setting. Tenure, just to mention one item, prevents the complete dependency of individuals on the organization. And few would argue that "order" is the prevailing passion among the almost anarchic faculty members. But there is within bureaucratic settings a tendency toward this "supreme mastery" and preoccupation with order, especially among those who are in charge of the systems.

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One observer has described this gloomy prognostication as an instance of "metaphysical pathos." 3 Perhaps Weber's pessimism stemmed from his belief that the power of bureaucracy was invincible and that it represented the ultimate state in organizational evolution. He did not systematically consider an organization's possible potential for "debureaucratization," which may well be part of legal-rational authority itself. In Weber there is no "explicit treatment of the transformation of legal domination that corresponds to [his] discussion of familial and institutional charisma or the struggle for power under traditional domination." 4 This omission may have been the wellspring of his despair. Combined with the abstract models and generalized theory, the substance of this historical analysis of the university suggests at least the possibility of a "postbureaucratic" organization. Its probability is another matter, as the following pages show. ANALYSIS OF UNIVERSITY AUTHORITY

Reducing minor variations to essential differences for the sake of a clear analysis, university authority in the past can be viewed as either of two ideal types: paternalism, whose main characteristics are derived from the high value placed on institutional loyalty, or the legal-rational pattern, marked by the strong drive toward a self-contained rationality. A personalized relationship of self-sacrificing loyalty is the pedestal on which paternalism is built. Loyalty provides the inspiration for action, the justification for compliance, and the source of all behavioral standards. Whether described as loyalty to the institution or to the individuals who "embody" the community, it generates powerful consequences, for it has the quality of transcending and even contradicting narrow self-interest. Indeed, the concept of loyalty immediately suggests community over and above the individual. Shared loyalty not only binds equals to equals but superordinates to subordinates. Where loyalty prevails, alienation is minimized, order exists, and compliance is very nearly automatic.5 3

Alvin Gouldner, "Metaphysical Pathos and the Theory of Bureaucracy," in Complex Organizations, ed. A. Etzioni (New York: Holt Rinehart, 1966), p. 71. 'Bendix, p. 383. 6 A missionary sent off to a foreign country for a long period of time is a good example of the workings of loyalty. His loyalty is secured through careful training, as, for example in the Jesuit order, and he can be trusted to act in

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Loyalty also serves as an effective source of organizational control. First, it often acts as a self-imposed check against those activities which might harm the general good of the institution. Second, the diffusion of loyalty throughout the organization helps justify the institution's submission to outside pressures. No loyal subject would want to see his university disgraced or threatened, and protection of institutional reputation is reason enough for punishing wrongdoers. And third, the meaning of loyalty implies a shared commitment to certain goals and standards. When the commitments are shared by both authorities and subjects, the subjects are "responsible," and can be trusted to act in harmony with administrative aims and actions. Hence, it is possible to delegate authority to internal constituents, or, in the words of President Wheeler, grant them self-government. In this way the system of paternalism, far from being manifestly authoritarian, actually promotes full participation—an effect which is extremely valuable in deepening the already existent loyalty. Furthermore, given the mutual trust growing out of shared commitments and personalized relationships, there is little need to spell out the powers and jurisdiction of authority. Rather, authority is restrained by personal knowledge and, if not love, at least mutual respect. There is, however, a precarious precondition—community solidarity—built into the system of paternalism. This solidarity provides the moral basis that both energizes the spontaneous enforcement of ethical conventions and underlies all trust in authorities. Without solidarity, the undefined authority with its implicit arbitrariness shades off into tyranny rather than toward the benevolent trust which can inspire personal relationships. Almost by definition community solidarity points to the existence of a common culture and the socializing mechanisms to instill that culture.7 It requires—taking Durkheim's "mechanical solidarity" as our frame of reference—various community "rites" to inaccordance with the strictures of his faith because he has been tested and found to be committed. 6 Given the intensely personal nature of education, which goes beyond technical instruction to include values, it would seem that personal relationships are both appropriate and desirable for teacher-student contact. However, it should again be emphasized that in our discussion of the university we are not dealing with professor-student relationships but with the structure of administrative authority over students. The study does not comprise an analysis of the educational process but an analysis of organizational authority. 7 Weber discusses this general theme in Law in Economy and Society, transl. M. Rheinstein (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1967).

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vigorate and intensify the sense of moral unity. Within the university, the old collegiate culture with all its rites and expressions provided this moral foundation. One other point that should be made about any system of loyaltysolidarity-paternalism is the clear necessity for maximizing cooperation and minimizing conflict. The system appears profoundly apolitical, since conflict and special interests are played down for the good of the whole.8 At the same time, the structures of authority are viewed as comprising cooperative relationships aimed toward shared goals and not as mechanisms for conflict resolution and protection of individual and group rights. But apart from appearances, paternalism is in fact apolitical in that subordinates do not have the "right" to oppose but only the responsibility to suggest, modify, and in every way further the existing order. To publicly oppose authority is to be "irresponsible" and results in cutting oneself off from the homogeneous moral community. Such is the model of paternalism, and during the days of Wheeler, reality closely approximated the model. Paternalism faltered when solidarity declined. It could not adjust to conflict without recourse to coercion. The university's growing size and decreasing isolation, the increasing number of graduate students, the general rise in the level of student sophistication, the changing mores of the student generation, the improvement of academic standards, and a decline in leadership by the president's office, all undercut personal devotion to the "family's glorious Old Mother." But the biggest new threat to old unity occurred when the radicals rejected not only the prevailing undergraduate culture but the entire governance system that went with it. If they were Communists, their rejection supposedly indicated not only disloyalty to the collegiate culture but the intention of conscious subversion which was far more destructive, in the eyes of administrators, than mere apathy toward the "school spirit." The increas8

This is not to say that conflict and coercion are entirely absent from such a system, but rather that coercion is diffused and informally spread throughout the system. Several other preconditions for such a system might be mentioned. For instance, the courts must be willing to accept paternalistic authority; otherwise, the inherent arbitrariness of its functioning would result in its actions being declared illegal, and in the case of the university administration it would have had to modify its system of control. For an analysis of the court's acceptance of university paternalism, see William Van Alstyne's "Student Academic Freedom and the Rule-Making Powers of Public Universities: Some Constitutional Considerations," Law in Transition Quarterly, 2 (Winter 1965), 7.

