The motley tower: master plans, urban crises, and multiracial higher education in postwar Los Angeles

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Content the motley tower MASTER PLANS, URBAN CRISES, AND MULTIRACIAL HIGHER EDUCATION IN POSTWAR LOS ANGELES Ryan Heiroku Fukumori . IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY DEPARTMENT of AMERICAN STUDIES and ETHNICITY . DORNSIFE COLLEGE of LETTERS, ARTS and SCIENCE . UNIVERSITY of SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA ADVISOR: GEORGE J. SÁNCHEZ DATE of CONFERRAL: December 14, 2016 T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S introduction AT THE CROSSROADS OF PLANNING AND CRISIS 001 1 ’68 theses ACADEMIC “URBAN CRISIS” AND THE PROTESTERS’ RE-FORMATION 034 master plans, suburban crises 042 origins of the (so-called) “urban crisis” 068 dissolving the welfare-warfare state 083 2 projecting the multiracial university SURVEYING JAPANESE AND MEXICAN AMERICANS AT UCLA 106 urban university, motley metropolis 110 surveying the politics of representation 120 towards a multiracial university 136 3 degrees of disadvantage CAMPUS INTEGRATION BEFORE “AFFIRMATIVE ACTION” 146 academic blueprints in black & brown 150 definitively “disadvantaged”? 170 horizons of representational crisis 179 4 protests, proposals, professions CALIFORNIA AND THE FORMATION OF ETHNIC STUDIES 190 movements in a major 197 proposing to the university 213 chains of command 234 5 the third worlds of campbell hall PROGRAMMED OCCUPATIONS, EDIFICIAL DETERMINATIONS 244 building the academic homestead 247 low hopes for high potential 265 shadows of self-determination 286 6 professionalizing race, reversing discrimination THE CASE FOR INSTITUTIONALIZED DIVERSITY 289 failures of mastery 293 the bureaucracy of racial difference 310 bakke and third world california 331 conclusion AT THE CROSSROADS OF PAST AND FUTURE 355 notes 364 bibliography 000 LIST OF IMAGES AND CHARTS graphs are underlined | maps are in italics | tables are in bold Figure Title # A Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. speaking outside UCLA’s Royce Hall, April 27, 1965 003 1A Overall Enrollment in California Public Higher Education, 1950-1969 043 1B California’s Public Four-Year Colleges and Universities, 1868-1965 044 1C California’s Largest Cities (1970), Postwar Growth, & Public College Placement 046 1D Postwar Growth in Metropolitan Areas with University of California Campuses 047 1E “Residential Security Map” of Los Angeles by the Home Owners Loan Corporation (1939), with the 1929 relocation of UCLA to Westwood 058 1F “Basic Relationships,” UCLA Long Range Development Plan (1963) 065 1G Excerpts from the School of Architecture and Urban Planning’s “Urban Laboratory” Proposal (1967) 067 1H Los Angeles Freeways, Public College Campuses, & Urban Unrest in the 1960s 082 1I California Higher Education Bonds by Ballot Measure, 1956-1976 087 1J Urban Crisis Program Expenditures, 1968-1969 090 2A Overview and Comparison of JARP and MASP Surveys 121 2B Pete Hironaka’s JARP cartoons in the Pacific Citizen, 1962 – 1965 122 2C UCLA and the Los Angeles Metropolitan Area (with markers for the 1965 Watts curfew zone, the 1968 East L.A. Walkouts, and former City Councilmember Edward R. Roybal’s eastside district) 137 3A California Counties with Above-Average Rates of Nonwhite K-12 Student Enrollment (Fall 1966) 157 3B UCLA and Partner High Schools for the Educational Opportunities Program (1964) 160 3C Categories in the University of California Ethnic Report for Personnel (1964) 164 3D EOP Students from Los Angeles County High Schools, by Predominant “Composition” of School (1964-1968) 173 3E Los Angeles Public Colleges and Universities by Undergraduates of Color, 1969-1970 185 3F A Preemptive Funeral for EOP (image from Gidra, March 1970) 189 4A “Structure of the College of Third World Studies,” UC Berkeley, 1969 214 4B Breakdown of UC Ethnic Studies Programs by Type/Subfields (1970) 238 5A Physical growth of the postwar campus, via excerpts from UCLA’s annual course catalogues (1947-1967) 252 6A Alterations in UC Ethnic Survey Categories, 1974-1975 318 6B Enrollment Distributions for Undergraduate/Graduate Students of Color at the University of California (1968-1980) 320 6C UCLA and Target High Schools for College Commitment Programs 325 6D Public Intermediate Schools with “Substantial Minority Enrollments” (1976) 327 6E UCLA Southern California College Consortium & Los Angeles Unified School District Partnership Program (1978) 330 FREQUENTLY USED ACRONYMS AAP Academic Advancement Program (UCLA) AAPA Asian American Political Alliance AASC Asian American Studies Center (UCLA) AISC American Indian Studies Center (UCLA) BSU Black Student Union CAAS Center for African American Studies (UCLA) Cal State California State College/University CCHE [California] Coordinating Council for Higher Education CEP Committee on Educational Policy (UC Academic Senate) CSC Chicano Studies Center (UCLA) EOP Educational Opportunity [or Opportunities] Program HEW [U.S. Department of] Health, Education, and Welfare HPP High Potential Program (UCLA) IAC Institute of American Cultures JACL Japanese American Citizens League JARP Japanese American Research Project MALDEF Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund MAPA Mexican American Political Association MASC Mexican American Studies Center (UCLA) or Mexican American Student Confederation (UC Berkeley) MASP Mexican American Study Project MEChA Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán NAACP National Association for the Advancement of Colored People NCOBD National Coalition to Overturn the Bakke Decision OCR [U.S.] Office of Civil Rights ORU Organized Research Unit SAA Student Affirmative Action (University of California) SDS Students for a Democratic Society UC University of California UCLA University of California – Los Angeles UMAS United Mexican American Students USC University of Southern California Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 1 Introduction: AT THE CROSSROADS OF PLANNING AND CRISIS On April 27, 1965—just thirty-three days after completing the sanguineous campaign to march from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama—Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. urged a crowd of 4,500 at the University of California, Los Angeles to embrace the virtues of a “creative maladjustment,” a “divine discontent all over America” to the material and ideological dimensions of racial inequality in the United States. The Atlanta reverend preached pedantic to the academic choir, noting that maladjustment had become for modern psychology the clichéd “technical nomenclature” endemic to every “academic discipline.” But, proclaimed Dr. King, “there are some things within our world and our nation of which I’m proud to be maladjusted.” His interdisciplinary speech also noted the “sociological changes” to the American labor force “developing as a result of automation” and “cybernation,” which had exacerbated the economic conditions for African Americans facing both “outright discrimination in employment” and “overcrowded, willfully inadequate schools” in “every major city of our country.” Dr. King implicitly implicated the system of higher education within the economic dimensions of American racism, as the prolongation of educational inequities and racial segregation had denied Black people the academic training that was producing the technocrats for the modern economy. 1 Civil rights historians have traced how the last years of Dr. King’s life marked profound political and philosophical transformations that would also signal broader shifts within Black racial justice struggles. In the wake of the mass rebellion and conflagration consuming the neighborhoods of South Los Angeles in August 1965, King returned to Southern California and was notably rebuffed by community members facing the brunt of structural dispossession and police violence. Over the decade, the industrial centers of the West, Midwest, and Northeast—to Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 2 which African Americans had migrated en masse from the South in the midcentury—notoriously hosted a wave of uprisings in response to the enduring state of racialized poverty, as the economic surpluses from World War II fueled the asymmetrical and privileged development of suburban spaces amidst the ongoing containment of Black people within working-class urban communities. Resentments and dissatisfactions over the piecemeal gains of midcentury antidiscrimination policies and federal antipoverty measures further drew some racial justice movements and leaders to advance systemic, radical analyses of white supremacy as central to the operations of American statecraft and capitalism. King sowed the seeds of his own systemic critique during his UCLA speech in the spring of 1965, concatenating segregation, the “madness of militarism,” and the “economic conditions” that privilege the “luxuries of the few” as maladies that mandated maladjustment. Segregation was a “cancer in the body politic which must be removed before our moral health can be realized,” he urged, “not merely to meet the Communist challenge” or “to appeal to Asian and African peoples,” not because desegregation was “diplomatically expedient” but because it was “morally compelling.” 2 If King and U.S. racial justice movements were in phases of metamorphosis in 1965, so was the institution that had invited the civil rights leader to speak. Five years prior, UCLA Chancellor Franklin D. Murphy had called in his inaugural speech for the University to apply the “explosive growth of human knowledge” to the “world-wide titanic struggle between two diametrically opposed points of view for the minds and hearts of men (sic) everywhere.” Developing “linguistic, historical, political, philosophical and economic competence in world- wide terms,” he offered, was crucial to extend the “hand of friendship to the peoples of Africa, the Orient, [and] the Americas,” lest Communism reduce the peoples of the postcolonial Third World to “human molecule[s]” in “some arbitrary man-made plan.” In his 1965 introduction of Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 3 King, however, Murphy would caution that the global “state of crisis” was also a national crisis of racial democracy to which the University had to apply its “resort to reason.” 3 Figure A (previous page): Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. speaking outside UCLA’s Royce Hall, April 27, 1965 4 A few weeks before Dr. King’s speech, University of California President Clark Kerr had himself addressed the University’s current and future efforts to “help remove any vestiges of discrimination on our campuses and our society” in his speech for the UC’s Charter Day at UCLA. Kerr heralded the results of a recent survey enumerating ninety-three research projects “on minority-related problems” across five different campuses, and championed the Los Angeles campus in particular for producing the “first Negro American to win the Nobel Prize” and the Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 4 “first great Negro athlete to break the barrier of discrimination”: Dr. Ralph J. Bunche and Jackie Robinson. Yet the UC’s chief executive pointed to the “too few Negro students on our campuses today” and the other “small day-by-day injustices that wear away the spirit” as evidence that the institution had to augment its efforts in admission, employment, and research alike. 5 Although the University’s commitment to the liberal project of civil rights would enable incipient spaces for the targeted recruitment of nonwhite Californians, however, it was not until after Dr. King’s assassination three years later that UC administrators would attempt a holistic reckoning of the institutional remediation of racial inequality. By 1968, moreover, University administrators had developed an inchoate institutional lexicon of multiracial difference to interface with California’s nonwhite and nonblack populations, particularly Asian and Mexican Americans. In the face of—and sometimes in conversation with—student activist movements charging institutional racism, the University’s Urban Crisis Program offered a framework for liberal racial incorporation into the student body, professoriate, research matrix, and curricular materials alike, under a dyad of programs that we know as ethnic studies and affirmative action. The Motley Tower details the institutionalization of racial equality initiatives at the University of California, particularly its Los Angeles campus, in the 1960s and 1970s. This history lies at the nexus of multiple forces: the postwar restructuring of California’s political economy, the plurality of local civil rights politics, divestments from the regional welfare state under Governor Ronald Reagan (1967-1975), and the University’s efforts to reconcile the colorblind policies ensconced in the 1960 Master Plan for Higher Education. Over these two decades, the UC system transitioned from instituting the Master Plan, a framework for the statewide organization of higher education; to hosting the nation’s first ethnic studies programs; to unsuccessfully defending its affirmative action policies in the 1978 Bakke vs. Regents U.S. Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 5 Supreme Court case. This broader field of campus politics offers novel insights into the intertwined origins of the UC’s affirmative action and ethnic studies initiatives—which functioned as institutional technologies of liberal crisis management, and which staged broader contestations over the University of California as a key apparatus of the regional welfare state. I explore the University of California’s racial equity initiatives at the hitherto underexplored crossroads of two “great transformations” in the postwar United States. In the decades following World War II, institutions of higher education assumed an increasingly central and contentious role in the sociopolitical and economic fabric of American life. Scholars have documented the expansion of collegiate access and programming vis-à-vis federal and state policy, regional growth, and Cold War capitalism, a tectonic shift that former UC President Clark Kerr named a “great transformation” of U.S. postsecondary education. 6 Independently, the sociologists Michael Omi and Howard Winant historicize the postwar as a “great transformation” in the national paradigm of racial meanings. Antiracist social movements, Omi and Winant offer, “redefined the meaning of racial identity” from a modality of ethnic, assimilative difference to an understanding of race as a subjectivity and ontology, a mode of consciousness and a lived phenomenon on the “terrain of everyday life.” 7 The Motley Tower explores how these “great transformations” were mutually constitutive at the University of California in the 1960s and 1970s. Institutions of higher education formed a fundamental component of civil rights praxis in postwar California. Students, scholars, civic leaders, and organizers of color theorized the institution; fought for increased representation and access as pupils, educators, and employees; and formulated plans for channeling University resources into new research projects, areas of study, and/or community-based initiatives for social justice. Reciprocally, scholars and officials at the predominantly white UCs addressed the Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 6 institution’s commitment to racial integration across multiple terrains of civil rights politics. For some liberal academics, the moral imperative of racial democracy fueled their participation in minority student recruitment or research on social inequality. Reforms to federal and state nondiscrimination policy impelled University administrators to reverse the institution’s longstanding practice of race-neutral, or “colorblind” recordkeeping, as racial enumeration and categorization became necessary practices for governmental compliance. Furthermore, programs like ethnic studies and affirmative action grew from direct encounters between the University and nonwhite Californians, many of whom articulated the linkages between whiteness, U.S. academic institutions, and Western knowledge production. That is, some students and scholars of color advanced academic racial integration not only as a project of equitable representation, but as a critical vehicle for the introduction of new epistemologies and forms of expertise hitherto inaccessible at a white, middle-class institution. That is, at the crossroads of these “great transformations” lie a plethora of institutional relations, between administrators, faculty, students, elected officials, and other nonacademics, that formed within postwar California. Moreover, in this period the state’s populace was in an ongoing state of flux amidst the dense crossroads of migratory pathways that drew many different nonwhite peoples—from the South and Midwest, Mexico and Latin America, and East, Southeast, and South Asia—to work, settle, and/or procreate in California. The state’s dynamically heterogeneous populace privileges the UC system as a locus to study the academic origins of racial diversity: not just as an abstract recognition of racial difference, but as the historical processes by which University officials navigated the challenges of interfacing with a multiracial, structurally inequitable, and politically contentious civic society. As such, the Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 7 University of California occupies a preeminent role in the national history of 20 th -century urban planning, multiracial civil rights, and the welfare state. In his two historical studies of California higher educational policy, John Aubrey Douglass offers that a dialectic tension lies at the heart of the University of California’s mission: a commitment to academic excellence and selectivity; versus its “social contract” as a public institution to serve the residents of California writ large. The 1960 Master Plan for Higher Education in California, commissioned by the state legislature and planned by academic administrators, endeavored to reconcile these competing mandates by ossifying a hierarchical division of labor and function across the three tiers of public postsecondary education: the California Community Colleges, the California State Colleges (now Universities), and the University of California. In order to facilitate both the economic growth and burgeoning population of the postwar state, the Master Plan reserved for the UCs the realm of research, graduate, and professional instruction and constricted undergraduate admissions to the upper one-eighth of California’s high school graduates, channeling the vast majority of public college students into the lower tiers of instruction. 8 The Motley Tower explores this contradiction between UCLA as an elite research academy and as a public institution, especially through efforts to reconcile the University with two interrelated phenomena. For one, UC officials had to respond to the structural contradictions of the New Deal welfare state, as asymmetrical public investments in the formation of a white, suburban middle class and structural dispossession in working-class neighborhoods of color precipitated mass unrest in the 1960s. Nestled largely in suburban neighborhoods, the UC campuses had capitalized on the uneven spatial development of midcentury California and were thus directly implicated in the state’s postwar topographies of racial and class disparity. Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 8 The siting of the University’s eight general campuses in predominantly suburban neighborhoods was the outcome of both the longue duree of land development in California since the mid-nineteenth century, as well as the more immediate patterns of suburbanization following World War II. As California’s “land-grant” university—a designation from the 1862 Morrill Act that reserved federally operated territory in each state to establish public postsecondary educational institutions—the University of California first expanded beyond its flagship Berkeley campus (est. 1868) through a constellation of satellite research stations and laboratories mostly located in rural areas or on the edges of urban centers. UCLA, established in 1919 as the University’s auxiliary “Southern Branch,” became the second full University campus in 1927 in conjunction with its relocation from central-city Los Angeles to the neighborhood of Westwood, a former ranch that a local real estate agency, the Janss Investment Company, was redeveloping into an affluent suburb in the 1920s. Subsequently, the six UC campuses established in the two decades after World War II followed similar patterns of development, as the University converted several of its peripheral research stations by then located amidst the expanding matrix of postwar suburbs, and chose new sites in Irvine and Santa Cruz specifically for their low-density environments in the vein of Northeastern liberal arts colleges. As such, this decades-long practice of inaugurating new UC campuses in sync with the spatialization of midcentury suburbs necessarily tethered the University’s growth to the privileged investments, both public and private, in suburbs as all-white residential spaces. Because residential segregation begat student segregation in elementary and secondary schools, moreover, the hypothetically meritocratic standards of admission to the University of California in practice reflected—and thus reproduced—the inequitable standards of schooling resultant from the concentration of wealth in all-white suburbs. Efforts at the University in the 1960s and Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 9 1970s to address the institution’s own racial and class constitutions thus emerged in the context of the long-term and far reaching structural disparities in residential settlement and capital investment that had entrenched the University of California as a predominantly white and middle-class institution. Secondly and relatedly, the myriad endeavors to facilitate the racial integration of the University of California in the postwar era elevated the University as a preeminent stage for broader struggles over the regional welfare state. In the 1960s and 1970s, the University’s white officials and professoriate would encounter the self-organized efforts among people of color— liberal, radical, and moderate alike—to remediate the material, political, and psychic effects of educational inequity for the state’s nonwhite communities. Central to both collaborative (“liberal”) and contestatory (“radical”) entreaties upon the University was the notion that the UC’s monetary, programmatic, and pedagogical resources could be more effectively channeled towards localized issues of racialized poverty and social inequality. In turn, these efforts at racial incorporation, however piecemeal, helped to fuel conservative divestments from the UCs as an apparent social service apparatus for California’s increasingly multiracial polity. Between the slashed budgets of the Reagan gubernatorial administration, failed bond measures for campus capital construction, and juridical challenges to University affirmative action programs, the institutionalization of racial diversity constituted an encroachment upon the privileged boundaries of the commonwealth that Daniel Martinez HoSang terms political whiteness. 9 The vibrant interrelations between these political and social forces as they convened in the shaping of the postwar University of California should give us pause to consider the 1960s and 1970s as a precarious era that also bore the seeds of potential for more sweeping transformations of society and academy alike. Of course, the long denouement of the public Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 10 research academy as a public institution places an uncomfortable telos to this dissertation as it ends at the turn of the 1980s. As Christopher Newfield argues, the late 1970s signaled another massive shift in the institutionality of higher education, as public academies divested from their earlier commitments to universal and affordable access and institutionalized the primacy of economic knowledge over cultural discourses and alternative ways of knowing and being. In this milieu, “conservatives defined race-conscious social policies as incompatible with market forces, democracy, poltical order, affirmative action, and economic efficiency.” 10 However, the benefit of hindsight should not obscure the many ways in which Californians of color and their allies apprehended the educational and political spaces afforded to them—however fragmentary and marginal at times—to put their signatures on the facade during the painting of the ivory tower. Great Transformations During his 1960 inaugural address, Franklin D. Murphy proclaimed that California’s increasingly “greater stature and therefore greater responsibility in national and world affairs” had created for UCLA no less than a mandate to reach the “entirely attainable” goal of “major scholarly distinction in worldwide terms.” Given the bounty of the state and region, that is, to “achieve less would represent unimaginable lack of vision and inexcusable timidity.” In the decade to come, the Murphy administration (1960-1968) would oversee the rapid expansion of UCLA as a preeminent institution for, and in, Southern California. The accretion of the region’s military industrial complex and suburbanization would tether UCLA’s growth to the bimodal accumulation of capital in Cold War marketization and metropolitan development. In the years to follow, the Chancellor would mobilize his ties to Los Angeles’ business and philanthropic elite to develop UCLA as one of the city’s cultural and artistic pillars. Murphy—who, like many white Angelenos in the midcentury, was a Midwestern transplant—invoked the Americana of Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 11 westward expansion during his inauguration to declare Los Angeles as a “community well on its way to its manifest destiny as one of the great and vital cities of the world.” 11 The UCLA Chancellor additionally tied the deeper history of American higher education to the mandates of territorial conquest, alluding to the 1862 Morrill Act and its dispensation of federal land to state governments for the construction of public “land-grant” universities. “One hundred years ago,” Murphy opined, the nation’s “major problems” were “relatively plain and simple,” mostly concerning the “physical exploitation of a mainly underdeveloped continent” (despite the nation-cleaving problem of human chattel in 1860, presumably). The achievement of Manifest Destiny was indebted to the “forebearers” who had understood “science and formal education” in “agriculture, medicine and engineering” to render productive the (unoccupied?) territories of the American West. While lamenting the comparative complexity of modern civilization, Murphy proposed that the contemporary frontiers of knowledge offered an “unprecedented opportunity for the most creative epoch in human history,” an intellectual terrain for the emanation of American hegemony in a moment of ideological struggle. Murphy heralded that the “political, economic, and cultural byproducts” of modern scientific and technological advances were of primary concern to University operations. The Chancellor thus both invoked a sense of continuity and rupture: the legacied relationship between the public university and the federal state would shape but also give way to an unprecedented era of academic growth. 12 Murphy’s call for the expansion of the University to assume the mantle of managing modernity bespoke the structural and ideological shifts that would together form the “great transformation” of U.S. postsecondary education between 1960 and 1980. By the latter date, Clark Kerr contends, institutions of higher education were “more a part of the totality of American life” than ever before. Between 1960 and 1980, college enrollment increased from 3.5 Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 12 million to 12 million students with 80 percent public enrollment, and the system of “universal access” to public higher education pioneered by the 1960 California Master Plan had become a national standard. Kerr also pointed to what historian Christopher P. Loss terms the “federal- academic research matrix”: federal research expenditures nearly tripled to reach $3 billion in 1980, and the U.S. was graduating three million students from professional schools yearly. 13 As Chancellor Murphy himself opined, the “great transformation” of American higher education in the 1960s was but one chapter in a much longer tradition of federal and state investments in public education as a vehicle for the intertwined destinies of national progress and citizen-subject development. Historians like Michael B. Katz, Ira Katznelson, Margaret Weir, and Miriam Cohen have argued for the need to elevate public education as a central institution within the history of the American welfare state. 14 Cohen contends that public investments in education differentiate the history of the American welfare state from those in European nation- states. Appeals to public education, she avers, have historically reconciled the seemingly contradictory principles of meritocratic individualism and democratic equity, inasmuch as universal access to schooling putatively forms a foundation for the equality of opportunity necessary to ensure a genuine meritocracy. Per Cohen, progressive social reformers in the early twentieth century often “appealed to…middle-class norms about the right to and need for schooling” as a vehicle to gather public support for other appendages of the modern welfare state, like public assistance, social insurance, and workplace regulation programs. 15 According to Christopher Loss, the public investments in higher education in the post- World War II period were an outgrowth of the ties cohered between U.S. higher education and the federal government during the formation of the New Deal welfare state in the 1930s and 1940s. Loss contends that American postsecondary educational institutions, as a “key adjunct of Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 13 the New Deal administrative state,” assumed a crucial position “between citizens and the state” in the mid-twentieth century. Colleges and universities formed the “central intellectual construct” through which policymakers and non-elite people alike “define[d] the very meanings of government, knowledge, and democratic citizenship.” Indeed, Dr. King’s tongue-in-cheek suggestion that his UCLA audience embrace “maladjustment” was rather prudent. As Loss notes, educational policies and practices in the mid-20 th century adopted psychological metrics of adjustment, concerned with the socialization of people into epistemologies of national citizenship in an increasingly globalizing and modernizing world. 16 While building upon the infrastructure of federal support cohered in the New Deal state, the particular “great transformation” of U.S. higher education in the 1960s and 1970s marked concrete shifts in academic institutionality and federal statecraft in the ideological and socioeconomic context of the Cold War. The hegemony of anticommunist politics in the post- WWII period stigmatized apparatuses of the social welfare state, such as labor protection policies and public assistance subsidies. In this milieu, public investments in higher education offered a middle ground to promote the general well-being of society writ large while emphasizing the principles of meritocratic individualism and free enterprise through collegiate study. In other words, increased or universal access to higher education enabled an equality of opportunity for students to enter into the capitalist economy as skilled labor. Amidst the wider patterns of economic restructuring in the postwar period—the deindustrialization of the domestic manufacturing base and increasing polarization of skills and wages in the service sectors— college education became an increasingly important vehicle towards middle-class mobility. In the context of the denouement of the New Deal welfare state and the limited scope of Great Society antipoverty measures in the 1960s, it is unsurprising that people, organizations, and Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 14 communities of color would increasingly target institutions of higher education as crucial arbiters of access and resource distribution, and as some of the most prominent institutions within the modern social welfare apparatus. Marxist and poststructuralist critiques of the postwar academy similarly posit the relationship between the academy, the citizenry, and the state as an apparatus of social reproduction not just for national ideologies of citizenship, but also for the mandates of capital. The liberal welfare state, as Stuart Hall and his colleagues argue in Policing the Crisis, is fundamentally an interventionist state in which access to public institutions occasions new modes of regulatory subjection. Hall et al. argue that the post-WWII Western democratic state “bec[a]me a major, direct factor in the economic relations of the society”—the political economy of Keynesianism—which in turn led the state to extend its regulatory modalities into the “spheres of social and cultural reproduction” to “ensure these conditions for capital in the productive and economic life of societies.” 17 Similarly, Roderick Ferguson theorizes the academy as both “the repository and guardian of national culture as well as a cultivator and innovator of political economy.” Unlike Hall et al.’s rendition of the academy as a superstructural institution subordinate to the economic base, Ferguson posits that the academy is not simply an entity that “socializes people into the ideologies of political economy” but an institution that “socializes state and capital into emergent articulations of difference.” As such, the academy operates as a privileged site to test and craft the “disciplines and exclusions that would attend institutional discourses and protocols for inclusion” for the realms of capital and state as well. 18 Ferguson’s critical genealogy of the multicultural university offers a theoretical foundation for my own historiography of multiracial incorporation at the University of California. The advent of women’s and ethnic studies programs, Ferguson posits, “represent a Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 15 new era of biopower, occasioning a change in power/knowledge. In this moment, new disciplines rose to study previously excluded subjects.” 19 That is, the university readily incorporated student movement demands for institutional transformation insofar as such shifts in university governmentality could harness the modes of identification and specification produced by these movements into its own growing systems of taxonomy and archivization. Both Ferguson and cultural studies scholar Jodi Melamed characterize liberalism as a productive power, as liberal governance extends regulatory modes into unprecedented spheres of social life. Melamed contends that World War II inaugurated a complete break in the racial modus operandi of the U.S. nation-state from white supremacy to what she terms official antiracisms: the incorporation of antiracism as an ideological component of U.S. capitalist market expansion and global ascendancy. For Ferguson and Melamed alike, the “great transformation” of racial subjectivity was simultaneously an effort to commute such transformations into the dominant registers of state and capital. In this context, Melamed argues, the “essential function of the university in this period was…to produce, validate, certify, and affirm racial difference in ways that augmented, enhanced, and developed state-capital hegemony rather than disrupted it.” 20 Ferguson and Melamed’s work belong to a corpus of theoretical knowledge that seeks to understand the complex dynamics between racial justice politics and the academy that coalesced in the professionalization of initiatives like ethnic studies and affirmative action. Indeed, to the extent that historians have explored the crossroads of these two “great transformations,” it is largely through the rubric of crisis—in which the contradictions of liberal democracy to remediate racial justice pushed students, youth, and activists of color to seek alternative explanations for the exercise of power. 21 However, framing the advent of academic minority incorporation solely through claims to self-determination—in which the result development of Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 16 ethnic studies marks an incursion against University authority—tends to elide over how self- proclaimed radical critiques of academic power could find in liberal integration a space for program-building or pretenses to normative ideals of pedagogy. Per Ferguson, tracing the history of student activism requires careful attention to the “unprecedented and often unconscious intimacies” between radical and hegemonic social formations. 22 That is, activist challenges to the status quo of academic governance did not preclude their simultaneous elevation of the academy as an extant vessel for effective resource distribution. Here I follow Michael Soldatenko’s admonition to avoid an overarching “creation myth” for the genesis of ethnic studies that advances “a teleology that creates a continuous story linking past, present, and future” and situates student and community movements for ethnic studies programs as a geographically dispersed, united front. Rather, it is imperative to consider each student and campus mobilization as a distinct moment in historical space-time, to avoid a “standardized story” that imagines this broad student movement as the sole foundation for the intellectual genealogy of the academic interdiscipline of ethnic studies. 23 To conceive of ethnic studies programs as “a site of extraterritoriality” for which “institutionalization” was an imposition on high, adds Mark Chiang, is to perpetuate “a monolithic and reductive account of the university” that fails to recognize how ethnic studies inheres its own form of capital as an academic field beyond the act of political representation, not a Trojan horse in the ivory tower. 24 Indebted as I am to these critical genealogies of ethnic studies, I contend that their national scope and theoretical suppositions leave open the room for a historical analysis of the academy and its incorporation of multiracial difference. In this vein, The Motley Tower focuses on the University of California during these two decades of dynamic political and social upheaval to better apprehend the intimate contingencies between regional political economy, Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 17 racial knowledge, and educational institution-building. That is, studying one University—and particular, one of its largest campuses—clarifies the nuanced institutional shifts and dynamics over time that help to illuminate the geographically broader forces of history at play. The particular multiracial demography and political landscape of postwar California is essential to apprehend the motions of institutional change, and to understand how the University of California, which became the United States’ most prominent public academy after World War II, could pioneer racial equality programming in the national scene through its encounter with the regional dynamics of racial community, inequality, and justice. California and the Making of Race In the spring of 1947, a six-woman group of UCLA undergraduates and alumnae toured the East Coast and Midwest, speaking to packed venues to promote, per the Los Angeles Times, that “America has opportunities and a good life for people of all races and creeds.” Sponsored by the University Religious Conference, the “Panel of Americans” included three white women representing Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish faith groups, as well as three women of color: Frances Toy, Maria Elena Ramírez, and Ernie May Maxie. The Baltimore Afro-American reported on the Panel’s denunciation of so-called “colorphobia.” A “real America,” quoth Toy, who was Chinese American, would be reified “when it is realized the color of skin does not make a good citizen.” The Mexican American representative, Ramírez, added that being “born in this country and speak[ing] this language” did not an American make, but rather “one who understands and practices the principles of democracy.” Maxie, the sole Black student, would retrospectively relay to the Pittsburgh Courier that the “visual impact” of the Panel “working together…in a constructive and instructive manner” had been key to the women’s success. 25 Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 18 Despite their universalized appeal to a sort of interfaith and interethnic humanism, the Panel of Americans effectively symbolized how the multiracial society of postwar California would continue to make its social and institutional imprint on the national racial imaginary. Indeed, part of the “great transformation” of American racial paradigms in the postwar involved refracting the black-white racial binary into multiple demarcations of minority difference. As The Motley Tower explores, the institutionalization of racial diversity at the University of California was one vehicle by which the sociological prism of California’s heterogeneous civil society projected previously unheeded wavelengths of racial difference onto national discourses of race, democracy, and knowledge production. In the year prior to the Panel’s national tour, the journalist-cum-organizer Carey McWilliams published his seminal survey Southern California: An Island on the Land, situating Los Angeles amidst the crosscurrents of migrants who had come to shape the metropolitan area’s expansive social landscape. The “newcomer in Southern California is not really an exile,” surmised McWilliams, “for he and his kind have always constituted a dominant majority for the population.” His was a regional history extending far before California’s 1848 territorial transfer to the U.S., spanning indigenous civilizational domains and the successive eras of Spanish and Mexican governance. The century of American rule had been no less busy, witnessing white and Black families resettling in the West, Mexican workers traversing the international border; and transpacific circuitry of Chinese, Japanese, and Filipino laborers. While heralding L.A. as “one of the most interesting racial melting pots in the nation,” McWilliams averred that its nonwhite peoples “have inherited, in each instance, a particular prejudice: anti-Mexican, anti-Oriental, anti-Negro.” 26 McWilliams’ sociological survey illuminated the interrelation between two major sociolegal phenomena: the dense convergence of migratory pathways that had engendered a Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 19 multiracial society in post-1848 California, and the overlapping matrix of exclusionary regimes—at local, state, and federal scales—to regulate this polyglot polity. That is, to understand California through the lens of “multiracial” history is to apprehend not only the copresence of many different peoples, but the systems of statecraft and social norms of race, citizenship, and nation that emerged to apprehend, taxonomize, discipline, and/or exclude this multiracial polity. Post-1848 California thus formed part of what Nayan Shah terms the “legal borderlands” of the North American West, in which the heterogeneous settlements and transitways of nonwhite migrants constituted the very subjects upon which state and institutional modes of regulation and domination were crafted. The U.S. West was a “frenetic site for social experimentation and regulation,” and its migrant labor populations were frequently the objects of governance and discipline for a local statecraft still in its incipient stages of formation. 27 As Tomás Almaguer argues, “‘race’ served as the central organizing principle of group life in California during the last half of the nineteenth century.” The introduction of Asian and Mexican migrants into domestic racial orders of white, Black, and Native engendered a hitherto “largely unscripted” set of racial formations that California would help to circulate—legally and discursively—throughout the rest of the U.S. Yet this is not to conflate the racial meaning and legal codes ascribed upon people of color, as “[r]acialized relations in the state reverberated along a number of racial fault lines” instead of “erupt[ing] along one principal fault.” 28 Almaguer emphasizes that “race relations are historically contingent and regionally specific,” thus placing the reformations of white supremacy in California in the specific context of its multiple nonwhite populations. 29 Laura Pulido, in her survey of 1960s and 1970s activism, similarly stresses that people of color who cohabitate a region or city are nevertheless differentially racialized into a racial hierarchy, "a specific configuration of power relations in a Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 20 given place and time based on racial ideology.” 30 The historical and geographic contingency of racial hierarchy was particularly evident in postwar California as individuals and institutions alike sought to articulate and differentiate the ties between nonwhite identity, cultural specificity, and economic disadvantage across the state’s (and nation’s) multiple communities of color. Most notably, the advent of Asian American “model minority” discourse in the postwar served to re- racialize Asian Americans, who had long been subjects within regional and federal regimes of immigration exclusion and containment, as successful due to cultural predilections of industriousness and valuing education. Such valorizations could thus affirm the benevolence of U.S. racial liberalism in the Cold War, absolve the state for its complicity in structural racism, and/or repudiate the validity or efficacy of antiracist activism. 31 Natalia Molina relatedly calls for scholars to understand how race is “socially constructed in relational ways,” and how the racialization of one group could create social and legal precedents for the homologous or analogous racialization of others. As such, she argues that it is necessary to apprehend not merely the historically and regionally specific interrelations of racial projects but also how “the lives of racialized groups are linked across time and space and thereby affect one another.” People access discourses and ideas of race far beyond the intimacies of the here and now in shaping the sociopolitical parameters of racial difference. In this vein, Molina also argues that state-sanctioned renditions of race in laws and agencies reflexively shape the racial discourse of daily life. As Daniel Martinez HoSang similarly argues, the mundane mechanisms of democratic governance like ballot initiatives can induce much larger “propositions about the meaning of race and racism” in civic life. 32 Conversely, Molina argues that people of color regularly create counterscripts against the dominant racial order, articulating alternative modes of racial subjectivity and critiques of the Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 21 racial state. Indeed, California historians have detailed a rich legacy of collective racial self- making among Californians of color. 33 Moreover, mutual subjection within regimes of dispossession and containment frequently drew nonwhite Californians to coauthor their counterscripts across the spectrum of political, economic, and social life. Overlapping regimes of residential segregation made neighbors out of different Californians of color who coauthored community, cohabitated public space, and shared style, culture, and performance. 34 Mutual exclusion from the halls of policymaking compelled nonwhite (and Jewish) Californians to build coalitions and alliances for electoral and civil rights politics alike. 35 And, radical analyses of capitalism, the state, war, and racism drew people of color together in radical solidarities under the moniker of the “Third World.” 36 In this social and political landscape, Californians of color would also occupy myriad subject-positions in relation to institutions of higher education beyond the vector of protest. People of color actively invested in the postwar academy as a redistributive and representational project, oftentimes aligning with institutional efforts among white faculty members and administrators to authorize new programs of study, recruitment initiatives, and research ventures. African Americans, Chicanos, and Asian Americans also interfaced with the University as middle-class civic leaders and elected officials; as scholars in traditional disciplines; and as administrators in a diversifying institution. The sheer range of these institutional relations demands a more sustained regional historical analysis of how institutions like the University of California adapted to the political developments and exigencies of postwar society. Otherwise, we risk condensing the multiplicity of social relations that constitute the academic incorporation of racial difference. Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 22 Certainly this is not to deny the significance of student movements for ethnic studies within the scope of postwar antiracist activism, nor marginalize the critical efforts of such movements to displace the white supremacist traditions of American academia. Yet the overarching phenomenon of student protest threatens to elide over the fissures and imbalances among student protestors themselves: for instance, the multipartite framework of comparative ethnic studies emerged amidst the comparatively outsized presence of Black and Chicana/o students within campus protest movements, despite their relatively fewer numbers compared to Asian American students by the late 1960s. Without any unitary relationship between protest and program implementation, it is imperative to consider the multiplicity of institutional relationships that constituted the broader regional history of academic expansion, metropolitan redevelopment, and racial justice in postwar Southern California. Equally important to this genealogy is how institutions like the University of California reformed their infrastructures and architectures of demographic difference to interface with the political exhortations of racial representation. We should also recognize the critical importance of public institutions in multiracial metropoles like UCLA to advance strategies for the management of a new liberal multiracial order, because multiracial incorporation was a situated project within individual UC campuses. Academic developments in, and movements for, racial equity programming also reflected the asymmetrical spatial distributions of people of color across the United States. California schools were particularly suited to develop incipient programs in “comparative” or multiethnic studies, especially in metropolitan centers like Los Angeles and the San Francisco Bay Area, given their overlapping Black, Mexican American, and Asian American populations. These critical masses would also constitute the University’s intellectual and teaching labor, employees, and research subjects. That is, the totality of relations between the University and Californians of color Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 23 necessarily exceed the terrain of confrontational politics. However piecemeal in their early years, the UC’s ethnic studies and affirmative action programs relied on preexisting infrastructures of racial knowledge that the University had developed in other institutional spaces; and implicated people of color across the ideological spectrum. The University’s holistic system of racial differentiation thus emerged at the nexus of civil rights politics among Californians of color themselves, and the institutional and state mechanisms enacted to incorporate multiracial diversity as a function of population management. For instance, while histories of ethnic studies commonly cite its four-part rendition of nonwhite racial difference (Black, Chicana/o, Native American, and Asian American Studies, i.e.) as the outcome of multiracial protest, this basic taxonomy of racial identity was previously the staple of California’s Fair Employment Practices Commission. Established in 1959 with substantial input from local civil rights organizations, the state FEPC proliferated these divisions of racial identification in its 1960s surveys to monitor the hiring practices of the state’s major employers, including the University of California itself. 