Published originally in Humanity, an arena of critique and commitment No. 2, December 1964. Reprinted with permission of Lynne Hollander. Copyright 1998 by Lynne Hollander.

 Online source: Free Speech Movement Archives (FSM-A)


Last summer I went to Mississippi to join the struggle there for civil rights. This fall I am engaged in another phase of the same struggle, this time in Berkeley. The two battlefields may seem quite different to some ob­servers, but this is not the case. The same rights are at stake in both places—the right to participate as citizens in democratic society and the right to due process of law. Further, it is a struggle against the same enemy. In Mississippi an autocratic and powerful minority rules, through organized violence, to suppress the vast, virtu­ally powerless, majority. In California, the privileged minority manipulates the University bureaucracy to suppress the students' political expression. That “re­spectable” bureaucracy masks the financial plutocrats; that impersonal bureaucracy is the efficient enemy in a “Brave New World.”

In our free speech fight at the University of California, we have come up against what may emerge as the greatest problem of our nation—depersonalized, unresponsive bureaucracy. We have encountered the organized status quo in Mississippi, but it is the same in Berkeley. Here we find it impossible usually to meet with anyone but secretaries. Beyond that, 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 the policy makers. To grasp a situation which is truly Kafkaesque, it is necessary to understand the bureaucratic mentality. And we have learned quite a bit about it this fall, more outside the classroom than in.

As bureaucrat, an administrator believes that nothing new happens. He occupies an ahistorical point of view. In September, to get the attention of this bu­reaucracy which had issued arbitrary edicts suppress­ing student political expression and refused to discuss its action, we held a sit-in on the campus. We sat around a police car and kept it immobilized for over thirty-two hours. At last, the administrative bureau­cracy agreed to negotiate. But instead, on the following Monday, we discovered that a committee had been ap­pointed, in accordance with usual regulations, to re­solve the dispute. Our attempt to convince any of the administrators that an event had occurred, that some­thing new had happened, failed. They saw this simply as something to be handled by normal university proce­dures.

The same is true of all bureaucracies. They begin as tools, means to certain legitimate goals, and they end up feeding their own existence. The conception that bureaucrats have is that history has in fact come to an end. No events can occur now that the Second World War is over which can change American society substantially. We proceed by standard procedures as we are.

The most crucial problems facing the United States today are the problem of automation and the problem of racial injustice. Most people who will be put out of jobs by machines will not accept an end to events, this historical plateau, as the point beyond which no change occurs. Negroes will not accept an end to history here. All of us must refuse to accept history's final judgment that in America there is no place in society for people whose skins are dark. On campus, students are not about to accept it as fact that the university has ceased evolving and is in its final state of perfection, that students and faculty are respec­tively raw material and employees, or that the Univer­sity is to be autocratically run by unresponsive bureau­crats.

Here is the real contradiction: the bureaucrats hold history as ended. As a result significant parts of the population both on campus and off are dispos­sessed, and these dispossessed are not about to accept this ahistorical point of view. It is out of this that the conflict has occurred with the university bureaucracy and will continue to occur until that bureaucracy be­comes responsive or until it is clear the university can­not function.

The things we are asking for in our civil rights protests have a deceptively quaint ring. We are asking for the due process of law. We are asking for our ac­tions to be judged by committees of our peers. We are asking that regulations ought to be considered as ar­rived at legitimately only from the consensus of the governed. These phrases are all pretty old, but they are not being taken seriously in America today, nor are they being taken seriously on the Berkeley campus.

I have just come from a meeting with the Dean of Students. She notified us that she was aware of certain violations of university regulations by certain organiza­tions. University friends of SNCC, which I represent, was one of these. We tried to draw from her some state­ment on these great principles: consent of the gov­erned, jury of one's peers, due process. The best she could do was to evade or to present the administration party line. It is very hard to make any contact with the human being who is behind these organizations.

The university is the place where people begin se­riously to question the conditions of their existence and raise the issue of whether they can be committed to the society they have been born into. After a long pe­riod of apathy during the fifties, students have begun not only to question but, having arrived at answers, to act on those answers. This is part of a growing under­standing among many people in America that history has not ended, that a better society is possible, and that it is worth dying for.

This free speech fight points up a fascinating as­pect of contemporary campus life. Students are permit­ted to talk all they want so long as their speech has no consequences.

One conception of the university, suggested by a classical Christian formulation, is that it be in the world but not of the world. The conception of Clark Kerr, by contrast, is that the university is part and parcel of this particular stage in the history of American society; it stands to serve the need of American industry; it is a factory that turns out a certain product needed by in­dustry or government. Because speech does often have consequences which might alter this perversion of higher education, the university must put itself in a po­sition of censorship. It can permit two kinds of speech: speech which encourages continuation of the status quo, and speech which advocates changes in it so radi­cal as to be irrelevant in the foreseeable future. Some­one may advocate radical change in all aspects of Amer­ican society, and this I am sure he can do with impun­ity. But if someone advocates sit-ins to bring about changes in discriminatory hiring practices, this can not be permitted because it goes against the status quo of which the university is a part. And that is how the fight began here.

The administration of the Berkeley campus has admitted that external, extra-legal groups have pres­sured the university not to permit students on campus to organize picket lines, not to permit on campus any speech with consequences. And the bureaucracy went along. Speech with consequences, speech in the area of civil rights, speech which some might regard as illegal, must stop.

Many students here at the university, many people in society, are wandering aimlessly about. Strangers in their own lives, there is no place for them. They are people who have not learned to compromise, who for example have come to the university to learn to ques­tion, to grow, to learn—all the standard things that sound like clichés because no one takes them seri­ously. And they find at one point or other that for them to become part of society, to become lawyers, ministers, businessmen, people in government, that very often ­they must compromise those principles which were most dear to them. They must suppress the most cre­ative impulses that they have; this is a prior condition for being part of the system. The university is well structured, well tooled, to turn out people with all the sharp edges worn off, the well-rounded person. The university is well equipped to produce that sort of per­son, and this means that the best among the people who enter must for four years wander aimlessly much of the time questioning why they are on campus at all, doubting whether there is any point in what they are doing, and looking toward a very bleak existence after­ward in a game in which all of the rules have been made up, which one cannot really amend.

It is a bleak scene, but it is all a lot of us have to look forward to. Society provides no challenge. Ameri­can society in the standard conception it has of itself is simply no longer exciting. The most exciting things going on in America today are movements to change America. America is becoming ever more the utopia of sterilized, automated contentment. The “futures” and “careers” for which American students now prepare are for the most part intellectual and moral wastelands. This chrome-plated consumers’ paradise would have us grow up to be well-behaved children. But an important minority of men and women coming to the front today have shown that they will die rather than be standard­ized, replaceable, and irrelevant.