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ing complexity, and hence the emergence of conflict and the struggle for power, called for a different kind of authority—one based on rational principles and formal rules and backed by legitimate force. The formal rules for governing recalcitrant students were adopted by an administration which found itself unable to cope with conflict by the old appeals to loyalty. In this way rules, regulations, and administrative control rushed in to fill the void left by declining trust and loyalty, and ultimately, as shown in 1964, when all else failed, such rules could be backed by the police powers of the state. Increasingly, the old paternalistic pattern was supplanted by a legal-rational form of authority. But to grasp the full significance of this change, as well as the possible direction of future development, some analysis of the nature of legal-rational authority would be helpful.9 Just as loyalty is the central element in the concept of paternalism, too, a self-contained rationality is central to the model of a legal-rational system. Once this notion is grasped, its other aspects fall into place. Weber characterized the legal-rational system as a "cosmos of abstract, . . . consciously made rules." 10 The pattern of this authority is self-contained because the internal structure is systematically derived from the guiding principles. There is no need, therefore, to go outside the "cosmos" to justify specific decisions. Ideally, the system amounts to an integrated whole, whose roles and rules are means toward the achievement of, or at least consistent with, the general principles. In turn, the principles are explicitly stated, and it is assumed that all reasonable and committed members concur with them. It also follows, according to the model, that the rules are specifically stated to enhance clarity and diminish arbitrariness. Weber laid down certain requirements for the effectiveness of a legal-rational system. The effectiveness of legal authority rests on the acceptance of the validity of the following mutually interdependent ideas. (1) That any given legal norm may be established by agreement or by imposition on grounds of expedience or rational values or both. . . . (2) That every body of law consists essentially in a consistent system of abstract rules. . . . Furthermore, administration of law is held to consist in the application of these rules to particular cases. . . . (3) That . . . the person in authority 8 Many of the general notions and interpretations in this section are derived from Philip Selznick's Law, Society and Industrial Justice (Russell Sage Foundation, 1969), as well as the works of Max Weber. 10 Weber, Law in Economy and Society, p. xxxiii.

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occupies an office. In the action associated with this office . . . he is subject to an impersonal order to which his actions are oriented. . . . (4) That the person who obeys authority does so . . . only in his capacity as a member . . . and what he obeys is only the "law." . . . (5) Hence it follows there is an obligation to obedience only within the sphere of a rationally delimited authority.11 It is worth examining some of the implications of these requirements in more detail. First, the problematical question of compliance is handled quite differently in a legal-rational order than in a paternalistic one, since obedience is to an impersonal order—the "law"—and not to a person. The motive for compliance is neither personal nor institutional loyalty (in Weber's terms, an affectual determinant of conduct), but self-interest or rational values, or a combination of the two. (In the university, academic freedom would be the predominant "rational value.") 12 Second, Weber is saying that a legal-rational system encourages a special kind of "restraint," employing as it does a peculiarly rational way not only of allocating responsibility but also of controlling power. Furthermore, and this is a point frequently overlooked, the restraint applies to ruler and ruled alike. It follows from this, as Philip Selznick has pointed out, that bureaucratic decisions are always "open to criticism in light of the established rule and explicit purposes." 13 Every member of the organization, whether ruler or ruled, is bound by the impersonal body of law. All must act in accordance with the governing principles and written rules. There is still a third aspect of this rigid specification of rules in that the authority of the rulers is limited in its scope and jurisdiction. The power of anyone in a position of authority applies only insofar as he is acting as an "official" of the organization. For actions outside of his specified organizational jurisdiction the member is not accountable to organizational authorities. Again, this limited jurisdiction stands in sharp contrast to the paternalistic pattern which allows a wide latitude of "grace," or arbitrariness. 11

Weber, The Theory of the Social and Economic Order, transl. Henderson (Glencoe: The Free Press, 1947), p. 330. " I n Weber's conceptual framework both self-interest and value-determined conduct can be rational. Indeed, he lists four ways that social conduct may be determined: purpose-rational, value-rational, affectual and traditional. See Weber, Law in Economy and Society, p. 1. 13 Selznick, "Foundations of Managerial Self-Restraint," in Law, Society and Industrial Justice, p. 8. It is from Selznick that I have derived the notion of restraint, which is central to this discussion of ways of restraining administrative authority.

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Within the legal-rational system there are certain sources of strain that render the system vulnerable to attack and thus open to change. Disagreement over governing principles is one, any extension of authority beyond the officially specified jurisdiction is another, and the biased or internally inconsistent application of the rules is the third. In terms of the framework of analysis put to use in this book, the first deals with the category of "principles," the second with "scope and jurisdiction," and the third with "operating structures." Conflicts over principles are analogous to legislative problems and call for political solutions via mechanisms allowing for compromise and representation. Conflicts over jurisdiction, rules, and rule enforcement are analogous to legal problems and require mechanisms that will protect the individual and promote justice.

M A N A G E R I A L A N D PRIVATE G O V E R N M E N T

Looking closely at the specific criticisms directed at university authority, one can see that it was not so much the legal-rational pattern that was under attack (although there was also a demand for a more refined legal system) as the particular style.14 That style, which may be called managerialism, stands in contrast to that of private government. The new demands called for private government, for the participation of the governed in formulating the guiding principles and in constructing the rules.15 In the managerial style, the administration performs these tasks, administrators being those duly appointed managers who, operating on the basis of their legally defined authority and their expertise, governed the university. In a system of private government, authority would also rest on legal delegation and specialized skills, but control, significantly, would be further conditioned by institutionalized acknowledgment of the consent and the rights of the governed. A brief comparison of the two patterns of authority should clarify the "The demand for clearer rules, formal procedures, explicit standards, professionalized application, etc.—all are facets of a legal-rational system and all stress impersonal rationality at the expense of informal personal relations. 15 For a general introduction to the concept of private government, see the following: E. Mason, The Corporation in Modern Society (New York: Atheneum Press, 1966); A. Miller, "Private Governments and the Constitution" (an occasional paper on the role of the corporation in the free society; Santa Barbara: Center for the Study of Democratic Institutions, 1959); and Philip Selznick, Law, Society and Industrial Justice.

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distinction. Governance, as we are using the term, deals with the ultimate community values, the purposes of the institution, and the formulation of general policy, whereas management in theory, though not necessarily in fact, accepts the general values as given.16 Governance promotes public debate and open decisions based upon institutionalized community participation, while management, whose consultations are cursory and designed to insure acceptance of managerial decisions, decides on the basis of expertise and legal responsibility. Where governing choices are guided by standards of freedom, justice, and representativeness, management decisions are judged by standards of efficiency and technical results. Managerialism manifests a drive for order, while private government attempts to encompass controversy. There is, in fact, within management an ingrained tendency to treat deep conflict as nonrational, as being outside the system and inherently disruptive. Managerialism operates on the assumption that the organization is rationally structured around given goals. Those who disagree are either disloyal or else irrational troublemakers. The role of the manager is not to debate and defend but to maintain order and carry out given tasks. As Mannheim has put it, there is an inherent bureaucratic drive to transform "politics" into "administration." 17 On the other hand, private government moves to establish institutions for conflict resolution: first, by providing representative structures, and second, by setting up impartial bodies guided by norms of justice which operate independently from—and sometimes in contradiction to—organizational expediency. The model of private government suggests dispersed control with constraints on authorities designed to protect the welfare of individual members. Managerialism, as we have seen, suggests unified authority for the welfare of the entire institution. "This distinction between managerialism and private government is similar to that between Gouldner's categories of representative bureaucracy and punishment-centered bureaucracy. Although university authority now closely approximates Gouldner's punishment-centered bureaucracy, his terms were ruled out by our conscious application of a political model to the university. Since the notion of power lies at the very center of our analysis, the language of politics seems to be a useful conceptual device. Furthermore, we wish to emphasize the possibilities and the potentialities for a system of authority which is radically different from the present one. 17 Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1936), pp. 112-115. A related idea appears in Selznick's Leadership in Administration where he differentiates between "critical" and "routine" decisions.