37 Activists’ novel rearticulation of racial subjectivities in the late 1960s (“Black,” “Chicano,” “Asian American”) were legible to institutional practice in part because they aligned with already institutionalized gradations of racial difference (“Negro,” “Mexican American” or “Spanish surname,” “Oriental”). Moreover, as Daniel Martinez HoSang has argued, the diffusion of racial justice politics and liberal antiracisms in postwar California coincided with the continual reformation and rearticulation of white identity politics in opposition to civil rights gains. HoSang cautions against reading this mobilization of political whiteness as a transhistorical “tradition” of white supremacy or an “inexorable force of political life,” arguing instead that white identity politics in the late 20 th century were dynamic formations that “incorporate[d] new ideas, values, and Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 24 experiences” amidst shifts in demography, policymaking, and social norms of antiracism. 38 White and conservative oppositions to the robust funding of public higher education, that is, invoked newfound ideas about the proper extent of the state in response to the mutating roles of the state as an arbiter of racial equality in its legal, social, and economic dimensions alike. The institutionalization of racial diversity—whether through policies and plans, or courses and research, or the commitment of personnel—was far less a linear genealogy than multidirectional, polytemporal, sometimes circuitous, at other times regressive. It is imperative to take seriously the capacity for institutions to learn: to encounter difference, to shift vernaculars and strategies, to fail in its efforts, to adapt. An intertwined genealogy of comparative ethnic studies and affirmative action betrays their epistemological and political origins in liberal endeavors of racial integration, the radical solidarities that sought to rethink the institution itself, as well as the forces of opposition that would delimit the University as an apparatus of a multiracial welfare state. On Reading an Institution As an act of historiography, The Motley Tower is fundamentally grounded in a deep reading of the University’s own archive. I argue that it is crucial to apprehend how institutions make meaning of race and racial different not only through volcanic irruptions of crisis but through the comparatively quotidian paper trails of academic governance: memoranda, private correspondence, progress reports, meeting minutes, budget requests, confidential documents, press releases, brochures, newspaper articles, charts, graphs, flyers, and student activist literatures. That is, we should understand the social construct of race and racial knowledge not merely through the machinations of statecraft, the formation of institutional categories, or Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 25 declarations of revolutionary alterity, but also through the panorama of discourse and debate that permeates the University—and indeed, constitute the machinery upon which the institution runs. As this dissertation explores, many of the first ethnic studies advocates foresaw their intellectual project as an excavation of what Asian American Studies scholar Yuji Ichioka termed a “buried past”: a critical reappraisal of the historical subjects whom hegemonic narratives of national progress and prowess had relegated to the margins. To be certain, this is a history populated with Californians of color as students, scholars, activists, politicians, administrators, and cultural producers; which remains a critical gap within histories of higher education, especially in regards to affirmative action. 39 Yet the overarching focus of The Motley Tower is not necessarily the actors entering and exiting—important as they are—but the stage itself. That is, I am concerned with the institutional history of race as a mode of difference, both within the University’s constituency and as a logic of differentiation within academic knowledge production and institutional order alike. The University’s efforts to incorporate people of color as students, scholars, staff, and research subjects also necessitated that the institution and its managers apprehend race as a mode of organization to interface with California’s populace. It is useful to think of this quotidian transmission and remaking of racial meaning within the institution as a circuit of what Adrian Burgos, Jr. terms racial knowledge, the everyday complex of negotiations, perceptions, appellations, taxonomies, and/or subversions of race, racial identity, and racial subjectivity. “Individuals,” according to Burgos, “employ racial knowledge to negotiate power and the meaning of difference in local and institutional contexts.” 40 Racial knowledge, that is, is a participatory process in conversation with the structures of articulation that produce race within legal, political, and social modes of human differentiation. Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 26 To animate the “great transformation” of the multiracial university through the spectrum of its documentary trail, again, is to acknowledge the absence of any single structural or political relationship between the University and Californians of color. Student activists themselves regularly surface on paper not in modes of contention or confrontation, but negotiation and accommodation. Roderick Ferguson names the will to institutionality as a formative contradiction within the student movements of the Vietnam War era, as “minoritized cultural forms and practices represent both an aspiration to and estrangement from processes of archivization, institutionalization, and professionalization.” 41 In turn, the historian Robert O. Self argues that such miscegenations of the transformative and normative were very much definitive features of postwar racial justice movements in their “sustained political confrontations with the modern state apparatus.” That is, Self cautions against hewing our historiographical imaginations to the “raw dichotomies” between so-called liberal and radical antiracist politics, lest we misrecognize the strategic fluidity and “complex and subtle choices” that activists adopted in daily praxis. 42 In this vein, student activists on UC campuses could render consistent their claims to political autonomy and self-determination—such as programs of research and study by, of, and for people of color—with their elevation of the academy as an institution that could be reformed to divert its resources into working-class communities of color. So, too, should we recognize how the mobilization of political whiteness was not just a conflict staged between the University and external conservative movements, but a quotidian contestation waged within the ranks of the institution itself. Indeed, it makes little analytical sense to draw firm demarcations between University luminaries and the right-wing or suburbanite politics that proliferated in postwar California: as a middle-class and predominantly white institution, the University’s professoriate and administration—not to mention large swaths Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 27 of the student body—resided in or came from the suburban spaces that had emerged through local segregationist regimes and fostered the conservative politics of white flight and educational divestment. 43 The implementation and proliferation of curricular reforms or recruitment programs in the name of racial equality did not preclude the endurance of retrograde or anti- progressive modes of racial knowledge amongst students, faculty, or administrators: the implementation of student affirmative action, for instance, rehearsed ideas about the putative cultural or social deficiencies that sutured the phenomenon of educational disadvantage for working-class students of color. The oftentimes glacial pace of ethnic studies program development, as we shall see, was in no small part the result of widespread apathy or obstructionism among faculty members in traditional academic departments who saw little intellectual or institutional value in such studies. That is, the institutionalization of “official antiracisms” as a programmatic form hardly ensured consensus within the University over the content or extent of such institutional developments. As a whole, reading the archives betrays the extent to which the University contains multitudes—how its innumerable tendrils and diagrams of authority and channels of communication limit any permanent unity of purpose or action. To be certain, the decentralized administration of the University enabled spaces for students, scholars, and others to enact experimental measures towards the remediation of educational inequity, curricular absence, and underrepresentation. Yet the miscommunications inherent in decentralization also resulted in faculty or administrators neglecting systemwide mandates for racial equity programs and recruitment objectives. To understand institutional power, per Roderick Ferguson, as a “plurality of relations” is to recognize how multiplex institutions like the University of California operate through the dialectic tensions of institutionality and the vagaries of human existence. Institutions Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 28 issue plans and directives; but the relations that suture institutions are hardly immortal or inflexible. Despite their enactment within formal hierarchies, moreover, subject-positions like “student,” “scholar,” and “administrator” were far from discrete: students of color trained to enter the professoriate; senior faculty members regularly joined the ranks of the administration. Here I am indebted to Ann Laura Stoler's theorizations of archives themselves as critical sites of investigation. Contesting the notion that archives are monolithic institutions with a totalizing epistemic power, Stoler admonishes instead that they expose the “restless realignments and readjustments of people and the beliefs to which they were tethered" as the circuitry of institutional life. To comprehend archives as “condensed sites of epistemological and political anxiety rather than as skewed and biased sources,” in other words, is to read not only the text but the texture of archival documentation. 44 The physical paper trail often betrays the fragmentary, partial, and angst-ridden process of institutional management and knowledge production—the archives are just as much graveyards for rejected proposals, unanswered exchanges, and discarded projects. It is through such failures and logistical dead-ends, the University could both “learn” the infrastructure of multiracial incorporation, as well as stage the internal obstructions and oppositions to the realization of such endeavors at integration. Scaling the Motley Tower Rather than a strict chronology, The Motley Tower traces UCLA’s institutional incorporation of multiracial difference across several arcs of postwar program development between 1960 and 1980. To be certain, I argue that the genealogy of academic racial integration requires attention to the unstable equilibrium between two epistemologies of temporal change: planning and crisis. Planning, as Ruth Wilson Gilmore argues, entails not the narrow plane of bureaucratic administration but the commonplace praxes by which people collectively transform Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 29 space and place, “pursuing particular kinds of change in order to produce the conditions under which social and cultural reproduction might happen.” 45 On one hand, this history excavates the institutional footprints of measured and processual development: meetings, drafts and redrafts of documents, days between epistolary responses, the changing same of semesters and years, “long- range” academic plans to meet the gradual churn of demographic change in California. At the same time, the long history of academic planning and racial democracy alike are punctuated with bursts of crisis: not just material crises of capital accumulation or political crises of illiberal democracy, but crisis as an experiential mode of space and time: what Janet Roitman calls the “diagnostic of the present.” The postwar history of the University embodies a frequent ontology of disorder on the precipice that Roitman calls the “enduring state of crisis,” in which crisis operates as the “omnipresent sign” in the presentist narration of history. 46 Franklin D. Murphy observed in his 1960 inaugural speech the “revolutionary character of these days”; his final speech as Chancellor eight years later dwelt on a “world society” in a “moment of crisis,” in which the “administrative and organizational structure of our universities” had to adapt to the “current and legitimate reality.” 47 As Chapter 1 explores, planning and crisis were dialectical formations within the development of the University, if not postwar California as a whole: if crisis marks the experiential and/or material disruptions to the social order, crisis also entails the grounds upon which new plans are designed, debated, and deployed. Similarly, The Motley Tower operates at multiple fluctuating scales of spatial analysis. The development of programs and initiatives at UCLA requires us to understand the campus in physical and political/economic relation to other spaces: the Southern California metropolitan area; the network of public colleges in Los Angeles; the Black and Latino/a neighborhoods of South and East L.A.; the state of California; the statewide University system; the Berkeley Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 30 campus; the United States; the Pacific Rim; the U.S.-Mexico border. At UCLA itself, this is a history that requires analysis at the scale of campus development, of building construction, of protests in public spaces. Most importantly, it bears recognition that the discourses of administration and program-building recorded in the archives reflect the creation, reformation, and destruction of physical spaces; that the blueprints of knowledge production and the perpetual motion of bureaucratic communication mark the choreography of material change. 48 The first chapter, “’68 Theses,” historicizes the University of California’s 1968 Urban Crisis Program—which systematized the University’s efforts in special admissions, minority faculty development, and ethnic studies—as a corrective to the seminal 1960 Master Plan for Higher Education in California. To be certain, the Master Plan coordinated the statewide expansion of access to public postsecondary education. Yet its inattention to matters of racial segregation in educational disparity exacerbated the differential access to the state’s tripartite hierarchy of public higher education—with the University of California at the apex—along racial and class lines. As such, the Urban Crisis platform offered emendations to the Master Plan by acknowledging racial disparity and difference as an institutional episteme. Historians, most notably Thomas Sugrue, have utilized the term urban crisis to reference the structural determinants of racialized poverty. 49 Yet the phrase has its own genealogy, circulating in the 1960s as a signifier of both failures in urban planning and the contemporary state of American apartheid. Invoking the “urban crisis” enabled officials at the University’s suburban campuses to displace the academy’s internal crises of racial representation onto the administration of institutional diversity and metropolitan research. The second chapter, “Projections of the Multiracial University,” rewinds to examine the Japanese American Research Project (JARP) and Mexican American Study Project (MASP), a Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 31 pair of research initiatives at UCLA in the mid-1960s that fashioned novel linkages between UCLA’s burgeoning research apparatus and middle-class civil rights organizations. These disconnected initiatives show how the institutionalization of racial diversity at UCLA was a prolonged process, involving an array of programmatic innovations and campus-community relations. While UCLA had no infrastructure to incorporate racial heterogeneity in the early 1960s, by the decade’s end UCLA officials would claim authority over the administrative management of diversity. The history of JARP and MASP compels us to consider academic institutions as dynamic, able to learn from conflicts over, and failures of, racial integration. The third chapter, “Degrees of Disadvantage,” also spans the mid- to late 1960s to document the emergence and development of Educational Opportunity Programs, or EOPs, at the University of California. As novel efforts to augment the numbers of nonwhite, working-class students into the student body, EOPs constituted the first iteration of “affirmative action” programs at the UCs, before “affirmative action” became common parlance. It was through these incipient ventures that University administrators integrated students of color into a previously colorblind institutional infrastructure, debated the dimensions of “disadvantage” that had engendered racial and class disparities amongst the college student population of California, and interfaced with on- and off-campus challenges to the University’s commitment to racial justice. As such, Educational Opportunity Programs constituted the dynamic practices of racial integration, upon which affirmative action policies at the University were gradually constructed. In the fourth chapter (“Protests, Proposals, Professions”), I trace the convoluted genealogies of activist politics and administrative designs for institutional integration congealing in the University’s first ethnic studies programs in the 1960s and 1970s. This chapter historicizes the institutional mechanisms of program development through the paper trails of ethnic studies Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 32 proposals, which have been a critical absence in histories of ethnic studies that largely emphasize the field’s origins in student protest movements. Focusing primarily on activist demands overlooks the significance of proposals as an institutional lingua franca, by which ethnic studies advocates made formal entreaties to faculty, administrators, and the University Regents in the idiom of the institution. The subsequent chapter (“The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall”) examines the history of campus “Third World” activism and cultural nationalist politics at UCLA in relation to the administrative histories of campus planning and program design. Students of color at UCLA in the early 1970s staged a campaign to retain UCLA’s Campbell Hall as the permanent site for the school’s ethnic studies centers and special admissions programs. Students’ performative “decolonization” of the edifice—named after Shakespearean scholar Lily Bess Campbell—offer an underexplored aperture into some of the contradictions within activist ideologies of racial self-determination. It was in Campbell Hall, for instance, that the University hosted the High Potential Program, an experimental initiative to admit and instruct traditionally inadmissible students of color from Los Angeles. However, High Potential also served as a vessel for the UCLA administration to test the capacities of its specially admitted undergraduates, and to ultimately confirm the legitimacy of the institution’s academic standards vis-à-vis “unqualified” students. The history of Campbell Hall thus evinces how the political processes of self- determination and institutionalization among student activists were never mutually exclusive. While the first five chapters largely span the 1960s, the sixth and final chapter (“Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination”) traces the development of ethnic studies graduate programs and student affirmative action at the University between the early 1970s and the U.S. Supreme Court decision in Bakke vs. Regents (1978). While I end on Bakke, this chapter Introduction At the Crossroads of Planning and Crisis 33 is more concerned about the broader infrastructure of multiracial diversity that informed the University’s defense in, and posthoc response to, the case. The split decision in Bakke—against “quota”-based numerical allotments in admissions programs, but for racial diversity as a “factor” in admissions—reflected the contradictions in the University’s ongoing institutionalization of race, in which programs like affirmative action shifted from a practice of remediating injury to a policy of categorizing diversity. While Bakke enfranchised the infrastructure of racial differentiation and recognition that the University had institutionalized by the late 1970s, moreover, to some Californians of color the decision signaled a crisis of a welfare state that had made marginal albeit essential inroads into the restitution of racial inequity. Over the 1960s and 1970s, the University of California thus served as a preeminent stage for the contradictions of and confrontations over the regional welfare state: its capacity to incorporate modalities of racial difference and inequality into race-neutral institutional paradigms implicitly designed for white citizens, its ability to deflect and absorb radical challenges to authority and governance, and its beleaguered status as a public institution amidst mobilizations to retrench California’s social welfare apparatuses. This is a history that defies monolithic notions of state and institutional power, or binaries of oppression and resistance, or easy readings into the historical dynamics of structural racism. It is only by acknowledging this cacophonous genealogy of institutional and racial justice politics that we might trace the blueprints for the construction of this postwar motley tower. Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 34 1 ’68 Theses: ACADEMIC “URBAN CRISIS” AND THE PROTESTERS’ RE-FORMATION On May 17, 1968—six days before his inauguration as the President of the University of California—Charles Johnston Hitch submitted to the University Regents a brief action plan for his time in office. In “What We Must Do: The University and the Urban Crisis,” Hitch proclaimed that the UC’s nine campuses had to comprehensively address the “moral, economic, and racial crisis” besetting California and the nation writ large. Such an institutional redirection would require all of the UC’s triadic functions: a “plan of comprehensive, mission-oriented research and assistance” on “the gamut of social malaise” in American urbanities; its public service in providing “a cultural resource which has an enormous impact on its surrounding community”; and a thorough reexamination of statewide educational practices and the equitability of collegiate access. The New York Times reported that Hitch—an analyst and economist “who has been credited with a major role in modernizing the Pentagon’s administrative machinery”—had outreached to private, junior, and community college officials across California in the hope of coordinating future efforts. 1 During his May 23 inaugural speech at the University’s Los Angeles campus, Hitch reiterated his call for academic institutions to self-interrogate their hiring policies and intellectual concerns. Yet he also implored student discontents to join in the formation of a “new coalition” at the University, urging “our activist youth of all races to reevaluate the contributions which trained intelligence can offer to human progress.” In fitting parlance, the former Assistant Secretary of Defense asserted that an alliance of willing universities and responsible students constituted “an unparalleled attack on the social ills of our time.” 2 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 35 However, Hitch’s staff had previously reasoned that any appeal to the youth of all races required a plan for the University to remediate its meager numbers of nonwhite students and scholars. On May 1, 1968, UC Vice President Fred E. Balderston delivered to Hitch a position paper on “The University and the Urban Crisis,” asserting that the institution “cannot avoid its entanglement” in the “great social issues of our cities.” For Balderston, the so-called “urban crisis” was necessarily an internal affair. “If there were no positive offsetting policies” to the existing admissions policies, “the undergraduate body of the University would in future, as at present, be almost wholly drawn from the Caucaisan and Oriental middle class and upper middle class.” In his memo, Balderston outlined a basic stratagem for the University’s demographic imbalances, calling for the UC to lead the wider charge on improving collegiate access while also mobilizing its resources to improve the quality of primary and secondary education. 3 Consistent with the decentralization of governance across the University’s campuses, the Hitch administration’s Urban Crisis Program (UCP) produced an array of localized initiatives, and also funded existing University research on urban economics, demography, ecology, industry, labor, city planning, and more. As the University of California’s first holistic attempt to address its internal discriminatory practices and barriers to democratic access, however, the UCP foremost constituted a commitment to incorporating Californians of color in the combined realms of admissions, employment, curricula, and research. As such, it is important to recognize the Urban Crisis Program as an institutional terrain for the development of ethnic studies and affirmative action as technologies of academic multiracial reform. The UCP also represented an enormous financial commitment for the University, particularly in the context of the massive budget cuts to public higher education that Governor Ronald Reagan (1967-1975) had enacted Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 36 upon taking office. For the 1968-1969 academic year, the UC Regents committed a total of $16.68 million ($113.6 million in 2016 dollars) for UCP initiatives statewide. It might seem unorthodox to fixate on the proclamations and bureaucratic rearrangements of academic administrators in a year marked by, per Ruth Wilson Gilmore, “revolution and counterrevolution,” in which “revolutionaries around the world made as much trouble as possible in as many places as possible.” 4 Hitch’s May 1968 inauguration occurred amidst high-profile student strikes at New York City’s Columbia University and the Nanterre and Sorbonne Universities in Paris; and a resurgence of riots in dozens of cities nationwide following the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. seven weeks prior. Throughout the year, California witnessed a widespread array of mobilizations from across its many constituencies: a hunger strike by labor leader Cesar Chavez in the San Joaquin Valley; a sanguineous showdown between police and demonstrators in the Berkeley riots of late June; the meteoric rise of the Oakland-based Black Panther Party to national notoriety amidst the imprisonment and trial of co- founder Huey P. Newton. 5 Nevertheless, spectacular moments of rebellion and repression are only explicable in the context of the deeper social relations and power struggles that they amplify. Given the frequency with which institutions of higher education became theaters of conflict over internal grievances and worldly issues alike in the late 1960s, it is prudent to investigate the multifaceted ways that U.S. colleges and universities responded to the structural maladies and social upheavals around them. The decidedly unspectacular paper trails of the University of California—memoranda and meeting minutes and mimeographs—offer complementary and alternative pathways to examine the institutional infrastructure of racial integration. The reforms under the UCP existed at a Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 37 flurried crossroads of institutional and extramural factors: from the local, to the state, to the national and global. This chapter offers a genealogy of the Urban Crisis Program, foregrounding its development in 1968 through the history of the UC system (especially the UCLA campus) in the decades following World War II. I argue that the UCP indexes a critical transformation of the U.S. liberal academy in the postwar era, especially as University administrators nominated the “urban crisis” to describe an array of institutional reforms regarding admissions, faculty hiring, and course offerings. It is necessary to understand the Urban Crisis Program as indication of a crisis internal to the academy itself, even as the formulation of “urban crisis” implied an external state of emergency that demanded the expertise of University intellectuals and resources. The UCP was not merely an effort to describe, research, and solve the maladies of urban life beyond the campus grounds. It was, rather, to articulate the dynamic relationship between the academy and civic society, to offer an ideological project for the University. Through the set of internal reforms that constituted the UC’s Urban Crisis Program, we can trace the institution’s historical role in perpetuating the broader patterns of uneven development that historians have subsequently nominated as the “urban crisis,” and, subsequently, attempting to mitigate that role. Historicizing the development of higher education as a pivotal component of political economy and civic society, therefore, enriches our knowledge of 20 th -century U.S. history writ large. Henceforth, I trace the origins of the UCP through a triad of interrelated crises. Here I am indebted to Ruth Wilson Gilmore’s determination of crisis an “instability that can be fixed only through radical measures, which include developing new relationships and new or renovated institutions out of what already exists.” 6 The Urban Crisis Program represents such a nexus of Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 38 reformative institutional relations, an assessment of the University’s structural capacity and political legitimacy in the very moment of dynamic unrest. Firstly, the Urban Crisis Program marked a crisis of racial representation that confronted the University of California in the late 1960s. I argue that the UCP was a corrective to the oversights of the 1960 Master Plan for Higher Education in California, the seminal document for the administration coordination of state public postsecondary education. While the Master Plan has garnered attention as a seminal planning document for collegiate administration; scholars have yet to fully account for how the Plan’s colorblind policies failed to ameliorate preexisting racial inequities and structural exclusions in the state’s education system. The Master Plan, I contend, reflected a legacy of 20 th -century liberal state planning, which championed the abstract universalism of citizenship while narrowly applying the material benefits of the welfare state. Secondly and relatedly, the UCP delineated a crisis of spatial order, as the expansion of public higher education was ultimately inextricable from the broader patterns of uneven urban and regional development in postwar California. The etymology of the term “master plan,” first articulated in theories and practices of urban planning during the interwar era, helps to illuminate the California Master Plan as a spatial technology of development that abetted the collusions of suburbanization, capital accumulation, and racial segregation. As 20 th -century U.S. historians have documented, the forms of city and community planning that abetted mass middle-class mobility during the New Deal were contingent upon a nationwide matrix of residential exclusion and mortgage redlining—both private-sector and state-sanctioned—that largely restricted the benefits of midcentury neighborhood development to white people. 7 Although no formal racial barriers to access existed in California public higher education prior to 1960, the presumably meritocratic distribution of students into the state’s collegiate hierarchy relied on a theoretical Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 39 state of equal opportunity with little basis in the real-life historical legacies (and contemporary enactments) of white supremacy. The general placement of the University of California’s campuses in affluent suburbs or small cities was itself a reflection of the spatial asymmetries in capital investment upon which the University was historically reliant. This is not to say, however, that the Hitch administration’s articulation of an “urban crisis” was simply a disavowal of, or distraction from, the University of California’s internal hurdles of multiracial incorporation. In 1968, urban crisis was a term du jour amongst a great deal of institutions and individuals attempting to make sense of the political, economic, and social issues facing contemporary cities. In a fitting parallel to the discursive origins of the “master plan,” city planners, civic officials, and print media first advanced the concept of an “urban crisis” in the mid-1960s to describe the social and economic repercussions of metropolitan planning failures. However, urban crisis has largely become a shorthand referent to the containment of racialized poverty in postwar American metropoles. As Stuart Hall and company argue in Policing the Crisis, “race has come to provide the objective correlative of crisis – the arena in which complex fears, tensions, and anxieties…can be most conveniently and explicitly projected and…‘worked through.’” 8 The invocation of urban crisis as commonsense shorthand for a crisis of racial democracy threatens to obscure the material relations constitutive of structural inequity and its discontents. Partially in response to the nebulousness of the term, historians of the 20 th -century United States have clarified how the “urban crisis” signifies a convergence of historical forces within overarching shifts of the late 20 th century political economy. In their respective studies of midcentury Detroit and Los Angeles, Thomas J. Sugrue (1996) and Scott Kurashige (2008) trace the origins of the “urban crisis” through the institutional racisms of the New Deal welfare state. Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 40 The failures of national, state, and local governments alike to disallow discriminations in housing, education, and employment during and after World War II; combined with the postwar waves of deindustrialization, white flight, and police violence; precipitated local flashes of Black rebellion nationwide throughout the mid-1960s. 9 However, it is essential that we distinguish historian’s post hoc use of the term “urban crisis” to describe a historical process from University of California officials’ adoption of a neologic phrase to describe a host of contingencies and concerns contemporary to the year 1968. Tracing the discursive origins of the “urban crisis”—i.e., as a concept endemic to the postwar era—illuminates how the University of California adapted an inherently vague idea into a set of concrete platforms and proposals for the holsitic integration of California’s Black, Latino/a, indigenous, and Asian American communities as students, scholars, staff, and subjects of inquiry. As a prominent institution tasked with the production of worldly knowledge, the University had a stake in shaping the connotation of the “urban crisis” as the spatial containment of racialized poverty. Furthermore, by naming and articulating the urban crisis as a social phenomenon, the University could claim authority over the remediation of urban decay and racial disparity alike. As Janet Roitman argues in her analysis of the 2008 financial collapse, “crisis serves as the noun-formation of contemporary historical narrative; it is a non-locus from which to claim access to both history and knowledge of history.” Insofar as “crisis signifies change,” crisis operates as an epistemology of space-time, “the means by which history is located, recognized, comprehended, and even posited.” Crisis is “mobilized,” that is, towards the opening and closure of particular narratives and critiques over others. 10 For the leaders of the University of California, Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 41 the declaration of crisis thus operationalized the institution as an historical agent of racial democracy. To speak of crisis was to announce a plan. That is to say, the Urban Crisis Program also constituted an institutional response to a crisis of political authority that had gripped University administrations from their political left and right alike. Amidst student mobilizations alleging the structural racism of academic governance, the UCP furnished plans for the University to incorporate California’s multiracial youth population and workforce into the functional hierarchy that the Master Plan had established for California public higher education. The University simultaneously endeavored to address the structural disparities behind the state’s racial achievement gaps, while upholding its privileged domain over graduate instruction and research in California public higher education. Yet in the face of an increasingly unsupportive electorate and the Reagan administration, the University unsuccessfully petitioned the state to subsidize a programmatic expansion amidst wider fiscal cuts to higher education. The public defunding of University functions in the late 1960s and early 1970s compromised collegiate efforts to create programmatic avenues for racial incorporation; and set the stage for the escalation of conflict between student activists, University administrators, and the forces of state repression—namely, the police and the National Guard. We might say that the UC’s Urban Crisis Program was itself subject to multiple crises, a form of liberal institutionalism facing political challenges from the Republican Right and an emergent, radical “Third World” student Left. Yet inherent to these challenges were, of course, plans and counterplans to the question of racial justice in the academy. It is crucial to recognize the complex field of relations in which collegiate officials, activists of color, and other public figures could both collaborate and struggle over the terrains of academic racial incorporation. Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 42 Master Plans, Suburban Crises Despite the nomenclature of the Urban Crisis Program, it is debatable whether any of the University’s eight general campuses were “urban” in 1968. Certainly, California as a whole had experienced a massive demographic surge in the postwar era. Between 1950 and 1970, the state’s population almost doubled from 10.59 to 19.97 million people, overtaking New York as the nation’s most populous state in 1962. California’s two largest metropolitan regions swelled: the San Francisco Bay Area by two million people; the Los Angeles metropolitan area by nearly five million. Fueled by the settlement and family formation of returning soldiers and migrants alike, California’s demographic deluge was largely youth-driven. Over the same two decades when California’s overall population doubled, students enrolled in public postsecondary institutions increased fivefold, from 207,000 to over a million. The state’s public higher education system accordingly underwent multiple phases of physical expansion to meet the demands of a burgeoning student market. Between the end of World War II and 1965, the state government approved and oversaw the construction of six University campuses, eleven state colleges, and thirty-six community colleges. 11 The six UC general campuses established during this two-decade period (Riverside, Santa Barbara, Davis, San Diego, Irvine, and Santa Cruz) reflected the proliferation and augmentation of additional metropolitan areas. For instance, Riverside—a city of 45,000 in 1950, fifty miles east of downtown Los Angeles—effectively tripled in population by 1970, in conjunction with the establishment of its UC campus in 1954. However, most of the University campuses in 1968 occupied small- to medium- sized cities within, or at the edges of, the state’s larger metropolitan concentrations. By the late 1960s, the University’s spatial arrangement was consistent with the urbanization of California’s population and economy: two general clusters surrounding the Bay Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 43 Area and Los Angeles, and with the exception of Davis and Riverside near or along the coast. Yet the only two campuses within the boundaries of the state’s largest cities, Los Angeles and San Diego, were located in the affluent and spatially peripheral suburbs of Westwood and La Jolla, respectively. It was, rather, the California State College system that accounted for the state’s geographically “urban” four-year public institutions. Of the state’s ten largest cities in 1970, seven featured a State College (with Cal State Fullerton adjacent to an additional two cities, Anaheim and Santa Ana). Conversely, the University of California had proclaimed a leading role in the so-called “urban crisis” from an array of suburban and semi-urban campuses. 12 Figure 1A: Overall Enrollment in California Public Higher Education, 1950-1969 13 Figure 1B (following page): California’s Public Four-Year Colleges and Universities, 1868-1965 0 100,000 200,000 300,000 400,000 500,000 600,000 700,000 800,000 900,000 1,000,000 1,100,000 1950 1951 1952 1953 1954 1955 1956 1957 1958 1959 1960 1961 1962 1963 1964 1965 1966 1967 1968 1969 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA CALIFORNIA STATE COLLEGES JUNIOR COLLEGES Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 44 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 45 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 46 Figure 1C: California’s Largest Cities (1970), Postwar Growth, & Public College Placement 14 # CITY CENSUS POPULATION (U.S. RANK) 4YR COLLEGES 1970 1960 1950 UC CSC 1 Los Angeles 2,811,801 (#2) 2,479,015 (#3) 1,970,358 (#4) ✔ 2 2 San Francisco 715,674 (#13) 740,316 (#12) 775,357 (#11) grad only ✔ 3 San Diego 697,027 (#14) 573,224 (#18) 334,387 (#31) ✔ ✔ 4 San Jose 459,913 (#31) 204,196 (#57) 95,280 ✔ 5 Oakland 361,561 (#38) 367,548 (#33) 384,575 (#27) 6 Long Beach 358,879 (#40) 344,168 (#35) 250,767 (#41) ✔ 7 Sacramento 257,105 (#55) 191,667 (#63) 137,572 (#67) ✔ 8 Anaheim 166,408 (#82) 104,184 14,556 9 Fresno 165,655 (#83) 133,929 (#91) 91,669 ✔ 10 Santa Ana 155,710 (#87) 100,350 45,533 11 Riverside 140,089 (#97) 84,332 46,764 ✔ 15 Berkeley 116,716 111,268 113,805 (#91) ✔ 43 Santa Barbara 70,215 58,768 44,913 ✔ 99 Santa Cruz 32,076 25,596 21,970 ✔ 137 Davis 23,488 8,910 3,554 ✔ n/a Irvine the city of Irvine was incorporated in 1971 ✔ The general siting of UC campuses in the peripheries of urban areas was partially due to the institution’s history as California’s designated land-grant university. Several of the University’s postwar campuses were repurposed in the 1950s from satellite research and training centers founded in the early years of the 20 th century: Davis from the UC’s farming school; Riverside from its citrus experiment station; and San Diego from its oceanography institute. 15 However, the placement of the University’s most recent campus, in Santa Cruz, betrayed other institutional designs. While the UC Regents approved the campus to serve the growing population of the San Francisco Bay Area and divert students from UC Berkeley, they opted for a coastal site thirty miles and a mountain range to the south of San Jose, over one more proximal Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 47 to the metropolitan center. Santa Cruz’ open space provided for the Regents and UC President Clark Kerr to explore a University model of several smaller colleges, in the vein of liberal arts institutions in the Northeast. Figure 1D: Postwar Growth in Metropolitan Areas with University of California Campuses 16 METROPOLITAN AREA CENSUS POPULATION 4YR COLLEGES 1970 1960 1950 UC CSC LOS ANGELES METRO AREA 9,602,362 7,552,478 4,819,599 3 7 Los Angeles County 7,041,980 6,038,771 4,151,687 ✔ 5 Orange County 1,421,233 703,925 216,224 ✔ ✔ San Bernardino County 682,233 503,591 281,642 ✔ Riverside County 456,916 306,191 170,046 ✔ SAN FRANCISCO BAY AREA 4,630,576 3,638,939 2,681,322 2 5 Alameda County 1,071,446 908,209 740,315 ✔ ✔ Santa Clara County 1,065,313 642,315 290,547 ✔ San Francisco County 715,674 740,316 775,357 Grad only ✔ San Mateo County 557,361 444,387 235,659 Contra Costa County 556,116 409,030 298,984 Marin County 208,652 146,820 85,619 Sonoma County 204,885 147,375 103,405 ✔ Solano County 171,989 134,597 104,833 ✔ Napa County 79,140 65,890 46,603 SAN DIEGO COUNTY 1,357,854 1,033,011 556,808 1 1 SACRAMENTO METRO AREA 803,793 625,503 359,429 1 1 Sacramento County 634,373 502,778 277,140 ✔ Yolo County 91,788 65,727 40,640 ✔ Placer County 77,632 56,998 41,649 SANTA BARBARA COUNTY 264,324 168,962 98,220 1 SANTA CRUZ COUNTY 123,790 84,219 66,534 1 STATE of CALIFORNIA 19,971,069 15,717,204 10,586,223 9 20 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 48 Historian Kevin Starr notes that the postwar decentralization of the University had prioritized the aesthetics of new campus placement. Santa Cruz, San Diego, and Santa Barbara were all seaside sites—the latter “could not help but embody California as coastal resort.” Meanwhile, the establishment of UC Irvine on the unincorporated ranchlands under rapid, coordinated development in Orange County “would reflect the university as planned community.” 17 These spatial privileges, to be certain, were not lost on the UC administrators who inaugurated the institution’s commitment to the so-called “urban crisis.” F.E. Balderston, a Vice President of the University, noted to Hitch in 1968 that the UC was vulnerable to political critique for siting its three most recent campuses—San Diego, Irvine, and Santa Cruz—in areas that “avoided the central cities and the minority groups.” 18 Balderston’s comments conflated the geographic placement of the University of California with the racial anxieties that permeated social divides between city and suburb in the 1960s. That is, the Vice President had apprehended that the institution was inherently implicated in a political conflict over the spatialization of race in postwar California. The persistence—if not exacerbation—of residential segregation beyond the formal illegalization of housing discrimination was beholden to what Ruth Gilmore calls the “long-lasting pro-apartheid activism” and what Daniel HoSang terms the “restrictive notions of collective responsibility embraced by so many white Californians.” The collective practice of suburbanization familiarly known as “white flight” coincided with many strategies of resistance to residential integration, whether real estate discrimination, exclusionary and predatory lending, threats of physical violence, or electoral politics. In 1964, voters passed Proposition 14 to overturn the state’s Fair Housing Act, briefly reinstating private sector residential discrimination before the state Supreme Court ruled the repeal unconstitutional. As HoSang argues, such phenomena were constitutive of Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 49 California’s postwar liberalism: white voters—who constituted the majority of the electorate, even in an increasingly multiracial state—invested in a commonwealth that was ostensibly threatened by a critical mass of nonwhite Californians seeking a fair share of the public good. 19 The nuanced geography of the state’s public universities and colleges in the late 1960s betrays the contradictions of racial inequity at the core of California’s liberal state planning. By one measure, the expeditious expansion of higher educational facilities in the decades following World War II evinced an emergent consensus around the increased access to college as a social good worthy of public investment. At the same time, however, the spatial arrangement of public higher education reflected deeper institutional and social disparities. The structural hierarchy of state postsecondary education—which outlined a stratified division of labor and function between the University of California, State Colleges, and community colleges—aligned with the mass suburbanization of California’s white middle class amidst the illegalization of de jure residential and workforce segregation. The University’s racial and class exclusions were no mere “ethnocentric” mistake, that is, but rather epitomized the structural racisms behind the broader patterns of uneven development in postwar California. As the narrative arc of California’s public collegiate system demonstrates, the University’s “urban crisis” of internal racial reforms endeavored to correct a legacy of exhaustive, albeit discriminatory, academic planning. The post-World War II expansion of the University of California was inseparable from California’s tectonic shifts in demography and industry over the same time period—which themselves are only explicable in the context of the federal state and its transnational entanglements. We might locate the programmatic origins of the University’s Urban Crisis programming in the growing matrix of relations between the federal government and the state of California, particularly during World War II. This development was in part the result of the Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 50 Roosevelt and Truman administrations’ general interest in postsecondary education as a crucial domain for the social reproduction of an educated, skilled workforce into the national labor market. 20 Yet California was also in the midst of a series of economic and demographic transitions that would further elevate its academic institutions as critical sites for national involvement. The United States’ declaration of war on the Pacific front coincided with the celeritous industrialization of defense and aeronautic manufacturing on the West Coast. This flurry of economic growth effectively lifted California from the Depression; fueled the industrialization of a state economy historically dominated by agriculture; and created opportunities for further regional investment in the manufacturing of war machinery. Accordingly, California attracted an increasing share of federal monies for defense and military research.. 21 The 1944 passage of the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act, or “G.I. Bill”—including stipulations for returning U.S. military veterans to receive subsidies for continuing education— marked the federal state’s continuing involvement in higher education as a productive site for the rehabilitation of citizen-soldiers and social production of the workforce necessary for postwar economic development. UC officials actively accommodated the socialization of Californian veterans by lifting the formal admissions criteria for applicants in unprecedented numbers. In the years following World War II, “special action” admits ranged between 35% and 45% of incoming undergraduates at UC Berkeley and UCLA, and at the peak of G.I. Bill remuneration in 1947 veterans comprised roughly half of all University enrollment. As John Aubrey Douglass argues, the “social contract” between the University, state, and citizenry had legitimated the temporary disregard for admissions protocol. 22 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 51 Demographic projections for the decades following the war foretold an impending surge in California’s postwar student market. For California lawmakers, the construction of additional collegiate facilities was thus essential for the state to meet population demands. Legislative approvals of fourteen junior colleges statewide between 1945 and 1949, as well as new state colleges in East Los Angeles (1947), Sacramento (1947), and Long Beach (1949), demonstrated the utility of higher education expansion into growing population centers during the half-decade following the war. California’s economic reliance on its wartime defense industrialization had portended the threat of recession in the postbellum period; in response, the state senate and the gubernatorial office of Earl Warren both committed to a vigorous program of public investments. Their expenditures in capital construction and education, notes John Aubrey Douglass, relied on the state’s hefty wartime surplus to accommodate the rising deficits in state budgeting. 