The Diversity Myth Read online

  13. See, for example, “Drastic Housing Change Planned At Cornell,” New York Times News Service, October 9, 1997.

  14. Ironically, Stanford's public relations strategy itself caused so much bad publicity that it had to be dropped. See Bill Workman, “Stanford Drops Promotional Word List,” The San Francisco Chronicle, December 2, 1995.

  15. Robert Greer Cohn, “Books in Brief,” National Review, April 22, 1996.

  16. A. J. Bacevich, “Diversity Blues,” Crisis, April 1996.

  Acknowledgments

  The arduous research and labor necessary to document and then write this story began several years ago, and many people have been helpful and kind to us along the way. We will always be deeply indebted to these good samaritans for investing their confidence in two young authors.

  Our odyssey began with the compilation of the numerous examples in this book, collected with the assistance of several generations of Stanford students, beginning with John Abbott, Greg Kennedy, and Kevin Warsh and continuing with Adam Ross, Michael Petras, Bob Schmidt, and Eric Jackson. Mention also should be made of the writers and editors of The Stanford Daily, The Stanford Review, and Stanford University News Service—without these primary sources of information, our job would have been made immeasurably more difficult.

  At the writing and editing stage of this book, Neil Morganbesser, Brad Benbrook, Nathan Linn, John Harkins, Mary Gacek, and Keith and Mary Ann Eiler offered constructive comments to early drafts. Useful suggestions and guidance also came from Jennifer Caterini, Jerry Martin, John Miller, Raphael Sagalyn, Williamson Evers, John Reynen, Rich Lowry, Adam Meyerson, Mary Parker Lewis, Diana and Harold Furchtgott-Roth, Tom Duesterberg, Antony Korenstein, Mark Moller, Vincent Sollito, and Peter Uhlmann. Dr. Angelo Codevilla, a gentleman and a scholar, offered numerous suggestions and constant encouragement from beginning to end.

  A special thanks goes to Keith Rabois and the other victims of multiculturalism interviewed for this book, who selflessly shared their special insights. Many others in the Stanford community also helped us but cannot be named for fear of repercussions.

  Finally, at the publishing stage, we are particularly grateful to Independent Institute president David Theroux, and research director Robert Higgs who, in seeing the value of this book, sponsored its publication and provided invaluable assistance throughout. We are also grateful for the further assistance of Theresa Navarro and the rest of the professionals at the Institute, not only for setting words to paper but also for offering ideas, advice, and true dedication to this project. For those interested in exploring the further contours of the problem of higher education, we strongly recommend the Independent Institute's book, The Academy in Crisis: The Political Economy of Higher Education, edited by John W. Sommer (see page vi).

  Introduction

  Christopher Columbus, the First Multiculturalist

  In 1492, Christopher Columbus set sail from the Western havens of medieval Spain. Fraught with myriad unforeseen consequences, his lonely voyage to the ends of the known world would prove to be the most fateful exploration in an age of discovery. The legacy of Columbus's first contacts between Western civilization and non-Western cultures would haunt the New World for centuries to come.

  To the end of his life, Columbus remained uncertain of exactly what he had found. The Admiral's reaction to his initial encounters, recorded in his extensive journals, clearly was one of delight. He marvelled at the apparent harmony and peacefulness of the Taino natives, whose simple existence seemed to hearken back to an innocence that had been lost amidst the growing complexity of European life. At times, Columbus even believed that he had reached Eden, a sacred land whose inhabitants dwelt in a state of preternatural grace. Columbus's early adulation of New World primitivism would be reflected in one of Montaigne's essays, favorably contrasting the “perfection” of noble savages with the fallen West:

  I would tell Plato that those people have no trade of any kind, no acquaintance with writing, no knowledge of numbers, no terms for governor or political superior, no practice of subordination or of riches or poverty, no contracts, no inheritances, no divided estates, no occupation but leisure, no concern for kinship—except such as is common to them all—no clothing, no agriculture, no metals, no use of wine or corn.1

  Of course, Montaigne had no intention of trading his privileged place in the French court for a teepee in the American outback. For him, ennobling the savage merely represented a useful ploy to attack aspects of the West he found ideologically distasteful. But for Columbus, who began to confront first-hand some of the stark realities lurking beyond the familiar confines of the West, such optimistic pieties would not last. As he came into contact with another non-Western culture, that of the warlike Caribs, his delight turned to horror: The Caribs were systematically hunting, capturing, imprisoning, gelding, and eating the Tainos. This Eden also contained its serpent.