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Legal-rational authority carries within itself the potentiality for private government. First, we can say that the self-contained rationality of the systems means that actions can be judged in the light of their consistency with stated principles. Theoretically at least, there is nothing to hide in either the formulation or implementation of the rules. Neither personal self-interest, private whims, nor impingements from outside the legal framework are legitimate grounds for discipline. For example, it is no longer legitimate for the dean of students to avoid a personally embarrassing incident by expelling one of his "enemies." Nor is it legitimate to prevent the use of facilities by student groups just because they might mar the reputation of the university. Both actions were permissible under a system of informal personal rule, but with the advent of formal regulations they were seen as arbitrary and inconsistent with the official norms supposedly guiding the system. It is theoretically possible, therefore, to have open hearings, cross examinations of accusers, and all the other requirements of due process. This openness applies not only to disciplinary hearings but also to the entire regulatory process which is organized on a rational basis. The assumption is that any reasonable person who adheres to the basic principles will be convinced by the correctness of the regulations and the justness of their application. Second, in a legal-rational system all are "equal before the law." Rulers and ruled alike are constrained by the regulations, and all can be legitimately judged by their conformity to impersonal standards. Thus, to establish formal procedures which assure conformity to rules and principles is entirely in keeping with the nature of the system. Far from being alien, procedures of due process might be thought of as an extension of a system governed by written rules. Third, given the widely accepted cultural value of democracy and the explicitness of formalized authority, the demand for participation is likely to arise.18 For instance, the visibility of formally written rules makes it abundantly clear that top managers indeed impinge on the lives and actions of individual members.19 But it is in times of conflict 18 Michel Crozier in his Bureaucratic Phenomenon systematically analyzes the impact of the national culture on various French bureaucracies, and it should be evident that his particular perspective on culture is woven into the very fabric of this study. M Edward Shils discusses this point in his study of "modernization." See "Political Development in New States," Comparative Studies in History and Society, 3 (Spring-Summer, 1960), 265-292, 379-411. In many ways the development

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that the reality of central power is most apparent. As it becomes clear that important powers reside in the central governing agency, constituents are likely to demand that their opinions be heard. This is particularly true in a university community where the norm of democratic participation has been upheld—at least since about 1900—as a valuable part of the educational process. Fourth, authority has been "secularized," its existence no longer carrying any valid sacred or even moral pretense. Authority is functional, not moral, its legitimacy derived from the services it performs, not from divine decree or an official's personal charisma. Even the concept of legal enactment by state authorities is rapidly losing its persuasive power among constituents. Nor are the president and his staff especially representative of the highest ideals and underlying moral basis of the community. Rather, they are managerial experts or, in Clark Kerr's term, "mediator-initiators," and for this reason are vulnerable to argument and attack. The reality of their functionary role and resulting reduction in the awesomeness of officials make the establishment of formalized participation a logical development in the system. The reason for the officials' rule is service to the community, and the constituents' participation can be of help to them in that service. Specialized expertise can be aided, too, by systematic consultation with constituents if not a sharing of the power with them, since consultation often provides the facts needed for maximum rationality. In short, the potentiality for private government begins to manifest itself as soon as the organization is controlled by explicit policy and formal regulations. However, we can go one step further. There are sound, practical reasons for developing a system of private government. Participation in formulating general policies and rules goes a long way toward broadening and deepening the basis of consent. As surveys taken during the Free Speech Movement indicate, such consent has often been missing. Certainly, hostility fanned by the sense of powerlessness might be cooled by better representation.20 Taking political of the university simply reflects the general trend in all organizations toward modernization. The decline of paternalism, the diminishing "sacredness" of authority, the drive toward centralization, the increasing complexity, and the necessity for rational coordination—all are facets of modernization. 20 For example, graduate students are not officially represented in the Berkeley student government. N o doubt out of frustration, the graduate teaching assistants have turned to the establishment of a labor union in order to protect their interests. Nor is there any all-university student representation (graduate or undergraduate) at the level of the president or the Board of Regents. Yet, as we have

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POSSIBLE

questions for what they are—political and not administrative—would no doubt provide a method of institutionalizing conflict and perhaps a way, too, of defusing the explosive situations which now spontaneously build up around ad hoc issues. In the "legal" area, too, establishment of formal procedures guaranteeing due process would contribute to making the pattern of authority more acceptable. Publicly conducted hearings and formally guided disciplinary procedures tend to promote decisions that are consistent with the rules and policies, since both accusations and evidence are there for all to see. And finally, here is the factor of morality itself, which, just as much as expediency, suggests the need for a legal system within the university itself. Education has become more of a right than a privilege bestowing a smattering of "culture" on a social elite. In a world where education is the key to occupation, income, and life-style, expulsion from the university has become far too serious a penalty to be treated casually. A t the same time, the movement away from traditional collegiate activities toward serious political concerns continues unabated. And indeed, why should an essentially constitutional question, where fundamental freedoms are often at stake—as in the advocacy of civil disobedience—be handled in the same manner and by the same office that has traditionally dealt with the old collegiate problems? The issues are too complicated and education too basic a right for either the old style of the friendly dean or the more recent "managerial" manner.21 Thus morality and practicality, as well as the growing power of constituents, point to the existence of a trend—however faltering—toward private government. It appears that such a system would be congruent with both recent changes in the social context and the changing basis of consent for university authority. Furthermore, by rejecting fuller participation and due process the administration lays itself open to the old, but still viable, charge of submitting to outside pressures operating behind the scenes. If such a charge is true, the administration would be guilty of betraying the most elementary standards of justice and violatshown over and over again, it is on this level that the vital decisions governing the whole university are made. 21 The reader should keep in mind that we are here—and have been since the mid-1930s were being discussed—dealing with questions of system regulation and not personal morality. The problems of the mature graduate student and the various complicated constitutional questions that emerge on the highly politicized modern campus require a different kind of authority; and, indeed, this fact now seems to be recognized by both the administration and the students.

