Words That Wound

The writer is a current president

This year’s protest movement has given me the most painful days and nights of my career. Never before have I been so vilified for so little reason and to such painful effect.

Not so long ago I arrived as president at a university far from where I have ever lived before, exuding great enthusiasm for the place. I was warmly welcomed by the entire community—the students, faculty, staff, alumni, and trustees, as well as the business and civic community. I’ve gotten to know local, state, and national leaders in many sectors. I am recognized on the streets because of some wildly successful social media and warmly congratulated for my communications and optimistic vision. Most of this year has been wonderful.

Initially, when the protesters responded positively to a request from my institution not to block the entrances of buildings, I brought them bottles of water. What began as loud, contentious, and mostly peaceful protests then escalated. In addition to the usual anti-Israel and pro-resistance slogans seen in this movement, there were slogans, slurs, and disgusting derogatory statements aimed explicitly at me, too hideous and indecent to repeat even here. These hateful words came while the occupation was ongoing, before the police were called in, and were not just personal but misogynistic.

I imagine this is not an uncommon experience for presidents, though the meanness of the epithets is probably worse for women and people of color. I am angry. I also have to admit that I feel a deep sense of shame, not only for being the target of these words, but for feeling so wounded by them. Most of what was flung at me has not been public; only a few people are aware of these intense personal attacks on me.

And yet I can’t get over it. As the protesters would surely say (and do say, about antisemitic sayings they have used), the wounds effected by words against me and others pale in comparison to the suffering of the people of Palestine. I actually agree with that, but I still feel shamed and wounded.

All of us have spent years supporting our students’ mental health, but I am not feeling mentally tough or resilient right now. I have not had a full night’s sleep in weeks. I am hypervigilant. It doesn’t help that my public safety department insists I be escorted across campus and to and from home due to online threats to my well-being. I startle easily and find myself quick to raise my voice and focus on the negative.

Moreover, I am already feeling a sense of loss and foreboding. I have to constantly tell myself to express optimism and offer empathy, to evince the confident calmness that our campus needs now more than ever from its leader. These were skills that used to come naturally to me.

Meanwhile protests and threats continue. I receive angry criticism from predictable directions, like every other college president facing these challenges, and there is no comfortable place to land. I keep stating my principles, but the most vocal critics on both ends of the continuum make detailed demands requiring judgment calls that will put me in danger from one extremist side or another.

Fortunately for me, most of the faculty and students, as well as the external community, applaud my decisions to date, but it feels like I am precariously poised—one violent protest, one police encounter, or one mis-aimed university communication away from losing support and, perhaps, more.

What does this mean for me going forward in this community? Will I ever be able to call it home? I came into the job knowing it would be a hard but welcome challenge, and I immediately fell in love with a place I had hoped to stay not only for the remainder of my career but for the rest of my life. 

Many people (faculty, students, colleagues, leaders) have written, called, or spoken to me to say how much they support me and the decisions I have made. But I can’t get over the things that have been said about and to me.  

I wonder, how do I recover from this?