23 At the same time, the United States’ transpacific ties and tensions ensured that the California economy would never fully demilitarize in the putative peacetimes of the Cold War. 24 The array of political conflicts in which the United States was involved or implicated in the years right after World War II—its occupation and marketization of Japan from 1945-1952; its central involvement in the Korean War; and the threat of the 1949 Chinese Communist Revolution, not to mention the Soviet Union itself—reinforced and proliferated California’s industrial stakes in defense, aerospace, and telecommunications. The state received an increasing share of federal funds as national spending on Cold War initiatives surged in the 1950s. 25 With the contingent demand for skilled labor in realms as far afield as engineering, mathematics, medicine, psychology, economics, political science, and international affairs; the socialization and training of a growing student-aged population into the technical workforce offered palpable opportunities for federal, state, and private investment. Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 52 California’s institutions of higher education were thus particularly poised to capitalize on the 1958 Congressional passage of the National Defense Education Act. Coeval with the federal state’s deepening investments in the space race, the NDEA authorized a multilateral four-year increase in federal education funds for the dual purpose of accommodating the nation’s swelling adolescent population; and producing the intellectual and technocratic labor pool for the U.S.’ Cold War machinations. For California policymakers, the establishment of new campuses, and new buildings on all public college sites, was a logical—if not necessary—measure to secure future federal monies in research and student aid. The NDEA’s enactment thus coincided with a wave of public college and university construction in California, under the auspices of a liberal state government in Sacramento. That same year, voters elected Democratic candidate Edmund G. “Pat” Brown as governor, who raised taxes in conjunction with the expanding costs of California’s regional welfare state. Funding the slate of new campus projects also required the voter authorization of new bonded debt, to which the California electorate largely acquiesced in the late 1950s. Voters approved two consecutive, $200 million bond measures for capital construction—for higher education, mental health, and other state facilities—in 1956 and 1958. In the 1956 and 1958 general elections, the California electorate approved two consecutive $200 million bond measures for capital construction in higher education. 26 Between the years 1957 and 1960, the state legislature and governor’s office approved the establishment of an additional eight state colleges: three in Northern California (Stanislaus, Hayward, Sonoma); four in the South (Fullerton, Northridge, Dominguez Hills, San Bernardino); and one in Bakersfield, in the San Joaquin Valley. The University underwent a surge of physical and programmatic expansion over the same four-year span, as its Regents upgraded its colleges at Santa Barbara and Davis into general campuses, and sited new campuses at San Diego, Irvine, Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 53 and Santa Cruz. To oversee this regime of institutional growth, the Regents appointed Clark Kerr, an economics and labor scholar and the Chancellor of UC Berkeley since 1952, to the position of UC President in 1958. For the Regents, Kerr offered a mode of liberal governance in the aftermath of the University’s controversial handling of faculty noncompliance to its anticommunist loyalty oath. 27 However, the deepening association of higher educational expansion and campus placement with economic development consequently fueled a host of political tensions in postwar California. The rapid expansion of the state college system is best described as a productive dissensus: state legislators openly fought amongst themselves for the siting of future public colleges, because of the stimulus they offered for regional fiscal growth. Douglass writes that state senators even appropriated the vernacular of social justice to champion local college expansion for their constituencies, claiming that the absence thereof amounted to “a form of discrimination, hindering economic growth, and forcing local and promising students to other more prosperous regions.” 28 The rising costs of higher education, meanwhile, formed a point of contention between the state government and collegiate administrators over academic autonomy. Sacramento, faced with pressure from taxpayers over the state’s growing public debt, would seek a larger administrative purview as the public higher education system grew in the late 1950s. Negotiations between state policymakers and academic administrators culminated in the Master Plan Survey Team in May 1959, to assess the myriad overlapping issues in California public postsecondary education and provide logistical solutions to its lack of coordination and political stalemates. The nine-person survey team, all white men, comprised a group of state educational officials and collegiate officials from both public and private institutions. 29 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 54 The 1960 Master Plan for Higher Education in California, the result of the Survey Team’s year-long study, was an appropriately massive almanac of recommendations for the coordination of the state’s public collegiate hierarchy. The Survey Team struck a balance between the competing exhortations of “competitive excellence and populist egalitarianism” by mapping such demands onto a hierarchy of institutional function and student performance. The Master Plan entrenched a preexisting albeit uncoordinated division of academic labor across the three tiers of public institutions: the California Community College system was designated for two-year academic and technical instruction; the California State Colleges, for four-year undergraduate instruction; and the University of California, four-year undergraduate and graduate instruction along with sole province over academic research. While certainly committed to universal access to public higher education, state lawmakers and collegiate administrators were also concerned with maintaining hard limits on student numbers at the state colleges and UCs. The growth of the student market would far outpace the physical expansion of higher education when campus construction slowed in the 1960s. As such, the Master Plan’s architects heightened the requirements for entry into the state’s public four-year institutions. Undergraduate admissions to the UCs became restricted to the top 12.5% of California’s graduating high school class, down from 15%; State College criteria narrowed from 40% to 33.3%. 30 As John Aubrey Douglass notes, the survey was part of a larger national trend in state governments assuming administrative oversight of public higher education; but California’s endeavors were the first to operate under the nomenclature of a “Master Plan.” The term, he opines, “had not been used previously in state-level planning for any purpose other than for physical development. In short, it was the terminology of architects and city planners.” 31 While Douglass makes little more of this etymology, I contend that the origins of the master plan are an Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 55 invaluable and unexplored metric to analyze the epistemological and political conceits of the Master Plan for Higher Education. For one, this genealogy of academic administration demonstrates how the 1960 Master Plan was beholden to logics of holistic social engineering and spatial design—or what anthropologist James C. Scott terms high modernism—that characterized the nascent theory and practice of urban planning in the 1930s. 32 Secondly, the longue durée of master planning places the spatial development of the state’s public collegiate network in lockstep with the midcentury suburbanization of California, a mass project of social engineering at the nexus of city planning, New Deal policy, and white supremacist racial segregation. Four months before the stock market crash in 1929, the state legislature passed the California Planning Act, authorizing municipal and county governments to create planning commissions for the orderly development of new urban and suburban space. The commission “shall…make and adopt a master plan for the physical development” of the target area, read the Act, consisting of a plan for the layout of major traffic thoroughfares, public transit routes and centers, parks and recreation areas, the “grouping and architectural treatment of public or other buildings,” and the general districting of city sectors. California’s planning bill was concurrent with similar legislation for the provision of master planning commissions in other states, which collectively reflected an emerging consensus around the application of Progressive-era techniques of scientization and standardization towards the synoptic management of human settlement. As James C. Scott argues, high modernist planning and cartography tied the state’s “sweeping, rational engineering of all aspects of human life” to its systemic ordering of urban space, most commonly on rectangular grids: a convergence of “geometric simplicity and functional efficiency” in the eyes of the planner and mapmaker looking down from on high. 33 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 56 The legislative authorization of city planning commissions across the United States coincided with the formalization of the “master plan” as a body of knowledge unto itself. In his 1938 treatise The Master Plan, the seminal city planner Edward Murray Bassett described the eponymous document as a “co-ordinated plastic map or plan” that “should be kept inside the four walls of the planning commission.” Even the legislative enactment of master plans, Bassett surmised, introduced the threat of external interventions that would ruin the malleability of the plan among its architects. 34 In response to Bassett, legal scholar Charles M. Haar would contend in 1955 that the functional reality of implementation made the hermetically sealed domain of the city planner impossible. “The idea of experts who prepare the plan is a static one. Those who are affected by the plan must participate in its making.” The master plan, argued Haar, “has a variety of meanings” that shifted with “the context in which it is employed, and the purposes for which it is invoked.” Its meaning, that is, was in the eye of its many beholders, from planners to private property owners to policymakers and beyond. 35 Indeed, Haar’s acknowledgement that the “master plan” had exceeded its initial definitions suggests how academic administrators might appropriate its framework into the discipline of academic planning five years later. In absence of any coherent definition based on content, Haar had proposed instead that the master plan was “hortatory,” a body of “diagrams, charts, standards, and policies” congealed into goals for long-range development. The logics of the master plan as the “coordination of diverse activities” into a synthetic whole could offer to academic administrators a homologous language to articulate the synchronization of institutions and people across vast distances of space. 36 Nor would it be surprising for a group of white professionals in California to be familiar with the dynamics of the “master plan,” given the central role in city planning and community Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 57 development efforts in producing Los Angeles’ suburban expanse throughout the twentieth century. The historian Gregory Hise avers that the seemingly haphazard sprawl of Southern Californian settlement was actually the outcome of meticulous order, a “planned dispersion of jobs, housing, and services” tying the intimate and comprehensive growth of local communities to the overall health of the regional economy. The burgeoning archipelago of subdivisions in the mid-20 th century was dependent upon myriad investments and planning innovations at the level of the “neighborhood unit,” a “tightly planned, perfectly integrated, and replicable module” that could concatenate the objectives of “[p]hysical and social planning” alike. As Hise demonstrates, these clusters of residential growth relied on novel relationships between city planners, developers, property owners, neighborhood associations, and other kindred “community builders.” 37 Inasmuch as community “master plans” in midcentury Los Angeles were collaborative ventures between the public and private sector, the doctrines of spatial order were inescapably complicit with the mandates of racial order that cohered in the widespread deployment of restrictive housing covenants. As Hise and other historians of Los Angeles have long documented, the suburbanization of early-20 th century Los Angeles (the U.S. writ large) relied on the privately-organized, state-sanctioned practice of restricting the sale or lease of property to nonwhite people. The executive housing agencies established through the New Deal, the Federal Housing Administration and the Home Owners Loan Corporation, would subsequently utilize restrictive covenants as criteria for their disbursal of affordable housing loans, thereby cementing the economic violences of racial segregation through the privileged access to the long-term financial benefits of property ownership. The University of California had rode the wave of suburban expansion for its own plans, relocating the “Southern Branch” in 1929 (the same year Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 58 as the passage of the California Planning Act) from its initial site in the working-class and multiracial neighborhood of East Hollywood to the subdivision of Westwood, which had been converted from ranch and farm lands just a decade prior. The confluence of residential segregation and state-subsidized mortgage discrimination would abet the asymmetrical development of space across a general east/west divide, propelling alike the infrastructural neglect of the heterogeneous communities surrounding downtown Los Angeles and cumulative investments into the all-white neighborhoods girding UCLA’s second, and permanent, home. 38 Figure 1E: “Residential Security Map” of Los Angeles by the Home Owners Loan Corporation (1939), with the 1929 relocation of UCLA to Westwood 39 As synoptic and visual technologies of the federal master plan coalescent in the New Deal welfare state, residential security maps epitomize what Scott terms the “apparent power of maps to transform as well as merely to summarize the facts that they portray.” 40 Redlining maps Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 59 were color-coded delineations of the varying racial composition of neighborhoods, and thus spatial representations of the city’s segregationist housing policies and practices. In utilizing these cartographies of demography to determine the putative investment risk of home loans, federal housing agencies and private lenders alike subsequently exacerbated the material disparities of residential segregation by reserving the wealth accumulation inherent in homeownership to all-white communities. 41 Even amidst the legal dismantling of educational and residential segregation in the post- World War II period, the privileged formation of a white middle class through exclusionary New Deal policy had engendered a fundamental spatial arrangement of racialized income and wealth disparity that would figure into the asymmetrical development and maintenance of public education. Until the U.S. Court of Appeals ruled the practice unconstitutional in Serrano v. Priest (1971), California public schools were predominantly funded through local property taxes and were therefore subject to the deep disparities in property value that New Deal housing policy had amplified. By deferring to the status quo of California’s public elementary and secondary education systems, the Master Plan necessarily extended the racial hierarchies of K-12 student achievement into the tripartite strata of the collegiate system. The Master Plan was by no means a segregationist document unto itself. Quite the contrary, its authors championed universal collegiate access for California students, and their desire to maintain the practice of a tuition-free education across all tiers of postsecondary instruction. The same year of the Plan’s publication, Clark Kerr served on the Commission on National Goals, a nonpartisan dectet of political, military, corporate, labor, and academic leaders whom President Dwight Eisenhower commissioned to present a broad slate of objectives for the United States in the realms of domestic policy, economic growth, and international relations. In Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 60 his personal addendum to the Commission’s collective report, Kerr proclaimed that “discrimination in education” in both K-12 schools and higher education “should be entirely overcome by 1970.” Educational desegregation was “both essential and attainable,” averred Kerr, and such “difficult problems…can and must be solved during the present decade.” 42 However, the Master Plan offered little direction for the remediation of racial discrimination in California higher education. The Plan’s architects, argues Douglass, had “little concern about the role of race and inequities in local schools” in their laissez-faire approach to high school student performance. As they reasoned, providing enough available campuses across a sufficient geographic expanse would create meritocratic channels to remediate class- and race- based educational disparities. 43 The Plan’s liberal democratic project of equitable access to higher education was ultimately predicated upon a racially egalitarian public sphere that did not exist. As such, the Master Plan wrote into policy other structural disparities whose ramifications the University would only begin to address in the late 1960’s. Alexander Astin, a professor of education at UCLA, would argue in 1975 that the principle of “equal access” at the core of the Master Plan model “may be more a myth than a reality,” as the “impressive numerical expansion” of college students since World War II obscured a “public hierarchy” in the subsidization of public higher education. Fifteen years after the passage of the Master Plan, its “three-tier arrangement” of collegiate governance had increasingly become the norm for the state administration of public higher education. Astin had found across a nationwide sample of public colleges a commonplace pyramidal scheme of student distribution in which “low income and minority students tend to be disproportionately concentrated in institutions at the bottom of the hierarchy.” While such a fact was not particularly surprising, the racial and class stratification of college students was alarming in light Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 61 of the marked disparities in funding between the different institutional tiers. Although community colleges collectively enrolled almost half of all public college students, and roughly five times as many students as highly selective public four-year universities (including the University of California), public spending per student was effectively reversed: highly selective universities received more than four times as much funding per student as junior colleges. Astin lamented that such a trend “reduces the college to a kind of funnel: what comes out is purely a matter of what goes in.” 44 Importing the framework of the Master Plan from California meant carrying along the repercussions of its purportedly race-neutral meritocracy, allocating the most meager of public investment with those with possibly the most to gain. In the early 1960s, however, the legislative passage of the Master Plan’s major provisions (via the 1960 Donahoe Act) and the Plan’s subsequent enactments drew routine praise as a seminal moment of educational statecraft, balancing the expansion of access with the consolidation of cost efficiency. Indeed, the Master Plan subsequently served as a template for other state governments to systematize their own postsecondary education infrastructure. University President Clark Kerr himself enjoyed national prominence as an architect of higher education for his role in implementing the Plan, even in realms beyond academia. A special, October 1962 issue of LIFE Magazine on California profiled the University executive as one of the state’s preeminent “Builders and Pioneers of the Dream.” Kerr stood at the helm of the “nation’s largest school,” a half-billion dollar budget, and—consistent with the criterion for power in California—the school’s “vast real estate holdings.” 45 UC President Clark Kerr (1958-1967) detailed this codependence between the modern research university, or the “multiversity,” and the regional political economy during a series of lectures at Harvard in April 1963. The American academy, asserted Kerr, was a multimodal Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 62 mechanism coordinating “a whole series of communities and activities.” Kerr analogized the University of California as a series of modern-day city-states: each campus was “not one community but several,” governed through a dense matrix of power relations. This functional plurality underscored the inextricable social role that the multiversity occupied as “the chief port of entry” for the legitimation of new professions, meeting the dynamic mandates of capital by training people for emergent niches in the labor market. The UC President’s grand designs emphasized the academy as a critical component of an emergent “knowledge industry,” as a “focal point for national growth” within the technological advancements and transnationalizations of American capitalism. Between the years 1951 and 1970, the University would accordingly increase its yearly research expenditures from just under $17 million to $183.4 million. 46 As the University’s chief executive, Kerr utilized the phrase “Unity and Diversity” to encompass his vision of the multiversity. In his September 26, 1958 inaugural speech at the UCLA campus, Kerr heralded the “stimulus of our diversity” through the “strikingly individual characters” of each University campus. While the University “must be united in purpose and basic principles,” he opined, the expansion of the institution onto new campuses and to meet modern worldly challenges required both “spontaneity” and vigilance against “deadening uniformity.” His first statements as chief executive of the University subsequently became entrenched in the official plans for the University, which asserted that the functional differentiation of the campuses would create a breadth of pedagogical methods “suited to the various needs of California youth.” 47 The racial diversity of those youth were not a manifest concern to the planners. Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 63 In conjunction with Los Angeles’ overall growth, UCLA capitalized on the planned differentiation of the University as well as the inequitable deployment of state resources and infrastructural investment. Under Chancellor Franklin D. Murphy (1960-1968), UCLA officials flexibly employed the notion of the Westwood campus, nestled among the affluent and historically segregated suburbs on the city’s Westside, as an “urban” university. The school’s 1963 Long Range Development Plan, for instance, mandated that the layout, landscape, and architecture of the campus “must be continuously coordinated with plans of the city, in order to assure the highest possible degree of compatibility and harmony.” 48 Murphy himself courted the city’s political and economic elite, as part of his administration’s extracurricular plans for the University as a Westside cultural beacon for student athletics, and the visual and performing arts. UCLA also benefitted from the regional explosion of new and renovated highways: during the early 1960s, the state constructed the San Diego Freeway directly west of the campus, connecting Westwood to LAX and the corridor of defense industrialization to the south, and the suburbs of San Fernando Valley to the north. 49 Despite endeavors to make the campus urbane, the University also mobilized its political influence within community, city, and regional planning efforts to preserve UCLA’s suburban milieu. As early as 1958, the campus itself had been the target of local community groups and homeowners organizations upset at the University’s rapid expansion, and the adverse effects of the regular influx of people on local traffic and standards of living. 50 Despite the persistent paradox that parking and traffic presented to University officials, however, the Murphy administration partnered with the same local interest groups in 1963 to opposite city and state plans for the potential construction of an east-west highway through Westwood and adjacent neighborhoods. The proposed Beverly Hills Freeway, lamented Murphy, was an “outrageous Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 64 proposal” that would do “violence to the little remaining beauty in West Los Angeles.” Clark Kerr and the Regents would reiterate their own opposition to the plan. While UC officials stressed the threat to the neighborhood’s aesthetic pleasure and “encroachment on campus land," they also repeated the complaints of local residents that the planned freeway route would displace homeowners, and carve through a nearby golf course and country club. 51 The 1964 completion of the Santa Monica Freeway finally created a major traffic artery between downtown and the Westside, although its placement several miles south of Westwood demonstrates the localized disparities in political power between the city’s racially segregated neighborhoods. In stretching westwards, the freeway carved through working- and middle-class African American neighborhoods in central and south Los Angeles. 52 The meticulously ordered expansion of the campus itself, a continuous process between the end of World War II and the 1960s, relied on the very sort of holistic community planning at the core of postwar suburban development. Indeed, the 1963 Long Range Development Plan bound the University’s frontiers of knowledge production to the ordering of campus space along Cartesian coordinates: a west-east segmentation of residential, recreational, and academic functions; and a north-south divide between the humanities and social sciences; and medicine and the physical/natural sciences. 53 For Westwood Village, the small business district directly south of campus, Murphy envisioned a pedestrian-friendly and culturally rich area, “a kind of very high quality interesting and charming ‘Greenwich Village’ and without the dirt, perversion and ugliness of [New York City’s] Greenwich Village.” 54 The Chancellor would similarly defer to the spatial separation and distinctly nonurban quality of UCLA in his explanations for the campus’ relative calm, as UC Berkeley became embroiled in protest over the 1964 Free Speech Movement and anti-Vietnam Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 65 War demonstrations. While part of the divergence was due to Murphy’s relatively liberal policies on free speech and campus civil rights advocacy, Murphy himself contrasted the school’s environs. Westwood, asserted Murphy to the Regents, did not harbor the “drug kids and the runaways and the great unwashed” supposedly endemic to Berkeley. 55 Figure 1F: “Basic Relationships,” UCLA Long Range Development Plan (1963) 56 Similarly, research on the Los Angeles metropolis during the Murphy administration could simultaneously presume scholars’ spatial detachment from the city and their mastery over solving the calamities of urbanity. In 1967, the School of Architecture and Urban Planning, a UCLA professional school established three years prior, requested monies from the Rockefeller Foundation to develop a “working model of an urban environment.” The Urban Laboratory Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 66 would provide a controlled simulation of city space on which researchers might conduct experiments in search of “alternatives for the future city.” 57 A visual pamphlet accompanying UCLA’s proposal urged that existing urban planning techniques have been “inadequate” to address a host of urban ills: “Destruction of natural beauty,” “Social unrest and dislocation,” “Ghettos and slums,” and “Traffic strangulation,” among others. City planning efforts, the pamphlet continued, were absent a “‘total problem’ overview” and “systematic methodology” without which planning efforts would fail to apprehend the “complex totality of the urban organism”—the city as both a totality and as an extensive network of “sub-systems” and interrelated organs. 58 In effect, the authors had proposed a new iteration of the city master plan; incorporating new terrains of knowledge, but essentially an update on old forms of order. To this end, the School of Architecture and Urban Planning pointed to the “military and space program” for its “application of innovation” in the postwar period, offering that scientific techniques of data processing, mathematical models, gaming simulations, digital imaging, and other computerized processes had to be brought to bear on urban planning and research. Social scientists, for instance, “may study the interrelationship between environment and crime” by “manipulating the physical and societal” variables in a hermetically sealed scenario, whether in the flesh or in virtual reality. Short of “actually construct[ing] experimental cities,” UCLA planning scholars imagined that creating an edificial “urban laboratory” as an interdisciplinary research space could help to formulate a new sort of “master plan” by finding answers with microcosmic simulacra. Rescuing the modern city from itself did not even require being there. 59 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 67 Figure 1G: Excerpts from the School of Architecture and Urban Planning’s “Urban Laboratory” Proposal 60 This is not to say that UCLA luminaries and scholars were utterly unconcerned with matters of racial incorporation as a dimension of campus-city relations prior to the late 1960s. Also in 1967, social welfare professor Nathan E. Cohen published the results of a study on the Watts rebellion from UCLA’s Institute of Government and Public Affairs. In the process of interviewing over 2,000 people from the August 1965 curfew area, the Los Angeles Riot Study had found that widespread Manichean imaginaries of “good” versus “bad Negroes” had silenced meaningful discussion about the structural ills that had precipitated mass unrest, and in turn threatened to exacerbate future urban violence by amplifying police repression instead of Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 68 community welfare. While Cohen concluded that “all the facts and knowledge available” were necessary to advance the progress of racial equality, however, his comprehensive analysis yielded no institutional reckoning about the capacity to contribute. 61 Even in the year before the Watts Rebellion thrust Los Angeles into the national discourse racial inequity, Vice Chancellor Charles E. Young alluded to a “vast range of research projects” across UCLA’s schools and departments with “a bearing on minorities and their civil rights,” sans any coherence or cohesion. 62 Chapter 2 explores two of the programs in his 1964 report: UCLA had inaugurated novel investigations into racial identity and inequality by interfacing with Japanese and Mexican American civic leaders, representing two of Los Angeles’ largest nonwhite populations. As Chapter 3 demonstrates, in 1964 the University would also pave its incipient inroads into affirmative action, recruiting and counseling students of color from working-class South and East L.A. during the mid-1960s. Nevertheless, it was not until the convergence of institutional and political forces in 1968 that the University attempted a comprehensive incorporation of racial difference through the mobilization of “urban crisis.” Origins of the (So-Called) “Urban Crisis” In 1968, the University of California was but one of many institutions and organizations that demarcated the “urban crisis” as an object of administrative concern or critical interest. At a January conference on the “urban crisis” between public and business officials at Columbia University, New York City Mayor John Lindsay cautioned that the private sector had to direct its resources “[t]o defeat the enemy – not the Negro who has rioted, but the condition that breeds riots.” The following month, The National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders—for which Lindsay had served as vice chair—released its final report, famously portending a nation Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 69 “moving toward two societies…separate and unequal” and noting the “state of crisis” that had emerged from the fundamental institutionalization of white racism. In April, the National Education Association publicized its formation of a task force to research the “urban crisis” of America’s inner-city schools. A June article in the Los Angeles Times profiled the RAND Corporation “vs. the Urban Crisis,” noting that the defense and public policy think tank “was finally turning from the ubiquitous military crises to the mammoth lash-up right here at home” and directing its expertise in systems analysis towards “the angry mutter of the ghetto.” The National Broadcasting Corporation announced in August that it would air a three-part “Urban Crisis” investigative special over the following eight months. 63 The major newspaper media— such as the New York Times, Los Angeles Times, and Boston Globe—fueled the proliferation of the urban crisis in 1968; though not inherently self-explanatory, the term did fit easily within headlines. While UC administrators drew from this wider discourse for their own Urban Crisis programming, Charles J. Hitch immediately tempered his enthusiasm for the term. His May 1968 report to the Regents questioned whether “we are mistaken to call it a crisis, for crisis implies brief climax and muted aftermath. We have to…face the fact that the trouble of our time is rooted deeply in past inequalities and injuries, and we have to be wise enough to work for the elimination of the angry frustration of many.” 64 At a faculty conference the following March, Hitch reiterated the administration’s concern that crisis was potentially misleading as a moniker for the “deep and long-lasting problems” of “our complex, highly industrialized, highly urbanized society.” Further, the UC President asserted that “[w]e have never been very happy with that phrase.” 65 Hitch implied that the “urban crisis” had already come to connote a sense of Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 70 spontaneity that was potentially misleading, pointing to the deeper structural roots of the environmental issues and episodic eruptions of unrest at the time of inauguration. Structural theories of political economy and crisis in the late 20 th century accentuate the year 1968 as a critical turning point in the dynamic relationship between global capitalism and liberal democracy. In their seminal analysis of capital and state in postwar Britain, Policing the Crisis (1978), Stuart Hall and his colleagues frame the global recession of the late 1960s and 1970s as an emergent crisis in the “world-wide search for greater shares in the world market to offset the tapering off of the post-war boom.” This crisis of postwar capitalism was necessarily a political crisis of the (British) state, whose assumption of a “major role in the economic management of capital” had subsequently threatened its legitimacy in the face of economic downturn. 66 Ruth Gilmore extends the analysis of Hall and his colleagues across the pond, marking the late 1960s as the denouement of a “golden” age of American capitalism. The United States’ decades of post-Depression market growth rested on a mode of interventionist statecraft that Gilmore terms “military Keynesianism” or the “welfare-warfare state.” The midcentury state—whose vast expansion had rendered symbiotic its social service and military apparatuses—subsequently “began to lose the ability to manage crisis, and thus to reproduce itself and endure” amidst the plunge in the profit rate in the late 1960s. 67 Hall et al. additionally detail crisis as a phenomenon—a systemic shift in the state, capital, and civic society to disruptions in the political and economic order—with both material and ideological dimensions. That is, the crises of postwar capitalism or the “warfare-welfare” state are inextricable from the signification of crisis: that is, the “ways in which this crisis, and the forces of resistance…are ideologically perceived and signposted by those in power” to inform popular discourse. Hall and his colleagues, in other words, delineate crisis not as a thing Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 71 but a process in the diffuse reordering of social relations. In turn, the institutions that name a crisis in order to explain or respond, or the “agencies of public signification...must be understood as actively and continuously part of the whole process to which, also, they are ‘reacting.’” 68 That is to say, the genealogy of the “urban crisis” in the mid-1960’s United States requires thinking of the “urban crisis” not merely as a descriptor for a set of material or social concerns; but an act that implicates the articulator within the dynamic force of crisis itself. In tracing its emergence, it is thus necessary to question: for what ideological purposes did institutions and individuals signify the concept of an urban crisis? While it is difficult to attribute the phrase “urban crisis” to one definitive source, it is clear that the term emerged as a discursive response to the putative failures of “master plans” to secure spatial and social order. In the summer of 1964, a handful of institutions and individuals invoked the urban crisis as a broad descriptor for the myriad problems of modern metropolitan organization. A July 24 op-ed in the New York Times titled “The Urban Crisis” described a report from the World Health Organization on the urgent problems emergent from the rapid convergence of metropolitan centers worldwide. For “developing countries,” the mass migration of rural populations into urban centers would create reiterative challenges for “health, sanitation and substandard living conditions.” Meanwhile, “[h]ighly developed countries” encountered encumbrances such as traffic and pollution, matters “of greater sophistication but equally damaging effect.” The Times’ editors heralded the hypothetical capacity for humankind to resolve its deepest maladies given the available resources, but doubted the United States’ capacity to lead the world in solutions to such problems. “America is the country of non-plan,” the piece continues. “Resources are wasted, the stigma of formless sprawl is on the land.” 69 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 72 That same month, a Los Angeles-based architect and planner named Victor Gruen was promoting the release of his book. Gruen, a native of Vienna, named the “urban crisis” as a condition explicitly endemic to the “civilized world,” in which 20 th -century metropolitan expansion and technological innovations had ravaged the sensibility and aesthetics of European classical design. The architect’s adopted home of Los Angeles was emblematic of his crisis, insofar as the anarchic surge of “spread, sprawl and scatterization” had created the epitome of what he termed the “anti-city.” The lack of coordination and the overdevelopment of automobile infrastructure, contended Gruen, had created a “centerless region without landmarks” and devoid of the vibrant city center that his book championed as the titular Heart of Our Cities: The Urban Crisis, Diagnosis and Cure. If Gruen’s diagnosis for the crisis was a “woeful lack of planning,” the architect’s manifesto subsequently named the “cure” as the philosophy and science of planning itself: that is, “the injection of diversity and variety into a meaningful organic pattern.” 70 Gruen, notably, could just as easily profit from the patterns of “flight and blight” that his book lamented. Even before its release, his Los Angeles architectural firm had used the “urban crisis” to market its services to California municipalities and developers. In this period, Gruen and Associates would oversee the master city plans for Fresno; and the Southern California suburbs of Marina del Rey and Valencia. 71 Gruen was certainly aware of the consequences of American racism, musing on the crescendo of migrations among African Americans from “areas of legalized or semilegalized discrimination in the South to those with only unofficial discrimination in the North and West.” 72 Yet his description of the urban crisis as an epidemic among Western urbanity as a whole relegated the matter of racial segregation to one complaint among many. Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 73 During the mid-1960s, however, the endurance of racialized poverty and spatial division throughout the industrial North would centralize racial inequality as a preeminent concern of urban planning and public administration alike—even if the sources of said inequality were up for debate. An academic anthology on The Schools and the Urban Crisis, published in 1965, similarly alluded to the abstractions of “a complex and changing urban society” and “vast social changes” constituting the host of challenges to U.S. public education. 73 Yet the demography of postwar population movement and community formation in the postwar United States required that any appraisal of a contemporary educational crisis specify the attendant racial and class segregation within American inner cities. While the authors emphasized a critical need to restore an equality of opportunity in the quality and administration of urban schools, multiple authors’ reiterative references to “culturally disadvantaged children” or “culturally deprived youth” rendered the underperforming, working-class students of color in question as the problem incarnate. That is, early in its public dissemination the urban crisis also accrued meaning as an anthropological treatise on African American and Latino urbanites. 74 The following year, a handful of major periodicals reinforced a similar connotation, appending the term “urban crisis” to their coverage of governmental discussions on racial inequality. In an April 23, 1966 op-ed titled “The Urban Crisis and the Negro,” Robert F. Kennedy urged for a critical investigation into the “problems of the Negro in the urban areas of the North,” in addition to the “continuing crisis in southern justice.” The junior U.S. Senator from New York offered that “[c]onsciousness of the plight of the urban Negro must pervade our thought and our planning in every program that we undertake to improve our cities and plan for their future…Our planning must encompass all aspects of urban life.” 75 The following August, Kennedy served on a Senate subcommittee, chaired by Abraham A. Ribicoff (D-CT), for a series Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 74 of hearings on what the Baltimore Sun and New York Times each described as the “urban crisis.” Amidst testimonies from “Cabinet members, mayors, sociologists and other experts on slum problems,” Ribicoff challenged the sorts of preferential and discriminatory postwar planning that had “slashed highways through cities,” displaced the urban poor into decaying public housing, and materially benefited the proliferation of suburbs over the care of inner cities. 76 This mobilization of the “urban crisis” notably particularized the term as a liberal critique of the postwar United States and its convulsive racial politics. Kennedy and Ribicoff in their public records implicate not the absence of metropolitan planning per se; but rather the prejudicial statecraft, at multiple levels of government, deeply complicit in the recent spate of urban riots. Conversely, the social scientist Daniel Patrick Moynihan, who had served for Kennedy’s brother as the Assistant Secretary of Labor, offered to Challenge magazine in 1966 that the “urban crisis” was more a matter of perception and discourse than reality: “You can always have a crisis if you decide there is going to be one.” Moynihan posed the “urban crisis” as a social anxiety amongst “White America,” which “fears that our large cities will become increasingly characterized—if not dominated—by huge lower class Negro populations. Consequently, he dismissed such social divides as the newest iteration of the xenophobia that had accompanied the advent of Southern and Eastern European immigrants. Casting doubt as to whether “people consciously discriminate,” Moynihan predicted that “by 1980 declining racial prejudice and rising Negro incomes will enable nonwhites to make the same trek to the suburbs” as their European antecedents. Insofar as a crisis did exist, Moynihan suggested, the object of concern was the “family structure of the Negro poor” that he had identified in his famous 1965 report as the primary barrier to Black social mobility. 77 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 75 Even as the term “urban crisis” further suffused American public discourse into the late 1960s, its ambiguity nevertheless allowed for any number of definitions or descriptions. Universalist renditions of the “urban crisis” as merely a malady of modernity, as a condition “coetaneous with the city itself,” 78 continued to saturate academic, journalistic, and public discourse alike. In 1971, Los Angeles city council member Thomas Bradley delivered a series of speeches on the “urban crisis,” in which he posited that the term “dramatizes the paradox of contemporary American society: we are able to place men on the moon, but we can’t make our cities livable for them.” In outlining the array of social, structural, and environmental issues in postwar L.A., Bradley placed racial segregation amidst a litany of seemingly colorblind crises: “the poisoning of the air we breathe,” the “drying up of our urban sources of revenue,” the “total lack of a mass rapid transit system,” the “horror of unemployment.” Bradley—defeated in the previous mayoral election, and two years away from becoming the city’s first African American mayor—cited L.A.’s pressing need for a “realistic master plan” to face the “consequences of…haphazard growth.” In particular, Bradley suggested that the “unsurpassed inventiveness, technical expertise and management genius” of Southern California’s aerospace industries made them a logical choice for a “pioneer in solving urban problems.” 79 Despite these disparate discourses of the “urban crisis”—as universal and colorblind, or a condition of American racism—both utilized the term itself as an administrative object. That is, the “urban crisis” came into usage in order to frame contemporary structural and social issues through a series of policy reforms or institutional philosophies. That the origins of the “urban crisis” lay in the vernacular of institutions like the press (or the planning industry, or academia, or the state itself) is evident in the starkly different lexicons that urban working-class organizations would develop in pursuit of their own structural analyses. The articulators of the Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 76 “urban crisis” in the 1960’s would necessarily encounter and confront more fundamental critiques of capital and the state as the very roots of urban inequality. During a second set of the Ribicoff Congressional hearings in December 1966, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. offered some of his first public statements in opposition to the Vietnam War, admonishing that “the security we profess to seek in foreign adventures we will lose in our decaying cities.” King, by then a resident of Chicago, lambasted the contradictions that he saw in the persistence of state- sanctioned racialized poverty amidst the U.S.’s massive Cold War investments in Southeast Asia and the “pronounced absurdity” of the space race. King would reiterate this position during a April 4, 1967 speech in New York City, lambasting the “giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism, and militarism” in his famous critique of the Vietnam War. 80 These comparatively sweeping analyses of the U.S. political economy and moral philosophy necessarily exposed the rhetorical conceits of the “urban crisis” as an administrative object. Just over a year before his assassination, King gestured to a crisis not derived from the absence of planning, or the mere exclusion of African Americans from prior planning efforts, but a crisis of the racialized poverty and imperial war that he deemed central to the project of American postwar capitalism. Amidst the insurgent vernaculars of structural analysis that populated public discourse in the Vietnam War era—U.S. imperialism, oppression, institutional racism—“urban crisis” operated as a liberal terminology, which proliferated among major institutions precisely for its capacity to contain or elide over such radical indictments of American racism. Charles Hitch repudiated the idea that the University was itself guilty of institutional racism—such charges, he warned, “attribute deliberate motives to an end result of social developments far beyond the institution’s reach.” In his March 1969 speech, he took to task the Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 77 charge that “we have sought to be indirect about our focus and to use ‘urban crisis’ as a kind of euphemism for the race problem”—his lack of clarification regarding the decidedly euphemistic race problem aside. For one, as Hitch’s fellow administrators had quickly cautioned, the term “urban crisis” failed to encapsulate the University’s extant research ties within California’s rural, agricultural economies. Citing the results of his University-wide survey on preexisting research, teaching, and service efforts; the UC President offered that the institution was already committed to studying and solving a slate of societal issues. By pointing to ongoing initiatives across a diversity of disciplines and fields, Hitch thus constituted the UC’s Urban Crisis response as, in part, a regrouping or renaming of prescripted University activities: “not a new function, but rather an intensified and coordinated focus of the University’s basic functions.” This broad, universal conception of California’s “urban crisis” dovetailed with the University’s current programmatic ties to many different sectors of the state’s political economy. 81 During the same speech at the faculty conference, however, Hitch offered a “formal interpretation of our program” with “a primary focus on race and poverty and a secondary focus on environmental problems.” The contradictions in Hitch’s speech—that the UC’s “urban crisis” programs did and/or did not signify some sort of “race problem”—belie the deeper institutional anxieties in the University’s efforts to navigate the precarious political climate of postwar California. It is this same instability within the University’s appropriation of the urban crisis that would lead Hitch to declare in the same speech that the UC’s Urban Crisis programs constituted an “unusual, perhaps even unique…institution-wide commitment” without precedent; and yet still not a new institutional function or paradigm. While UC administrators could point to the slew of extant “urban” research as evidence of their commitment to date, the UC’s Urban Crisis initiatives also specifically targeted the institution’s disproportionately low numbers of nonwhite Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 78 students and faculty. Such “urban crisis” responses as special admissions procedures, faculty recruitment efforts, and curricular expansions, argued Hitch, was not the result of the University’s “institutional racism,” but rather a deep-seated “ethnocentrism” that said programs would address. 