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ing the very integrity of an institution committed to reason and freedom. But true or not, the accusation alone has been extremely detrimental to a condition of trust between administration and students. Without a judiciary system which is independent of the administration, guided by norms for minimizing arbitrariness, and restrained by procedural fairness, the charge will undoubtedly continue to be heard. PROBABLE DEVELOPMENTS

Neither the criticism of the managerial style nor the faint signs of a trend toward private government mean that radical change is forthcoming. The history of the institution makes one fact patently clear: universities and colleges are not free from public pressures. For nearly 100 years, public relations in its myriad manifestations has been a guiding force—if not the guiding force—determining the pattern of authority. Only in an idealized sense can the university be considered a "selfcontained cosmos." In reality, it is dependent on forces over which it has no control, forces which are frequently hostile not only to the conditions which would allow the establishment of private government in the first place, but also the consequences which would flow from it. Thus, despite all the logical and practical arguments for private government, it is not likely to become a reality in the near future. The essence of private university government may be found in two dominant factors—strong student participation in shaping policy and a self-contained legal system free from outside interference. Private government in fact requires genuine participation and power in all levels of decision-making, and justice, of course, can only prevail in such systems where it is free from public pressure, political expediency, and organizational demands. To participate without genuine authority is to be impotent and useless. Such, as we saw, has been the experience of student government.22 But to enjoy constituents' participation and a formal legal system would require radical decentralization of the system as well as vastly increased institutional autonomy, neither of which now exists or is likely to in the near future. However, quite apart from public pressure against such a change, there is suggestive evidence even within the university itself that at least 22 Students have never had autonomous powers of governance. Rather, "student government" has been a mere device for coordinating leisure time activities. Efforts to move beyond this arena were blocked, mainly because it would affect the "welfare of the entire University," which any real governance would do.

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some constituents—principally the faculty—are not anxious for a structural revolution of this sort. Data is not available for the Berkeley campus as such, but on similar campuses around the country faculties and administrations ranked "student participation in university governance" number 47 on a priority list of goals. Top ranking on the list went to protecting the "faculty's right to academic freedom," after which increasing the "prestige of the University" was considered vital— both of which goals may actually be in direct conflict with student participation.23 Nor is it likely that the majority of the Board of Regents would approve meaningful student participation in governance. After all, not even the faculty, with its Nobel Prize winners and world-famous scholars, has formal representation on the board, not to say students. In the past, the board has consistently acted in a managerial manner, and has been most reluctant to recognize the legitimacy and indeed the reality of true political problems revolving around the definition of university purposes. Mannheim has cast light on the sort of managerial mentality that seems to predominate on the board. Bureaucratic conservatism [may be explained] . . . by the fact that the sphere of activity of the official exists only within the limits of laws already formulated. . . . He takes it for granted that the specific order prescribed by the concrete law is equivalent to order in general. . . . When faced with the play of hitherto unharnessed forces, as for example, the eruption of collective energies in a revolution, [the administrator] conceives of them only as momentary disturbances. . . . Bureaucratic thought does not deny the possibility of the science of politics, but regards it as identical with the science of administration. Thus, irrational factors [nonroutine events which lie outside the administrator's organized and rationalized system] are overlooked, and when these nevertheless force themselves to the fore, they are treated as "routine matters of state." 24

Actually, we can go a step further than Mannheim. As it happens, even the most deeply divisive issues, such as disputes over the uses of the university, are treated by the regents simply as problems of "law and order" which scarcely involve legitimate disputes over organiza23 E. Gross, "Universities as Organizations: A Research Approach," American Sociological Review, 33 (August 1968), 518-543. 24 Karl Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1936), p. 118. Working, as he did, with the image of the military in his mind, Mannheim may have slightly overstated the case, but he has nonetheless illuminated a fundamental tendency in the administrative perspective toward harnessing and routinizing the "eruption of collective energies."

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tional goals and functions. A bureaucratic conservatism is not only rooted in the regents' managerial role in the educational system but probably reflects their private goals and interests as well. Very few regents have a background in education; most often they are businessmen governing huge corporations and financial institutions. One very thorough nationwide study shows that 57 percent of the trustees of public universities had incomes exceeding $40,000 a year; 40 percent were manufacturing, banking, or insurance executives. According to this same study, these men are even reluctant to allow faculty participation on the boards of control, not to mention students. Only 16 percent of all trustees think there should be "more professional educators on the boards of trustees," and less than one-third think their own faculty should be represented. More relevant to student participation, however, is the revelation that 39 percent felt that "only trustees and administrators" should have "majority authority" in determining institutional policy on the question of organized student protests.25 Governor Reagan, like most of his predecessors in California and counterparts across the country, has manifested a consistently paternalistic attitude reflective of both public opinion—and thus his political interests—and probably his personal views as well. "I suggest that it is time for these Boards [of Regents] to reassess their own goals, their pattern of only reacting to crises meeting by meeting, and the degree to which they have delegated away responsibility and abandoned principle. A sick campus community in California in many ways is responsible for a sick community around those campuses. . . . Let these campuses then be models for what is good for society." 26 It is striking here that the implicit cause for the "sickness"—a sickness so profound and heinous that it was contextually connected (being composed on June 7, 1968) with the murder of Robert Kennedy—was the regental delegation of responsibility. It seems clear that within this political framework any further delegation of responsibility is unlikely, especially as the board is more and more dominated by the governor's appointees. The governor has not stood alone in his hostility toward campus unrest and his desire to rid the institution of troublemakers. As the 1960s 25 R. T. Hartnett, College and University Trustees: Their Backgrounds, Roles, and Educational Attitudes ( N e w Jersey: Educational Testing Service, 1969), pp. 57-70. 28 Governor Reagan to the Regents and the (State College) Trustees, June 7, 1968, quoted in the Daily Californian, June 14, 1968.

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drew to a close, there was probably no other issue which provoked such widespread support from the California public. On the basis of a random sample in March 1969, the California Poll showed that 83 percent of the public agreed with the following: "Students who challenge or defy University and college authority should be kicked out to make room for those willing to obey the rules." And on the question of student participation in governing the campuses, the public showed little enthusiasm. In response to the statement, "Students should be given more voice in deciding campus rules and regulations," 14 percent strongly agreed, 25 percent agreed somewhat, 4 percent had no opinion, 19 percent disagreed somewhat, and 38 percent disagreed strongly.27 Few politicians seem sympathetic to the students, and only the bravest or most secure of those few feel they can afford to take up so unpopular a cause. As a practical matter, those who might be either personally outraged or just plain opportunistic reap much in the way of political reward by taking a hard line against students. Indeed in the spring of 1969, a great number of bills were proposed in the Assembly and the state Senate—many of them with strong legislative support— that would sharply limit campus autonomy and further centralize control in the Board of Regents. In the prevailing political climate any moves toward decentralization seem most unlikely. In the past, as this study has shown, student participation in governance has been inversely proportional to the amount of conflict existing between students, administrators, and the public. In the entire history of the university there has never been a time when conflict was more intense than in the 1960s. Thus, it must be concluded that a decentralized authority which would allow students to participate in policy-making is a remote possibility at best. It must be mentioned here that even if private government could be established, it would probably soon undermine the central institutional requirement of academic freedom. That freedom is the very soul of the modern university, yet it has never been fully achieved and is continually being threatened. The existing academic freedoms have centered on faculty interests in teaching and research. It is simply not in the faculty member's professional interest—as that is now defined—to take time from his teaching and research in order to serve on time-consum27

Reported in the San Francisco Chronicle (March 4, 1969), p. 6.