  Unfettered by any sort of a prime directive against cultural intervention, Columbus responded to the Tainos’ plea for help in the only moral way possible. He intervened and took sides, favoring the Taino culture over the Carib culture—and the rest is history. Stripped of his initial illusions, Columbus would return to Europe at the end of his quest with a more balanced impression of the world outside the West. The explorer who first depicted the “noble savage” also had discovered the Carib tribe, whose name later would provide the basis for the word “cannibal.” For Columbus at least, the once–lusterous appeal of multiculturalism had dulled.

  Five hundred years later, modern-day explorers still seek alien cultures, hoping therein to find models of enlightened justice, collective well-being, or personal liberation. Of course, nobody today believes, as did Columbus, that such a hidden country—an El Dorado or Shangri–la—will be found in some forgotten physical corner of the planet. And so, the voyage has taken an intellectual turn: By travelling to the ends of the humanities, some hope to recreate a lost utopia that can serve as a conceptual alternative to the modern West, as a vehicle á la Montaigne for denouncing unpalatable aspects of our society.

  The most aggressive manifestation of this quest is the multicultural movement. This movement had its genesis at elite universities in the 1980s, but today it is national in scope. No longer just concerned with learning about new ideas, multiculturalism is, as the word suggests, a cultural phenomenon, with rules of etiquette, codes of conduct, and precisely assigned roles for each of the participants. Dozens of articles a day are written on the subject, and even the country's elected leaders have gotten in on the act. The Clinton administration, beginning with its inauguration and its filling of government positions, has been particularly diligent in stressing multicultural themes at every turn.2 The arbiters of taste in the media agree, praising Bill Clinton for “modeling the behavior other executives need and setting a good example.”3 Corporate America, too, has followed suit: 40 percent of all businesses now require “diversity training” in issues of race, gender, and sexual preference.4 Such blue-chip companies as Xerox, IBM, and Coca-Cola pay professional educators as much as $10,000 a day for specialized multicultural workshops.5

  In all of these contexts, multiculturalism is presented as a way to rediscover lost cultures (or at least lost cultural identities) and bring them back to life, as part of a richer, more diverse America. The resulting societal transformation, argue multiculturalists, will be needed to accommodate the diversity that has become part of contemporary America and should take place on every level: local and national, private and public, and in the hearts and minds of individuals everywhere. “To achieve a rich culture,” multicultural educators proclaim, “we must weave a social fabric in which each diverse human gift will find a fitting place.”6

  It is not difficult to see why the promise of radical change should hold great appeal to many Americans. At the close of the 20th century, the country faces some great challenges—racial animosities are on the rise, gender relations are increasingly troubled, and the public's fear of social di
sintegration is growing. Across the political spectrum, there is little faith that the approaches of the last several decades are sufficient to fix America's problems. Many feel that some new course is needed, and multiculturalism seems to offer a fresh approach that transcends the conventions of everyday politics. Multiculturalism promises to abate the many tensions between America's disparate factions—white and black, rich and poor, religious and secular, heterosexual and homosexual, male and female. Moreover, multiculturalism promises to achieve these results by utilizing America's historical source of pride and energy—its diversity. The promise of multiculturalism is that a potential liability will once again become an asset, that a cause of faction will become a tool for harmony and strength.