82 These circumlocutions suggest that the University’s mobilization of the “urban crisis” as a conceptual entity demands further scrutiny, especially given the administration’s stated dissatisfaction with the term. “I suppose we will go on using the phrase,” Hitch publicly offered to the UC faculty, given how the “urban crisis” had a “wide usage across the country” and offered “a convenient short-hand description for the whole cluster of problems we are attacking.” 83 Of course, the fact that Hitch used the same speech to reiteratively clarify the content and focus of the University’s Urban Crisis programs suggests that the term was not all that convenient. These awkward attempts to appellate the UC’s administrative adjustments expose how the “urban crisis” was inherently an internal crisis of the University and its legacies of racial discrimination. UC administrators had to literally learn, by trial and error, how to confront the so-called “ethnocentrism” of its variegated functions. As UCLA administrators would relate to the Ford Foundation in 1970, the University of 1968 “lacked any basic understanding of how best to serve” underrepresented people of color. 84 While the legalization of the Master Plan had called for two intermediary progress reports between the years 1960 and 1975; the University’s Urban Crisis programming constituted an internal assessment of the Plan’s own structural faults and an effort to remediate its racial exclusions. The Master Plan had originally stipulated that the Universities could admit two percent of their incoming classes via special or extraordinary admissions considerations, but University administrators in 1968 reckoned that the slots to date had not been primarily targeted Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 79 to increase the school’s nonwhite student population. In late March 1968, the UC Regents and campus administrators agreed to increase the figure to four percent in order to admit a larger number of “marginal” students of color who barely fell short of the University’s standard criteria. The specific allocation of special admissions slots was under the jurisdiction of each campus, but the Hitch administration’s Urban Crisis Program emphasized the University-wide recruitment of underrepresented students of color. 85 Hitch himself was adamant that such racial diversity initiatives were wholly consistent with the Master Plan’s collegiate hierarchy. For his administration, the overarching issue was not so much the criteria for eligibility—i.e., the top eighth of California’s graduating high schoolers—as the broader social transformations necessary to assure a larger pool of eligible students from communities of color. 86 Nevertheless, UC administrators were also receptive to shorter-term circumventive methods of recruitment, given the perceived urgency of the University’s “urban crisis” and the generally glacial pace of institutional reform. The University of California’s Urban Crisis response thus offered an audacious mode of liberal institutionality that challenged the Master Plan’s race-neutral logos, however implicit or indirect the critique. However, the Hitch administration’s autonomous efforts at racial incorporation would run concurrent with, and sometimes afoul of, the grassroots planning among Californians of color themselves to contest the relations of structural dispossession. By the end of the 1960s, state education had become an increasingly frequent target of California’s racial justice politics for its putatively central role in preserving racial and class inequities. Two months before Charles Hitch’s inauguration, in the March 1968, Mexican American students across six high schools in East Los Angeles coordinated a series of walkouts and marches to protest the poor conditions and alienating curricula of local public schools. A coalition of students, educators, and Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 80 community members organized as the Educational Issues Coordinating Committee to draft a comprehensive list of grievances. Later that month, the EICC presented their thirty-nine demands to the Los Angeles Board of Education, including compulsory bilingual education for Mexican American students in the school district; textbook and curricular reforms to include Mexican American history and Mexican folklore; racially representative school administrations; the construction of additional high schools in East L.A. and the reduction of student-to-teacher ratios; and the abatement of restrictions on student activity and assembly. 87 The geography of the so-called Chicano Walkouts likewise demonstrates the contiguities between education and the wider phenomenon of uneven development definitive of postwar Los Angeles. The six high schools in East and South L.A. from which students organized marches were separated by no fewer than six freeways converging in and around downtown, through a series of interchanges constructed in the early 1960s. That is, the same major roadways connecting UCLA to the expanding matrix of suburbia and capital across Southern California had rapidly dissected the working-class neighborhoods of color left on the departing runways of white flight. The synchronicity of political mobilization across these dividing lines suggests the counter-connections formed in response, if not opposition, to the many manifestations of infrastructural neglect. Sal Castro, a high school teacher and one of the major organizers of the demonstrations, recalled in his memoirs that local Mexican American college students— including representatives from UCLA’s United Mexican American Students (UMAS) organization—played a pivotal role in directing the marches and organizing the strikers’ demands. 88 As Chapter 3 explores further, the University’s smattering of educational opportunity programs prior to 1968 offered inroads for students of color to claim a stake in the further accretion of affirmative action programs via the Urban Crisis Program. Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 81 By Hitch’s appointment in the spring of 1968, the increasing presence and organization of Black and Mexican American students on multiple University campuses had drawn the attention of UC administrators. Fred Balderston, in his initial report on the “University and the Urban Crisis,” foresaw an accretion in minority student activism and agitation for the decade to come. “Because there has already been at least limited success in attracting minority-group members to become students of the University,” he warned, “there are and will continue to be…militant groups on our campuses.” Nevertheless, for Balderston the primary concern of the University’s “urban crisis” was facilitating the matriculation of Black and Latino students. If the democratic ideal of “effective and full access to the University by children of all citizens of the State” was one motive for the administration to act hastily, so was “the corollary that pure elitism implies enormous public vulnerability.” 89 The Urban Crisis Program would necessarily form part of an institutional effort to forestall external challenges to political authority, preempt their lines of attack, or absorb their counterplans into institutional praxis. However, it was not just student activists’ claims to community empowerment that would grip the University, but the emergent reactionary backlash. Scholars of postwar California have explored how the antithesis to the New Left and civil rights fueled the politics of suburban conservatism, concurrent with the centrifugal movement of the white middle class and their divestments from the metropolitan welfare state. 90 By the time the University of California committed to the reorganization of resources around the “urban crisis,” the institution was on the losing end of that divestment. Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 82 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 83 Figure 1H (previous page): Los Angeles Freeways, Public College Campuses, & Urban Unrest in the 1960s Dissolving the Welfare-Warfare State To the extent that the Master Plan has come under critical scrutiny, historians have most commonly cited UC Berkeley’s waves of student protest throughout the 1960s as the most tangible repercussion to the Master Plan’s grand designs. Clark Kerr has suggested in his own writings that the Free Speech Movement of 1964 was borne from the failure to reach consensus around the concept of the “multiversity.” Student discontents took to task the University for its ongoing expansion into a labyrinthine and alienating bureaucracy; for suppressing potentially subversive student and faculty activities; and for growing as an institution largely through war- related funding. 91 As Christopher Newfield argues, the Berkeley revolt against Kerr’s multiversity signaled the “democratic tendency” and anticonservative potential within the postwar middle class, in which some student subjects of the multiversity’s technocratic knowledge production had, in response, promulgated noneconomic modalities of value and progress. 92 This crisis of the white middle class would have major consequences in the broader scheme of California state politics. Though Charles Hitch and other University administrators reiteratively stressed that the racial diversity initiatives under their jurisdiction were nonpartisan, the UC’s “Urban Crisis” response was necessarily a political maneuver for the institution in the crucible of 1960s California. Upon assuming the presidency, Hitch had inherited a discordant relationship between the University and Sacramento. While academic autonomy and funding were frequently points of contention throughout the expeditious postwar growth of California higher education; the 1966 gubernatorial election of Ronald Reagan thrust the University of California into its own crisis. Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 84 The actor-turned-Republican candidate had adopted the specter of campus protest at Berkeley in his successful campaign to defeat Pat Brown, offering his prognostications for a law-and-order society and the ethos of individual responsibility. Upon taking office in 1967, Reagan engineered two cataclysmic shifts in University governance: for one, he enacted the largest budget cut in University history, slashing the Regents’ requested $278 million for the 1967-1968 year by almost twenty-nine percent. 93 The Reagan administration’s unilateral cuts to state education funds indefinitely extended the Master Plan’s freeze on additional campus construction. State legislators had approved the construction of four additional state colleges in the Bay Area and Southern California when Reagan took office; and the UC Regents had speculated about expanding the University to central-city campuses in San Francisco and Los Angeles. Neither plan ever came to fruition. 94 Moreover, in 1967 the newly-elected Governor used his position as an ex officio member of the Regents to orchestrate the forced removal of Clark Kerr, whom Reagan had castigated throughout the campaign for his allegedly soft handling of student protestors at Berkeley. 95 The Regents’ subsequent appointment of Charles Hitch demonstrated the extent to which the postwar University, if not the California political economy writ large—subsisted on the regional military industrial complex. Hitch—formerly the head of the RAND Corporation’s Economics division, and an Assistant Secretary of Defense under Presidents Kennedy and Johnson—joined Clark Kerr’s office in 1965 with extensive experience in the technocratic methodology of systems analysis. Yet the incoming President was a steadfast proponent of protecting the University’s legacy of free enrollment, opposing Reagan’s stipulations to cover the budget deficit by instituting student tuition fees. By the time Hitch was inaugurated as Kerr’s successor, he was already embroiled in an ongoing feud with Reagan’s office over successive denials for Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 85 educational budget increases. New York Times reporter Gladwin Hill suggested in his May 1968 article on the UC’s “Urban Crisis” proposal that Hitch’s aggressive plan for programmatic expansion “had implications of a challenge” to Reagan after two consecutive years of budget cuts. 96 Indeed, the two parties exchanged public criticisms the following summer, when Hitch and the University Regents petitioned the state legislature to override the governor’s budget cuts to higher education. 97 Certainly, the Reagan administration had formulated its own plans for the containment of social crisis in the aftermath of King’s assassination. California experienced a relative calm in April 1968 as dozens of cities in the United States erupted in rebellion. While the reasons are necessarily numerous and complex—local governments and activist groups like the Black Panther Party both claimed some responsibility—the state government would also take credit for its ability to mobilize the National Guard against mass unrest. The state had drawn up comprehensive plans for the deployment of militarized troops to sites throughout the state, mapping California’s geographies of revolt—from urban centers, to the state capital, to migrant labor circuits in the interior. Yet the inclusion of locations like Riverside and Santa Barbara suggests that the state’s major universities (and state colleges, in the case of Fresno and Bakersfield) were just as central to this cartography of punitive statecraft. Indeed, the deployment of the National Guard was central to the Reagan administration’s response to mass demonstrations on college campuses in the years to follow. 98 This regional fortification of militarized police forces is consistent with Stuart Hall et al. and Ruth Gilmore’s fixation on the year 1968 as a pivot in the realignment of state and capital. Both detail the convergence of a law-and-order, punitive society in their respective studies of Britain and California: the production of surplus labor pools, the deference to incarceration, the Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 86 escalation of sentences, the repression of political subversion, and the ideological re-signification of “crime” as the social crisis par exemplum. 99 The law-and-order response to the aforementioned Chicano Walkouts epitomizes the regional police state in action. For one, the Los Angeles Police Department attempted to barricade and apprehend students attempting to participate in the walkouts. Not long after, the district attorney indicted thirteen of the central organizers on felony charges of disturbing the peace. 100 While the so-called East L.A. 13 were eventually acquitted of the charges, their prosecution stands as a fitting example of how the repression of political dissent broadly overlapped with the shifting definitions and applications of “crime” itself. The year 1968 also marked a decisive shift in the California electorate’s fiscal support for higher education, amidst an impeding economic downturn and a steadily increasing public debt. The construction of college campus buildings and facilities before and after the passage of the Master Plan had continually relied on the allowance of further bonded debt, which Californians had unilaterally approved from the mid-1950s to the mid-1960s at a tune of $13.5 billion dollars. During the November election of 1968, however, voters rejected the University’s plans for expansion, defeating a bond measure for college construction projects. Proposition 3, which would have allocated $200 million to the UCs and State Colleges, and an additional $50 million to renovate public K-12 schools in inner cities, was the first higher education bond that Californians voted down in the postwar era. The measure’s major opponents in the State Assembly, two Republicans from the Southern California cities of Glendale and Tustin, had cited in their arguments both the “unbalanced and dangerous situation” of the state’s outstanding debt ($6.28 billion in 1968), and the motivation to withhold state funds to public higher educational institutions amidst their putative incapacity to contain student unrest. 101 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 87 The Los Angeles Times—whose parent corporation, the Times Mirror Company, was newly helmed by outgoing UCLA Chancellor Franklin D. Murphy—had reiteratively proclaimed its support for the measure. The editorial staff implored voters not to “penalize our progeny for the irresponsible actions of a misguided and militant few,” urging instead that its readership recognize instead “tomorrow’s serious students” whom the monies would benefit. A separate op- ed warned that “[i]t would be short-sighted indeed to thwart the growth of a resource…that has contributed so greatly to the economic and social progress of this state.” Notably, the Times reserved its non-editorial coverage of Proposition 3, pre-vote, to emphasize the bill’s significant material benefits to the suburban, conservative Orange County. The $22.8 million in bond monies designated for UC Irvine, Cal State Fullerton, and local school districts, noted reporter Herman Wong, was second only to Los Angeles in the amount of state funds to a given county. 102 Figure 1I: California Higher Education Bonds by Ballot Measure, 1956-1976 103 YEAR / ELECTION PROP # AMOUNT (MILLIONS) RECIPIENT(S) RESULTS C C C S C U C O T H E R PASSED? % of VOTE TOTAL VOTES 1956 / general 3 $200 ✓ ✓ ✓ þ 77.9% 4,470,921 1958 / general 3 $200 ✓ ✓ ✓ þ 63.7% 4,344,896 1962 / general 1A $270 ✓ ✓ ✓ ✓ þ 66.2% 4,716,332 1964 / general 2 $380 ✓ ✓ ✓ ✓ þ 64.9% 6,329,067 1966 / general 2 $230 ✓ ✓ þ 56.1% 5,475,452 1968 / primary 2 $65 ✓ þ 56.6% 4,804,387 1968 / general 3 $250 ✓ ✓ ✓ ý 44.6% 6,361,827 1970 / primary 1 $246.3 ✓ ý 45.0% 4,309,020 1972 / general 1 $160 ✓ þ 56.9% 7,802,828 1976 / primary 4 $150 ✓ ý 43.9% 5,451,777 The November 1968 defeat of Proposition 3 led UC and California State College officials to warn of the averse effects the outcome would have on projected enrollment increases. Without Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 88 the funds to complete new classroom and research facilities, public college administrations faced an impending crisis in meeting the demands of the student market. 104 Public disapprobation of student protest at state colleges and universities was certainly a motivating factor behind the bill’s defeat, as the Los Angeles Times editorial staff opined. Yet the wider slate of bond measures that voters had defeated locally and nationwide suggested a wider pattern of “taxpayers [who] are in a mood to put the brakes on governmental spending wherever possible.” 105 Reagan himself had remained neutral on Proposition 3, but had indicated a preference of subsidizing college construction projects through a “pay-as-you-go” disbursement of general funds as opposed to increasing the state’s bonded debt. The Reagan administration effectively ended what had been a crucial avenue for public college expansion for the past decade; and the state government had abandoned such ballot measures by the mid-1970s. Aside from a 1972 $160 million bond for community colleges, voters would not approve any additional bonds for public higher education until 1986. Higher education thus served as a primary theater of conflict in the early formation of California’s postwar tax revolt, and in the dissolution of the regional welfare-warfare state. In the wake of increasing organizational challenges to the racist distribution of postwar prosperity, many white Californians labored to withhold for the state’s nonwhite, working-class populations the same state-sanctioned services and opportunities that had supported their own social mobility in generations prior. UC administrators were themselves clear that California’s voting population particularly disapproved of public measures to combat racial inequality in education: as Hitch noted in his March 1969 speech, eighty-four percent of respondents in a recent poll opposed the targeted recruitment of black college students to remedy patterns in educational underrepresentation. 106 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 89 In this political climate, the University of California’s Urban Crisis programming marks the contentious efforts to achieve social consensus around a form of liberal governmentality; a plan for racial integration in the face of other social blueprints from the Left and Right alike. For an institution housing the “conservative elite” of California public academia, per Neil Smelser, said reforms could easily qualify as business as usual. 107 The disbursement of funds in the first year of the UC’s Urban Crisis response was consistent with Hitch’s own assertion that said programs were but a reorientation of extant campus functions: that is, the University’s racial diversity initiatives offered for the administration viable avenues to recruit students and faculty of color while preserving the functions of an elite research academy. During the 1968-1969 academic year, an enumeration the University’s first year of “urban crisis” programming suggested that its main function was the self-reproduction of the University at the top of the Master Plan’s functional hierarchy. Of the $16,681,000 in listed monies, a majority (61.8%) went to funding research, compared to 16.6% for teaching and 21.6% for public service. The report’s breakdown of the same funds, across six categories of social issues, offers that the UC delegated a plurality of the funds (41.6%) to projects concerning education. Likewise, an internal faculty review of UC Berkeley’s Urban Crisis initiatives had revealed a disciplinary imbalance in preexisting research expenditures, heavily favoring the “technical aspect” of related research in the hard sciences and engineering over funding in the social sciences and “race and community relations.” 108 (It should be noted that the University had experienced an overall asymmetry of postwar educational funding, heavily favoring the sciences, math, and engineering over social sciences and the humanities.) At the same time, Hitch’s institutional edict preceded a host of new campus plans and proposals to realign the University’s capacity to address structural and social inequality. UCLA Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 90 Chancellor Charles E. Young, himself newly appointed to leadership in 1968, publicized his own campus plans for an Urban Crisis response in late November. His report called for special measures to “drastically increase the number of people from minority groups” in the student population; and curricular amendments to cover “the special contributions of [and] problems confronted by” these nonwhite communities: the latter in the form of an Institute for the Study of American Cultures to “materially assist in the development of knowledge” in African American, Mexican American, “Oriental-American,” and Native American history and culture. The language of development and capacity saturated Young’s call for racial reform: UCLA administrators had to rethink its employment policies, his report proclaimed, such that “we are making the fullest utilization possible of the relatively untapped manpower potential which exists within these minority groups.” 109 organized by function (L) and topic (R) / total funds: $16,681,000 110 The idiom of development marks UCLA officials’ endeavors to articulate their present conditions (i.e., the University’s predominantly white faculty, and the paucity of an academic Teaching 17% Research 62% Public Service 21% Figure 1J: Urban Crisis Program Expenditures, 1968-1969 Physical Environment 14% Social Environment 24% Health 16% Education 42% Employment 1% Local/ Regional Govt. 3% Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 91 labor market in putatively “qualified” scholars of color) as a legacy of the same contradictions productive of marked imbalances in the student body. Thus, the stated goal of nonwhite faculty recruitment—both to teach new curricular offerings, and to populate the institution more broadly—posed a clear problem to University administrators who also stressed the immediacy and urgency of institutional reform. The Young administration proposed and instituted a Faculty Development Program as part of a systemic effort to diversify the school’s professoriate. Not only would the University mandate the recruitment and training of nonwhite graduate students, a process at best sporadic and uneven earlier in the decade; but Young posited that UCLA could circumvent University prohibitions against hiring its own doctoral graduates as faculty members in order to augment the school’s professors of color. Throughout the process, administrators and faculty proponents both prioritized maintaining the University’s self-ascribed echelon of academic integrity: “not by reducing faculty quality,” per Young, “but by increasing the pool of qualified talent available.” 111 In January 1969, the faculty members comprising the general body of UCLA’s Academic Senate approved, by majority vote, and endorsement of Chancellor Young’s proposal for the campus’ Urban Crisis programs. More specifically, UCLA faculty voted between two competing resolutions, both of which were sympathetic to Young’s proclamation the previous November but offered distinctly different interpretations of institutional philosophy and the University’s mission. The faculty debates constituting the senatorial vote, in turn, offer valuable insights into divergent ideologies of race and racism among University scholars. The prevailing resolution—which won by 417 to 281—offered a lengthy preface extolling faculty diversity as an invaluable contribution to the University’s pursuit of knowledge. “In vital areas,” its proponents proffered, “minority group faculty members will bring unique Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 92 attributes to their posts—stemming from their very lives’ experiences, and encompassing insights into minority group problems—which would be unattainable in faculty recruited from traditional sources.” The resolution refuted any eugenicist rendition of race, repudiating any “inherent connection between race and those qualities of mind and character” required of UC professors. Yet its advocates also asserted as “plain fact…that as a result of historic circumstances, race, and race alone, has been a factor of primary importance in the life experiences that mold the mind and character of minority group members.” 112 In the December 10, 1968 Senate meeting preceding the vote, Leon Letwin, a left-leaning professor in the School of Law, rejected the notion that the school’s Urban Crisis programming was “in the spirit of patronizing concern for ‘culturally deprived’ minority representatives” but rather “to upgrade the educational quality of the University as it now stands.” Letwin suggested in addition that the “prime victims” of “educational disadvantage” included the University’s overwhelmingly white students and faculty, who “are denied the opportunity to come into meaningful contact with the divergent attitudes, perspectives, and perceptions of the discriminated-against minorities.” 113 These expositions explicitly shaped multiracialism as an epistemological weakness of the University, and thus implicitly framed the problem of faculty development as one of institutional development on a grander scheme. By contrast, the comparatively concise, defeated counterproposal had endorsed the overarching framework of the Chancellor’s plan for faculty development while placing rhetorical emphasis on the metrics of qualification and eligibility. “[T]he only basis for judging a man’s performance or potential as teacher or student is the content of his mind and character,” its authors noted in a brief postscript. “We therefore reject any suggestion that anyone is qualified for or disqualified from teaching, studying, or otherwise participating in any program of the Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 93 university merely on the basis of race, color or national origin.” 114 Likewise, the senatorial debates from the previous December elucidate how the resolution’s major advocates attempted to redefine race as categorical and nominative, as opposed to a complex phenomenon of historical inequality and structural dispossession. Ernst Gabor Straus, a German-born Jewish refugee and a professor of mathematics, invoked “the spirit and the words of Martin Luther King” in his dismissal of the “murky mysticism…both anti-rational and anti-humanistic” that the experiential worldview of nonwhite scholars constituted an academic qualification. The economist Jack Hirshleifer cited California’s antidiscrimination labor laws in his opposition to “the really dangerous concept that there is black physics and white physics, black mathematics and white mathematics,” suggesting that the emphasis on race as an ontological basis for knowledge itself made the Urban Crisis response “a program of racial discrimination.” Richard A. Lanham, a professor in the English department, similarly characterized the opposing proposal as using “racial discrimination” as “an acceptable and even laudable method” for admissions and hiring. Naming the proposals at stake part of a “sordid talent hunt,” Lanham lamented the impending possibility of “unqualified minority groups” forming “intellectual ghettoes” in such programs as ethnic studies. 115 Even as these scholars’ proposal failed in vote, their lines of argumentation expose an ideological undercurrent amongst some white faculty members to recast affirmative action as a racist, rather than remediating, function: an early iteration of reverse racism discourse. Rather, the more immediate impediment to the UC’s Urban Crisis response was the University’s ongoing battle of the budget with the Reagan administration. Aside from extramural and federal monies already directed to such projects, funding for the first year of programming largely consisted of Regents’ special disbursements and the temporary reallocation of student Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 94 tuition fees newly instated to cover the budget cuts. Charles Hitch outlined a five-year plan for the Urban Crisis Program, projecting a yearly increase in expenses up to a $40 million budget in the 1973-1974, of which $11 million would come from state monies. However, the state government would largely negate any such possibility by the spring of 1969. Hitch and the Regents had submitted to the state financial offices a request for $3 million in additional funds for Urban Crisis programming for the 1969-1970 year. 116 The Legislative Budget Committee, in turn, only approved $600,000, or just one-fifth of the requested amount. Per the recommendations of the Legislative Analyst, the committee rejected the majority of the budget on the basis that the Master Plan was “silent on the public service program” of the University of California, versus its clearly-delineated roles of education and research. As such, the committee raised alarm that many of the service- and community- oriented projects under the UC’s Urban Crisis regime would overstep the boundaries of University function. “We are concerned,” the Analyst’s explanation states, “that approval of this new program may either formalize an expansion of our current understanding of what public service should be or formally initiate a fourth program at the University.” Moreover, the very possibility of overlap between UC initiatives and those of other state agencies had convinced the budgetary analysts that the jurisdiction of coordinating expenditures for academic projects should rest in the hands of the state Department of Finance. 117 In his March 1969 speech to the UC faculty on the institution’s Urban Crisis response, Hitch quoted at length the legislative comments in order to dispute their objections to the expansion of University functions and the UC’s autonomy over disbursing its grant monies. “[U]nder the tempting banner of over-all coordinating,” Hitch posited, “the program moves farther and farther from the control of those most immediately concerned: the local campus Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 95 sponsors and the local community.” 118 The UC President cited the institutional prerogative of comparative advantage as a reassurance that the University’s internal review process was more than adequate. That is, the UC’s “concentrat[ion] on those areas in which we are uniquely equipped or better equipped than other institutions and agencies to make a contribution” would ensure that its expenditures benefit service projects with clear research, instructional, and/or training components therein. 119 Hitch’s apprehensions over the delegation of budgetary authority to the state government proved prescient later that year, in securing monies for the (newly-named) Urban Research and Public Service Program. His own office had reviewed dozens of funding proposals to select twenty-five, across all of the University’s campuses, to submit to the State Department of Finance for review. Caspar Weinberger—the department director between 1968 and 1970, and Reagan’s future Secretary of Defense—initially rejected all of the proposals outright for nebulous “potential problems which are complex in nature.” Only after resubmission, moreover, did Weinberger’s office review the proposals; and accepted only nine of the twenty-five. 120 The state government posed a significant impediment for the University to secure funding for its own selected efforts: over the duration of the 1969-1970 academic year, the Department of Finance approved just eighteen projects out of thirty-nine submitted (a total of $489,752 out of a requested $822,685, or 59.5%). Furthermore, the requirements that all projects expend the funds by the end of the fiscal year ensured no possibility of long-term program development through such an avenue of state funding. 121 The Reagan administration’s budget cuts and the defeat of Proposition 3 in 1968 link California’s sprawling system of public higher education into the arc of public divestment from the state’s midcentury New Deal apparatuses. The University under Charles Hitch—a veteran of Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 96 defense policy, turned advocate for liberal educational integration—thus comprised a vestige of California’s welfare-warfare state in the moment of its political fragmentation. The UC’s Urban Crisis programming marks the University’s place in this broader moment of political and economic transition, an effort to more equitably allocate the state’s spoils of midcentury industrialization amidst the surging dissensus over California’s public debt. Furthermore, the publicly sanctioned fiscal restraints on state higher education threatened to imperil the coalitional and collaborative relations central to the UC’s liberal Urban Crisis programming: between the University and other educational institutions; and between UC officials and nonwhite student activists. Indeed, the University’s amenability to racial reform ironically made the institution a locus of activity and critique for progressive youth of color, whose radical reimaginations of the academy—if not education itself—constituted a rejection of American postwar liberalism opposite conservative Californians’ castigation of public higher education. The widespread, albeit episodic, irruptions of student protest over collegiate personnel, curricula, and admissions in the late 1960s bespeak Ruth Gilmore’s characterization of crisis as “spatially and sectorally uneven.” 122 The proliferation of organizations like the Black Student Union (BSU), United Mexican American Students (UMAS), Asian American Political Alliance (AAPA), and their proxies at campuses throughout California and beyond evince the expansive networks of student organizing active in the Vietnam War era. At the same time, the extent and intensity of protest activity varied widely—a reflection of the vastly divergent commitments to multiracial incorporation, and intra-campus political tensions, across the state’s collegiate institutions. Likewise, the University’s Urban Crisis initiatives produced an array of programmatic and political outcomes: at times cementing tenuous yet generative avenues for cooperation, at times succumbing to the swells of mass rebellion (and state repression.) Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 97 Fred Balderston’s initial “Urban Crisis” memo to Hitch in May 1968 had posited that the University convene a symposium on issues of racial inequality and educational access, as part of an institutional “change of position…before there is trouble.” 123 The conference, scheduled for the following December at the University of San Francisco, served to invite further participation from other state educational institutions; and to publically demonstrate the University’s commitment to act in the face of political pressures over its racial disproportions. To this end, Hitch’s office had drawn representatives, liaisons, and panelists from across California’s educational matrix—state and junior colleges, private universities, teachers and superintendents’ organizations, and the State Board of Education—to plan the conference as a launchpad for a coordinated plan of action. While unable to secure Coretta Scott King as their desired keynote speaker, the planning committee drew from the state’s politicians, officials, and organizations of color to populate the panels—such as State Assemblyman (and future San Francisco Mayor) Willie Brown; Julian Nava, a professor of history and the first Latino to serve on the Los Angeles Board of Education; and Armando Valdez, the executive director of an Oakland-based organization called La Causa. 124 In his earlier statements on planning the conference, Hitch had publicly professed the need to “confer at length with representatives of the ethnic minority groups,” deeming it “essential that we see the issues in large part through their eyes.” His words notably demonstrated both an institutional drive to examine its own blind spots while reinforcing the social distance from such “ethnic minority groups” in the reference to us and them: “we can only do this [i.e., see from a different perspective] if they participate with us.” 125 In his planned speech for the conference, Charles Hitch outlined a four-point plan for California’s institutions of higher education to coordinate and concentrate in-state efforts to address racial and class inequities in collegiate access. As part of the conference planning efforts, Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 98 UC administrators had collaborated with leaders from the other two tiers of public instruction, and private institutions, to systematize state funds for grants-in-aid to economically disadvantaged students; facilitate junior college transfers into four-year colleges; and recruit graduate students of color to public and private schools alike. Hitch prefaced his speech with the caveat that he and his peers “have no illusions that education alone can bring about full equality of opportunity”—given wider disparities in housing and employment, e.g.—but noted that “many of us are convinced that education affords a singularly strategic point for breaking out of that old vicious circle.” Towards that end, Hitch cited the UC’s Urban Crisis programming as a universal reorientation of the University in its multivariate capacity to respond: “as teachers, as curriculum designers, as researchers, as public service specialists, as employers.” 126 Hitch would never make his address. In the days before the conference was to take place, University administrators opted to indefinitely postpone the meeting due to ongoing student demonstrations at San Francisco State College. 127 The previous month, in early November, a coalition of Black, Mexican American, and Asian American student organizations initiated a strike under the moniker of the Third World Liberation Front. While students announced the protests after the school administration fired George Mason Murray—an instructor in the English department and then the Black Panther Party’s Minister of Education—their grievances and demands implicated San Francisco State for the very personnel, student, and curricular disparities that had informed the University of California’s incipient calls for educational reform. In their respective retrospectives on the protests, Karen Umemoto and Martha Biondi both intone that student activists were themselves cognizant of the Master Plan’s effects on student tracking and racial underrepresentation in California higher education; which informed their own sense of urgency for remediating the absence of students and faculty of color. 128 Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 99 Administrative changes to San Francisco State’s governance in the weeks preceding the (cancelled) conference, moreover, had escalated tensions between students and officials anew. Upon the resignation of college President Robert Smith in late November, Governor Reagan and the College Board of Trustees appointed Samuel Ichiye (S.I.) Hayakawa, a conservative Japanese Canadian scholar of semantics, as the school’s Acting President. Under Reagan’s mandates, Hayakawa immediately reopened the campus after three weeks of closure, infamously confronting demonstrators in person and pulling the wires from a sound truck on December 2. By the time UC administrators called off the symposium on December 11, fearing that the meeting would exacerbate tensions with the strikers, the local chapter of the American Federation of Teachers had declared their support for the protest en route to formally joining the strike in January. 129 The same day, Hitch released a public statement on the cancellation, declaring that the “decision to postpone intensifies, rather than lessens, the University of California’s determination to provide whatever it can in the way of leadership towards improved access of minority groups to all of higher education in the state.” Rather than directly interpellate or implicate student agitators themselves, Hitch reiterated that the conference would have marked the University’s extant, and continuing efforts, in racially integrating California’s postsecondary education. Lifting excerpts from his intended speech, the University President referenced the UC’s “concerted attacks upon all of these barriers”: recruiting students of color; expanding financial aid resources; and “developing ethnic studies curricula.” 130 By the time administrators and strikers came to an agreement over the latter’s demands in March 1969, the Third World Liberation Front had overseen the longest student demonstration in U.S. history; and sparked a sister TWLF chapter and student strike at UC Berkeley in January. Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 100 Stuart Hall and his colleagues posit in Policing the Crisis that the student movements of 1968 across the industrialized world advanced an “entirely novel repertoire of confrontation tactics” that were “theatrical and dramaturgical in inspiration…Street and community became the sites for a series of politico-cultural happenings.” The university had come under assault precisely for its role as an “ideological ‘factory,’” a revolt against the institution par excellence of social reproduction for the “culture and civil structures of the new capitalism.” For Hall and his co-authors, the rapid intertwinement of academy and state in the 20 th century had occasioned the “breaks and ruptures” in the ideological façade of higher education. The ensuing “crisis of authority” was borne from the fact that the agitators were not “from some guerrilla group” overseas but from “the children of affluence itself.” However, the coalition at the mixed-income commuter school of San Francisco State College stands as a reminder that the surge of revolt arose not only from “those destined to inherit the neo-capitalist earth” and “the apprentice-managers of the world” but those who had historically been excluded from the bounty of inheritance. As scholars like Laura Pulido and Cynthia Young have argued, the very appellation of “Third World” signaled for students of color the spatial and structural dimensions of racial inequality in the U.S. as a neocolonial relation, in which domestic segregation and international warmaking were inseparable enactments of state violence. To be certain, such activist movements did include many middle-class students, but had fundamentally emerged out of organized movements among the working-class youth of color looking to articulate the worldly stakes of their own dispossession. To wit, Donna Jean Murch contends that the “elite bias” among academics has privileged the student revolts at institutions like UC Berkeley and San Francisco State over the flourishing of activism at the junior colleges where most students of color in California enrolled. After all, it was at Oakland’s Merritt Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 101 College, two miles south of the Berkeley campus, where two students named Huey Percival Newton and Robert George Seale first met, en route to drafting the Ten-Point Plan of the Black Panther Party for Self Defense in 1966. 131 That is, the theater of revolt should not marginalize the acts of playwriting. If epistemologies of crisis were central to the University’s plans for enacting racial diversity, so would they suffuse activists’ alternative visions for achieving racial justice. In 1971, the esteemed sociologists Immanuel Wallerstein and Paul Starr included the demands from both of the Third World Liberation Fronts in the appendix to The University Crisis Reader, a two-part collection of primary source documents from the very recent history of campus rebellion. According to the editors, the “student revolt” of the late 1960s was the convergence of three overarching political forces: racial justice and Black liberation, opposition to U.S. military incursions in Southeast Asia, and youth counterculturalism. If not always in sync, Wallerstein and Starr assured, the convergence of this motley crew had signaled a crisis of the so-called “liberal university.” To student dissidents, the pretenses of the liberal academy towards the disinterested and open pursuit of knowledge formed a “camouflage for society’s corporate and military structure” to which the American research academy was tied, as well as its complicity in the mechanisms of institutional racism. 132 Wallerstein and Starr envisioned the reader as an instrument primarily to stimulate discussion on the tactics and philosophies of direct action, or “confrontational politics.” If the American academy was in crisis, that crisis was the basis for radical counterplans. However, Wallerstein surmised in his concluding essay that the “third world” movements comprised a potential threat to the vitality of the Left. Despite their “emanations of oppressed ethnic groups,” Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 102 wrote the esteemed Marxist scholar, “they contain many conservative elements because of their need for group unity,” and thus would need to be held in abeyance as variably ally or foe. 133 Wallerstein’s paternalism aside, it was in the absence of any ideological “group unity” that Californians of color could find avenues to engage with the liberal academy. Even if, as we have seen, the contradictions between University of California’s own liberal claims to democratic access and its role within the structural asymmetries productive of urban crisis, the University’s contradistinction to the Reagan administration and its police state was not inconsequential for the multiracial remaking of the University. While students, community leaders, faculty, and administrators often offered divergent avenues for the racial incorporation of the University, the UC’s extant commitment to nonwhite student and faculty recruitment, and curricular reform, created the base capacities for the campus conflicts to follow. The UC’s Urban Crisis Program may have signified the UC’s deep embroilment within the broader fiscal squeeze and social rebellions of the Vietnam War era, but it also provided for the University a platform for harnessing the liberal racial integration of academic praxis as a vector of programmatic development and institutional growth. Coda: Beyond, and Before, Crisis In the fall of 1973 a Joint Committee drawing from both houses of the state legislature released the findings from their review of the Master Plan for Higher Education. While affirming much of the state’s public educational framework and hierarchy, the Committee nonetheless raised several issues about the democratic framework for academic governance. Because the Governor had sole province over the appointment of nominees to the University Regents, California State College Trustees, and members of the Community College Board of Governors “The typical appointee to a California governing board has been white, male, at least middle- Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 103 aged, well educated and financially successful,” noted the report, subsequently recommending that the state government make provisions to have the state’s higher educational governing bodies better reflect California’s diversity in “wealth, sex, ethnic background and age.” Furthermore, the Committee openly questioned the utility of the term master plan, contending that the concept “implies a rigidity which undermines the flexibility necessary for adaptation to changing needs of students and society…In times of increasingly rapid change, any predetermined ‘plan’ is by nature too static.” 134 Moreover, as part of their study the Joint Committee had commissioned specialized reports on the status of California higher education vis-à-vis the state’s three largest communities of color: African Americans, Chicanos/as, and Asian Americans. All three documents addressed to various ends how the Master Plan’s seemingly universal logistics had failed to apprehend the range of structural, economic, linguistic, and social hurdles facing students of color. Beyond specific recommendations for the augmentation of ethnic studies or the targeted recruitment of nonwhite students or safeguards against the “hostility and bureaucracy of college campuses and their Anglo faculty and students,” that is, racial difference had to become a fundamental part of the matrix of institutional management. While the Master Plan’s architects “could not have foreseen the dynamic changes in society, nor the volatile emergence of minority concerns,” wrote the authors of the Asian American report, it was incumbent for the state planners of higher education to adapt the document towards the present and future of multiracial California. 