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ing committees dealing with policy questions raised by students or with inefficient complications of "due process." But there are other, less visible problems involved here. Colleges and universities have traditionally served the powerful classes, the prevailing economic interests, and the established definitions of national defense. Berkeley and the California campuses in general, despite their tuition-free services, have catered to the better-off classes and the white majority. Although Mexican-Americans constituted 9 percent of the California population in the mid-1960s and Negroes 5.6 percent, these groups made up only a tiny fraction of the student population of the state. As for the prevailing economic interests, the emergence of specific departments of study and the allocation of money clearly reflect the productive needs of the state, whether these be agriculture or space science. And Berkeley's contribution to national defense, especially in the field of atomic energy, is well known. The point needs further documentation, but it is reasonable to assume that these contributions to the state, the powerful classes, and national defense have paradoxically supported traditional academic freedom. With the universities contributing so much, after all, it was possible to tolerate the opprobrious behavior of the few. The "few" have now become the many, if not the majority. When students profess greater admiration for Che Guevara than for Richard Nixon, when 26 percent of Berkeley students think that "American society is basically unjust," and 63 percent think the university "too closely tied to the establishment," then granting power to the students seems quite likely to undermine the freedoms protecting traditional educational functions. 28 To fully understand this point, the present tensions must be viewed in historical perspective. The intensive conflicts of the 1960s were the culmination of a trend that began in the 1930s toward the growing amalgamation of serious political activity and higher education. So long as students remained primarily concerned with local campus issues or only took part in a "respectable" politics that did not fundamentally challenge the system, their activism could be tolerated. But students changed. They became a major force in movements of dissent and were anxious to transform the universities—at present the sparkplugs of the technological society—into levers of social change. So long as deep so38

"What They Believe," Fortune (January 1969), p. 70, and Robert Somers, "The Berkeley Campus in the Twilight of the Free Speech Movement—Hope or Futility?" (unpublished paper, Department of Sociology, University of California, Berkeley, August 1968).

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cial conflict and gross injustices exist in the larger society and so long as students maintain a serious interest in those problems—as far as students are concerned those problems are deeper now than any time since the Civil War—the campuses will be arenas of conflict. Furthermore, students are likely to remain politically left wing and "radical" by general public standards. Students are in a sense "fanatics" who attach themselves with single-minded dedication to a particular cause. In Weber's terms, they are taken with the ethic of "ultimate ends" rather than the ethic of "responsibility." Their passion for reform is not motivated by any sense of responsibility toward maintaining the system. As the FSM clearly demonstrated an ethic passionately focused on a single moral value is impatient with slow-moving institutions and scornful of compromise. What this means, of course, is that students are likely to follow through despite the institutional cost. To grant students more power and institute an elaborate system of rules assuring due process and full citizenship rights would therefore alter the existing system toward serving new groups—ignoring some and challenging others. In all likelihood, such a radical change would further upset the very tenuous institutional autonomy. Ultimately, what the problem comes down to is the fact that the university is not private. "Its life is a public one. It lives only upon the esteem in which it is held and can only increase by extending that esteem. . . ." 29 Although written in 1886, the statement still holds. It now seems as though the people of California are unwilling even to tolerate—not to mention support—an institutional center of radical critique and dissenting action. To those relatively satisfied with the status quo or simply afraid of change, campus unrest can only be explained by such things as conspiracy, neurosis, the child-rearing practices of the 1940s and 1950s, or just plain administrative cowardice. In this climate, the objective validity of the demands has little relevance. The issues raised by the dissenters are reduced to problems of control and law and order. Hence, the next phase of university control may well be "policed managerialism," not "private government." Indeed, in the spring of 1969, as demonstrators were shot in the streets and a helicopter sprayed gas over Sproul Hall Plaza, it seemed as if the University of California had already entered the era of policed managerialism. 29

Occident (May 28, 1886).

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INDEX

Academic freedom, 14; student disturbances, 72n, 8 In; and educational functions, 113; Regulation 5 as implementing, 120; as the only campus "right," 143, 157; radical extension of meaning to students, 181; neutrality as a protection of, 187; in opposition to student rights, 202; why it is tolerated, 205; as faculty selfinterest, 204 Academic Freedom Committee: objections to Attorney General's list, 146n; supports liberal regulations, 148-150; participation in rule making, 163 Academic standards: secondary to character building, 60; raising of, 88 Administration, University: function of, 14—15; small size of during Wheeler's time, 41; expands control over students, 77; responsibility for student discipline, 91; president's responsibility for discipline, 94; legal authority over students emphasized, 105; the conservative administrators, 115; responsibility for promulgating rules and policy, 122; ac-

cused of not complying with own rules, 134; cross pressures during Cold War, 137; regulations as "law," 141; faculty challenges its monopoly control over regulations, 149; restricts student newspaper, 150; attitudes toward students, 156-157; obligations of its role, 157; as final authority in rule making and interpretation, 162, 186; decline of administrative control, 169; role conflict in rule enforcement, 188 American Civil Liberties Union, objections to rules, 171 American Student Union, ASUC recognition of, 127 Apathy, student: political, 51; political apathy in 1920s, 83; basis for tranquility, 135; in the mid-1950s, 136; as product of fear, 147 Armor, Dave, 162 Associated Students of the University of California (ASUC): formation, 22; needed to coordinate new student activities, 24; origins, 31; growth, 40; origin of student body card, 47, 47n; reorganization 59; as

215

216 big business, 59; debts in the 1920s, 95; defends students against administration, 99; activist criticize membership fee, 125; responsibility for recognizing student organizations, 125; authority declines in 1950s, 140; removed from serious student interests, 151; tax exempt status endangered, 152; restricted to "collegiate activities," 153; lack of student support, 153; legal status, 154-155; prevented from taking stand on off-campus issues, 155; promotes "happy college life," 156; administrative veto power over its constitution, 171; restrictions of Kerr Directives on, 171; lack of student interest, 174. See also Student Affairs Committee; Censorship; Student political action Athletes: role in government, 55; as vigilantes, 111 Attorney General's list: groups from list banned on campus, 145, 146n Authority: definition of, xv, 9-15; motives for compliance, 9; secularization of, 8; dynamics of university authority, 13; depth of criticism of, 13; need to "fit" social base, 16; personalized, 41; source of debated, 183; secularization of, 199; future developments, 201, 206. See also Governing principles; Legitimacy; Jurisdiction and scope; Due process; Paternalism; Legal-rational authority Autonomy, University. See Political neutrality; Public opinion; Regulation 5; Academic freedom; University of California and society Barrows, David, 69, 77, 77n, 78n Barrows Hall, 78n Big Game, origins of, 25, 85 Budget: changing sources of income, effect of depression, 128n Bureaucracy: applied to university, ix, 107; in modern society, 5; replaces paternalism, 131-132; Sproul personalizes rules, 107; objections to, 183. See also Managerial authority; Legal-rational authority Bureaucratic conservatism: regent attitude, 202 Bureaucratization: as a consequence of liberalization, 160; Weber's nega-