  Admittedly, multiculturalism's commercial packaging is attractive. But is the new consciousness about race, gender, and sexual preference really the antidote to America's problems or a cause of them? An answer requires that we know more about this powerful new presence emerging on the American scene. How does it operate where it really holds sway? What are the values and habits of its leaders? And what animates its followers? To answer these fundamental questions, we must examine the phenomenon's roots.

  If one had to identify a single location where multiculturalism began, the best candidate would be Stanford University, located near Palo Alto, California. Privileged by ideal climate, sumptuous facilities, and lots of money (by the end of the 1980s, its endowment was well over $2 billion, and its annual budget approached $300 million), Stanford is one of America's leading institutions, sustained by hundreds of millions of dollars in taxpayer grants each year. In 1985, U.S. News and World Report, in its annual survey of colleges and universities, ranked Stanford first in the nation; the competition for admission reflected this status, as over 17,500 applicants vied for 1,500 places in the entering class.

  But beginning about 1986, capping long-term trends, the most powerful administrators and faculty, along with many student leaders, moved aggressively to turn Stanford into the nation's first multicultural academy. In his welcoming remarks to Stanford's entering class of 1993 (given in September 1989), university president Donald Kennedy went so far as to declare that Stanford's multicultural venture was “a bold experiment that must succeed.”7 Conducted on the 25,000 human beings who made up the Stanford community, this “bold experiment” transformed the campus—revamping the curriculum, reshaping student “awareness,” and implementing new codes of conduct. The experiment certainly was more all-encompassing than anything Kennedy had done to a lab animal in his former incarnation as a biology professor. Once successfully constructed at Stanford, this new multicultural community would serve as a prototype for the nation. “If we cannot succeed here,” Kennedy declared, “we cannot succeed anywhere.”8

  But President Kennedy never got the chance to report on the progress of the multicultural experiment at the graduation ceremonies for the class of 1993. In August 1992, Stanford's Board of Trustees forced his resignation. The immediate cause centered on a financial scandal in which the university had misappropriated millions of dollars in federal research monies. The real reasons for this crisis of confidence, however, went far deeper: Trustees, congressional representatives, alumni, and the general public had begun to perceive that the great multicultural experiment had brought the very opposite of higher learning. It had brought speech restrictions, a new kind of intolerance known as “political correctness,” a hysterically anti-Western curriculum, the increasing politicization of student life, and campus polarization along racial and ethnic lines. Like Columbus's multicultural journey, which turned from delight to disillusionment, the Stanford community had gradually soured on multiculturalism. Before doing so, however, multiculturalism had changed the outlook of a generation of American leaders, and because it is still deeply entrenched, it continues to graduate new disciples into society who will seek to implement multicultural policies.

  As a leading university and breeding ground for new ideas, Stanford is a bellwether for the nation. Where Stanford stood with respect to multiculturalism eight years ago, America stands today. By the same token, Stanford's present represents one of America's possible futures—a probable outcome if the nation continues on its current path down the multicultural road. The multicultural trajectory at Stanford—from its inception to its growth to its gradual implosion—stands as a stark warning, of both the temptations and perils that lie in the multicultural future. Indeed, with a student body that is among the brightest in the country, a tranquil suburban location, and vast financial resources, the Stanford community should have been able to make the multicultural future work—if this future could work anywhere. But rather than producing utopia, multiculturalism caused Stanford to resemble less a great university than a Third World country, with corrupt ideologues and unhappy underlings. Stanford's failed experiment should give pause to a nation being pushed towards multiculturalism.

  Notes

  1. Michel de Montaigne, “Of the Cannibals,” The Complete Essays (New York: Penguin, 1987).

  2. Eloise Salholz, “Something for Everybody: Clinton's Cabinet is an exercise in diversity,” Newsweek, January 4, 1993. Matthew Cooper, “Clinton's focus on diversity: Is the administration more concerned with statistics than success?” U.S. News and World Report, March 20, 1995.