135 The chairman of the Joint Committee, a Democratic Assemblyman of Portuguese and German parentage named John Vasconcellos, was embroiled in a series of debates over the autonomous operations of University governance, including its commitment to the project of racial integration. As Chapters 4 and 6 note, Vasconcellos would levy his position as an elected Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 104 official to pass several legislative resolutions on the multiracial incorporation of California public postsecondary education, championing the statewide development of ethnic studies and challenging the University of California to produce a student body proportional to the state’s racial diversity by the year 1980. The state and academic plans for racial justice in education form a continuum beyond the exigencies of crisis that would push the University of California to wholesale response in 1968. As the following chapters will explore, the triangulation of academic administrators, the Reagan administration, and student activists in 1968 necessarily obscure the other parties at play in the racial integration of California postsecondary education—especially as Californians of color occupied a host of civic, professional, and public positions in postwar California. Liberal and leftist ideologies of race, class, and the university could form strange bedfellows; other times, the partnerships were not so much strange as preordained. Indeed, this chapter has taken to heart Janet Roitman’s argument that crisis is the ground of historical narrative and explanation. Honing in on the 1968 Urban Crisis Program—its moment in time, its institutional conceits, its etymological origins—offers a careful appraisal of the intimate academic relations that constituted the racial integration of the University. And, it is with the articulation of crisis that I have started this dissertation: an invitation into the historical narrative that crisis makes legible. The Urban Crisis Program was a vehicle in which the University of California first co-articulated ethnic studies and affirmative action programs, and thus a fitting point of departure. However, as Roitman notes, to articulate history through the ontology of crisis is to foreclose other narratives, alternative pathways to the advent of racial equality initiatives ensconced in 1968 and the historical actors that stage these scenes. By another measure, the Chapter 1 ’68 Theses 105 study of race at UCLA was not borne out of a moment of crisis but a process of development—in which the University had to learn, as an institution, how to apprehend people of color as research subjects and intellectual beings alike. As such, before turning to the aftermath of the UCP I want to unearth a different genealogy of racial incorporation at UCLA—one in which novel studies on Los Angeles’ communities of color could offer institutional capital to University scholars and administrators while nevertheless invoking larger questions about the capacity of the University to arbitrate a racially heterogeneous polity. Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 106 2 Projecting the Multiracial University: SURVEYING JAPANESE AND MEXICAN AMERICANS AT UCLA In an April 15, 1964 letter to the editor of the Los Angeles Times, a young scholar named Charles Muñoz, Jr. commended the news of a $100,000 Carnegie Corporation grant to the Japanese American Citizens League (JACL) and the University of California at Los Angeles (UCLA). Their joint effort to “publish a historical and sociological analysis of the Japanese in the United States” offered a model for “the Mexican-American leaders of our city,” who “should take a few lessons from the Nisei.” Such an endeavor, Muñoz averred, “could give the Mexican youth more worthwhile pride in his heritage and…make him a better citizen.” 1 Five days later, the Times published a response from Carlos Borja, a deputy state attorney general. While lauding the “Japanese-American community,” Borja pointed Muñoz to a recent $460,000 Ford Foundation grant to UCLA for “a comprehensive study of the problems of the Mexican- American in the Southwest.” One of the project’s advisors, Borja noted that “[i]t is understood” the study would include “the heritage and contributions of Americans of Mexican descent.” 2 Three months prior, news of the Ford grant flummoxed JACL leaders. UCLA Chancellor Franklin D. Murphy had embraced the League’s proposal for their project, but by early 1964 their research had failed to secure extramural funding for two years. In a letter to the League’s president, regional JACL leader Minoru Yasui relayed his consternation—not at “the Mexican- Americans” for finding a backer, but at the JACL’s seemingly inadequate grant requests. “[I]t gets a little discouraging to note,” wrote Yasui, “that the same UCLA gets almost half a million bucks to study the Mexican American problem…while we get the back of their hand!” 3 These epistolary exchanges peek into the matrix of relations between higher education and racial justice politics that converged in the Japanese American Research Project (JARP, Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 107 1962-1970) and Mexican American Study Project (MASP, 1964-1968). These letters bespeak Japanese and Mexican American civic leaders’ common, albeit separate, investments in academic knowledge; indicative of what Mark Brilliant calls California’s “diverse, and mostly divergent” multiracial civil rights movements. 4 Both studies occasioned new affiliations between UCLA’s white professoriate and the state’s minority intelligentsia. Yet these missives also betray UCLA’s rudimentary infrastructure to study race in 1964. JARP and MASP were independently forged within the University’s extensive research apparatus, which had no model to concatenate Mexican- and Japanese American knowledge production as related matters. Consequently, these correspondences are among the few times that the Projects cohabitate the historical record. Likewise, histories of the Projects have revisited them as discrete operations. Ellen D. Wu places JARP within the broader production of “model minority” discourse, as narratives of Japanese American postwar mobility could evince the “triumph of liberal democracy” and counterpose civil rights challenges to the state. 5 The middle-class JACL pursued the study to both validate Nikkei integration and further its own political clout. Per Wu, JARP helped locate Japanese Americans within a “national racial order, merging regional dynamics into a dominant black-white paradigm both complicated and reinforced by Nikkei as a model minority.” 6 In turn, histories of MASP offer divergent takes on its influence. Edward E. Telles and Vilma Ortiz—who, in the early 2000s, re-surveyed the families of MASP’s respondents for their own research on multigenerational inequality—hail the Project as a “path-breaking study.” Like Wu with JARP, the authors posit MASP “accompanied the national discovery of Mexican Americans” in U.S. racial commonsense. 7 Conversely, Rodolfo Acuña offers a more contentious appraisal in his genealogy of Chicano studies. MASP’s director, a white economist named Leo Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 108 Grebler, came under fire from the Mexican American Political Association (MAPA, a California civic organization not unlike the JACL) for the study’s putative inadequacies. 8 These studies have weighed the scholarly impact of JARP and MASP’s publications, while leaving unexplored UCLA’s role in housing both Projects and the details of their research. Co-narrating the histories of JARP and MASP expands our vantage point into the operations of the University during its programmatic growth in the 1960s. Amidst the broad national shifts in academic governance and praxis that Clark Kerr terms the “great transformation” of U.S. higher education, Projects caution us to acknowledge the regional specificities within this national wave of academic expansion. 9 UCLA’s web of ties to the federal government and national funders flourished during the 1960s in no small part due to Southern California’s critical importance to the Cold War political economy. The consequent wellspring of institutional resources fueled the collaboration of UCLA scholars and local civil rights advocates to research matters of racial inequality via JARP and MASP. I argue that a combined history of JARP and MASP offers a crucial aperture into the myriad institutional rearrangements and relations that constituted the racial integration of UCLA in the 1960s. These two initiatives exemplify the localized inflections of racial incorporation that characterized the University’s encounters with California’s multiracial polity and its attendant racial justice movements. UC administrators would recall in 1974 that the institution’s “initial orientation” towards a civil rights repertoire a decade prior “equated black with minority.” 10 Such a binary framework would necessitate a comprehensive realignment of University infrastructure, in order to address what historian Tomás Almaguer calls California’s “historically contingent and regionally specific” racial demographies and hierarchies. 11 It was in Los Angeles—home to the nation’s largest Mexican- and Japanese American populations—that Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 109 University officials interfaced with local organizers and civic leaders to inscribe a pair of nonblack and nonwhite populations as subjects of knowledge production. This is not to aver that the research ventures were the first academic investigations of Japanese and Mexican peoples in the U.S. Rather, the Projects’ concurrence at UCLA illuminates the programmatic shifts that instantiated “Japanese American” and “Mexican American” as categories of social difference within, and of, the University itself. Inaugurated in a time when UCLA had few professors of color, JARP and MASP helped to comprise the very architecture of multiracial incorporation that would facilitate the influx of nonwhite students and scholars in the years to come. The historiography of higher education and racial equality has largely detailed the incorporation of students and affiliated protest movements, a discourse that has hitherto featured UC Berkeley most prominently among the University of California campuses. 12 Housed at UCLA—the University’s second-oldest site, engaged in a postwar push for parity with the flagship campus at Berkeley—JARP and MASP compel us to trace the academic institutionalization of racial diversity through additional historical actors. For the middle-class civic leaders who both partnered and clashed with UCLA officials, aspirations to epistemological authority formed part of their civil rights praxis. Reciprocally, the Projects extended UCLA’s ties to, and expertise on, the city in its midst. The study of race offered to both parties a knowledge that was interchangeably a political practice and institutional capital. JARP and MASP thus aimed to study race amidst the “great transformation,” per Michael Omi and Howard Winant, in “racial subjectivity and self-awareness” among many peoples of color in the 1960s. 13 The social worlds in which both studies operated implicated their research as political acts of representation. JARP’s frequent failures to fulfill its own methods exposed the JACL’s tenuous grasp over Nikkei community politics. MASP elicited a dissensus among Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 110 Mexican American civic leaders, who both denounced and backed Grebler’s expertise. The study of race entailed more than merely incorporating data, as both Projects encountered their subjects as intellectual beings engaged in their own interethnic contestations over ideological authority. 14 Released at the end of the decade, the Projects’ publications were panned in early Asian American and Chicano/a studies scholarship. However, some of their harshest critics also enlivened UCLA’s ethnic studies centers (est. 1969), which were among the first collegiate programs to offer classes in Black, Chicano/a, Asian American, and Native American Studies. By locating JARP and MASP at the nexus of these two “great transformations,” I contend that the two initiatives prefigured the broader racial diversification of the University through ethnic studies and affirmative action programs. In other words, the two Projects were projections of a multiracial university: embryonic efforts for UCLA to develop a cohesive lexicon of racial difference. 15 The celerity with which the University adopted a multipartite language of racial diversity makes manifest its capacity to learn from its encounters with Angelenos of color. Not only racial justice movements shifted in vernacular and ideology over the 1960s: so did the institutions to which California’s marginalized communities sought access. The twin history of these research projects is a clarion call for historians to heed the local dynamism of institutional relations and civic politics that shaped the racial integration of U.S. higher education writ large. Urban University, Motley Metropolis The opening to UCLA’s 1962 academic plan championed the globalizing metropolis of Los Angeles as a key vector for institutional prosperity, as it was “inevitablethat the relations between campus and city will be mutually influential.” Key among the “Fundamental Forces” shaping UCLA’s future was its placement in the largest city of the nation’s most populous state. Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 111 Due to its rapid growth, Los Angeles was “unsurpassed as a laboratory for a complete range of urban studies.” The symbiosis between campus and metropolis vivified UCLA as a “great global crossroads,” which necessitated the augmentation of its “Middle Eastern, African and Latin American Studies” programs. Furthermore, Los Angeles was part of an emergent “Pacific Basin Community” connecting Asia and the Americas. “Located in one of the major centers in this Basin, with a large population of Latin American and Oriental descent,” the plan stated, “UCLA must keep its educational and research attention focused on the West, as well as the East.” 16 In taking stock of Los Angeles’ internationality, the campus plan offers a disorienting social cartography. It is only with the crudest of Orientalisms that we might imagine the “West” and “East” as a geographically coherent placement of the city vis-à-vis Latin America and East Asia—or for that matter, the city’s Asian and Latino residents. Such was the primordial capacity of UCLA administrators in the early 1960s to comprehend the copresence of Japanese, Chinese, and Mexican Angelenos, or what Natalia Molina terms the “regional racial lexicon” of Southern California. Historians have chronicled the many local and state institutions that have grappled with the incorporation and/or exclusion of the region’s nonwhite peoples. 17 The plan’s vocabulary of racial difference, in which Asians and Latinos were wholly external to the University, elucidates UCLA’s inchoate efforts to apprehend the postwar city’s heterogeneity. It was with a similar inarticulacy that Leo Grebler, a professor of UCLA’s Graduate School of Business Administration, first discovered Mexican Americans in the interstices of the 1960 U.S. Census. In Metropolitan Contrasts, his 1963 demography of Southern California, Grebler enumerated the “non-Europeans who leave a unique imprint on the population mix.” 18 Among the “125,000 Asians who represented 7 per cent of the foreign stock” were 81,200 “Japanese”—mostly citizens and long-term residents who repopulated the region after their Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 112 wartime incarceration. Because of multiple federal immigration restrictions levied on Asian migrants between 1882 and 1965, Grebler was effectively describing a population consisting significantly of long-term U.S. residents and their American-born progeny. His rather crude use of foreign stock betrays the sort of historical disconnect in the economist’s approach to Southern California demography. Furthermore, L.A. had one of the smallest “non-white” populations among major U.S. cities, but Grebler suggested that Census categories obscured a group on the taxonomic margins. By distinguishing “whites with Spanish surname[s]” from Caucasians, he contended that the dyad of Black and “Spanish surname” Angelenos constituted the U.S.’s largest urban minority, over eighteen percent of the city. “Spanish-Americans,” per Grebler, were the city’s most economically and educationally marginalized community, despite their enumeration as white. 19 Formerly an economic advisor to President Dwight Eisenhower, Grebler was an esteemed scholar of U.S. and European housing markets. He was, however, no mere observer to racialized poverty in Southern California. Born in Berlin in 1900, Grebler fled the Nazi regime in 1937 and spent a decade as an executive for the Federal Home Loan Bank Board and National Housing Agency. 20 This New Deal housing bureaucracy nationalized racial segregation by subsidizing exclusionary residential construction and home loan disbursement. Historians have shown how federal housing policies abetted Southern California’s restrictive real estate markets, which routinely barred Angelenos of color from accessing suburban developments. 21 The Los Angeles Realty Board, a historical gatekeeper of this regime, partnered with Grebler upon his arrival at UCLA in 1958 to form the Real Estate Research Program. Contra Grebler’s claims in 1963 that “minority groups…have shared in this development” of postwar Los Angeles, the longstanding complex of residential segregation was a major impetus to the Watts rebellion two years later. 22 Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 113 It was the urgency of “recent racial turmoil” with which Grebler began his November 1963 proposal to the Ford Foundation, as “the more militant attitudes of the Negro community are beginning to spill over to the Mexican-American group.” Yet his plan for a comprehensive study of Mexican American political, cultural, and economic life distinguished his subjects’ “special needs and problems.” The proximity of northern Mexico and the U.S. Southwest, Grebler contended, created the “continuous feeding of a linguistic and acculturation problem… unique in the history of American minorities.” Despite their “far fewer” numbers “than Negroes on a nation-wide basis,” Mexican Americans’ status as an “endemic problem population” in the Southwest made his study of regional inequality a matter of national concern. He qualified his study inasmuch as “the Mexican-American population” was “undeveloped” and thus “a loss to our society in wasted manpower and potential production of goods and services.” 23 Grebler inaugurated MASP by racializing Mexican Americans as a problem of postwar capitalist development, a “socially handicapped human resource” and thus short of inclusion within the body politic. Grebler also cited his contemporaries’ “culture on poverty” theories— which traced the persistence of Black and Puerto Rican insolvency to a putative set of common behavioral mechanisms—as an analogue to his own suppositions about the incompatibility of American modernity and Mexican “culture.” His January 1964 prospectus postulated whether the basis of “the low socio-economic status of Mexican-Americans” was a “value system…oriented to the present rather than a goal-conditioned future.” MASP, Grebler implied, might delineate the roots of inequality as a phenomenon internal to Mexican American communities themselves. 24 Yet Grebler’s rapid transition from chancing upon “whites with Spanish surnames” to helming a “systematic and comprehensive” study was indebted to his contacts within the dense circuit of Mexican American politics in Los Angeles. The most prominent of the Project’s Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 114 advisors was Edward R. Roybal, a U.S. Representative from the East L.A. neighborhood of Boyle Heights and a city councilman from 1949 to 1962. 25 Los Angeles’ deputy attorney general Carlos Borja, one of Grebler’s first contacts, also directed the professor to representatives from local civic organizations. In 1963, Borja—whose letter began this article—had been elected President of the Council for Mexican American Affairs, a local advocacy group committed to “build up the image of the Mexican-American in a quiet, constructive way.” 26 Additionally, he was a leader of the Mexican American Political Association, which Roybal had founded in 1960 to coordinate the statewide election of Mexican Americans to public office. Eduardo Quevedo, an attorney and MAPA’s President in the mid-1960s, also signed on as an advisor. 27 These middle-class civic leaders joined MASP’s advisory committee amidst their own positional shifts and debates over the avenues for advancing racial and economic justice. Ralph Guzmán, one of MASP’s researchers, characterized MAPA members as “a young urban middle class” whose “high ethnic unity” was due to a conviction that neither political party would act in their interest. 28 At MAPA’s 1964 annual convention, Borja implored fellow members to embrace self-determination, as “Mexican-Americans have the political potential to solve their own problems.” The same year, he charged state and local Boards of Education with forcing Mexican American children into an “Anglo-Saxon mold,” which produced racist evaluative standards and higher dropout rates. 29 As MAPA expanded its praxis from electoral representation to the wider democratization of public institutions, such dialogues over empowerment and political strategy would ultimately implicate MASP’s inquiries into the so-called “Mexican-American problem.” Conversely, the Japanese American Research Project’s extramural origins in Japanese American civic politics were reciprocal to MASP’s intramural roots in urban demography. JARP began in the early 1960s as an independent effort within the Japanese American Citizens League, Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 115 whose leaders outlined the “Japanese History Project” as a multidisciplinary study: a nationwide survey and sociological analysis, and a “definitive” history. 30 Tetsuo Scott Miyakawa, a Boston University sociologist whom the League recruited to lead the initiative, cautioned to JACL leaders against using respondents as “‘guinea pigs’ to prove a history or establish an idea.” 31 However, Miyakawa proposed the Project to Chancellor Franklin Murphy as a potential utility for U.S. Cold War diplomacy, and a logical extension of UCLA’s research in international studies. California’s rising stock in the postwar political economy made the University of California a lucrative site for investment; to “train more American and foreign scholars [to] go into diplomatic work or other international callings,” as the L.A. Times posited in 1960. The Ford Foundation in particular earmarked millions of dollars to fund degree programs and research ventures in African, Latin American, Near Eastern, and Far Eastern Studies at the UCs. 32 In contrast to Grebler, the JACL racialized Japanese Americans as successful subjects of capitalist development whose lessons could be applied beyond the borders of the nation-state. Studying the Japanese immigrants who had acculturated to American capitalism, Miyakawa opined, offered a template for mitigating frictions “frequently encountered by the American and United Nations specialists collaborating with Asians and Africans in efforts to rationalize their economy, education, public administration, and health services.” 33 The JACL offered that the study could rebut charges from the postcolonial Third World that “the United States will never accept non-Europeans into the mainstream of American society,” as the “nearly complete integration of the Japanese Americans should prove that American democracy can and does work for all people.” 34 Not unlike MASP, the JACL distinguished their own subjects from African Americans—albeit specifically by suggesting that Japanese Americans comprised a solution to the crisis that Black inequality and mobilization had posed to the state. 35 Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 116 Furthermore, the JACL noted in their appeal to Murphy that the study would create a permanent archive of documentary materials at UCLA. Its leaders foresaw the need to amass their own collection of primary sources in order to write a historical monograph, as Japanese Americans’ mass displacement in 1942 had precipitated the widespread dispossession of personal and organizational effects. 36 Amidst the Murphy administration’s aggressive expansion of UCLA’s library holdings and rare book collections, the JACL offered their future registry of surviving prewar records as a rare addition for the school’s humanities research. 37 Aware of the “bargaining power” that UCLA’s quest for prestige had afforded the JACL, the League insisted on its autonomy to hire its own scholars. 38 However, Miyakawa and his fellow researchers were—like Grebler—complicit in socially engineering their research subjects due to their own wartime ties to the federal state. Founded in 1929 by middle-class assimilationist Nisei, the JACL exhorted their kinfolk to comply with government orders during World War II as a show of loyalty. The War Relocation Authority, the agency administrating the internment, anointed JACL leaders as liaisons between officials and inmates. JACLers also aided in the early resettlement of upwardly mobile internees throughout the Midwest and Northeast. UC Berkeley sociologists worked with both parties for its Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study, a survey on the internment and eastward dispersal of “assimilable” Nisei. 39 The scholars that the JACL recruited to JARP had been among the WRA’s first parolees, either assisting the relocation of fellow transplants or conducting ethnographies on them. T. Scott Miyakawa was in New York City during the war, east of the evacuation zone, and assisted in the movement of internees to New York. Gladys Ishida Stone, a professor from the University of Wisconsin whom Miyakawa recruited to design JARP’s surveys, had played a similar role in Minnesota. Shotaro Frank Miyamoto, a University of Washington social scientist and the Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 117 Project’s regional director in the Pacific Northwest, worked for JERS as a field researcher in the Tule Lake War Relocation Center and among resettled Japanese Americans in Chicago. Joe Grant Masaoka, JARP’s full-time administrator, likewise aided in the relocation of internees to Denver; and to San Francisco after the war. 40 As it is well documented, these collusions between the JACL and the WRA made the League an enduring figure of controversy among wide swaths of Japanese America, many of whom were at odds with its centrist politics or its miscegenations with the federal state. During the internment, WRA had empowered English-speaking, U.S.-born Nisei assimilationists as the legitimated representatives of the internee populations. As internment historians have demonstrated, however; in several of the camps the Nisei leadership, many of whom were JACL members, drew the ire of internee malcontents. In extreme cases, they became the targets of death threats and physical violence for their real or imagined roles as collaborators and/or informants. Accordingly, the JACL witnessed a precipitous decline in membership during World War II. It would take the subsequent decades, amidst the public rehabilitation of Japanese Americans in postwar liberal discourse, for the League to regain a substantive following. 41 Nonetheless, JACL leaders’ previous ties to internment administrators would abet their efforts with JARP. The JACL approached UCLA at the recommendation of Ralph Palmer Merritt, the former director of the Manzanar War Relocation Center. Prior to World War II, he had served as the UC’s first Comptroller from 1913 to 1917, and was a University Regent from 1923 to 1930. In June 1961, Merritt wrote to Clark Kerr at the behest of the JACL. A “study of the story of Japanese in America” offered “dramatic proof of the intangible rewards of democracy,” he assured, and the University would “profit by the association.” 42 Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 118 Chancellor Murphy took the “very unusual” step of writing personally on behalf of JARP to the heads of the Ford Foundation and the Carnegie Corporation, two of the University’s major funders. Noting his “unusual enthusiasm” for the study, Murphy insisted to Ford Foundation President Henry Heald that “in spite of its scope and complexity,” JARP had the backing of an institution willing to “commit [itself] unstintingly to accomplish it.” 43 While making no similar entreaties on behalf of MASP, Murphy served as an ex officio member on its community advisory board. Both initiatives ultimately secured funding from this network of private foundations: both Ford’s grant to MASP, and Carnegie’s to JARP, commenced in early 1964. 44 It is also likely that JARP and MASP’s similar nomenclatures were an administrative maneuver on the part of UCLA. The designation of “Project” was a subcategory within the broader framework of the Organized Research Unit (ORU). The University of California had systematized ORUs in 1959 to orderly incorporate innovative scholarly ventures, especially interdisciplinary research, with logistical and financial flexibility. Both Projects would rely on the flexible research arrangements for which ORUs allowed. For JARP, the University could host a research initiative originating with a civic organization that would hire its own scholars. The ORU was also the primary vehicle through which UC campuses could pursue interdisciplinary research in the 1960s. This function was imperative for MASP, as Leo Greber amassed scholars from programs across UCLA—Sociology, Political Science, Anthropology, Education, Business Administration, Social Welfare, Public Health, Public Affairs, and Industrial Relations—to contribute to the Project’s analysis. 45 The two studies were nonetheless distinct in their origins, interpellating Japanese- and Mexican Americans at opposite ends of UCLA’s Cold War research spectrum: international versus local development. As such, only MASP appears in a 1964 memo listing UCLA’s Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 119 research “bearing on problems of minorities and their civil rights.” 46 Despite MASP’s extensive research on Mexican immigration, JARP alone makes the 1966 booklet on UCLA’s International and Comparative Studies Programs for its “history of the contributions of Japanese immigrants to American civilization.” 47 The Projects’ different utilities for UCLA mirrored their divergent racializations: Mexican Americans as problematic; Japanese Americans, emblematic. Rather, it was a September 1964 press release that linked JARP and MASP as UCLA programs with “special interest for the ethnic and religious communities of Los Angeles and California.” 48 The Projects thus formed homologous opportunities to register the multiracial milieu of Los Angeles as part of the University’s purview. These twin efforts specifically sought to enumerate populations that UCLA leaders had previously cast in broad strokes as racialized peoples alien to the academy. The incorporation of Japanese Americans and Mexican Americans as epistemological subjects would thus anticipate their subsequent entry en masse as scholars and (especially for the latter) as students. It was with similar references to the “cosmopolite” city of Los Angeles and its “many nationalities, cultures, races, and religions” that University officials would frame the inauguration of the school’s student affirmative action efforts. The fall of 1964 also marked the Murphy administration’s first attempts to access federal antipoverty monies in order to increase the flow of low-income Angelenos of color into the student body. UCLA was the first University of California campus to establish an Educational Opportunities Program (EOP), which supported seventy-six Black and Mexican American undergraduates in 1964 and expanded to “Orientals” and Native Americans in later years. 49 While EOPs proliferated in the mid-1960s with the disbursement of federal War on Poverty funds, UCLA’s was the first (and for a few years, the only) program nationwide to specifically recruit and assist Mexican American students. This Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 120 innovation was, in part, borne from the relations that cohered in the Mexican American Study Project: UCLA first recruited Mexican American high school graduates in partnership with the Youth Opportunities Foundation, a local organization founded by Edward Roybal. 50 Tracing the history of racial integration at UCLA through JARP and MASP—with their disparate origins, distinct logistical arrangements, and different ideological goals—reveals the school’s decidedly multidirectional process of incorporation. Notably, both Projects mobilized researchers who bore personal ties to prior, state-sanctioned classifications of Japanese and Mexican peoples for the sake of displacement, containment, and exclusion. Yet together, JARP and MASP formed a paradigmatic shift within the University, in which research on Californians of color could alter the lexicography and taxonomy of institutional praxis itself. Throughout the 1960s, the two Projects would continue to elicit emergent conflicts over the politics of knowledge production, as their researchers endeavored to qualify and quantify racial difference from the identification of interlocutors and the aggregation of data. Surveying the Politics of Representation However disparate their origins and divergent their orientations, JARP and MASP both produced statistical analyses from remarkably similar interview procedures. The two studies sought to delineate the contours of racial identity through a comprehensive survey investigating the family, economic status, social life, and political participation of their respective respondents. It was through this process of translating their subjects’ collective insights that both Projects aimed to represent racial difference as a knowable entity. Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 121 Figure 2A: Overview and Comparison of JARP and MASP Surveys 51 Survey Topics JARP (Nisei) MASP Basic biographical info (marital status, family, place of birth) X X Current neighborhood and previous areas of residency X X Current job, occupational history, composition of workplace X X Family income X X Debt and savings X Educational attainment and aspirations X X Views on marriage/marital roles and raising children X X Size and quality of residency X Health and wellness X Peer groups, social networks, organizational memberships X X Religious participation X X Electoral and political participation X X Opinions on assimilation and upward mobility X X Opinions on anti-Japanese/Mexican racism, civil rights X X Media consumption (periodicals, radio, television) X X Fluency in Japanese/Spanish; travel to Japan/Mexico X X Labor union participation X X Armed forces participation X X WWII internment X n/a In a 1962 letter to JACL leaders, T. Scott Miyakawa emphasized the need for JARP to strike a “delicate balance between scholarly objectivity and the living, human history” of its subjects. 52 The League’s promotion of the Project framed these aims as consistent—that the historical truths of Japanese Americans’ experiences would corroborate their model citizenship. Cartoonist Pete Hironaka illustrated JARP in the JACL’s newsletter, The Pacific Citizen, through a series of metaphorical Americanisms: a friendship between a female student and a book-toting Bruin; a portraiture of “Our Issei Fathers”; a football player splitting the defensive line of “old myths” and “popular fallacies.” 53 As Ellen Wu argues, the JACL’s middle-class Nisei leaders saw in JARP a vehicle to write Japanese American history in their assimilationist self-image. Over the course of the Project, their stated intent of paying homage to the Issei gave way to valorizing their own generation as the agents of integration and upward mobility. 54 Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 122 Figure 2B: Pete Hironaka’s JARP cartoons in the Pacific Citizen. L to R: June 8, 1962; June 19, 1964; October 1, 1965 Yet JARP’s progress reports and internal memos reveal that the JACL’s efforts to produce this self-aggrandizing “success story” were ironically beset with persistent failures to conduct research. The League’s tenuous approval amongst many Japanese Americans resentful of its wartime affiliations compounded the challenge of amassing a nationwide sample of interviews. It was a mandatory survey, or the infamous Loyalty Questionnaire, that the WRA had used in 1943 to reorganize its inmate populations or grant early parole based on the respondents’ putative patriotisms. 55 Consequently, several Issei were resistant to being interviewed, paranoid that JARP was another JACL front for state surveillance. JARP staffers even had to remove the JACL’s name from Project paperwork, lest the League’s unpopularity compromise the survey. 56 The JACL’s prior role in WRA resettlement efforts, which had widely dispersed parolees to discourage the formation of new Japanese American enclaves, created a labyrinthine social landscape to navigate two decades later. The Project’s staff faced the challenge of finding an adequate sample size of respondents among Japanese Americans scattered throughout the Rockies and Midwest. Courting a single participant often required recurrent “personal contact, Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 123 and face-to-face dealings,” a herculean task in “far-flung” places that neither JARP researchers operating out of UCLA nor JACL chapter members could easily reach. 57 Yet enumerating Los Angeles’ Nikkei community, the largest in the nation, was no less vexing. Many Japanese Angelenos were recent transplants: the widespread dispossession of capital during the internment uprooted prewar communities and propelled the urbanization of former agriculturalists. “Los Angeles is probably the most difficult place in the country,” Miyakawa cautioned in 1963. “No one can assume that the type of general familiarity which exists among Issei circles in a place like Cleveland or even Chicago remotely exists here.” 58 Despite the JACL’s substantial membership in the region, many other Nikkei lacked ties to the organizational and social networks through which JARP researchers sought out interviewees. The JACL also frequently struggled to mobilize its own membership base, whose volunteer labor the League’s leaders had envisioned as a “ready-made mechanism” to assist in the nationwide survey. To their chagrin, individual chapters inconsistently heeded requests to participate in fundraising drives, recruit respondents, and return progress reports. JARP’s staff sought to train JACL members as interviewers to avoid the costs of professional surveyors, but the sheer length of the survey deterred respondents and interviewers alike. In one unspecified city, the interviewers went on strike for higher pay. 59 Throughout their endeavors to imbue JARP as a narrative of Japanese American ethnic cooperation and model citizenship, the JACL leaders and Project researchers would find their constituency unreliable, if not intransigent. While culling respondents along the socioeconomic spectrum and across the continental U.S., JARP’s criteria for selecting interviewees betrayed the JACL’s ideological proscriptions. Project researchers restricted their “Issei” survey sample to immigrants who arrived before the passage of the 1924 Asian Exclusion Act. 60 The survey thus drew boundary lines around a Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 124 population that would be demographically consistent and identifiable by its multigenerational family structure: Issei, Nisei, and Sansei. The JACL could thus fashion an assimilation narrative whose progress was self-evident. Historian Eiichiro Azuma contends that the omission of post- WWII immigrants from Nikkei historiography amounts to a “discursive domestication” that facilitates an “often fabricated image of the superpatriotic Japanese American.” 61 JARP researchers also deliberately omitted uneducated Japanese Americans from some of their survey samples, eliding over subjects who were likely to disrupt the narrative of post- internment mobility. Gladys Ishida Stone, a University of Wisconsin sociologist whom the JACL and Miyakawa had hired to design the interview, had proposed that the survey exclude anybody without a high school diploma. Indeed, some of the statistical analyses derived from JARP data indicate that one hundred percent of the Project’s Nisei respondents had graduated high school— whereas others note a minority of Nisei high school dropouts. 62 The internal inconsistency of the survey data suggests that Ishida Stone’s exemptions factored into some of JARP’s research. The JACL’s methodological flights of fancy, and their reiterative failures in conducting the research, made manifest its unstable hegemony over Japanese American civic society in the 1960s. The League’s contentious claims to political representation regularly impeded its leaders’ aspirations to academic representation. However, these same leaders would find their researchers culpable for JARP’s constant delays, even questioning privately whether Miyakawa had a mental illness. The JACL terminated Miyakawa and Ishida Stone in 1965, ceding authority to UCLA’s white faculty affiliates. 63 That is, the League divested Japanese American scholars from their positions of authority—not to mention their publication credits. As a result, the research became the domain of a nonacademic whom the League had originally hired to handle the Project’s quotidian administrative tasks. Joe Grant Masaoka, the Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 125 older brother of JACL leader Mike Masaoka, had worked for the WRA in Manzanar as a field researcher. He was fluent in Japanese and uncommonly able to communicate across generational divides: the League’s citizenship requirement for membership and its assimilationist stance left most of its leaders monolingual. A member of the WRA’s appointed leadership at Manzanar, Masaoka was among those whom dissident internees had publicly threatened, which prompted his early release to Denver. 64 Yet the skillset that had implicated Masaoka as an informant for the internment regime made him invaluable as JARP’s primary ethnographer. During his transcontinental journeys between 1965 and 1967 to record interviews and find archival materials, Masaoka left a trail of progress reports that evince the intimacies of contact necessary to complete the research. Before JARP’s surveys were quantified as data for UCLA’s social scientists, Masaoka created an ongoing grassroots narrative by relaying the experiences of his interlocutors. His travelogues, published in Japanese American periodicals and the JACL’s Pacific Citizen, linked a constellation of communities into a national discourse of Nikkei history. 65 Masaoka’s vignettes described Issei “pioneers” as frontier settlers whose virtues—“industry, frugality, honesty, self-reliance” and “support of community endeavors”— had enabled their survival in the face of racist policies and violence across the American West. 66 In his public writing, Masaoka championed JARP’s “recording of Issei life stories” for “capturing a period in American history which is fast disappearing like the Far Western Frontier”—i.e., a race against the rising postwar numbers of Issei deaths. However, his private commentary inverted this Turnerian mythology to instead imagine fieldwork as a venture into a wide-open frontier of uncharted Japanese American communities. 67 Masaoka relayed to JACL leaders his frustrations over the “search into the unknown…It rather resembles the Lewis and Clark expedition venturing into the primitive wilderness for two and a half years.” Hhis Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 126 correspondence betrays a research process less methodical than spontaneous—such as augmenting JARP’s archive by thieving the headstone of “Willamette” Takahashi, purportedly the first Japanese migrant to the U.S. in 1867, from an abandoned cemetery in Nevada. 68 Masaoka’s tortuous travels through the frontier of Nikkei knowledge production left behind a paper trail whose narrative often betrayed the triumphalist narrative that the JACL sought to publicize. Masaoka would understand the sort of experiential knowledge he had gleaned through his travels as a structural absence in academia and Japanese American politics alike. His 1969 speech at the World Conference on Records on behalf of JARP reproached the “heretofore indifferent and perfunctory efforts of university libraries and ethnic communities” for the inadequacy of scholarship on people of color. “Without research on material written by constituent members of the ethnic groups,” stated Masaoka, “such studies tend to be superficial, incomplete and biased.” 69 Masaoka certainly had reason to find his own organization culpable for this intellectual gap. JACL leaders were unable to read many of the documentary materials that Masaoka had collected for the Project’s archive, particularly those written in vernacular Japanese. 70 The JACL had hired a Japanese-born doctoral student, Yasuo Sakata, in 1962 to serve as a research assistant and translator, but the sheer scope of organizing and translating the archive was beyond his personal capacity. 71 Incapable of apprehending the Project’s historical subjects, League leaders faced the conundrum of producing the definitive history that they had promised. Throughout the 1960s, JARP’s research failures constituted a constant referendum on the JACL’s fragile political authority—and intellectual ability—to heed the words of actual Japanese Americans. The Mexican American Study Project’s researchers encountered their own challenges in rendering their subjects as academic knowledge, reliant as they were on Census data that had Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 127 enumerated their subjects as white. The Project’s staff had downsized the interviewee pools to Mexican Americans in Los Angeles and San Antonio—their original proposal was to cull respondents in California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas—upon realizing the complexity of the two cities alone. Unlike JARP researchers’ use of grassroots social networks, MASP scholars located their respondents by creating a computer algorithm to systematically disaggregate “Spanish surname persons” from white people in Census reels. The Project’s staff compiled an index of names endemic to the Southwest, “stored in the memory units of the 1401 IBM Computer” at UCLA’s data processing center and used to identify potential interviewees in Los Angeles and San Antonio. 72 Using this facsimile of a Mexican American populace and armed with a sizeable budget, Leo Grebler contracted an interdisciplinary phalanx of UCLA social scientists to aid in the study. Between 1965 and 1968, MASP released eleven Advance Reports of preliminary findings, including studies of public health, intermarriage trends, residential segregation, and immigration. 73 However, these multiform investigations into Mexican American life relied on the critical insight of MASP’s community advisors, who had their own ideas about intellectual authority. In a 1965 request to the Ford Foundation for additional funds, Grebler touted the Project’s “substantial intellectual penetration of our subject.” The advisory boards had been a “worthwhile experiment,” useful in “injecting some procedure for ‘getting beneath the skin’ of the Mexican- American individual.” 74 Yet despite these successes in sociological surgery, he had found his own Angeleno advisors, who had presented a “strong and insurmountable resistance to having Anglos” on their committee, largely impenetrable. 75 Grebler, for whom such self-organization was antithetical to scholarly inquiry, vacillated between lauding his advisors as a “Mexican- American elite” and lamenting the “ordinary difficulty of communication” with a “group of Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 128 laymen who really do not know what research is all about.” MASP’s scholars, he asserted, were “motivated by the dispassionate pursuit of science, but this is not a meaningful goal to most Mexican-Americans” or “other disadvantaged groups.” 76 Nevertheless, the advisors had lobbied for Ralph Cortéz Guzmán, a veteran of Los Angeles activism and a UCLA Ph.D. student in political science, to join MASP as an associate director. His unanticipated hiring required Grebler to request the grant extension, but Guzmán had been a crucial recruitment. As MASP’s advisors had objected, none of the initial faculty or staff were of Mexican descent—nor literate and fluent in Spanish. 77 Born in Guanajuato, Mexico in 1924, Guzmán immigrated to the U.S. during the Great Depression, traveling with his family of migrant farmworkers before settling in Los Angeles. In the 1950s, he was a lead organizer in the Community Service Organization, an East L.A. civic group instrumental in Edward Roybal’s 1949 city council election. He was also a founding member of MAPA. 78 Guzmán’s dual commitments bound MASP’s research to coeval efforts among Mexican American advocates to access War on Poverty funds. In the wake of the Johnson administration’s expansion of the welfare state, authoritative knowledge on Mexican Americans as a disadvantaged minority was a potential vehicle to procure federal antipoverty monies mostly earmarked for African American communities. In a May 1966 article for The Nation, Guzmán and MASP associate director Joan Moore noted the widespread hopes for a “Negro-Mexican coalition,” but also the frictions emergent in the competition for resources. The influx of antipoverty funds to L.A.’s Black neighborhoods following the “Negro rioting in Watts” the previous August “was particularly resented by many Mexicans” who “got no rewards for not rioting.” 79 Historians have detailed how middle-class Mexican Americans’ postwar appeals to the state periodically hailed their constituencies as model citizens whose dispossession thus Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 129 deserved remediation. Not unlike JARP, MASP inhered political investments that sought to racialize Mexican Americans as a “definitively not-black” minority, to borrow from Ellen Wu. 80 Despite Grebler’s dichotomization of scholarship and politics in response to his advisors’ pushbacks, Guzmán remained active in the network of “equal rights leadership” that he and Moore described in The Nation. 81 On March 28, 1966, Guzmán organized several civic leaders to walk out of an Equal Employment Opportunities Commission conference in Albuquerque, New Mexico out of frustration that the EEOC had continued to minimize its efforts in Mexican American antidiscrimination. 82 Grebler himself authored an op-ed for the Los Angeles Times the week after in praise of the action, indicting the federal government’s “ignorance, indifference, and insensitivity vis-à-vis Mexican-Americans, the second largest group of this kind in the nation.” Mexican Americans’ “emerging as a national minority” required the state to apprehend the Southwest’s particular racial landscape, as “action programs which ignore [their] specific difficulties are doomed to failure.” 83 By the mid-1960s Grebler had abandoned his culturally deterministic explanations for Mexican American poverty, positing in his 1965 grant request that such conditions “seem more properly attributable to economic and other situational variances.” 84 However, he continued to position Mexican Americans’ self-organized efforts at remediating racial and class disparity as mutually exclusive with MASP’s research on such issues. During a meeting with officers from the Rockefeller Foundation in 1967, Grebler privately proclaimed his disdain for Guzmán as a “political propagandist” and “empire builder” whose organizing interests had superseded his purportedly subpar academic work. 85 While Grebler positioned MASP as an objective and disinterested project against the agendas of Mexican American racial justice politics, his 1965 travelogue from a summer Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 130 research trip to Mexico recalled the praise he had received from his interlocutors for empathizing with the research subjects “in a fairly big way.” During his travels to Mexico City, Oaxaca, Michoacán, San Luis Potosi, Durango, and Chihuahua, Grebler understood his contacts’ “entirely unsolicited interest” in the Project to mean they “were obviously impressed with the fact that somebody cared about the Mexican-American population.” Elsewhere in his observations, Grebler offered that the “social change” underway amidst the urbanization and industrialization of postwar Mexico “resembles in many respects the social change that occurs among the Mexican-American population” in the present day. “The urban Mexico of to-day is not as different from the urban United States as it was 20 or 40 years ago,” he surmised, and “it seems that the traditional pattern of behaviour in which the Mexican tended to live with problems rather than try to solve them…is in the process of transformation.” Grebler thus invoked a putative anterior time in which Mexican modernization was catching up to the West as one basis for Mexican American economic dispossession. 