INDEX tive attitude toward, 190. See also Managerial attitudes; Managerial authority; Legal-rational authority Burns, Hugh, 146, 177 Byrne Report, 161n Cadman, Paul, 68, 86; co-author of Regulation 5, 124n California House Un-American Activities Committee, 147, 177 Campbell, William, 56, 78-104 passim Case studies, advantages of, 8 Categories: construction of, xi; validity of, xii; reduction to ideal types, 191-198 Censorship: banning of Occident, 97, 103; of student newspaper, 150-151. See also English Club; Student rights Character formation, 270. See also Governing principles Cheating, 32. See also Honor system; Student Affairs Committee Class, academic, 24 Class conflict, 36; middle class culture, 102; University serves the better-off classes, 131; interests served by university, 205 Cold War, effect of on internal governance, 137 Collegiate culture: origin of, 25; basis of government, 75; conflict with growing sophistication, 85; financial success of, 87; activist student challenge, 106; public acceptance of traditional pranks, 124 Columbia University, crisis in, 4 Communications, effect on campus life, 85 Communism, 86; public fear of, 107; fear of introduces new issues, 107; students expelled for, 111; University reputation for condoning, 126; "red reputation" causes restrictions, 130; legislative investigation of, 13 On; Communist piano teacher fired, 138; assumptions about Communist influence among students, 148; influence in student newspaper, 150-151; administrative and student attitudes toward, 156 Communist party: allowed on campus, 144; role in student activities, 118 Communist professors, faculty disqualification of, 113 Communist speaker ban, elimination of, 163

INDEX Community solidarity, 39, 50; as means of social control, 44; sustaining of, 54; as basis for student government, 73; students and administration, 73; breakdown, 79; challenge of radicals, 108-119; conflict is permanent, 119; precondition for paternalism, 193. See also Mechanical solidarity; Collegiate culture; Consensus; Social Context; Loyalty Comparative method, in category construction, xii Conceptualization of key terms, x Consensus: erosion of between student and administration, 108-119; as basis for authority, 184. See also Social context; Legitimacy Constitutional status of university, 36; neutrality applied to internal governance, 132; objection to application of neutrality to internal governance, 178 Cooperative book store: size and profits, 47n; profits, 87 Corely, James: fear of "red reputation" of University, 130; as University lobbyist, 131, 131n; initiates loyalty oath, 145; initiates control of student newspaper, 150; role in limiting student authority, 154 Cox Commission Report, 4 - 5 Crises, as focal point of analysis, xi Data collection, x, xiv Dean of Men's Office, 80, 92 Demonstrations, increase of student, 168. See also Rallies; Regulations; Student political action Deutsch, Monroe: denies H. Wallace permission to speak, 139 Disciplinary procedures: role in authority, 13, 34; simplicity of, 41; illustration of process, 65; informality of, 100; due process as new issue, 185. See also Due process; Student Affairs Committee Dissent, cycle of as major turning point, 109-110. See also Student political action Double jeopardy: Sproul against, 123; not allowed, 161 Drunkenness, 33, 66; as disciplinary problem, 62; tolerance of in modern times, 124 Due process: as an issue, 3; insubordination as basis for discipline, 112; unfairness charged in banning of

217 SLATE, 177n; lack of during the FSM, 186; definition of, 185; in legal-rational authority, 198; practical reasons for its implementation, 200. See also Disciplinary procedures Durant, Henry, 15; educational aims, 27; educational philosophy, 35 Durkheim, x. See also Mechanical solidarity. Educational functions: as basis for rules, 174; disagreements over definition, 180-183 English Club, 87; rights of dissent, 90 Eshleman, John, 59, 59n Extracurricular activities, 30 Facilities, use of university, 52; movement to liberalize, 139-150; continuing policies under Kerr, 161; under the Kerr Directives, 174-178; distinctions between academic discussion and political action, 175; public attitudes toward free use of, 187. See also Regulation 5; Regulation 17; Student rights; Recognition of student groups; Political neutrality Faculty: trustee attitudes toward, 3; friction with Wheeler, 73n; revolt, 78; political rights in 1920s, 84; low salaries, 104; loyalty oath, 138, 145n; December 8, 1964, repudiation of past administrative policies, 181 Faculty-student relationship: ratio, 19, 40; student power aids relationship, 25; faculty as "natural enemy" of students, 26; student discipline, 30; role in student government, 58; fear of political action, 84; abdication of disciplinary powers, 64; dislike of disciplinary role, 93; end of honor system, 96; supports student publication, 98n; begins to support students, 137; supports liberalization of regulations, 149; impact of professionalization on relationship, 189n; not the central concern of study, 189n; faculty opposition to student power, 202 Federal Bureau of Investigation ( F B I ) : references to in presidential files, 129; speakers cleared with, 145 Formal rules. See Legal-rational au-

218 thority; Bureaucracy; Due Process; Regulation 5; Regulation 17 Fraternities and sororities: role in governance, 55; high school recruitment, 47n; relationship to Progressive party, 75; ideological perspectives, 115; criticized by activist, 117; dominate student offices, 126. See also Collegiate culture Free speech, 1, 81n; providing for in the 1920s, 93; first strike 1934, 110; Free Speech Movement as outgrowth of old issues, 159; major documents of FSM, 179n; basic issues of FSM, 179-187 Freedom, individual: in organizational society, xvi. See also Student rights; Due process Gardiner, David, 145n Gayley, Charles Mills, 45 Gilman, Daniel, 26 Golden Bear Senior Men's Honor Society, 39-40; function of, 55-56; and the Free Speech crisis (1964), 40n; administrative uses of, 56; still powerful in 1950s, 148 Governing principles: role in authority, 12; university reputation, 26; protecting reputation of university, 29; 1900-1920, 60; radicals claim neutrality is biased, 117; neutrality becomes central, 120; decline of character building as, 122; the end of character building as, 159; general policies of Kerr Directives, 161; emergence of new principles, 180-183; role of in legalrational authority, 194. See also Academic freedom; Legitimacy; Regulation 5; Educational functions Graduate secretaries, 55, 87 Graduate students, breakdown of collegiate culture, 87 Griffiths, Farnham: as Wheeler's secretary, 44n, 65; revises student government, 152, 152n Hahn, Dean: liberal view of use of facilities, 142 Harvard University : more liberal than University of California, 143 Hazing, as discipline problem, 34; controlled by students, 71. See also Collegiate culture Hearst, Phoebe Apperson, 50 Hildebrand, Joel: academic freedom