  3. See Patricia Galagan, “Navigating the Differences,” Training and Development, April 1993.

  4. Max Boot, “Oppression Studies Go Corporate,” The Wall Street Journal, August 24, 1994.

  5. Ibid.

  6. Galagan, supra note 3.

  7. “DK welcomes freshmen to ‘real world’: ‘Pluralism experiment must succeed,’” Campus Report, September 27, 1989.

  8. Jeff Brock, “Kennedy, panelists explore models of multiculturalism,” The Stanford Daily, April 20, 1990.

  Part I:

  The New Academy

  1

  The West Rejected

  First, Stanford capitulated to separatist know-nothings and abandoned its “Western Civilization” course because of its bias toward white males (you know: narrow–minded ethnics like Socrates, Jesus, and Jefferson).1

  —Columnist Charles Krauthammer

  In the beginning, before the creation of the multicultural world, Stanford was divided by demonstrations and protests. The most important of these rallies took place on January 15, 1987, when a throng of 500 indignant students and faculty gathered near the University's centrally located White Plaza to hear the Reverend Jesse Jackson.2

  This assembly was not concerned about founding a new “multicultural” state. In fact, the term “multiculturalism” had not yet entered common usage in early 1987, and most of the demonstrators probably had never heard of the word. Rather, the purpose of the rally was to show support for the “rainbow agenda,” for minority set-asides in admissions and teaching, and for other causes popular with university activists. In short, it began as the sort of protest commonplace on today's college campuses. But on that day, events would be set in motion that would push Stanford towards becoming the nation's first multicultural academy.

  As the crowd stomped across the manicured lawns to present a list of demands to a meeting of the Faculty Senate, it translated its grievances into a chant: “Hey hey, ho ho, Western Culture's got to go! Hey hey, ho ho, Western Culture's got to go!”3 This collective outpouring of anger, both spontaneous and intense, was reminiscent of protests in Teheran or Tripoli; however, the implausible source of these sentiments was not a mob of Islamic fundamentalists, but some of America's best and brightest students at a bucolic college campus, near sunny Palo Alto, California, an affluent suburban community.

  Even at the time, campus observers were struck by the strange spectacle of some of America's elite students and faculty engaged in an unqualified denunciation of the West—the very civilization, after all, that had established universities like Stanford in the first place. Even Jesse Jackson, the leader of the march, was taken aback by the fury he had unleashed. Reve
rend Jackson actually tried to quiet the mob, but his admonitions were ignored.4 The angry chant could not be stopped—and would go on to become the unofficial motto of a revolution with implications far beyond Stanford—because it succinctly articulated exactly what important people in higher education had been saying for some time. Similar demonstrations followed in the tempestuous months ahead, and the slogan became synonymous with the university's growing identity crisis, as many of Stanford's leaders came to insist that the academy's mission needed a thorough overhaul.

  The nominal target of these demonstrations and protests was Stanford's core curriculum, a required course called “Western Culture” in which freshmen surveyed the history and classics of the West. This course gave many students—especially engineering and science majors—their primary exposure to the humanities. But the real target was much broader. The “Hey hey, ho ho” chant resonated powerfully because the “Western culture” that “had to go” was a double entendre: It referred not just to a single class at Stanford, but to the West itself—to its history and achievements, to its institutions of free-market capitalism and constitutional democracy, to Christianity and Judaism, to the complex of values and judgments that help shape who we are.5

  These complaints about the West—present and past—would be repeated over the next several years in many different contexts at Stanford. Increasingly, they would also be heard beyond: at the universities for which Stanford is a model; in watered–down form in elementary and high school classes; and in the popular media and arts where graduates of schools like Stanford have influence. Quite arbitrarily, it seemed at the time, the university's required reading list, or canon, had symbolically come to represent deep grievances about an assortment of broader cultural issues. Somehow, the “Farm,” as undergraduates affectionately call Leland Stanford's old plot, had been chosen as the pastoral site of an intellectual and cultural rebellion. Although nobody knew it then, this landmark skirmish—the Bull Run, so to speak, of America's ongoing “culture war”—would prove to be the labor pains of a nationwide multicultural movement.