86 In his private reports for the Project, Grebler speculated on the reasons for his liaisons’ aspirations to self-determination. The intensification of Mexican nationalism, he proposed in his travelogue, “may have reduced the tendency of educationally and economically ‘advanced’ Mexican-Americans to turn their backs on their heritage and community and disappear into the Anglo world.” To the Ford Foundation, he attributed an emergent “consciousness in community” growing middle-class mobility: the origins of “the semi-mystical basis of solidarity in ‘la raza’” were in the “[h]igher incomes, more education, [and] some success in local politics and some recognition by national politicians.” 87 These theories place a paradoxical demand on Mexican American subjectivity: socialization into the middle class had engendered new forms of political Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 131 identity, but those very politicos appeared to Grebler as an impediment to MASP’s prescriptions for Mexican American class mobility. Consequently, hostilities between Leo Grebler and some of his advisors came to a breaking point over the Grebler’s pretenses to expertise. In the spring of 1966, MAPA President Eduardo Quevedo resigned from MASP’s advisory board, launching an organizational campaign against the Project. At a May 3 press conference, MAPA Education Council chairman Manuel H. Guerra charged that Grebler’s “qualifications…do not meet the standards” necessary to study “the complex problems afflicting the Mexican-American people” and their “many talents and gifts.” 88 A professor of Spanish at the University of Southern California, Guerra had consulted with Grebler during MASP’s early stages, unsuccessfully offering to join the Project. 89 In two subsequent pamphlets, the Education Council argued that Grebler “does not respect nor acknowledge the maturity or reality of the concensus (sic) of self-determination of the Mexican- American community.” As he had disregarded “competent and professionally recognized” Mexican American scholars, MAPA demanded that Grebler step down in favor of Guzmán. 90 In the wake of MAPA’s charges that Grebler was “too distant from the grass roots to really understand the problems” at hand, MASP’s eleven remaining advisors issued their collective support for the Project. 91 “Charges against the Study,” they wrote to Grebler, “do not reflect the feelings and beliefs of the Mexican-American community as we know them.” 92 Edward Roybal had also commended MASP in the Congressional record the previous February for its “extremely significant role” in offering “improved understanding between this minority group and American society at large.” Grebler, asserted Roybal, was to be commended for his “scholarly concern” and “empathy” for a “considerably underprivileged people.” 93 In turn, MAPA’s criticisms of MASP also chastised Roybal for what they deemed an Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 132 “undeserved, laudatory statement.” 94 These divergent opinions of the Project necessarily refuted MAPA’s claims of a community consensus in their denunciation of Grebler. The Association’s rebuke of its own founder bespeaks the fissures and realignments that permeated Mexican American politics over the course of the 1960s. As Ernesto Chávez writes, in the mid-1960s MAPA underwent its own crises of political authority. Its leaders’ tepid response to the Watts Riots diverged from other groups’ more forceful charges of police brutality, and the Republican dominance of the 1966 state elections was a major defeat for the Association in its support of the Democratic Party. 95 For MAPA—which a September 1966 Los Angeles Times article described as California’s “most militant, powerful and vocal Mexican political group”—the expansion of its praxis beyond electoral campaigns over the decade coincided with the emphasis on mobilizing its base. 96 MAPA leaders would advocate for their middle-class constituency to adapt the rhetoric of working-class political mobilization—and in turn, to declare solidarity with the working poor. A 1969 MAPA circular urged its membership to “[f]orget that you have your steady job, a car, a house, a full belly. Remember that there are many of us who have no job at all let alone a car…You were fortunate – they were not [sic] you can still help them and help yourself. RAZA ORGANIZATE!” MAPA’s contention that Grebler was “too distant from the grass roots to really understand the problems” of Mexican American inequality was ultimately part of a broader shift among Mexican American civil rights organizations. 97 While Grebler’s rebuttal to MAPA alleged the “inability or unwillingness” of Guerra and his co-authors to “distinguish their role as scholars” and “as ideologues or activists,” MASP associate director Joan Moore offered a more nuanced appraisal of the social contract between researchers and respondents that had politicized the Project. 98 Moore, a UC Riverside sociologist Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 133 who trained at the University of Chicago, asserted in a 1966 progress report that MASP was “born in an essentially political atmosphere.” For Moore, the staff’s “bi-monthly confrontation” with their advisory board “reminds us continuously that somebody quite concrete is waiting for our results.” She acknowledged that these intersubjective relations “call[ed] into question the underlying nature of the bargain between researcher and subject.” Despite their adherence to the “mandates of Science,” the “great deal of information” that MASP scholars had asked of their subjects presented the “overwhelming mandate” that the latter would “collectively benefit.” 99 Moore would eventually validate her own conviction that “the research process itself is involved in the political process” by serving as an expert witness in the defense trial for the organizers of the Chicano Blowouts. 100 In March 1968, thousands of Mexican American students coordinated mass walkouts from a half dozen high schools across East Los Angeles. An alliance of students and community leaders petitioned the Los Angeles Board of Education with demands including bilingual instruction and Mexican American history courses, administrators, and faculty. Consequently, the LAPD arrested the core organizers, the so-called East L.A. Thirteen, under felony charges of conspiracy. 101 As Ian Haney López writes, defense lawyer Oscar Zeta Acosta called Moore to attest that Mexican Americans were a dispossessed minority, seeking to dismiss the charges as a violation of the Fourteenth Amendment. 102 Acosta himself fantasized Moore’s testimony as an act of solidarity—“her fist clenched in the power salute”—for his rendition of the trial in his 1973 pseudo-autobiography The Revolt of the Cockroach People. 103 Shortly after the walkouts, Leo Grebler, who retired after directing MASP, relayed to the Los Angeles Times his skepticism that the actions constituted a movement. “These things sometimes appear in a flash,” he opined. “And, then, they disappear in a flash.” 104 To be certain, the protestors’ grievances largely confirmed Grebler’s own MASP Advance Report on Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 134 education, published the year prior. In the study, he argued that ameliorating the state’s elevated rates of attrition among Mexican American high school students would require the “reorientation of school philosophy, curriculum, teachers, and teaching techniques, in addition to large sums of money.” 105 However, the self-organization of students and community members to demand those very reforms in East Los Angeles contradicted Grebler’s enduring presumption that Mexican Americans were predominantly subjects, rather than authors, of knowledge. Ralph Guzmán, who remained with the Project despite his own affiliations with MAPA, also expressed ambivalence over Mexican Angelenos’ youth activism. 106 Guzmán, who had become a professor at Los Angeles State College in 1967, exalted the Blowouts to the Times shortly thereafter, as they had “given these people a real revolutionary experience… They’re making rebels.” 107 Notably, he had declined to participate when high school teacher and lead organizer Sal Castro approached him beforehand. Castro later recalled that Guzmán was “more cautious” than fellow Mexican American scholars, but he “understood why we had to take this action.” 108 Yet Guzmán was derisive of the organizers in his 1969 Times article on the Chicano movement, decrying the conspiracy charges against the East L.A. Thirteen as “comical and tragic” because they were too disorderly “to keep track of almost anything.” 109 Guzmán’s writings bespeak some of the political and class divides that arose at the nexus of liberal civil rights and Chicano/a radicalism. He unfavorably compared the “Brown Power men” who “lack both the experience and the sophistication” to his own Old Left compatriots, who “were organized within an inch of their lives.” 110 His dissertation on Mexican American political socialization described the cultural politics of Chicanismo as a parallel to “the concept of Black pride that has alternatively embarrassed and confused middle class blacks.” 111 At an East Los Angeles College commencement speech in 1969, Guzmán called for a “reasoned Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 135 radicalism” to address the “asymmetric pattern of development” in U.S. education. While collegiate administrators would have to “learn the language of the poor,” Guzmán equally indicted the “intellectual anarchy” of student agitators, lest “violence and profanity determine the outcome of conflict between educators and community.” 112 Guzmán, whom Cal State Los Angeles hired in 1967, continued to link critiques of educational policy to broader social justice issues in his capacity as a researcher and educator. For instance, his November 1969 article in El Chicano, a San Bernardino, California newsletter, attributed the overrepresentation of Mexican Americans among casualties in Vietnam to the underrepresentation of Chicano students “in the graduating classes of our institutions of higher learning.” At Cal State L.A., Guzmán obtained a $125,000 grant from the U.S. Department of Commerce in the fall of 1967 to extend MASP’s research on “job opportunities and economic development” for Mexican Angeleno youth. 113 However, the “little committees and student groups” eliciting Guzmán’s skepticism were part of a growing organizational network that had converged in the Chicano Blowouts. In his memoirs, Sal Castro recounted that college students from local United Mexican American Students (UMAS) chapters had occupied an essential role as marshals for the walkouts. 114 Following the establishment of the Educational Opportunity Program at UCLA, the proliferation of EOPs at the California State Colleges and UCs in the mid-1960s helped to produce a critical mass of Mexican American college and graduate students across the region. By March 1968, some of these students had self-organized in pursuit of their own campus reforms. 115 Less than three months later, on May 25, UMAS leaders from UCLA, Cal State Los Angeles, and San Fernando Valley State College addressed a public hearing of the state legislature’s Joint Committee on Higher Education to allege discriminatory admissions practices. Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 136 Cal State L.A.’s representative was graduate student and East L.A. Thirteen defendant Carlos Muñoz, Jr., a historian-in-training whose 1964 letter began this article. UMAS alleged that the putatively colorblind qualifications for entry to California’s public colleges and universities formed “an unofficial and hidden quota system” that kept the upper tiers of state postsecondary education overwhelmingly white. UCLA’s Ron Lopez argued that Mexican Americans should have a “proportional representation” of students based on statewide population rates. 116 In 1968, administrative efforts at UCLA to direct institutional resources towards the “urban crisis” of racialized poverty created incipient spaces for students of color to interface with administrators. 117 During that summer, UCLA’s UMAS chapter joined a University task force to explore new curricular and research ventures. In the process, UMAS members penned a proposal for a program of research “into the history and culture of the Chicano in an attempt to fill the void” of knowledge on “this little known ethnic minority.” Their document was the first outline of what would become UCLA’s Chicano/a Studies program. 118 Towards a Multiracial Multiversity On February 14, 1969, UCLA’s Office of Public Information disbursed a press release announcing the school’s plans to develop an Institute of American Cultures. Comprised of four constituent centers in “Afro-American, American Indian, Mexican-American, and Oriental- American” studies, the initiative would create academic spaces to combine urban research and community service. Franklin Murphy’s successor as Chancellor, Charles E. Young, opined that “Los Angeles offers an unusual geographical opportunity to serve these four cultures,” making UCLA an ideal place to launch a multiracial ethnic studies program. Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 137 Figure 2C The announcement coincided with months-long strikes by multiracial student coalitions at San Francisco State College and UC Berkeley, who posed similar demands for “Third World Studies” programs. These protests in the Bay Area have come to form a standard genealogical Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 138 origin story of ethnic and racial studies in U.S. higher education. 119 Yet the press release highlighted UCLA’s ongoing collaborations with students and faculty to enact these curricular reform, and that “UCLA has been working for some time in the cultural fields represented.” Joaquin Acosta, Jr., an assistant to one of UCLA’s Vice Chancellors, suggested that “community activity growing from the project” could draw from the insights of “such previous UCLA ventures as the Mexican-American Study Project and Japanese-American Research Project.” 120 UCLA administrators’ retroactive association of these disconnected initiatives help to exhume the Projects’ institutional afterlives in the infrastructure of UCLA’s racial equality initiatives. These inchoate research spaces could serve the University as possible reference points for future campus relations with Los Angeles’ multiracial metropolis. As such, the Young administration tied its local connections with Angelenos of color to its academic exploration of national racial difference under the pluralistic umbrella of “American Cultures.” To be certain, JARP and MASP’s literatures received tepid responses at best. An emergent cohort of progressive Japanese American and Chicano/a academics—including those at UCLA—would largely dismiss the Projects’ publications and theoretical precepts. Yet it would be remiss to trivialize how the studies’ formal existence at the University in the mid-1960s figured into the institutional incorporation of multiracial diversity. While students of color formed their own organized efforts by the decade’s end, the Young administration had begun to systematize its institutionalization of racial difference into a multiracial grid of intelligibility. By 1969, the Japanese American Research Project’s recurrent troubles had prolonged the study several years past the JACL’s original expectations. Unable to translate their archival acquisitions into a historical monograph, the JACL’s leaders instead turned to their resident newspaper columnist, Bill Hosokawa, to pen a book on Japanese American history before the Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 139 end of JARP’s grant in 1970. 121 As Ellen Wu documents, Hosokawa’s Nisei: The Quiet Americans enjoyed popular acclaim but elicited ambivalent—if not hostile—responses among Japanese American progressives. Wu quotes at length from the progressive Nisei historian Yuji Ichioka, whose scathing review of Nisei charged that “its origin predetermined its content and theme,” an “idealized monument to the old guard JACL leaders” that was “single-minded” in its protagonists’ “commitment to American ideals.” Also at issue was the epithet of “quiet”—a valorization of industrious individualism over collective protest. 122 The JACL occupies a curious position in 1960s civil rights politics. While episodically devoted to the advancement of broader antidiscrimination efforts, its platform sometimes amounted to an ethnocentric protection of Nikkei property rights against such (real or imagined) threats as Black rioters and Latino farmworker strikes. The JACL’s support of Nikkei agriculturalists had put the League at odds with the United Farm Workers’ efforts to organize Mexican and Filipino migrant laborers during the 1960s. Their support for Black freedom struggles, likewise, could be vacillatory and tempered: while the JACL leadership donated to the Poor Peoples Campaign in the wake of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination, their decision to do so was largely born from a fear that rioters in South L.A. would attack Japanese American businesses and homes. Three years prior during the Watts Riots, the JACL had cast Japanese Angelenos as victims whose businesses had been threatened or lost in the conflagration. 123 One of the major grievances was that Nisei largely imagined “Japanese Americans” in the JACL’s own idealized self-image—assimilationist, monolingual, politically moderate—as the authoritative subjects of Japanese American history. The decision to establish quietude as the major motif of Japanese American history contradicted the JACL’s own recent past. Earlier in the decade, the League had used the phrase “Silence is Consent” to galvanize its membership Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 140 into political participation. “In a democracy…Silence is not Golden,” declared one pamphlet in particular. Its admonition against complacency invoked memories of the internment, as “no group of Americans should better know this lesson than those of us of Japanese ancestry.” 124 Among some Nikkei liberals, leftists, and progressives, Hosokawa’s ideological conceits therefore constituted a manipulation of historical fact, and a rosy portrayal of American democracy that largely repudiated the national legacy of white supremacist racism. The firestorm of controversy over the book was thus a demonstrable index of the JACL’s instability as the self- ascribed political representatives of Japanese America. By the late 1960s, Japanese Americans and other people of Asian descent had cohered a network of student and community mobilizations around a newfound “Asian American” subjectivity and panethnic political project. By JARP’s closure at the end of the decade, a cadre of progressive Japanese Americans committed to multiracial coalition building would advance an alternative historical framework centered on the continual pursuit of justice. Ichioka, one of these scholars, was already at UCLA when he penned his critique. As a graduate student at UC Berkeley, the progressive Nisei had co- founded the Asian American Political Alliance, a student activist group and a constituent member of the “Third World” coalition behind the campus strike in early 1969. Ichioka left Berkeley that spring, at the behest of students seeking an instructor for UCLA’s first Asian American Studies course. 125 Some of the undergraduate students involved in drafting the proposal for the school’s Asian American Studies Center also circulated his review, first printed in the UCLA student newsletter Gidra and later republished in the first Asian American Studies textbook, Roots. 126 Ichioka’s deconstruction of JARP’s manuscript thus became a minor part of the professionalization of ethnic studies itself. Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 141 JARP’s translator and research assistant Yasuo Sakata had alerted Ichioka—who was also literate in Japanese—about the Project’s documents upon the latter’s arrival at UCLA. With the help of two international graduate students, Eri Yasuhara and Nobuya Tsuchida, the historians “commenced the dirty and tedious work” of organizing the “dusty carton boxes” that the JACL had left behind. 127 The completed JARP archive, the “largest in the world” of its kind, offered the inchoate Asian American Studies Center a claim to academic legitimacy within the University and was a pillar for the Center’s program development. As a result, the former study of Japanese American exceptionalism became the domain of the school’s progressive scholars. Among Ichioka’s first publications mining the JARP archive was a history of Issei socialists. 128 It was in the same campus building where Ichioka published his denunciation of JARP’s history that UCLA graduate student and instructor Juan Gómez-Quiñones authored a critique of Grebler, Moore, and Guzmán’s The Mexican-American People. In a 1971 historiographical essay for Aztlán—the flagship Chicano Studies journal established at UCLA—Gómez-Quiñones lamented that the study existed “to the detriment of innovative scholarship and of the community that will undoubtedly suffer the consequences…when its influence affects policy and programs.” Grebler, the only author whom the review names, likely had a reputation that preceeded him. The study was “also an object lesson,” Gómez-Quiñones asserted, “on the surprises that await a social scientist who proceeds…when the ‘variable’ people are left out.” 129 Other appraisals of The Mexican-American People similarly noted its epistemological divide between studier and studied. Even a 1971 symposium in Social Science Quarterly to dwell upon the “landmark publication” noted its limitations as a “middle-class Anglo perspective.” 130 Rodolfo Alvarez, a Yale instructor in sociology, assailed the “complete and inexcusable travesty” of the authors’ claims to “intellectual objectivity.” The lack of “historical Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 142 analysis prior to 1900” abstracted Mexican Americans as “any other immigrant population in this country” by ignoring the Mexican-American War and territorial transfer as a historical context. Alvarez—who would briefly assume leadership of UCLA’s Chicano Studies program in 1972— averred that the book was incomplete because it omitted the “psycho-historical experience” of Mexican Americans “as a people with a very special identity-giving relationship to the land.” 131 UC Santa Barbara’s Jesús Chavarría similarly charged Grebler for his “indifference to Mexican Americans as living people,” as he had “failed to understand the living reality” of his subjects’ self-determination. “Thus instead of listening to the Chicano’s own voice,” Grebler “want[ed] to make the minority itself aware” of their own racial subjectivity. Chavarría named the study a “magnum opus of a dying era of scholarship,” to be supplanted by an emerging generation of Chicano/a intellectuals. The book was “el invierno de nuestra primavera”—the winter, to our spring. 132 Juan Gómez-Quiñones himself connected this burgeoning network of scholarship to programming efforts at UCLA. In April 1969, amidst UCLA’s own planning efforts in ethnic studies, he, Chavarría, and Carlos Muñoz were among the scholars who convened with student activists from a host of regional colleges to write a coordinated strategem for the development of Chicano/a studies programs. The resultant document, El Plan de Santa Bárbara, proclaimed that institutions of higher education “must be an instrument in the liberation of the Chicano community.” The “institutionalization of Chicano programs” could redirect the academic utilities of “education, research, and public service” towards Mexican American neighborhoods. 133 El Plan’s adherence to program development in the extant model of the university epitomized the “reasoned radicalism” that Ralph Guzmán had deemed absent among Chicano/a students. Michael Soldatenko argues that the plan “never offered an authentic oppositional Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 143 intellectual vision” so much as it sought to expand access to higher education. 134 Indeed, The Mexican-American People’s brusque description of Chicano activists as “high-school dropouts, college students, and ex-convicts in a loosely articulated network of action groups” disavowed the continuities between advocacy and scholarship that saturated Los Angeles’ social movements—and that were endemic to MASP itself. 135 The uncertain afterlives of both Projects’ publications thus might obscure how the two initiatives formed a critical prehistory of the very racial integration efforts at UCLA that would ultimately threaten the Projects’ scholarly longevities. At the turn of the decade, Chancellor Young’s administration addressed a phenomenon that had been a complicating factor for both JARP and MASP: the University’s own paucity of nonwhite scholars. UCLA officials sought to development graduate programs in order to professionalize students into an emergent, statewide labor market in ethnic studies teaching at all levels of collegiate instruction. 136 That is, ethnic studies could fit within the Master Plan’s delegation of the University of California system as a mechanism to institutionalize new forms of economic development. In their successful 1971 grant request to the Ford Foundation, UCLA administrators assured their capacity to develop a “coordinated graduate program” in the campus’ four ethnic studies centers because of the school’s track record of racial reformations. “UCLA,” the proposal proclaimed, “has moved from the position of an almost exclusively white institution to a multi-cultural one.” 137 These efforts could be no less uneven and tendentious than were JARP and MASP the decade prior, and UCLA was no stranger to student mobilizations charging institutional racism in the Vietnam War era. Certainly, the strictures of academic governance precluded activists’ more radical visions for the redistribution of institutional resources. It is nevertheless instructive how swiftly UCLA and other institutions of higher learning integrated the monikers of “Asian Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 144 American” and “Chicano/a”—both of which originated and/or circulated within activist discourse—in their institutional language of diversity during the late 1960s. Yuji Ichioka himself is credited with coining the term “Asian American,” via the UC Berkeley Asian American Political Alliance. His arrival at UCLA coincided with the transition away from the University’s using “Oriental-American” to refer to a multiethnic grouping of East Asian people. 138 In 1969, Chicano/a students and scholars successfully lobbied the UC administration to change their own institutional designation from “Mexican American” to “Chicano.” While administrators were variably skeptical—given the term’s prior usage as a pejoration for poor and/or indigenous Mexican people—support from local civic leaders helped to convince the Young administration. In particular, MAPA Vice President Luis Flores offered his personal assurances to University administrators that MAPA officers frequently used the term “Chicano” interchangeably with “Mexican American,” and that he personally had encountered “at most a half dozen persons” across the Southwest who found the term offensive. 139 By the end of the decade, the proclamations of racial self-determination that often framed antiracist student activism were, at times, less authoritative challenges than avenues for the internal reform of University governance. It was through the difficulties arising from their novel partnerships between campus and community that JARP and MASP buttressed UCLA’s proclaimed proficiency in the management of multiracial diversity. While heeding the specificity of its regional context, this history necessarily carries broader implications for studies of U.S. higher education and social inequality. As the following chapter explores, the waves of student activism in the name of institutional transformation would leave an indelible imprint on the racial imaginary of administrators, faculty, and white Californians alike, which tends to mask the more nuanced Chapter 2 Projecting the Multiracial University 145 miscegenations with discipline, authority, and regulation that undergirded the formation of ethnic studies. Indeed, UCLA’s two earlier research ventures into articulating the sociological and historical dimensions of racial difference form a critical part of this genealogy before the historiographical cascade of crisis in 1968 and beyond. The historiographical force of student activism, however important, might freeze our perceptions of academic institutions as intransigent and monolithic; or flatten the complex determinations of causality that drive institutional change. As JARP and MASP demonstrate, it behooves us to recognize these quotidian spaces where contestations over racial representation and the desegregation of knowledge production formed the very architecture of the postwar research academy. Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 146 3 Degrees of Disadvantage: CAMPUS INTEGRATION BEFORE “AFFIRMATIVE ACTION” In 1968, a group of students at the University of California – Berkeley, under the banner of the Afro-American Students Union, furnished a list of seventeen demands. A “massive recruitment program” in conjunction with the “Black Student Community” would “bring proportional numbers of minority students into this community.” Some demands called for broad regulatory shifts in the academy, such as the abolition of grades and final exams—which were only useful to “memorize and play back material”—and the wholesale “commitment of University resources” towards eradicating the “sickness” of societal racism. Others insisted upon Black people in extant positions of authority: more professors, administrators with “full-power positions,” financial aid counselors, admissions officers. One demand ordered the renaming of Berkeley’s performance hall after the slain Black Panther Bobby Hutton. Present also were the rudimentary workings of multiracial solidarity: although titled “BLACK-MEXICAN AMERICAN SHOULD BE USED TOGETHER,” Mexican Americans were but one footnote about being “included” in student recruitment. Yet the first of the demands concerned a student recruitment and tutorial initiative on campus called the Educational Opportunity Program. Per the AASU, students “must have the power to determine the leadership structure” of the EOP, which was “vital to the understanding of the position of Black People in this society.” 1 Starting with the University of California – Los Angeles in 1964, campuses at all three tiers of the state’s public postsecondary educational system adopted Educational Opportunity Programs over the 1960s. Despite their common moniker, EOPs represented an array of student services—high school recruitment, undergraduate tutorship and counseling, specialized coursework, and/or financial aid—that varied by campus and institutional tier. Nevertheless, Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 147 college administrators formalized Educational Opportunity Programs to increase the matriculation of “disadvantaged”—that is, nonwhite and/or low-income—students. EOPs also coordinated the admission of “disadvantaged” applicants who would be ineligible by the standard criteria, utilizing portions of the annual quotas at the state colleges and UCs for special action admits. In turn, some EOP students joined and created student organizations that would pressure collegiate officials to facilitate the multiracial integration of the student body beyond the modest capacities of the EOP alone. In this chapter, I trace the early history of Educational Opportunity Programs at the University of California over the course of the 1960s, particularly at the Los Angeles and Berkeley campuses. While EOPs existed into the 1970s in California higher education, it was in this period that EOPs constituted the first student affirmative action program in California, before the use of “affirmative action” became commonplace in reference to student admissions. 2 Between 1964 and 1970, I argue, EOPs comprised a critical vector by which the University of California inaugurated race as a constitutive mode of difference within academic governance. It was in conjunction with the EOP that University campuses first conducted racial and ethnic surveys of their own student bodies. The expanding operations of minority student programming also coincided with the appointment of Californians of color into managerial, administrative, and authoritative positions at the University. Yet the initial achievements of the first EOP students also induced larger questions about the structural racisms within the putatively neutral standards for admission, and invited future challenges to the University’s commitment to civil rights and racial equality. In their earliest years, then, the Educational Opportunity Program commuted racial difference from a historical relationship of injury to a category of management and development. Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 148 To locate students, EOP coordinators recruited students from high schools in working-class communities of color adjacent to University campuses. UC officials confronted the multiple refractions of nonwhite racial difference in California, and external pressures to achieve parities in recruitment between Black and Mexican American students. More significantly, UC administrators, faculty, and program directors designated EOP students as “disadvantaged” and subsequently grappled over the very meaning of the term: that is, what forces engendered racial and class disparities in University representation. Despite of, or perhaps because of, its widespread proliferation, “disadvantaged” remained a point of terminological uncertainty throughout the 1960s. While the term could map the structural violences of racial segregation in which the University was historically complicit, it could just as easily refer to a putative set of cultural failings at the level of community or family. Indeed, notions of cultural or social deficiency have continued to saturate scholarship on the history of affirmative action, which often analyze affirmative action as executive policymaking at the expense of the very peoples of color to whom the policies are directed. 3 In his historical study of admissions policies at the University of California, John Aubrey Douglass argues that matters of equitable access were more the outcome of “growing inadequacies in the schools,” the “cultural predilections of different ethnic groups,” and “expanding disparities in society.” 4 Presumably—he does not elaborate—Douglass means to connote that the racial differentiations in student achievement are the result of a complex array of environmental, structural, and personal factors beyond the clarity of any one analytic. But what sorts of connotations might “cultural predilections” invoke? Unquestioned deference to the realm of “culture” risks invoking what Etienne Balibar terms the “neo-racism” of cultural differentiation, in which “culture can function like a nature” Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 149 to “loc[k] individuals and groups a priori into an genealogy” and presume the immutability of difference. 5 In his own history of affirmative action, for instance, Terry H. Anderson briefly qualifies the 1964 Freedom Summer as a “thousand white northern university students” who helped African Americans in the South “register to vote and learn how to gain their civil rights.” 6 In this model, Black Southerners were the subjects of a segregationist state but also apparently unable to organize amongst themselves to contest the bonds of segregation. By deferring to racial disadvantage as either a totalizing system of white supremacy or a state internal to communities of color, that is, top-down studies of affirmative action might easily divest people of color from roles as active, sentient historical agents. Conversely, other historians have taken to task the implicit assumptions that have rendered the very term affirmative action into a “demonized archetype” of favoritism for nonwhite people. In their respective studies, Philip F. Rubio and Ira Katznelson instead place employment affirmative action policies of the 1960s in the deeper historical context of white supremacy and Black unfreedom. What we commonly know as “affirmative action” emerged out of organized political movements against a longstanding practice of white affirmative action within labor and housing markets, if not the welfare state itself. Both authors seek to denaturalize the presumed neutrality of whiteness as a sociohistorical mode of privilege, lest affirmative action in its contemporary idiom be read uncritically as preferential treatment for people of color Rubio contends that we thus must understand affirmative action not merely through the lens of policy, but also as a “social and cultural struggle” over the legitimacy of a “property value in whiteness”: that is, as part of a broader discursive and ideational contestation over the very meaning of racial difference within the political economy. 7 Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 150 In the 1960s, before “affirmative action” became an overarching policy of admissions at the University of California—shaped over time by administrative procedure, legislation, ballot referenda, and judicial review—the Educational Opportunity Programs constituted experimental ventures through which Californians of color could have an active stake in the multiracial incorporation of the University. Many of these people go nameless in the archives—EOP students who helped to staff the modest offices of the first programs or form the backbone of student recruitment in their home communities. Yet others, as with the students who formed the African-American Student Union at Berkeley, formulated analyses of power that could implicate the University itself as a producer of racial “disadvantage.” We should heed the nuance of student grassroots politics that would claim a program of institutional and administrative design: Educational Opportunity Programs constituted incipient systems of racial management for the University of California, but also authorized spaces in the academy for students of color to articulate and contest the very forces productive of their marginality. Academic Blueprints in Black and Brown On the evening of June 11, 1963, President John F. Kennedy delivered a televised address from the Oval Office on the state of civil rights and racial equality in the United States. Earlier in the day, the desegregation of the University of Alabama occasioned the famous campus showdown between Governor George Wallace and the National Guard, which Kennedy had deployed to protect the arrival of Black students Vivian Malone and James Hood. Over the airwaves, the President extolled both the “two clearly qualified young Alabama residents” who had enrolled at the University, as well as the rest of the student body “who met their responsibilities in a constructive way” and thus ensured a peaceful situation. Yet Kennedy Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 151 alluded to the inequalities of opportunity that had persisted beyond the legal dismantling of segregation. “The Negro baby born in America today, regardless of the section of the Nation in which he is born,” cautioned Kennedy, was only half as likely as a white baby from the same area to graduate from high school, and had “one-third as much chance of completing college” or “becoming a professional man.” While calling upon Congress to pass new desegregationist and nondiscriminatory legislation—what would eventually congeal as the 1964 Civil Rights Act— the President also beseeched the public writ large to heed the “moral crisis” whose material and social effects had permeated “every city of the North as well as the South.” That Black people were “denied almost today the right to attend a state university even though qualified” was but one among many injustices whose abolition, Kennedy asserted, would require citizen engagement beyond the appendages of the state itself. 8 At a meeting of the University of California’s chief executives and campus heads eight days later, UC President Clark Kerr raised the concern that the University had an obligation to educate more “eligible minority group students.” In order to facilitate an increase in Black and Mexican American undergraduates, Kerr also suggested that UC administrators could use the “two percent rule” to admit applicants of color under special circumstances, and that such recruits might need scholarship monies and/or additional tutorial help while on campus. UCLA Chancellor Franklin D. Murphy added his own concern about the meager numbers of Black scholars within the American professoriate, and offered that the University would have to pursue a more aggressive program of recruitment in both the northern and southern reaches of the state. 9 Three months later, Kerr would present to the University Regents an outline for the accelerated integration of the UC’s nonacademic staff and student body. While doubtful that “general, conscious discrimination” had governed the institution’s hiring and admissions Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 152 processes, the President raised the possibility of the “submerged conceptions” that “condition men’s choices.” Suggesting that the recruitment of students was a more daunting task than reforming the workplace, Kerr surmised that efforts to increase the numbers of nonwhite students might become a “discriminatory” practice should the University abandon its meritocracy to make “special allowances” for certain admits. Chancellor Murphy demurred to Kerr’s concerns, suggesting that a “special effort” to reach “minority groups which have been handicapped…need not be termed discriminatory.” To this end, the UCLA leader offered that recent efforts by the campus chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) to locate promising Black undergraduates had already augmented the number of Black graduate students on campus. 10 Robert Singleton, who chaired the campus NAACP in the early 1960s, helped to transform the UCLA chapter from a passive group “controlled by the eastern establishment” into a core of organizers on campus and around West Los Angeles. Under Singleton’s leadership, NAACP members challenged local landlords and businesses that refused to rent to, and serve, Black people. Upon assuming the Chancellorship, Franklin D. Murphy worked with student activists to threaten discriminatory landlords and barbershops in Westwood into compliance; as Singleton recalled, his administration also bought several neighborhood properties to ensure nondiscriminatory housing options for students of color. 11 Because UCLA did not enumerate the racial demography of its students, in 1963 the Murphy administration had sought the help of the NAACP and fellow campus civil rights groups to identify African American seniors as potential candidates for graduate instruction. 12 Ultimately, it was through such decentralized initiatives rather than any statewide master plan that the University would begin to deliberately recruit and admit underrepresented students Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 153 of color. During the same month as the Regents’ meeting, UC Berkeley Professor Owen Chamberlain was drafting plans for a program for the “[d]evelopment of talent in underprivileged areas.” In September, Chamberlain and mathematics scholar Jerzy Neyman wrote to Dr. Francis Keppel, the U.S. Commissioner of Education, lamenting the “wasted national resource” of “highly talented individuals” with “little exposure to the opportunities and attitudes of the intellectual world.” Chamberlain—the 1959 Nobel laureate in physics—and Neyman outlined a plan to locate “talented individuals in the slums” in five hundred schools nationwide, including students from segregated Southern schools and youth in “neglected districts of big cities.” A rigorous three-phase tutorial and scholarship program would ideally cultivate these students into “full fledged membership in the general intellectual community of the country.” Their social utility would be twofold, such that they could influence both the “social group of their origin” and “the recipient group which they will join.” 13 While Chamberlain’s designs for a national scholarship program would not come to fruition, he and fellow Berkeley scholars created a handful of localized opportunities to recruit a handful of students to campus. During the weeks following the assassination of John F. Kennedy in November 1963, the University of California Regents institutionalized voluntary fundraising efforts among faculty members seeking a way to honor the slain President’s legacy. In homage to Kennedy’s “contributions to the civil rights movement” and his “recognition of the role of scientific and intellectual activity in our society,” a group of Berkeley professors petitioned the campus’ Academic Senate to establish a scholarship fund for supporting the collegiate education for a select number of “disadvantaged” students of color. 14 On December 13, the Regents voted to back this program across all of the UC campuses, disbursing up to $100,000 for 1964-1965 to match faculty, staff, and students’ voluntary contributions. Per their unanimous agreement, the Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 154 monies would fund “highly talented” California high school graduates “whose interest and preparation” for college education “may not have been adequate.” 15 The resultant faculty Committee on Special Scholarships, established in January 1964 and chaired by Owen Chamberlain, sought to locate “members of disadvantaged groups” facing “racial, occupational, economic, or other” inequities. Notably, the Committee’s early plans for the program betray the notion that racial underrepresentation was an attitudinal and motivational issue, where students who “have demonstrated motivation and intellectual promise” would not attend college because of their “cultural milieu” or because of a “conviction” that a college education “would be denied them because of membership in the group with which they identify themselves.” Once these “disadvantaged groups” understood that “the University…offers them a warm welcome and genuine opportunity, that is, the need for such a scholarship program “will disappear.” Not only would such a program connect UC Berkeley “to a subculture of American society…extremely far removed from the intellectual community,” but also promised to “enrich the character of the intellectual community” by introducing to campus “individuals from diverse backgrounds and cultural experiences.” 16 The Committee identified a class of thirty-four Special Opportunity Scholars, representing eleven high schools in Berkeley and the nearby cities of Oakland, Richmond, Emeryville, and El Sobrante, through recommendations from local high school teachers and counselors. This group of sophomores participated in an intensive seven-week program during the summer of 1964, in which they attended college preparatory courses, toured programs of study at Berkeley, and became more familiar with the dynamics of campus life. 17 Based on the accomplishments of the inaugural class, in the summer of 1965 the Committee invited the students to return as juniors and admitted thirty-nine new tenth graders. The local Berkeley Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 155 Gazette newspaper declared the program a definite success, relaying Chamberlain’s observations that the Special Opportunity Scholars had both improved their performance on standardized tests and demonstrated universal motivation to attend college. 18 Concurrent to these incipient programs at Berkeley, faculty at UCLA had begun to pursue efforts to locate potential undergraduates among students of color in Los Angeles’ predominantly Black and Latino/a neighborhoods. In the fall of 1964, a multidisciplinary committee headed by sociology professor Oscar Grusky had launched a sponsorship program to locate local high school students whom the professors would recruit, and if admitted, mentor until they graduated. As a test site, the professors had chosen David Starr Jordan High School in the working-class South L.A. neighborhood of Watts because of its “heavy concentration of members of minority groups”: a student body that was 91% Black, 8% Mexican American, and 1% “other.” 19 In a circular beseeching faculty to contribute to the Regents’ matching fund drive, Grusky and his colleagues declared the urgent need for the professoriate to educate themselves of “the extent to which disparities exist here in Los Angeles with respect to higher education.” Of Jordan High’s graduating class in 1964, only six percent had the grade point average to be eligible for admission to UCLA, and none had applied given the prohibitive costs of attending. By contrast, Grusky’s committee noted, over half of the 1964 graduating class at local Beverly High School were eligible for admission to the UCs. 20 The faculty mentors were careful to note the “halting and uncertain” progress of the tutorial program’s initial effort, but also trumpeted the manifest potential of the students whom UCLA had bused on a weekly basis to campus for specialized coursework and one-on-one tutoring. Written four months after the Watts Rebellion, an administrative progress report made conspicuously little of the August 1965 conflagration other than suggesting that the event had Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 156 “added emphasis to the educational needs of the community” and enabled the funding for UCLA to double the number of high school mentees during the program’s second year. Yet the report also hinted at the latent potential for nonwhite student recruitment to reveal alternative indices of intellect beyond metrics like test scores and grades. In one case, a particularly poorly performing student “with no evidence of interest in reading or composition” offered poignant critique and “unusual insight” during a classroom discussion of James Baldwin’s Nobody Knows My Name. 21 Located in the state’s two major population centers, the UC Berkeley and Los Angeles campuses were geographically primed to spearhead the University’s first efforts to augment the enrollment of nonwhite students. A 1966 racial and ethnic survey of the state’s public grammar and high schools, commissioned by the California State Department of Education, demonstrated that California’s nonwhite students were disproportionately concentrated in and adjacent to urban regions. The state’s seventeen “metropolitan counties” would account for eighty-five percent of “Spanish-surname” students in K-12 schools, nine-tenths of Chinese, Japanese, and Korean students; and ninety-five percent of Black pupils. While five-sixths of white students were located in the same counties, white students were relatively underrepresented in California’s largest school districts, * comprising sixty-one percent of the student body versus seventy-five percent statewide. 22 * Based on the eight largest school districts in 1966: Oakland, San Francisco, Sacramento, San Juan, Fresno, Los Angeles, Long Beach, and San Diego Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 157 Figure 3A 23 Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 158 Furthermore, it was particularly in the Bay Area and Los Angeles that the state’s critical masses of Black, Mexican American, and Asian American communities tended to overlap. California’s three largest populations of color had somewhat disparate settlement patterns: African American students were substantially concentrated in those two population centers; Mexican American students enrolled at above-average rates in wider swaths of Southern California and the Central Valley; and Asian American students were more densely clustered in counties within and around the Bay Area and Sacramento. Indeed, Los Angeles and San Francisco Counties were the only two in the state with above-average enrollment rates of both “Negro” and “Spanish surname” students. 