INDEX in classroom, 8In; faculty revolt, 89; recollections, 104; author of Regulation 5, 121, 124n; member of Public Relations Committee, 129 Holden, President, 24, 34 Honor system: in operation, 85; failure of, 96. See also Cheating; Student Affairs Committee Howard, Walter F., 115 Hutchinson, Dean: conservative views on use of facilities, 142 Impersonality of campus life, emergence of complaint, 79 In loco parentis, courts support of, 42. See also Governing principles; Character formation; Paternalism International House, 98 Issues: growing seriousness of, 105; Free Speech Movement clarifies conflict between student and administration, 179 Johnson, Hiram, 56. See also Progressive Party lurisdiction and scope: role in authority, 12; 19th century, 29; broad scope of, 92; limited to areas of direct university concern, 161; formalization of rules narrows scope, 123. See also Double jeopardy; Paternalism Kellogg, President, 31 Kerr, Clark, 159-188 passim-, image of modern university authority, 12; supports liberal regulations, 148 Kerr Directives: disputes over, 169— 178; Regulation 17, 161. See also Rules Laughing Horse, 102-103 Law and order: as opposed to political conflict, 203; passion for, 206 League of the Republic, 43 Leconte, John, 27 Legal-rational authority: emergence of 107; analysis of its beginnings, 131— 135; necessity for legality of university regulations, 132; effectiveness of, 194; essential nature of, 194; built in strains, 196; potentiality for change, 198 Legislative investigations, 127 Legitimacy: administration legitimacy first challenged, 112; activists begin to question legitimacy of university

INDEX authority, 132; difficulty of establishing legitimacy, 141; challenged, 158; deepening problems in the 1960s, 169-170; new basis in student consent, 171; loss of ideological basis for, 183 Loyalty: definition, building, and function of, 38-40; versus personal interests, 62; foundation of student government, 74; activist challenge, 106; student toward administration during strike, 116; as central element in paternalism, 191 McCarthy, Joe, era of, 136-138 Managerial authority: in construction of rules, 124; administration management of regulations, 132; maintained despite liberalization of rules, 150; compared to private government, 196-198 Mannheim, Karl, 197 Mechanical solidarity, x; kind of authority, 11 ; as basis for student government 39; basis of paternalistic self-government, 74; university community, 192-193. See also Collegiate culture; Loyalty Merritt, Ralph, 56, 47n, 78n Meyling, Herman, xvii, 83 Militant students: lack of, 75; philosophy of education compared to Wheeler, 61; challenge collegiates, 106. See also Student political activity Mitchell, Lucy Sprague, 43 Models, abstract: methodological uses, xv Moore, Provost: anti-Communism of, 110 Moral training: as educational function, 27; end of, 88. See also Governing principles; Character building Morality: and public opinion, 101. See also Obscenity; Character building Multiversity, emerges in the 1930s, 107 National Student League, 108, 109 Neutrality of institution. See Political neutrality Neylan, Regent: anti-Communist opponent of Sproul, 146; accuses student paper of having Communist sympathies, 151

219 Obscenity, 90; Skull and Keys, 96; as an issue, 97; public tolerance of, 124 OfE-campus issues: student organizations banned from using university facilities to promote, 114n; problems created by issues for student government, 155; ASUC not allowed to take a stand on, 172 Open forum policy: Kerr's promotion of, 170; problems of enforcement, 178 Oppenheimer, Robert: involved in anti-Communist investigations, 138 Organic Acts: faculty and student discipline, 31; faculty withdraws from discipline, 93. See also Constitutional status of university Organizational requirements: defined, 14; in 19th century, 35; and student government, 71-73; public hostility, 103; threatened by radicalism in 1930s, 127. See also Academic freedom; Budget Organizational society, 2-9; revolt against, 6-9; Weber's attitude toward, 190 Outside pressure: beginning of student opposition toward, 132-134; student activists condemn, 132; no longer legitimate basis of control, 157. See also Public opinion; Organizational requirements Panty raid, 136 Paternalism: transition to present troubles, x; decline of, 15; nature of, 20; connection with character building, 123; essential characteristics of, 191-194; social preconditions for, 192. See also Loyalty; Mechanical solidarity Peace strikes, described, 129n Pettitt, George: member of Public Relations Committee, 129; favors liberalization of rules, 140-150 Policed managerial ism, 206 Political activity, problems of definition, 177 "Political crimes," 185n Political involvement of students. See Student Political Involvement Political neutrality: Hildebrand formulates policy, 89; in the 1920s, 92; radicals claim it is biased, 117; rightwing views of, 117n, 119-127; operational meaning of, 133-134; bias of the policy, 132; strict interpreta-

220 tion maintained, 137; liberal view favors the left, 148; expressed in Kerr Directives, 161; interpretation of Kerr Directives, 174; difficulty in distinguishing between political and nonpolitical, 178; opposition to administrative interpretation of, 178; conflicting positions on the policy, 180-183; possible interpretations of policy, 184. See also Regulations; Use of facilities; Off-campus issues; Academic freedom Populist Party, opposes university, 36 Power: legitimate forms, 11; student authority as special form of, 58 President's Administrative Advisory Committee: as most important committee on internal governance, 139 Private government: in conflict with managerialism, 190; practical reasons for, 199 Progressive Party: congruence with student government, 39; student support of, 52-53; and student governance around the nation, 59n, 63; minimization of class conflict, 75 Propositions of study, 16 Public attitudes, as source of moral standards, 101 Public opinion: as a continuing force shaping authority, 21; toward university in 19th century, 26, 28; changing student morality, 80; source of moral standards, 101, 104n; and radical students, 107, 127; effect on governance of students, 127; the major force determining university governance, 201; toward student rebellion, 204. See also Outside pressure; Class conflict Public Relations Committee, examines student peace strikes, 129 Putnam, Dean, 129 Racial minorities, underrepresentation in university, 205 Racism, and role of modern university, 3 Radicalism: student support of FSM, 168. See also Student political action; Public Opinion Radicals, Sproul's view of, 113 Rallies: freshman rally as religious rite, 49; function of collegiate, 50; collegiate, 124. See also Collegiate culture Rallies, political: city of Berkeley tries