24 (See Figure 3A) At the University of California, Franklin D. Murphy’s administration on the Los Angeles campus would be the first to target and recruit local students of color for admission as undergraduates. Aside from accessing the Regents’ matching funds, the Murphy administration would tap into federal antipoverty monies newly authorized through War on Poverty programs. It was under Kennedy’s vice president and successor, Lyndon B. Johnson, that the legislative gains in antidiscrimination and voting rights policy coincided with the expansions of the federal welfare state to address the persistence of socioeconomic disparity. Johnson would announce his War on Poverty initiative during the State of the Union on January 8, 1964, forming the Office of Economic Opportunity and petitioning Congress to authorize new policies to augment the welfare state, state public education, and local community development. The Higher Education Act of 1965, in particular, would create a host of financial aid and scholarship monies to facilitate access to college among low-income students. Moreover, the dissemination of federal funds into local community agencies, social service organizations, public education systems, and Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 159 academic institutions alike necessarily resulted in their application within a multiplicity of regionally distinct contexts. 25 The Murphy administration hired a Los Angeles public relations consultant, Anne Allen, to coordinate UCLA’s inaugural Educational Opportunity Program in the fall of 1964. Allen’s early sketches for the EOP betray a progressivist vision of social engineering—a “process whose pattern is one of moving a disadvantaged student along a path that will upgrade him for his society” at a “considerably higher level.” Her plans called for EOP students to experience a “minimum of segregation,” positing the need to make clear “that the EOP is not structured on racial or ethnic lines” but instead was open to “any minority group that is economically and educationally disadvantaged.” 26 UCLA officials had selected schools for outreach under two criteria: high schools located in Los Angeles County’s “Poverty Areas”—the communities with the lowest median family incomes—along with schools with the highest drop-out rates. Per Anne Allen, the two categories did not necessarily overlap, insofar as the redrawing of municipal boundary lines amidst the mass subdivisional growth in postwar Southern California had placed some of the poorest high schools in otherwise suburban school districts. In order to locate the inaugural class, Allen and the Murphy administration convened a series of meetings with the superintendents from the Los Angeles Unified School District; officials from school districts in Compton, El Monte, and Whittier; and counselors from a constellation of public high schools throughout the predominantly nonwhite communities of South and East Los Angeles. 27 Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 160 Figure 3B 28 UCLA would also interface with a matrix of local Mexican American service and political organizations whom they had first encountered via the Mexican American Study Project. To include Mexican American high school students within EOP operations, Anne Allen Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 161 and program assistant Barbara Gates had established ties to the Youth Opportunities Foundation, a local antipoverty organization cofounded by Edward Roybal and Felix Castro. This network of community and educational contacts recommended roughly one hundred potential applicants, of whom UCLA would admit seven women and twenty-three men for the 1964-1965 year. 29 In announcing the formation of the Educational Opportunity Program, the Murphy administration stressed the importance of the program despite its modest size. An October 1964 circular to campus administrators and department chairs from Vice Chancellor Charles E. Young implored faculty members to recognize the “specialized problems” that could emerge among EOP students and thus their need for ongoing, specialized assistance. “If significant numbers of these students were to fail,” warned Young’s memo, “the damage to both the student and his sub- cultural group would without doubt be greatly out of proportion” to the modest numbers of student admits. As such, the Educational Opportunities Program would require a sort of decentralized, affirmative responsibility on the part of each school and department at UCLA to cultivate program participants. 30 EOP director Anne Allen would soon caution against heavy-handed appraisals of the program as disciplinary mechanisms for putatively deficient students. In a departure from her earlier calls for educational uplift, Allen’s March 1965 progress report accentuated the “sensitive area of human relations” that had informed campus-community outreach. Per Allen, UCLA’s EOP intended to “forestall any interpretation that the university was playing a lofty role and attempting to ‘superimpose’ a program benefitting schools and minority groups on these same schools and minority groups, or the ‘haves’ doing things they believed best for the ‘have-nots.’” Because such a “paternalistic approach might have engendered resistance of a debilitating nature,” UCLA officials should continue to solicit “advice and counsel” from local school Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 162 officials and “minority community leaders” alike. That is, it would be necessary to heed Californians of color and the students themselves as active participants in the process of educational reform. 31 Administrators were able to quickly tout the Educational Opportunity Program as a success: in the first semester, the EOP students had achieved a higher grade point average than that of the entering first-year class as a whole. 32 By the spring of 1965, the program claimed seventy-six students accessing its services, as several students already enrolled at UCLA had begun accessing EOP student services, and would admit an additional nineteen women and twenty-five men for the 1965-1966 academic year. Furthermore, the EOP was the only such program nationwide in the mid-1960s “assisting students of Mexican-American descent.” 33 In 1966, the Murphy administration replaced Anne Allen with an African American high school administrator to serve as the full-time coordinator of UCLA’s EOP. Kenneth S. Washington, newly a USC doctoral student in education, had attended undergraduate and graduate school at Knoxville College (Tennessee) and the University of Maryland; and had served for the decade prior as a counselor at Centennial High School in Compton. 34 By the time that Washington assumed the directorship, the EOP had expanded nearly sevenfold to support two hundred and five students; and UCLA had come to receive the most federal work-study funds among any West Coast institution of higher education. 35 However, the Murphy administration also cited the early success of the EOP as cause for the University to exercise moderation in the matter of recruiting nonwhite students. In the summer of 1965, University President Clark Kerr requested that all of the UC Chancellors independently investigate the feasibility of doubling the 2% special admissions cap in order to increase the flow of “minorities and the culturally deprived” into the student body. Kerr intoned Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 163 that the University’s racial composition was itself a function of class stratification, inasmuch as the student body drew “largely from the upper half of the socio-economic spectrum.” 36 In his response to Kerr’s office, Chancellor Murphy contested that UCLA’s EOP was a testament to the “care in selection” to cultivate the academic profile of the “continually talented.” Moreover, “given the existence of junior colleges” to absorb the majority of college student, the UCs could afford to proceed cautiously rather than tax its capacity to effectively take on traditionally ineligible students. Because of the vast disparities in educational quality between UCLA’s typical feeder schools and the area high schools in Los Angeles’ working-class nonwhite neighborhoods, reasoned Murphy, “we must move carefully indeed in use of this rule” to bring “marginally qualified students” into University coursework. Further, Murphy noted, “since race is not included in any of our records” there would be no extant mechanism to evaluate the demography of the University’s special actions admits. 37 The process of racially enumerating both University students and employees in the mid- 1960s, as a crucial element of the school’s early affirmative action apparatuses, would make clear to administrators the logistical, political, and epistemological hurdles of reforming a “colorblind” informational infrastructure. In 1964, California Governor Edmund “Pat” Brown requested from the University a comprehensive report on the racial makeup of its personnel statewide. 38 A University-wide directive to the deans, department chairs, and program directors on each campus requested a headcount of all employees along racial and gender lines through “visual observation,” as directly asking workers about their “racial origin” was explicitly forbidden by federal and state employment law (that is, on the basis that racial enumeration could be a tool of employment discrimination). The directive requested that employees in each institutional unit be tallied along a five-point spectrum of racial difference: Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 164 Figure 3C: Categories in the University of California Ethnic Report for Personnel (1964) 39 Negro (Persons recognizably of Negro descent.) Oriental (Persons recognizably of Chinese, Japanese, Korean or other oriental ancestry.) Other Non-White (Persons of non-white ancestry other than Negro or Oriental; e.g. American Indian, Filipino, Polynesian, Malayan, Eskimo, Asian Indian, and Hawaiian.) Persons of Mexican, Central or South American Ancestry (Except those who have the physical characteristics of Negro, Oriental, or other non-white races.) All Others (All those not covered by groups above, including those commonly designated as caucasian or white.) A few years thereafter, the first federal Equal Employment Opportunities Commission (EEOC) compliance reports for large-scale employers would utilize a similar taxonomy (“Negro, Oriental, American Indian, Spanish Americans”) to capture the macrosocial dimensions of racial difference within national labor markets. 40 As a rudimentary iteration of this racial lexicography, California’s 1964 employee ethnic surveys demonstrated some of the conceptual challenges of apprehending the heterogeneity of the state’s postwar demography through a managerial sorting system of geographic and bodily differences. The catch-all category of “Other Non-White” suggests the confounding challenge for the state’s employers to apprehend, through visual observation alone, the distinctions between “brown” Californians—from the many indigenous peoples of North America and the Pacific, to Filipinos and Desis. Alternatively, we could understand the state and federal compliance surveys of the mid-1960s as rudimentary affirmations of (East) Asian Americans and Latinos as critical gradations of nonwhite and nonblack racial difference. Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 165 At UCLA, the implementation of these ethnic employment surveys in the mid-1960s also elicited intransigence from multiple corners of the professoriate. In order to streamline the management of a growing statewide employee base with substantial overturn, in February 1966 University administrators required that all department and program chairs complete a standardized Ethnic Identity Form for every new employee under their supervision. (Taking the lead from federal EEOC standards, the 1966 forms replicated the 1964 taxa while moving “American Indian” into its own category.) UC administrators were careful to assert that such systems of reportage were for statistical purposes only, distinguishing between the sinister use of racial data and the judicious enumeration of people “for the information of management, employment services, labor organizations, and research agencies.” That is, the UC’s administrative circulars implied the institution was capable of such “[e]nlightened, affirmative programs” to “utilize the manpower potential of minorities,” but could only do so through access to the “solid basis of relevant facts.” To the surveyors on each campus, UC officials reiterated that the Ethnic Identity Form be completed independent of any direct consultation with employees at the expense of “[a]bsolute accuracy,” never indicate religious affiliations, and remain separate from any employee records. 41 In March 1966, UCLA’s faculty Committee on Academic Freedom proposed to abolish the Ethnic Identity Census on the grounds that it would inevitably tether racial and ethnic identity to an employee’s identification records, and (likely in reminiscence of the UC’s anticommunist loyalty controversies in the McCarthy Era) could enable the University to eventually track the “political affiliation and religion” of its personnel as well. 42 UCLA’s Academic Senate unanimously voted in favor of the suspension, and a number of individual department chairs wrote to administrators to express their intellectual and logistical oppositions. Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 166 Lowell Paige, chair of the mathematics department, betrayed an inherent distrust in institutional mismanagement in a letter to Vice Chancellor Young, worrying that the mass collection of personnel data could be “improperly used” as a “basis for discrimination…against ability.” In turn, zoology chair Thomas Howell succinctly doubted his own abilities to “identify accurately the physical and racial types” named on the survey and declared the whole matter as beyond his own personal duty and business. 43 In a letter to UC President Clark Kerr, UCLA’s anthropology department chair Walter Goldschmidt contended that his own discipline had largely rejected as false the scholarly capacity to “taxonomize man into a series of discrete races” with “criteria for physical variation.” Ethnic identity, Goldschmidt argued, was a matter of culture and “social identification,” and “therefore a subjective quality of the individual.” The survey categories were “quasi-racial” and “essentially dishonest,” insofar as they sought to distinguish the University workforce through essentialist demarcations of corporeal difference. Notably, Goldschmidt averred that race “is a social reality…something meaningful in the minds and hearts of men—rather than a biological reality” and, as a social construct, “can be changed by social action.” 44 As such, he contended, the University should not racially enumerate its employees because doing so would perpetuate the institutional realization of a social fiction. The following year, University administrators abandoned the attempt to register individual employees and reverted to aggregating the racial and gender composition of each department and program through visual observation alone. The UC’s circulars rebutted earlier intellectual objections among the professoriate to the survey process by acknowledging the lack of sound “scientific basis” for the survey categories, and quoting anonymously a federal official who had also asserted that the survey’s ethnic demarcations were “not biological determinations, Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 167 but sociological ones.” 45 While Goldschmidt had invoked the social construction of racial difference to reject its institutionalization as a category of human difference; the University defended the utilization of socially determinable groupings as a necessary metric to resolve the asymmetrical channels of democratic access and the distribution of resources. At UC Berkeley, the formation of the campus Equal Opportunity Program in January 1966 began with a comprehensive racial and ethnic survey of the student body, which administrators declared a “necessary first step” in the measurable integration of the University. Chancellor Roger W. Heyns hired Bill Somerville, an alumnus of UC Berkeley’s graduate program in criminology, as an administrative assistant and the first director of Berkeley’s EOP program. For his first task, Somerville partnered with the Office of the Registrar to administer the voluntary survey to all 26,063 registered students in early 1966. With a 95.4% response rate among students, the Heyns administration determined from the survey that nonwhite, U.S. citizens together comprised just over seven percent of the undergraduate and graduate citizen student body. However, a majority of those students were either Chinese or Japanese American; together, the sixty-one American Indians, two hundred thirty-six African Americans, twenty-five Filipino Americans, and seventy-six Mexican Americans whom the survey counted comprised less than two percent of all Berkeley students who were U.S. citizens. 46 In his role as EOP Director, Somerville surveyed local Bay Area high schools in early 1966, only to discover that virtually no Black students were taking classes in preparation for University eligibility. Consequently, he wrote to high school principals and community college presidents in Northern California looking for students, even those who “lack the necessary grades and preparatory courses.” While “primarily concerned with youths from American Indian, Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 168 Mexican American or Negro American backgrounds,” Somerville’s outreach materials assured that “Caucasian and other youths are also included.” 47 One hundred seventy-five students comprised the first class of Educational Opportunity Program participants at Berkeley in the fall of 1966, accessing both financial aid monies and tutorial services through the EOP. One hundred thirty-three successfully completed the year; and only twenty students left for academic reasons. 48 By the fall of 1967, Bill Somerville claimed three hundred seventy students registered with the Educational Opportunity Program, sixty percent of whom had been admitted through special action provisions. That November, the Chronicle of Higher Education reported that Berkeley’s EOP had “more than doubled” the campus’ “minority-group population,” with an eventual goal of four thousand students—which would approximate the percentage of nonwhite people in California. 49 Somerville would liken the EOP to a “small college in the University,” given that the staff had come to serve as the “recruiter, counselor, advisor, dean, and director all at once.” In a fall 1967 article for the College Board Review, he noted that many of the program’s decisions over admitting traditionally eligible students were “made in large part from intuition” about students’ “intellectual promise” and capacity to succeed at UC Berkeley. Somerville would assert that the two percent annual quota for special admissions “should be at least doubled” based on the palpable achievements of the EOP’s special action admits. 50 In defending this move, the EOP Director would interrogate the unexamined associations among many educators between students of color and lack of intellect. Although “flexible admissions standards” were a widespread and longstanding practice in higher education, he noted, with regards to “minority group or low-income students” administrators were likely to respond as if “admitting a few promising but unproven students will degrade their college.” Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 169 Somerville alluded to the sheer range of atypical students whom the EOP had already served: a sixty-two year old Black woman, a former heroin addict and sex worker, a “two-time loser” and former San Quentin inmate, a young man from a “very traditional Japanese family” whose father had threatened to kill him if he failed in school, a twenty-year old Mexican American Navy veteran who was excelling in college despite “a language problem” and “adjustment difficulties” coming from a rural area. 51 Somerville’s comments on behalf of the EOP would counterbalance the small logistical scope of the program with its potentially broader significance. The EOP would be making “academic history,” that is, by putting into practice a theory about student potential and as such could not “help but enrich the University.” 52 In an April 1967 Los Angeles Times article documenting the successes of the first class of Berkeley EOP students, he reasoned that the size of the program suggested that “we do not resolve social problems as much as we stop perpetuating them.” 53 Nonetheless, Somerville positioned the EOP as an entry point into much larger social transformations. Access to higher education was a pillar of racial justice, insofar that the students “most aware of the social problems in the slums and ghettos” had yet to receive the educational training to address such issues. 54 The early promise of programs at UCLA and UC Berkeley would come to influence the formation of kindred Educational Opportunity Programs throughout California. The seven other University campuses inaugurated their own EOP branches by the fall of 1968. In 1969, the State Legislature passed bills to formalize and monetize the Educational Opportunity Program at the other two tiers of public higher education, allotting $2.35 million to aid 3,150 students at the state colleges and $2.78 million to support nearly 14,000 community college students. While the precise parameters of EOP programming would necessarily differ in different campus contexts, Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 170 the overall framework—targeted recruitment, financial assistance, on-campus counseling, and admitting traditionally ineligible applicants when possible—remained the basic structure. However, despite the rapid proliferation of programs, Educational Opportunity Programs would grapple with the logistical, political, and legal stakes of identifying the EOP’s primary objectives and subjects. While unquestionably designed to remediate the underrepresentation of “disadvantaged” nonwhite students in public higher education, EOP coordinators, collegiate administrators, scholars, and public officials disseminated an array of ideas about what made EOP students, and Californians of color writ large, “disadvantaged.” Indeed, the indeterminacies regarding the source of racial injury and inequality would persist throughout the development of the University’s student affirmative action plans. Definitively “Disadvantaged”? In 1965 a committee of faculty members, who had voluntarily served as advisors for UCLA’s EOP students, questioned in an administrative report whether the EOP’s criteria for determining “underprivileged” or “disadvantaged” students were adequate. UCLA’s first promotional materials for the EOP in 1964 advertised the program for “qualified students” who were “[e]conomically” and “[e]nvironmentally disadvantaged”—an inescapably vague phrasing. 55 However, the faculty advisory committee raised the alarm that many of the students assigned to faculty mentors had no need for intensive academic counseling—after all, the EOP was overwhelmingly comprised of academically eligible (or “regular” admit) students. The report only speculated on a few possible options for replacing the institutional designation of “underprivileged,” uncertain whether the labels of “culturally disadvantaged,” “minority,” or “poor” were any more accurate. The faculty committee did note that one student vocally resented Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 171 the program’s designation for “underprivileged” students, suggesting that such a moniker impeded students’ confidence and “carries other connotations” of a deficit in personality or character. 56 The proliferation of minority student recruitment programs in the mid-1960s would not preclude University officials, scholars, and staffers from leaving indeterminate exactly what constituted the “disadvantage” or “underprivilege” that nonwhite students faced. This consociation of “disadvantaged” and “nonwhite” in the 1960s had achieved what legal scholar Ian Haney López calls the “common sense” of racial meaning. Per Haney López, most “ideas regarding racial characteristics, categories, and properties usually remain in the background”—a contradiction between the very “ubiquity” of race as a social construct, and yet the simultaneous ineffability of race as a “supposed natural fact” that was “beyond control” of human agency. 57 For representatives of the University, the linkages between minority underrepresentation in higher education and the socioeconomic asymmetries productive of educational achievement gaps could achieve such a racial commonsense, however complex and necessarily overdetermined the matter of educational inequities facing working-class students of color. In this regard, the institutional designation of “disadvantaged” might offer a shorthand appellation for the convergence of factors behind educational inequity, which were presumably understood by all involved parties. However, this lack of specificity could also sustain subtextual cues that the source of educational disadvantage was at heart a sociocultural malady internal to the communities, homes, and families from which EOP students came. In Clark Kerr’s initial presentations to the Regents in 1963 on the University’s civil rights appendages, for instance, the UC President offered that the University’s research and instruction could supplant the “many so- Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 172 called enlightened practices of community organizations” that “protect the Negro in an environment of discrimination” instead of remediating or contesting said discrimination. 58 As a result, documentary materials from early EOP initiatives that described targeted outreach and recruitment at high schools in de facto segregated neighborhoods tended to name any number of “disadvantages” tied to the state of racial segregation—even if the terms of these connections and vectors of causality remained uncertain. At UCLA, the EOP’s operational criteria over the 1960s to determine “disadvantage” shied away from any specific factor, opting instead to spell out the many different possible sources of student underachievement. In 1967, EOP Director Kenneth Washington would “very loosely” define its students as those “who may be financially, educationally, socially or culturally disadvantaged,” a blanket demarcation to include “all minority and low income students” who accessed the program. Outreach materials from the fall of 1967 made similar reference to a trio of “financial,” “geographic,” and “cultural gap[s]” that served as traditional barriers to higher education for the nonwhite and/or low-income students in “depressed areas” whom the EOP recruited. That is, Washington (and University officials writ large) largely deferred the precise matter of what conditions produced student disadvantage by suggesting instead how “disadvantage” could manifest across multiple dimensions of community, social, and familial life. 59 Nonetheless, EOP staffers’ attention to “depressed areas” and “disadvantaged communit[ies]” became shorthand for the target recruitment of high school students nonwhite neighborhoods. 60 As Figure 3D suggests, UCLA’s recruitment of EOP students in the first five years of the program relied substantially on recruitment from high schools with majority- nonwhite student bodies. EOP outreach efforts would consequently encounter some of the asymmetries between the patterns of residency and de facto segregation amongst different Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 173 Angelenos of color. For instance, EOP’s African American students were overwhelmingly recruited from schools with critical masses of Black students. In contrast, outreach efforts in so- called “Spanish Surname” high schools had yielded roughly equal numbers of Latino and Asian Angelenos as student admits. Given UCLA’s continual focus on East Los Angeles as the locus of Los Angeles’ Mexican American community, it is likely that EOP extended into the constellation of neighborhoods between downtown L.A. and the San Gabriel Valley with substantial overlap and cohabitation between Mexican, Japanese, and Chinese American families. 61 Figure 3D 62 0 20 40 60 80 100 120 140 "Negro" "Spanish Surname" "Oriental" White "Other" "Negro" "Spanish Surname" "Oriental" White "Other" "Negro" "Spanish Surname" "Oriental" White "Other" "NEGRO" HIGH SCHOOLS . "SPANISH SURNAME" HIGH SCHOOLS . "WHITE-ANGLO" HIGH SCHOOLS UCLA EOP Students from Los Angeles County High Schools, by Predominant "Composition" of School (1964-1968) Regular Entrance Special Action Unknown Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 174 The admission of “Orientals” through UCLA’s EOP—fifteen percent of participants by the spring of 1968—distinguished the program from UC Berkeley’s, whose EOP was roughly three-quarters Black and one-quarter “Spanish surname” in the same period. 63 However, recruiting “Oriental” students was hardly a point of emphasis in the first few years of EOP; if anything, Asian Americans were a source of demographic confusion. One 1967 missive between administrators, for instance, expressed confusion over a recently-expelled EOP student, surname Wong, who “may be of Chinese ancestry” but was born in Los Angeles—a casual discovery of a local U.S.-born Chinese American population. 64 At the same time, other University officials cited the “considerable size” of the campus’ “Asian-American group”—evident despite the absence of any student demographic data—to question whether Asian Americans were a disadvantaged minority. In a May 1967 meeting with representatives from the Rockefeller Foundation, Dean of the Graduate Division Horace Magoun suggested that “the Asians have been accepted to the point that one does not think of them as a separate group which would have to be singled out” for campus equal opportunity initiatives. 65 Moreover, the University’s general counsel would exacerbate this discursive vagueness of “disadvantage” in the 1960s as they advised UC administrators to deliberately use the term as a proxy for racial difference, given the legal uncertainty whether the University could actually “single out” nonwhite peoples in its programming. In December 1967, the Rockefeller Foundation awarded $200,000 to UCLA’s specifically to augment the EOP’s Mexican American recruitment and student services. Per the terms of the grant, forty percent of the monies would be used to fund the financial aid packages of an additional sixty Mexican American EOP students over a three-year period. An additional portion of the grant would go towards hiring a Mexican American assistant for EOP Director Kenneth Washington. 66 Felix Castro, the EOP’s Mexican Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 175 American community liaison, had earlier expressed concerns that UCLA had lagged in recruiting Mexican American students at the same rates as Black admits, despite the former’s status as the largest community of color in Los Angeles. In response, the Murphy administration used the Rockefeller grant to hire Juvenal “Jay” Gonzalez, a recent graduate of UC Riverside, to assist in EOP outreach efforts. 67 Subsequently, University attorney Donald L. Reidhaar warned UCLA Vice Chancellor Charles E. Young about the legal ramifications of the Rockefeller monies and a handful of other fellowship programs designated for Black and Mexican American students. According to Reidhaar, such programs “provide[d] for discrimination on the basis of race” and thus violated Title VI of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. As the University was an entity receiving “federal financial assistance,” the UC’s programs could not pronouncedly exclude anyone by “race, color, or national origin” for any job, scholarship, or admissions slot—including white applicants and students. Reidhaar’s recommendations to Young, as well as administrators on other University campuses, was to designate Educational Opportunity Programs and financial aid programs through such “reasonable, non-racial criteria” as “underprivileged,” “economically deprived,” or “culturally disadvantaged.” Given the high numbers of Black, Mexican American, and indigenous peoples who “come within these terms,” Reidhaar advised Young, they could serve as coherent replacements to describe programming designed for students of color. 68 Consequently, the multiple deferrals to describe the Educational Opportunity Program as designed for “disadvantaged” students helped to enable or reinforce a steady consensus among many UCLA faculty that the “cultural” disadvantages purportedly exhibited by working-class nonwhite students was the University’s primary matter of concern. According to a 1968 statewide survey of University EOP operations, it was the “cultural difference from the majority Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 176 of University students” that had hitherto impeded the mass incorporation of working-class nonwhite Californians into the UC student body. 69 An external 1969 report of UCLA’s EOP, commissioned by the newly-appointed Chancellor Charles Young, concurred that the Educational Opportunities Program had historically existed to help overcome some of the consequences of what we may loosely call the ‘culture of poverty.’ It is typical of victims of poverty or discrimination that the majority society refuses to take them seriously, will not demonstrate much faith in their ability to potential, and rarely allows them to assume serious responsibilities. The constant denial that such individuals can amount to anything is a well-known crippler of the self-esteem required for academic or other kinds of success. 70 While noting in passing the “injustices” and “maldistributions of resources” in the “larger society” that had helped to produce contemporary racial and class disparities, the administrative report nonetheless placed the onus of University reform on the consequences and not the sources of said disparities. 71 Insofar as the University could cast nonwhite student disadvantage as a matter of behavioral and psychosocial maladies, the EOP could feasibly address broader issues of structural inequality through the discipline and management of individual students. Hence, by the early 1970s it had become a frequent assertion that UC affirmative action programming could recruit and cultivate the capacities of able students purportedly raised in homes in which higher education was not a “cultural value”—versus, say, an economic impossibility. 72 A 1970 plan for expanding the EOP at UC Santa Cruz, for instance, proffered that the program would “motivate a ‘disadvantaged’ student to aspire to the ‘American arts’ of management, knowhow,” “ingenuity,” and “expertise” while simultaneously retaining their own “cultural heritage.” While proposing that the EOP would also socialize the “advantaged” students to “accept and embrace values offered by other ‘non-American cultures’” and thus promulgate a “genuinely pluralistic society,” the plan notably racialized technocratic expertise Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 177 and capitalist mobility as “qualities” of a white “American culture.” 73 By this logic, socioeconomic disparity was squarely a matter of cultural difference. On the other hand, the vague concept of “cultural disadvantage” could sustain scholarly arguments against initiatives like the Educational Opportunity Program. In the late 1960s, UC Berkeley psychology professor Arthur R. Jensen used his studies on race, heredity, and educability to disavow the efficacy of compensatory education programs. Insofar as “equality of educational opportunity” meant a “uniformity of facilities, instructional methods, and educational aims,” Jensen contended, it was more prudent to advance a “diversity” of pedagogical and instructional forms rather than promise a blanket “equality” within a standardized system. 74 “One child’s opportunity can be another’s defeat,” he asserted in a 1968 article for the American Educational Research Journal, pointing to his recent personal observations in schools with predominantly “Negro children from poor neighborhoods.” One school, a “putative model of equality” on par with the “best schools one would find in a white upper-middle class suburb,” had failed to improve student achievement despite employing a racially integrated, “well-educated and dedicated” group of teachers. In watching the pupils, Jensen said, he had been reminded of Ivan Pavlov’s experiments to test the “sensory discriminations beyond [the] sensory abilities” of dogs. 75 Notably, Jensen’s studies would reiteratively disavow any definitive linkage between race and inherent intellectual capacity. Racial differences in the “innate potential” of students, he reasoned in a 1967 study, were immeasurable by IQ due to the “greater barriers to social and occupational mobility” between different racial groups. As such, it was impossible to determine the precise calculus of inborn ability and racial discrimination that produced underachievement among working-class students of color. Consequently, Jensen opined that researchers would Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 178 need to determine the precise “cultural retardation,” or repressive environmental factors, that had hindered the educational potential of naturally gifted children. The “[f]ailure to differentiate between primary retardation and cultural retardation” was itself a “social injustice,” and “especially damaging to the social progress of minority groups.” On the other hand, Jensen contended that the majority of “low socio-economic status children” were “more or less destined for intellectual and occupational mediocrity”: they might benefit from educational assistance or college preparation work, but were more likely to gain little from such state interventions. 76 In turn, some of Arthur Jensen’s critics could point to the Educational Opportunity Program as a refutation of his disregard for educational assistance programs. In her own study, social scientist Bernadene V. Allen outlined the empirical successes of EOP students at the University of California and the California State Colleges as evidence that “students whom most educators believe have the least chance for improvement” were capable of excelling academically. Rather, it was necessary to examine how the traditional indices of academic excellence and college eligibility—such as grades and standardized entrance exams—were not indicative of students’ potential to succeed in college. Allen also concluded that the specific structure of EOPs had been instrumental to success: rather than “typical compensatory education programs directed by paternalistic white fathers,” many campuses employed Black counselors and directors “who recognize and build upon the strengths and weaknesses of Black students.” 77 Allen thus raised the question of whether the “disadvantage” facing low-income students of color was, in part, a matter of the racial constitution of educational institutions themselves. Indeed, by the late 1960s the surge of racial justice movements in California would implicate Educational Opportunity Programs within larger political and intellectual struggles over racial representation within institutions of higher learning. For many Californians of color, Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 179 recruiting students into the academy would require on a grander scale that the University examine its own status as an arbiter of disadvantage. Horizons of Representational Crisis In their 1968 survey of one hundred and fifty-nine higher educational institutions, the Southern Education Foundation would declare the University of California—particularly the Berkeley and Los Angeles campuses—as the state university system with the most extensive efforts in aiding and recruiting low-income and nonwhite students. 78 The Hitch administration would itself concur that the EOP had witnessed a “substantial measure of success” for a program that “began as an experiment,” as its students had proved their capacity to excel at the University despite the barriers posed by their “socio-economic background.” 79 By the fall of 1968, the UC had established Educational Opportunity Programs with full-time directors on all nine campuses, with a combined expenditure of $3.76 million. Of the 2,038 students enrolled in the EOPs for the fall of 1968, over half were special action admits; and yet EOP students’ academic performance and retention rates were unsubstantially different from those of the entire student body. 80 However, other external reviews of the EOP at the University of California’s two largest campuses were far less praiseworthy. Representatives from the Rockefeller Foundation who visited UCLA in 1967, as part of the Murphy administration’s bid to secure funds for Mexican American EOP participants, discovered a general “atmosphere…of doubt and lack of clarity concerning the whole effort of minority group programs on campus.” Vice Chancellor Rosemary Park had contacted multiple departments and academic programs whose faculty resisted participation in EOP efforts without foreknowledge of the “rewards” for their involvement, or who were convinced that local communities of color would not themselves “cooperate Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 180 unless…assured of quick results.” Meanwhile, Governor Reagan’s budget cutbacks to higher education had forced the UCLA administration to rethink their plans for program expansion. EOP Director Kenneth S. Washington, one Rockefeller agent wrote in their notes, had made the “mildly disconcerting” statement that he would be “seriously inclined” to resign without sufficient funding. 81 Indeed, Washington would leave in the summer of 1969 to become the statewide coordinator of the California State Colleges’ EOPs. In 1969, a consultative report on UC Berkeley’s Educational Opportunity Program had produced the result that the program was “too unwieldy, too inflexible, and too narrow in its compass to be of maximum assistance to the student.” In their assessment, Drs. William H. Grier and Price M. Cobbs, from a San Francisco based psychotherapy clinic, charged that University officials had relegated “this crucial function” of minority student representation to “an organization with little staff, less authority, and no money.” The EOP offices in Berkeley’s Dwinelle Hall had exceeded their capacity, and had thus become a “true ghetto of the University” in its overcrowded conditions. 82 Ultimately, the crisis within California’s two oldest student affirmative action initiatives was replicated in schools throughout the state. A 1970 statewide analysis of the EOP noted that the program was “jerry-built” and “largely unstructured” across all three tiers of California public higher education. For coauthors Dorothy S. Miller and (Japanese American Research Project affiliate) Harry Kitano, the Educational Opportunity Program had emerged at a critical moment in the rollback of the welfare state. Statewide endeavors to remediate class and racial disparities in higher education attendance had coincided with the denouement of an earlier wave of college expansion. Administrative efforts to “restrict new enrollments by raising standards” and rising student fees necessarily contradicted the EOP’s efforts. 83 Kitano and Miller Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 181 emphasized the national stakes of the Educational Opportunity Program’s success or failure in no uncertain terms. California had become the “proving ground,” they wrote, “for the resolution of the major policy questions” regarding the contradictions between “elitism” and “universal access.” Amidst this “proving ground” of the late 1960s, Californians of color would increasingly make organized entreaties on the University to address its own racial inequities beyond the scope of the EOP alone. In October 1967, the President of NAACP’s Berkeley chapter wrote to the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, requesting that the Department’s Office of Civil Rights conduct an investigation into the UC’s compliance with the 1964 Civil Rights Act. According to NAACP Branch President Mary Jane Johnson, the University had accrued a “negative racial image” among Black students in the Bay Area who saw the institution as reserved for rich white students. Instead, California’s community colleges “were becoming predominantly Negro” without any clear plan to increase the rate of transfers into the University. “It is most disquieting,” Johnson wrote, that the formerly segregated University of Mississippi had in just three years achieved a “greater percentage of Negro faculty and students than California.” In turn, Johnson beseeched HEW to hold the University accountable to an “affirmative commitment” towards reversing its “negative racial pattern.” 84 The following March, State Senator Mervyn M. Dymally charged at meeting of the University Regents that the “absence of minority students” at the UCs was “ipso facto discrimination” and thus a violation of the Civil Rights Act, the Equal Protection Clause of the 14 th Amendment, and the State Constitution’s guarantee that the University pursue “an equal distribution of students from all geographic areas of the state.” Dymally, a Trinidadian immigrant and former special education instructor representing the communities of Watts and Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 182 South Central Los Angeles, cautioned that the “dialogue must cease” in favor of immediate action to meet the “great challenges in this urban crisis.” 85 The very same month, the Regents voted to double the annual quota of special action admits from 2% to 4% of the overall student body, authorizing a reform that had been under deliberation amongst University officials for years. The expansion of Educational Opportunity Programs to all of the University’s general campuses between 1965 and 1968 had coincided with the steady increase in the share of special action admits as part of the overall cohort of EOP students, from just a handful of students in the fall of 1965 to 34.9% of incoming students in 1966 and 40.1% in 1967. Not long before his termination in 1967, Kerr formally petitioned the UC Regents a final time to expand special actions admissions ceilings from 4% in accordance with expanding EOP operations. 86 However, the alteration of University admissions standards in 1968 to capture a slightly larger share of formally ineligible students coincided with a retrenchment of the eligibility standards themselves. The Regents had consented to the expansion of special admissions rates in concurrence with the decision to make the Standard Aptitude Test (SAT) a requirement for undergraduate applicants. The decision to implement the SAT was borne partially from the University’s latent noncompliance with the Master Plan’s division of applicant pools: as of the late 1960s the UCs were still accepting nearly 15% of the state’s top high school graduates, suggesting a need to further quantify student capacity in order to manage rising demand. 87 In a follow-up missive to the Regents in early April, Senator Dymally argued that standardized testing both introduced prohibitive fees for low-income students, and were often biased against nonwhite students. With such a “blatantly discriminatory” practice, Dymally wondered aloud, it might be necessary to “resort to the courts as was done in 1954” in Brown vs. Board. 88 Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 183 By 1970, the disjuncture between the Master Plan’s principles of universal access and the material realities of structural disparity had become a critical issue for college officials and civil rights advocates alike seeking to leverage racial justice through educational equity. Contra calls among some state policymakers to restrict Educational Opportunity Programs to the community colleges, UCLA’s former EOP Director, Kenneth S. Washington, warned that the state’s junior colleges would become “‘ghetto’ institutions” and accrue a “‘second-class’ label” by channeling students of color into the lowest tier of postsecondary education. As Washington argued, low- income students of color had been placed in a double bind: either attend a nearby community college and thus be “unable to escape those anti-intellectual forces” that would derail scholastic achievement, or “anxiety and trepidation” and risk being “victimized by inferior social, economic, and educational aspects” by entering into a middle-class campus milieu. 89 Harry Kitano and Dorothy S. Miller concurred in their own assessment, concerned that dissolving the EOPs at the UCs and state colleges would dramatically reduce the presence of working-class and nonwhite students and create “de-facto segregated institutions” out of the community colleges. Indeed, as Figure 3E visualizes, public higher educational institutions in Los Angeles at the turn of the decade were broadly reflective of the residential segregation patterns within postwar Southern California. At the state and community colleges especially, where students were likely to live at home or nearby, campuses in South and East Los Angeles had rates of nonwhite enrollment far above the state averages while those in the majority-white San Fernando Valley and Orange County had below-average nonwhite representation. Kitano and Miller would further note that the spatial distribution of Los Angeles made the matter of racial equity in public higher education a far more complex matter than increasing the flow of admissions. Both UCLA and Cal State Los Angeles were “virtually inaccessible by public Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 184 transportation.” While latter school, located in East Los Angeles, had actually achieved a majority-nonwhite student body by 1970, the campus was “cut of from the minority community by a major freeway and remains isolated except by private auto.” Nor could college administrators take for granted the issue of settling students of color in “all-white communities” like Westwood or the San Fernando Valley. 90 In Kitano and Miller’s analysis, the issues facing the success of the Educational Opportunity Program were financial and structural, not students’ intellectual motivation. The first wave of programs had “opened a wedge” among minority students—not so much for the size of the program, but that EOP had become a “symbol” within communities of color as an unprecedented vector of opportunity. EOP students who were “motivated by and concerned about the state of their own minority communities” had invested their own “positive self- identity” in their academic success. The success of early EOP efforts thus portended a “geometric” increase in applicants. Yet the report also offered that the first waves of students of color could present organized challenges to collegiate administrators “for minority admissions proportionately closer to the population distribution of minority groups in the state.” 91 Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 185 Figure 3E 92 Kitano and Miller’s report tempered that the vast majority of EOP students were not student militants: most were “too busy ‘getting an education’” and dealt with financial strictures Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 186 unlike the “middle-class whites” behind most of the “disruptive actions.” 93 Indeed, the University of California’s oftentimes piecemeal Educational Opportunity Program operations meant relying heavily on the labor of students of color themselves. By 1968 administrators at the Berkeley, Los Angeles, San Diego, and Santa Cruz campuses had outsourced their outreach operations in area high schools to campus organizations like the United Mexican American Students and Black Students Organization. 