INDEX to prevent, 127, 127n. See also Student political activity; Regulation 17 Reagan, Ronald, 203 Recognition of student groups: role of politics, 176. See also Associated Students of the University of California; Facilities, use of Regents, Board of, 3; obtain power from state legislature, 19; rebuke presidents for student activities, 27; as court of last resort, 32; implications of their power for curriculum development, 39; establish university reputation as official governing principle, 63n; legislature moves to make regents elective, 83n; legislative pressures on, 104n; social class composition, 117; role in limiting student government, 152-153; failure to protect university, 157; faculty protest their role in rule making, 183; retain final authority in routine matters, 183; lack of student representation on, 199; bureaucratic conservatism, 202; personal background characteristics, 203 Regulation 5: quoted in full, 120-121; anti-Communist background, 128n Regulation 17: lack of student consultation, 124; extension and liberalizations, 139-150; effect of liberalization on public relations, 141-144; summary of changes, 149-150 Reid, W. T., President, 27, 32 Republicans, Young, lead liberalization of Regulation 17, 147 Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC) : opposed by Social Problems Club, 125 Rules: central to analysis, xiii; construction of, 9; functions, 14; paucity of in 19th century, 26; informality of, 100; chronological development, 108n; lack of specificity, 101; liberalizations of, 160; general disputes over the Kerr Directives, 170-171; inconsistencies of application, 172173, 178; enforced by administrators, 185. See also Legal-Rational authority; Regulation 17; Managerialism; Due process Russell, Lewis, English Club, 97 Science, ascendance of, 89 Secularization of university, 88 Selznick, Philip, xvii, 195 Senior adviser system, 46n

INDEX Senior Control, 50, 55, 79; elimination of, 86. See also Golden Bear Honor Society Senior Singing, as part of governance, 57 Sibley, Robert: member of Public Relations Committee, 129 "Silent Generation," 147 Sinclair, Upton, 97n; attacks Wheeler, Barrows, and University, 103 Size of university: effect on governance, 19, 20, 40; growth and alienation, 79; relation to radicalism, 80; growth as problem, 108 SLATE: origin of, 168; banned from campus, 177; leads the fight against rules, 170-171 Smith, Vern, 67-71 Social context: 19th century, 19; radicalization of students, 108; incongruence between old authority patterns and new student concerns, 156-158; politicalization of, 163169. See also Collegiate culture; Student political action; Mechanical solidarity Sproul, Robert, 106-158 passim; maintains personalized tradition of governance, 16, 44n, 47n; undergraduate days, 53; undergraduate, 56n, 95; image of university, 112; compared to Clark Kerr, 160 Standards of conduct, 32, 66-71; students reject, 102; rebellion against, 100. See also Rules; Student Affairs Committee; Due process Stephens, Henry Morse, 50 Stone, Dean: conservative attitudes use of facilities, 142; bans rallies, 174 Strong, Chancellor, 171 Student activists: antiorganizational stance, 6; significance of size of university on the emergence of, 20; lack of during Wheeler's time, 43; become significant power, 106; Sproul's view of, 113-114; described, 117; as "disloyal," 132; define authority as nonlegitimate, 132; as more "partisan" than moderates, 134. See also Student political action Student activities, profit from, 87 Student Affairs Committee, 42; ASUC establishes, 60; informality of, 65; in action, 67; under attack, 67-69; obscenity crises, 96; Campbell re-

221 stricts jurisdiction, 99. See Student authority Student authority: authority and power, 39; as special form of power, 58; growth of, 60; origin of, 64; official powers, 63; as genuine authority, 73; Sproul's view of, 113n; limits placed by President Sproul, 125; postwar decline, 151-156 Student citizenship training, 61 Student culture: basis of control, 3958. See also Collegiate culture; Student life styles Student dissent: relation to size, 80; beginning of, 88; rejects moral standards of administration, 102. See also Student political action; Student rights Student government: importance of, 44; strength of, 70; contributions to state politics, 72. See also Associated Students of the University of California; Student rights Student life styles, 19; 19th century origins, 23; provincialism, 41, 43; as barometers of social change, 45; life styles, pre-WWI, 45-54; sophistication, 82; sophistication in 1920s, 100; growing maturity of 157n. See also Collegiate culture "Student opinion," 40, 57 Student participation in governance, 4, 15; student and administrative conflict, 74; lack of in rule making, 124; lack of, 162; lack of in managerial system, 198 Student political action: irrelevance of, 21-22, 42, 109, 109n; party allegiance, 53; loyalty transferred from institution to politics, 158; radical changes in the 1960s, 163169; 1960s compared to 1930s, 168; its role in the educational process, 180-83; unique dangers of the present conflict, 188n; in perspective, 205 Student political organizations, in the 1930s, 108 Student rights: education not a privilege but right, 4, 41, 75; lack of, 90; do not include criticism, 99; university cannot control conscience, 123; conservative versus liberal interpretation, 133; administration, not the law, to determine student rights, 142; myth of their erosion, 169; to picket university functions, 175; self-government as a privilege,

222 152; no double jeopardy, 161. See also Academic freedom; Regulation 5; Students and administration Student self-government: rapid decline in the 1950s, 151-156. See also Student rights; Associated Students of the University of California Student vigilantes: on campus, 116 Students and administration: widening gap between, 169-170. See also Associated Students of the University of California; Student authority; Student rights Students and society: involvement in, 20; pre-W.W. I isolation, 45; students as vanguard in changing culture, 81; end of provincialism, 84. See also Student political action; Social context System needs. See Organizational requirements Tenney, Jack: leads anti-Communist investigation, 136, 138, 139 Toward a More Active Student Community (TASC), origins of, 168 Traditions: student, 45-52, 86; functions of, 24, 54n; basis of control, 58 Trust: need for in university, 19; basis of control, 58; student power, 74, 119; decline of student and administrative trust, 178. See also Loyalty; Mechanical solidarity Undercover agents, 83; with American Legion, 111 Universities: contemporary crises, 2; ultimate control of, 3; crises, stages in, 3; problems of legitimacy, 5; as societal microcosm, 9; modern authority, 12; as combination of German and English styles, 22n; conflict with puritanism in the 1920s, 82 University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA): paternalism at, 108; administration clears speakers with FBI, 145 University of California constitutional status. See Constitutional Status

INDEX University of California income, 5In, 71; threatened by radicalism, 127, 130 University of California reputation: protection of, 29-30; best interests of university places limits on student authority, 39; as principle behind student government, 61, 70; administrative responsibility for, 90, 91; Barrow's views of, 103; best interests seen as facade by activist, 106; defined by administration, 120; radicals exploit good name, 120n; definition of narrowed to neutrality, 123; euphemism for outside pressure, 157. See Governing principles; Public opinion; Communism; Outside pressure University of California and society: emergence of the myth of separation, 21, 36; basic assumptions about relations, 137; end of campus isolation, 163-169. See also Public opinion; Student political action University structure: built-in strains, 187; rapid turnover of presidents, 18; as combination of German and English models, 22n. See also Organizational requirements; Paternalism; Legal-rational authority Wallace, Henry: denied permission to speak, 139 Warren, Earl, 45 Weber, Max: stress on organizational aspect of society, 6, 190-191 Wheeler, Benjamin Ide, 38-76 passim-, respect for student authority, 94; strained relations with faculty, 104n; image of university compared to Sproul, 112; continuance of his views into 1930s, 116; philosophy of student government inadequate for modern universities, 152 Yorty, Sam: leads anti-Communist investigation, 138