94 Yet Kitano and Miller also tempered that the advent of more students of color to campus could engender further challenges to the workings of academic governance or the operations of the EOP itself. Especially when colleges had installed white EOP directors, the report offered, it was likely that “as more minority students enroll…they will force a change in the director” to “be selected from one of the minorities.” 95 UC Berkeley had presented such an instance. In March 1968, UC Berkeley Vice Chancellor William Boyd announced the termination of Bill Somerville as the EOP Director, offering to the Los Angeles Times that Somerville had “worn out his welcome in a lot of black and Mexican-American communities.” Partially, suggested Boyd, Somerville had become a victim of circumstance: the burgeoning popularity of EOP among students of color had forced Somerville to reject increasingly more applicants, likely generating ill will. 96 Earlier in 1968, Somerville came under fire from Mexican American activists and advocates dissatisfied with the imparity between Black and Latino/a representation in the EOP. In early 1968, a coalition of Mexican American community leaders and students had charged Somerville with “gross discrimination against Mexican-Americans and Spanish-Surname people” because the campus EOP had far greater numbers of Black students than Mexican Americans, despite Mexican Americans constituting the largest nonwhite group in K-12 schools in California. Indeed, the geographically wider distribution of Latino/a students in Northern Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 187 California, as opposed to the African American communities clustered near the metropolitan Bay Area (see Figure 3A), had earlier placed demands on Somerville to recruit from the counties to the north of the Bay. 97 In turn, Somerville himself contended that Black students had forced his removal because he was white. It would be “apartheid,” he protested to the Los Angeles Times, if it “take[s] a Negro to tell what Negroes should be admitted to the university.” 98 To Somerville, the University’s capitulation to Black self-determination politics constituted a retrenchment of racism itself, as the “white intellectual, the white racist and the black militant are all saying the same thing now.” 99 Some of Somerville’s supporters concurred. In a letter of protestation to Chancellor Roger W. Heyns, English graduate student Patricia Merman lamented that the decision to replace Somerville would “provide a ready excuse for White citizenry to ignore their responsibilities” to advancing racial equality. 100 Amidst his critiques of the University’s racial representation, moreover, State Senator Dymally joined the chorus of voices protesting Somerville’s dismissal, calling the ousted EOP coordinator “more sensitive to the problems of minority students” than few others he knew. 101 Nonetheless, the personnel change would not abate student critiques over program operations: it was under Somerville’s replacement, an African American program director named Bill Sherrill, that the African-American Students Union issued their demand for autonomy over the Educational Opportunities Program 102 Furthermore, the appointment of a Black administrator leveraged Mexican Americans who demanded an equal share of EOP resources and programming. In June 1969, Angelina Rodarte, the chairperson of the Mexican American Student Confederation, wrote to the Heyns administration to contest the continual admission of Chicano/a students to the EOP at rates lower than for Black students. “We have always been the Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 188 ‘afterthought’” and “never the central focus of any program on this campus,” wrote Rodarte. “Dado a todo lo que ha pasado ya nos queda poca paciencia.” 103 (Given all that has happened, we have little patience left.) Peter Silva, whom the University had hired to oversee the Mexican American component of EOP, himself petitioned administrators to create separate divisions within the program between Black and other nonwhite students to ensure “equitable accessibility...for all minorities.” 104 In the face of Governor Ronald Reagan’s budget cuts to higher educational funding, too, students, staff, and advocates of the Educational Opportunities Program could claim the EOP as a bulwark against the racist mandates of administrative power. In the March 1970 issue of Gidra, an Asian American student periodical published at the University of California – Los Angeles, staff writer Naomi Uyeda offered a preemptive obituary for EOPs after Reagan “kicked away the crutches” of an already enfeebled program. Uyeda, a former UCLA student and an administrative assistant for the EOP at California State College – Long Beach, framed the programs as part of a unified movement for educational equity, which “represent[ed] the goals of all minority people and their communities.” Insofar as the 1960 California Master Plan came to “systematically stratify and control the student population in the various levels of higher education,” Uyeda wrote, the EOPs existed in “direct contradiction” to the Plan’s prerogative, a “wrench thrown into the mechanisms” of public collegiate administration. To illustrate this “inevitable death,” the article featured a sketch of a tombstone adorned with a hand giving the middle finger and the epitaph declaring EOP “killed in the battle for self-determination.” 105 Chapter 3 Degrees of Disadvantage 189 Figure 3F: A Preemptive Funeral for EOP (1970) 106 Notably, the Educational Opportunity Program was less a threat to the Master Plan than an appendage thereof, a regulatory response to the Plan’s colorblind precepts of access. Faced with the discrepancy between the principles of racial equality and universal access, and the material realities of demographic disparity, administrators turned to EOPs in order to preliminarily modulate the flow of nonwhite students and test the capacity of underrepresented students for academic excellence. That is, EOPs did not so much upend the Master Plan’s hierarchies of distribution as they validated the University’s academic standards as an intellectual plane upon which students of color could reside. For all of the calls to “Third World unity” or radical alterity, moreover, EOPs offered a space internal to higher educational institutions from which students of color lobbied critical analyses of academic power or articulated alternative visions for its governance. As the AASU demands that began this chapter demonstrate, student visions for academic change could be piecemeal or extend their radical visions only to the form of the University as it currently stood. As the following chapter demonstrates, it was from this perspective of progressive program building that student activists could enter themselves into matters of academic reform. Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 190 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions: CALIFORNIA AND THE FORMATION OF ETHNIC STUDIES During the third week of 1969, the student newspapers at the University of California’s two largest campuses offered markedly divergent narratives of student activism, administrative action, and program development. On Tuesday, January 21, UC Berkeley’s Daily Californian reported that a coalition of nonwhite student groups would follow in the footsteps of activists at nearby San Francisco State College by initiating a campus strike. In their quintet of demands, which the newspaper printed in full, the Third World Liberation Front (TWLF) called for the rapid incorporation of students, scholars, staff, and administrators of color. The coalition demanded open admissions for all “Third World” students in the fall; the wide recruitment of nonwhite administrators from admissions officers and counselors to deans and chancellors; and for “every University program financed federally or otherwise” involving people of color to have “Third World people in control at the decision making level from funding to program implementation.” Furthermore, the TWLF pressed for the immediate creation of a Third World College with constituent departments in Black, Chicano, Asian, and Native American Studies. 1 The same day, UC Berkeley Chancellor Roger W. Heyns refuted any “legitimate reason to strike” in an extended rebuttal of the coalition’s demands; the Daily Cal printed the statement verbatim two days later. His decree averred the Berkeley administration’s commitment to remediating racial disparities in the campus curriculum, and augmenting the employment and enrollment of “minority group members to all parts of the University.” Yet Heyns stressed the University’s fiscal constraints as an unavoidable impediment; deferred to the official bureaucratic channels for the creation of new academic programs; and cited the Master Plan’s admissions criteria in rejecting the demands for open admissions to “all people in the Third Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 191 World.” The subsequent impasse resulted in a seven-week strike—a public picket and assorted acts of property damage, vis-à-vis a crescendo of police repressions—until the TWLF and Heyns administration settled on the creation of a Department of Ethnic Studies in March 1969. 2 By contrast, the January 20 issue of UCLA’s Daily Bruin suggested a triumph in collaborations between administrators, faculty, and students on the matter of ethnic studies programming. A front-page article touted Chancellor Charles E. Young’s impending press conference to announce his proposal of the American Cultures Project, the campus’ latest effort towards “solving minority problems.” The initiative would offer a hybridity of academic research and collaborative action projects with local communities of color. Furthermore, the Young administration avowed that their efforts would produce a permanent Institute of American Cultures, comprised of “four autonomous programs…representing Afro-Americans, American Indians, Mexican American (sic), and Orientals.” The paper quoted Vice Chancellor Paul Proehl, who relayed the administration’s hope that the Institute would “be representative of America’s pluralistic society, which is developed neither by separatism nor by assimilation.” 3 Chancellor Young opined in a subsequent press release that Los Angeles was the optimal site for such an academic innovation, as the city “offers an unusual geographical opportunity to serve these cultures, and the University has a commitment to respond to their needs…We intend to bring these cultures to the attention of the academic community.” 4 Joaquin E. Acosta, Jr., an administrative veteran of the L.A. city school system and an assistant to Vice Chancellor Paul Proehl, reiterated the administration’s attention to social “needs.” UCLA’s model of governance, Acosta suggested, had successfully deterred the possibility of student strikes and riots. “A university is successful only if it reacts to needs, not demands,” he intimated to a local periodical, the South Bay Daily Breeze. “Demands mean that we are very, very late.” 5 Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 192 The Young administration’s self-announced capacity to deter crisis on campus, to be certain, was arguable. The front-page Daily Bruin article announcing the American Cultures Project accompanied a report on the shootings of two student leaders the previous Friday in Campbell Hall, the academic building that housed the school’s nascent ethnic studies centers. Alprentice “Bunchy” Carter and John Huggins, leaders of both UCLA’s Black Students Union and the Southern California chapter of the Black Panther Party, were casualties of internecine strife between the Panthers and its rival organization, US, over the ideological direction of the campus’ Center for Afro-American Studies. 6 Yet historian Martha Biondi notes that UCLA’s students “endeavored to withstand these ideological currents" and “imbue the program with academic rigor,” contra the members of the Center’s Community Advisory Board seeking to instantiate the program as an appendage of community organizing efforts. 7 The Panthers, on their part, proclaimed in the aftermath that the leadership of UCLA’s Black Studies program was hardly a grave concern compared to the issues facing residents of South Central Los Angeles. 8 Racial justice efforts in late 1960s California were far from uniform or synchronous, operating though a multitude of organizational and institutional relations, with varying opposition and obeisance to institutional and state power. It would become commonplace among students, faculty, and administrators alike to retrospectively argue that UCLA officials preemptively inaugurated ethnic studies programs to mitigate the threat of mass protest, a la the Berkeley strike. But the Young administration’s plans for curricular expansion certainly did not preclude future charges of institutional racism, nor did subsequent demands for UCLA’s accelerated integration necessarily elicit any acquiescence from school officials. Ultimately, both characterizations of ethnic studies—as either the gains of mass protest, or a reactionary concession to deter protest—misrecognize how the genealogy of Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 193 ethnic studies frequently encapsulated combined efforts and shared presumptions between students, faculty, and administrators. This chapter explores the complex of institutional rearrangements and historical agents behind the implementation of ethnic studies programs at the University of California, particularly UCLA, in the late 1960s and the 1970s. I argue that centering the UCLA’s ethnic studies centers—together, among the first multiracial ethnic studies programs to begin operations— helps us to rethink the institutional relations and innovations that constituted the racial diversification of academic pedagogy, research, and canonization. It is precisely because UCLA’s Institute of American Cultures came into being independent of any major demonstrations or coordinated demands that its formation merits attention. While episodic, the collaborative relations between students, faculty, and administrators fueled the campus bureaucratization of ethnic studies, and fill a critical historiographical gap in the shift in the politics of racial knowledge production from protests to professions. That is, it is necessary to trouble the notion that the “Third World Strike and other events like it created a new academic field.” 9 Ethnic studies advocates’ calls for programmatic autonomy and epistemological self-determination might obscure how their formal appeals to collegiate administrators regularly conceded authority and accepted administrative intervention as a productive, rather than repressive, force. The novelty of ethnic studies as an interdisciplinary field—sans the certainty of canonical texts, theoretical foundations, and programmatic parameters—also afforded academic officials substantial domains to shape the practice of ethnic studies amongst themselves. The heterogeneous racial landscape of postwar Los Angeles makes UCLA ideal for a case study on the material convergence of multiple intellectual investments and political Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 194 mobilizations into what we know as “ethnic studies.” Recent theoretical literatures have similarly explored the genealogy of ethnic studies at the nexus of student protest and academic programming. Their authors trace this institutional growth across a nationwide array of collegiate histories, particularly in regards to the intellectual and programmatic formation of discrete subfields in Chicano, Asian American, and Black Studies. 10 However, scholarship to date has yet to fully grapple with the historical co-emergence of these programs at particular moments in space and time. Geographical asymmetries between peoples of color necessarily differentiated the spatial configurations of these individual subfields, as colleges and universities variably responded to regional demographic shifts and political pressures. In particular, Southern California—and California more broadly—was an epicenter in the formation of Asian American and Chicano/a Studies. 11 The region offers an invaluable historical lens into ethnic studies as a institutional project in situ, not just an abstract collection of various studies on racial difference. Exhuming the history of program development at UCLA, then, necessitates a deeper examination of the documentary trails through which a multiplicity of figures—particularly administrators, students, faculty, and staff—enacted ethnic studies as both a novel area of intellectual inquiry and a political field of racial representation. Departing from scholarship to date, I argue that the prevailing emphasis on the vectors of student protest might obscure the other mechanisms through which University officials and Californians of color advanced ethnic studies as a curricular reform. While they did not subsume the coeval waves of student mobilization that swept through Vietnam War-era California, the institutional avenues for collaboration—however uneven—substantiated ethnic studies as an academic field wholly consistent with the University’s repertoire. Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 195 In particular, the narrative focus on activist demands tends to obscure the critical role of proposals as a lingua franca of academic reform. While protest politics constituted a major component of public discourse among student activists in this period, they also formed but one set of institutional relations between administrators, educators, and students. As such, demands and demonstrations alone cannot account for the lines of causation between racial justice organizing and curricular expansion within postwar California higher education. At both UCLA and UC Berkeley, for instance, student and faculty proposals in the late 1960s were quintessential elements of ethnic studies program development. It was through these formal, private appeals to academic power that students and faculty alike could fashion ethnic studies in the structure and logic of the University. Within the circuitry of academic bureaucracy, proposals are mundane business. They are the handiwork of student organizations, faculty researchers, and administrators alike; written missives into the chain of command, a form of planning that demands higher approval. Yet it is their very ubiquity that makes proposals a critical site of analysis in the origins of ethnic studies as an academic practice—and a textual form that existing scholarship has undertheorized. Proposals are fundamentally acts of translation: deliberate efforts to justify program expansion as consistent with the functions of the institution, or perhaps productive for institutional prestige. Unlike demands, proposals often grappled with the intimate logistical challenges facing ethnic studies programming. Even as campaigns for ethnic studies drew from the language and worldview of anticolonial and radical justice movements, the authors of proposals would communicate dynamic interpolations of identity and community into legible, interpretable modes of institutional recognition. Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 196 However spectacular the role of mass student protest in catalyzing the proliferation of curricular expansions in the late 1960s, it would be remiss to ignore that activist praxes could commingle radical visions for the academy with affirmations of extant institutional structures and functions. Contra the utopian possibilities ensconced within demands, proposals and plans for ethnic studies positioned program building in the language of development. Ethnic studies proposals at the UCs engaged development in multiple valences: the expansion of the University’s repertoire, the potential redirection of institutional resources to address structural disparities in local communities, and the socialization of students of color themselves. Furthermore, I contend that the current genealogy of student protest and ethnic studies has largely marginalized the institutional records of early ethnic studies programs. These paper trails in University of California archives delineate the multiple, albeit uneven, administrative investments in ethnic studies program development as potentially lucrative areas for University expansion in the 1970s. The genealogy of ethnic studies at the University of California exposes a dynamic system of academic governance in demonstrable excess of any overarching strategy for repressing student mobilizations or dismissing charges of institutional racism. Coincident with the UC’s Urban Crisis initiatives under President Charles Hitch, ethnic studies programs offered UCLA administrators an emergent mechanism for the liberal incorporation of racial diversity and difference as an integral part of institutional planning. Amidst the ongoing fiscal crunch facing California’s public higher education after the 1960s, the presence of ethnic studies programs could corroborate UCLA’s professed capacity to manage the “Urban Crisis,” even as such programs lingered on the University’s fiscal margins. Ethnic studies was ultimately a major component in the University’s institutionalization of what Jodi Melamed terms liberal Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 197 multiculturalism—a “management of racial difference” that repudiates the material violences and histories of dispossession constitutive of that very difference. 12 Movements in A Major On April 25, 1969, the LA Times published the results of its statewide survey of collegiate ethnic studies courses. Just a month after the denouement of the “Third World” student strikes at UC Berkeley and San Francisco State, ethnic studies had become a feature at every single University of California and California State College campus, as well as most of the state’s prominent private colleges and universities. Despite the emergence and ongoing expansion of ethnic studies in California postsecondary education, said offerings were notably uneven across campuses and subfields—for instance, Black and Mexican American Studies courses were far more prevalent than classes in Asian American and Native American Studies. Only a handful of state colleges, and Stanford University, had formalized plans for African American Studies degree programs and/or departments; which none of the UC campuses had reported in the immediate future. 13 An article accompanying the survey likewise cautioned that the proliferation of ethnic studies was still in the phase of “promises and plans,” amidst a cavalcade of budgetary restrictions and attendant political conflicts over their political and pragmatic orientations. The “nonacademic goals” of “[i]nstilling racial pride and developing community action plans,” per Times journalist John Dreyfuss, had been “forced” into the academic conversation “mostly by angry, determined minority students who see traditional courses as irrelevant.” The Times argued that the dyad of high-profile student strikes in the San Francisco Bay Area, far from fomenting the creation of curricular expansions, had actually hindered extant efforts to develop ethnic Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 198 studies on their respective campuses. While naming San Francisco State as the first four-year college in California “to consider minority studies programs seriously,” Dreyfuss wrote that the “campus turmoil” over the past year meant that the school “stands no chance of quickly reaching the levels” of ethnic studies already attained at Cal State Los Angeles and UCLA. 14 During the two Bay Area strikes in early 1969, the Times had periodically reported on the creation of ethnic studies courses at Southern California colleges in direct contradistinction to the specter of student revolt. While Black and Chicano/a students at San Fernando Valley State College (now California State University, Northridge) had occupied an administrative building and frequently contested with campus officials, the Times cast Valley State as a deliberate counterpoint to the collaborations between students, faculty, and administrators on other campuses that had led to ethnic studies programs via “quieter paths.” The comparatively accommodating administrations at the nearby state colleges in East Los Angeles and Fullerton, Orange County, per Times reporter Scott Moore, was the “chief reason for moderation” among Black and Latino students. 15 Dreyfuss’ April 25 article similarly offered that the “farsighted administrators and faculty members” at UCLA and Cal State L.A. had offered avenues for student engagement productive of “quiet determination” instead of public protest. Despite the frequent association of ethnic studies with student militancy, Dreyfuss described such curricular innovations as “unorthodox by current academic standards,” but “practical” nonetheless. 16 Certainly, the Times’ reportage on the collaborative and cooperative origins of ethnic studies was indebted to the explanations of collegiate administrators, who had a vested interest in repudiating the motive force of student protestors. The periodical’s January 24, 1969 coverage of UCLA’s own plans for the Institute of American Cultures cited at length Vice Chancellor Proehl, who asserted that the University’s announcements were “in no way a response” to the murder of Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 199 Carter and Huggins, nor due to “any threats or pressures against the administration.” 17 UCLA was also pursuing ethnic studies as a multiracial complex with constituent African American, Latino, Asian American, and Native American components. Administrators justified such plans as a reflection of the four minority groups enumerated in the University’s newly instated annual Ethnic Survey of the student body. In other words, UCLA officials located the campus’ ethnic studies programs within the preexisting institutional infrastructure of racial difference; as opposed to the demands of a multiracial student coalition. Such administrative self-credit necessarily elided over the multiple nonwhite student organizations, who could articulate their own visions for ethnic studies as a novel terrain of academic pedagogy. Yet the history of ethnic studies at UCLA decentralizes mass protest in favor of other documentary trails and vectors of program development. As such, the Institute of American Cultures traces the quotidian workings of academic change that the crucible of public protest might obscure. At the very least, the parallel timelines of UCLA and UC Berkeley’s implementation of minority research and curricular reforms should trouble any singular model to explain the history of ethnic studies program development. The Bay Area strikes—particularly San Francisco State’s, which Fabio Rojas names in his genealogy of Black Studies as “one of the most memorable moments in American educational history”—loom large in many scholarly explorations of ethnic studies’ historical and intellectual origins. 18 Certainly the two protests are of immense symbolic significance, insofar as they substantiate a narrative of student and community mobilization as the motive force of institutional change. Ties between the Oakland-based Black Panther Party and the incipient Black Studies programs at both schools, and the subsequent dismissal of high-ranking Panthers serving as educators, helped to precipitate the two Third World strikes. 19 At both schools, Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 200 multiracial “Third World” coalitions dismissed extant institutional efforts in Black Studies, in favor of demands that included California’s heterogeneous nonwhite constituencies. Both escalated into labor strikes, as graduate student unions at the schools voted to join the student pickets. Subsequently, both prompted Governor Ronald Reagan to declare a state of emergency, deploy the National Guard, and sanction the violent repression of student activists. 20 The Third World Liberation Front’s praxis illuminates multiple ideal-types for contemporary goals of ethnic studies as a critical field of pedagogy and scholarship: an alliance of historically marginalized communities, the ability for ordinary people exterior to the academy to challenge its modus operandi, and the utilization of higher educational resources to combat local material disparities. Moreover, Reagan’s standoff with Bay Area student dissidents in the dawn of his political career presaged the governor’s future preeminence in the national formation of neoconservative austerity and carceral statecraft. 21 The San Francisco State campaign remains the most prolonged student protest in the history of American education, and the campus subsequently initiated the nation’s first and only College of Ethnic Studies. However, the concurrent proclamations of collaborative programming efforts towards ethnic studies at UCLA and other public colleges might challenge Fabio Rojas’ contention that the San Francisco State strike, in conjunction with other student protests statewide, “taxed the system’s ability to respond to challengers.” 22 On January 27, 1969, the Monday after the Young administration announced UCLA’s Institute of American Cultures and Berkeley students began their picket line, Charles Hitch sent a memorandum to the Chancellors of all nine UC campuses outlining the overarching guidelines for enacting ethnic studies programs. Reassuring that he was “firmly convinced of the value of such courses of study,” Hitch nonetheless stressed that all proposals for new departments were at his own jurisdiction; and new colleges at the call of the Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 201 Regents. Citing the 1964 Civil Rights Act, the UC President emphasized University regulations against any academic program “specifically reserved for members (faculty or students) of a particular ethnic group.” 23 As did critics of the Urban Crisis program itself (see Chapter 1), Hitch used the recent implementation of federal anti-racial segregation laws to preemptively deflect student protestors’ claims to self-determination in the form of new programs, departments, and colleges. While throwing the campus into disarray for the early months of 1969, the Berkeley strike would leave intact the University-wide oversight of new academic programs. Despite the undeniable resonance of the Third World strikes, the very exceptionalism of their histories necessarily delimits the TWLF protests as a microcosm of ethnic studies program development. The Berkeley strike—the shorter and less heralded of the two—also differed in some significant aspects. At San Francisco State College, the resignation of President Robert R. Smith in the middle of the protests led to the Trustees and Reagan’s appointment of Samuel Ichiye “S.I.” Hayakawa, a right-wing Japanese Canadian semanticist who consented to law-and- order measures against student demonstrators. By contrast, UC Berkeley Chancellor Roger Heyns, who had assumed leadership after the 1964 Free Speech Movement, endorsed Charles Hitch’s Urban Crisis planning and reiterated his support for a Black Studies program. His administration (1965-1971) ultimately weathered one of the most tempestuous periods of antiwar and antiracist student mobilization in campus history. 24 Meanwhile, the two Third World coalitions behind the Bay Area strikes were ephemeral, having dispersed following the end of both demonstrations. The flurry of political activity—not to mention the permanent impermanence that is the state of being a student—engendered a great deal of organizational flux and variance across local contexts. Despite the many ties cohered between different students of color in this period, the copresence of multiple marginalized Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 202 student communities guaranteed neither the longevity nor omnipresence of solidarity. The mass participation of Asian American and Native American students in the Berkeley strike, for instance, was somewhat of a rarity in the grander scheme of California student organizing. 25 Furthermore, the history of the UC Berkeley strike has been inevitably complicated as a result of the 2012 revelation that Japanese American student leader and Black Panther cadre Richard Aoki was an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Per journalist Seth Rosenfeld, Aoki served as an informant during his time among various sectors of the Bay Area Left from 1961 to 1977. Rosenfeld notes that the FBI under J. Edgar Hoover had retained interest in UC Berkeley since its loyalty oath controversies and Free Speech movements in the decade prior. 26 During this period, Aoki became a founding member of Berkeley’s Asian American Political Alliance, served as a coalitional leader and spokesperson for the Third World strike, and subsequently worked as one of the first campus instructors in Asian American Studies. 27 As such, the Berkeley strike—which included several anonymous acts of arson and property damage alongside the coordinated pickets and demonstrations—should trouble any neatly hermetic divisions between the transformative and normative in the origins of ethnic studies. It has become commonplace in the historiography of U.S. racial politics to associate the 1960s with the denouement of moderate civil rights mobilizations, as the glacial pace of legal and institutional reform gave way to a flourishing of radical urgencies. The spread of nonwhite student activism in this time period was in no small part a reflection of this collective frustration. Student movements were essential in the articulation and negotiation of new racial subjectivities, fashioning “Black,” “Chicano/a,” and “Asian American” as collective political identities and dynamic affirmations of community across local and regional expanses. In this milieu, Governor Reagan’s divestments from the regional welfare state and deployment of police formed the sort Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 203 of state power against which racial justice movements might define themselves as “Third World” peoples with a colonial relationship to U.S. statecraft. 28 It was at UC Berkeley that a student group to which Aoki belonged, the Asian American Political Alliance (AAPA), constituted the first use of “Asian American” as a collective moniker. AAPA was formed in the summer of 1968 out of the Asian Caucus of the campus’ Peace and Freedom Party, a predominantly white antiwar organization and electoral slate. Within a year, AAPA had grown to include chapters at UCLA, UC Davis, Columbia, and Yale; and was one of the constituent organizations behind both Third World strikes at UC Berkeley and San Francisco State. 29 Sociologist Yen Le Espiritu cites the critical mass of middle-class college students in the 1960s and 1970s as eminent engineers of Asian American panethnicity. The young, Anglophone women and men of Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Filipino descent who encountered one another on campus could forsake historical antagonisms between different Asian diasporas to reconceive their ethnic communities as a collective personhood. 30 As Daryl Maeda argues, “Asian American” at the outset constituted an explicitly political identity bound less by geographic origins or ancestries than a politics of antiracist solidarity. 31 Certainly, the proliferation of multi-campus organizations like the BSU, UMAS, and AAPA coincided with the dissemination of ethnic studies programs in colleges across California (and elsewhere) in the late 1960s. However, it would be a mistake to render student protest as a fluid or ubiquitous mass with a consistent influence on the operations of academic governance. Chris Iijima, who co-founded the Columbia University chapter of AAPA as an undergraduate in 1969, would later characterize the totality of Asian American organizing in the Vietnam War era as a “loosely connected sense among a broad spectrum of people that what we were doing separately” was “somehow interconnected” through a multiplicity of Left politics. 32 Iijima Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 204 himself came from a community of progressive Japanese Americans who had resettled in New York after the internment, and whose social and political ties to Nikkei on the West Coast helped to telegraph the neologistic moniker of “Asian American” across the continent in the late 1960s. 33 However noteworthy activists’ coordination of worldviews and stratagems across vast spaces, the contingencies and intimacies that sustained such synchronicity should mandate careful attention to the spatial and sectoral variegation of student politics. In his study on the intellectual foundations of Chicano/a Studies, Michael Soldatenko argues that it is necessary to treat campus protests and mobilizations as discrete, independent processes contingent on the variety of campus conditions and infrastructures that student activists faced. While arguing that student movements did offer a collective hope in the possibility of institutional transformation, Soldatenko nonetheless cautions against a “creation myth” of Chicano Studies that presumes a standardized, teleological pathway from student protest to an “oppositional practice of intellectual investigation.” 34 His contention is a crucial consideration for the historiography of student activism. Narrating ethnic studies advocacy as a movement requires a nuanced attention to both the extramural linkages that sustained ethnic studies program development, and the regional and local disjunctures between various campus nodes of those emergent networks. Soldatenko’s caveat on the particularity of campus protests is noteworthy in the context of El Plan de Santa Barbara, a coordinated plan for widespread Chicano/a Studies program development that a multicampus coalition of scholars and students drafted in April 1969 (see also Chapter 2). The Santa Barbara summit that produced El Plan also witnessed the merger of multiple student organizations into the Movimiento Estudiantil Chicana/o de Aztlán. MEChA absorbed Southern California’s United Mexican American Students chapters and Northern Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 205 California’s Mexican American Student Confederation (MASC), bridging regional circuits of organizing while shifting nomenclature from “Mexican American” to “Chicano/a.” 35 Like Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzalez’s El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán—a cultural nationalist manifesto adopted at the First National Chicano Liberation Youth Conference in Denver just a month prior—El Plan de Santa Barbara promulgated a sense of alternative collectivity putatively at odds with the idylls of “ethnic” assimilation into the American body politic. 36 Unlike Gonzalez’s poetics of Chicanismo, however, the authors of El Plan de Santa Barbara prosaically framed Chicano/a Studies program development within extant models of U.S. higher education. Their group’s moniker, the Chicano Coordinating Council for Higher Education, was a direct reference to the Coordinating Council for Higher Education (CCHE), a state advisory board including public officials and collegiate administrators. 37 In the planning phases for the conference that produced El Plan, the organizers had envisioned the document as a Chicano/a “Master Plan” offering a five- to ten-year layout for collegiate program expansion. 38 Soldatenko accordingly characterizes El Plan as one of the founding documents for a tradition that he terms empirical Chicano/a Studies. Empiricists, he contends, prioritized institution-building and program development largely at the expense of offering alternative or oppositional frameworks for the reconstitution of Chicano/a higher education. As such, “these student activists unconsciously affirmed the process by which knowledge was assembled and distributed” in the academy. 39 Indeed, El Plan de Santa Barbara reiteratively offers less an explicit challenge to the modus operandi of academic governance than a recognition of—if not acquiescence to—the structures and strictures of institutional power: The inescapable fact is that Chicanos must come to grips with the reality of the university in modern society. The university is a powerful modern institution because it generates and distributes knowledge, which is power. So far-reaching is its power that the university today is widely acknowledged as being the most Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 206 single important factor in social and economic growth…It is even predicted that the university will become the central institution of the next hundred years. 40 These measured efforts at self-incorporation encapsulated within El Plan stand in contrast to other genealogies of ethnic studies that place the process of institutionalization as an exterior or “imposed system” of hierarchy. 41 Rather, the Chicano Coordinating Council for Higher Education explicitly named their goal as institutionalization, or the “realization of Chicano power on campus.” 42 The multifaceted vision for program development that the authors of El Plan promulgated, furthermore, threatened to elide over the institutional differences amongst California colleges and universities. The manifesto asserted that colleges and universities in the Southwest had “a threefold responsibility” of instruction, research, and “public service to the Chicano community.” 43 El Plan’s authors effectively envisioned Chicano academization as coterminous with a tripartite repertoire that the Master Plan had reserved solely for the University of California system. The UC’s privileged domain over research in California higher education was in no small part responsible for the capital accumulation that had further enabled the University’s public service capacities. 44 California collegiate administrators—not unlike students—approached matters of institutional discrimination and racial inequality through intercampus networks that fluctuated in expanse and extent. The Hitch administration’s efforts to promulgate the University’s Urban Crisis programming throughout California higher education simultaneously sought to preserve the extant academic divisions of labor instantiated in the Master Plan. Administrative tensions between the UCs and the state colleges persisted over the former’s monopoly on research and advanced degree programs in public postsecondary education. The University of California’s investments in ethnic studies programs persistently labored to preserve this institutional divide, Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 207 even as Governor Reagan and the state legislature approved the reformation of the state colleges into the California State University system in 1972. 45 In addition, the UC’s planning efforts throughout the 1960s had emphasized the formal and functional differentiation of the University campuses alongside the decentralization of academic governance. 46 For the half-dozen schools that the University had incorporated in the decades following World War II, student organizing in support of curricular and programmatic expansion would coincide with the implementation of major academic divisions—such as additional Schools and Colleges—on campuses that were themselves relatively new. Collegiate campuses at varying stages of development were thus capable of meeting student mobilizations for institutional transformation according to their extant capacities for expansion. One of the earliest such conflicts emerged at UC Santa Cruz, the University’s youngest campus. In a deliberate departure from the undergraduate schools of Arts and Sciences at UC Berkeley and Los Angeles, University plans for the Santa Cruz campus entailed the creation of a cluster of small colleges in the “Oxford-Cambridge” model of liberal arts instruction. 47 In August 1968—a few months before the San Francisco State strike—a group calling itself the Black Liberation Movement issued a sextet of demands regarding plans for the campus’ seventh college. The future Malcolm X College, per their demands, would focus on instruction in the “Black Experience,” and additionally cover “the whole spectrum of the people of color: African, Latin, Asian.” Furthermore, the college would prioritize scholars of color and should “be architecturally designed by an Afro-American reflecting their heritage.” 48 UCSC’s Chancellor, Dean E. McHenry, issued a public response to the Black Liberation Movement affirming the campus’ efforts to recruit students and faculty of color, while deferring to the “Federal and State law(s)” that made the “[r]acial specification” of campus architecture Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 208 and instruction untenable. “[N]o university,” McHenry asserted, “could be worthy of the name if it adopted uncritically the ‘package’ of an external group...On the other hand, if the proposal is meant to recommend studies leading to the understanding of the many elements that make up American culture, then a useful purpose may well be served.” 49 While rejecting the Black Liberation Movement’s major precepts of institutional upheaval, the McHenry administration sought to commute the “genuine concern” among students into the previous plans for Santa Cruz’ College VII as the hub for the campus’ Urban Crisis programming. That December, UCSC’s Committee on Educational Policy relayed to McHenry their own recommendations that one of the campus colleges have “an emphasis on the study of American minorities”—and that it would not be “particularly drastic” to shift plans from the College’s focus on urban studies. 50 A similar set of demands and administrative responses characterized a student campaign at UC San Diego the following March, when a coalition of the Black Students Council and the Mexican American Youth Association issued a joint statement demanding the formation of a Lumumba-Zapata College. Named respectively for anticolonial leaders Patrice Lumumba and Emiliano Zapata, the college under demand would need to “radically depart from the usual role as the ideological backbone of the social system” and instead subject every part of the system to ruthless criticism,” if it were to cultivate “relevant education for minority youth.” Besides demanding student input over, and representation in, major administrative decisions, the BSC- MAYA coalition called for the enrollment of 35% each of Black and Mexican American students, “to compensate for past and present injustices and to serve those most affected by white racism and economic exploitation.” 51 Roderick Ferguson, in his poststructuralist study on the academic institutionalization of minority difference, argues that the Lumumba-Zapata College “was meant to reconceptualize the Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 209 very possibility of institutional life and practice.” In advancing a “minority perspective” for the college’s pedagogy, student activists proposed a curriculum whose topical divisions—including programs in Revolutions and White Studies—thus “presumed powerful challenges to the canonical orders of academic knowledge.” Ferguson utilizes the example of the BSC-MAYA demands to argue that student antiracist movements in the 1960s and 1970s apprehended minority difference not merely as a categorical marker of identity, but rather an “emergent lexicon for social practice” and thus a cause to rethink the foundations of knowledge production and pedagogy in the academy. 52 Like the Santa Cruz demands of yesteryear, however, the Lumumba-Zapata College demands emerged within the longer planning process for UC San Diego’s future undergraduate colleges. In 1968, the Third College figured within the campus plans to incorporate the University-wide Urban Crisis mandates—that is, to “contribute to the alleviation of inequalities in educational opportunity” and recruit “a substantial proportion of students from disadvantaged backgrounds.” Campus officials proclaimed that the college should “prepare students and itself, as an institution, to bring intelligence to bear on the problems that face mankind.” 53 Following the BSC and MAYA’s missive, UCSD Chancellor William J. McGill largely deferred to the original campus plans in his response to (and rebuttal of) the student demands. Assuring his administration’s “commitment to construct outstanding ethnic studies programs” and to the targeted placement of nonwhite students and faculty, McGill posited that several of the demands regarding recruitment, funding, and decision-making would violate the 1964 Civil Rights Act, the campus’ Academic Plan, and the academic “spirit of free inquiry” itself. 54 In their rewording of the demands into a series of “stipulations” for internal review, UCSD administrators diverted the nomenclature of “Lumumba-Zapata,” offering instead that the Third Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 210 College should be named after an “American minority figure” to “reflect its specific concern with the minority community and the growing urban crisis.” 55 (The Third College would be named after Thurgood Marshall in 1993, nearly a quarter-century after opening.) The transmission of such student prognostications as UCSD’s Lumumba-Zapata College, UCSC’s Malcolm X College, or UC Berkeley’s Third World College into the framework of “ethnic studies” bespeaks the epistemological constraints facing student appeals to academic governance. Contra the internationalist worldviews ensconced in such calls for academic accountability to “Third World” students and communities, “ethnic studies” might position people of color as internal gradations of national difference, whose study could illuminate their historical “contributions” to American history and the body politic. In the case of UCLA, for instance, the Institute of American Cultures implied a mission of pluralistic incorporation in nominative contrast to the sorts of extranational solidarities of a “Third World” College. As Vice Chancellor Paul Proehl noted to University Regent and Democratic Party advisor Fred Dutton in January 1969, UCLA administrators weighed the possibility of naming the IAC after Robert F. Kennedy to commemorate the slain statesman’s support for civil rights struggles. In Proehl’s estimation, moreover, the “participatory democracy” model of including students in planning efforts for UCLA’s ethnic studies centers would itself mirror the proposed Robert F. Kennedy Institute’s incorporation of hitherto understudied curricular and research subjects. Student participation “has been extremely fruitful in providing a sense of involvement in the university decision-making process,” stressed Proehl, such that it would not threaten the “maintenance of academic standards.” 56 Nevertheless, it would be remiss to read in alternative nomenclatures like “Third World Studies” a politics wholly antithetical to the liberal precepts of racial incorporation. In many Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 211 cases, that is, student campaigns themselves envisioned structural change in concert with preeminent academic forms and functions. Both Mark Chiang and Ferguson name a key contradiction in student demands for ethnic studies at San Francisco State College and the City College of New York, respectively. In both cases, student activists sought institutional transformation and autonomy in the extant form of the college—per Ferguson, “a faith in the idea that the school as an institutional form was the horizon of innovation and self- governance.” 57 Chiang posits in the case of San Francisco State that students’ curricular plans for a “Third World” college “remained largely within the usual parameters governing a legitimate academic unit,” and essentially offered a “mirror image of a liberal arts education” even as they vocalized the desire to uproot the epistemes of Western education. 58 Nor were demands and protest literatures the only discursive arena through which ethnic studies advocates communicated their visions for academic change. At UC Berkeley, for instance, mid-level administrators penned their own justifications for a Third World College, eschewing its nominal anti-imperialism to instead present said program as consistent with University operations. Andrew Billingsley, an African American professor of sociology at Berkeley, penned a positive program assessment for the campus administration in 1969. Per Billingsley—whom Chancellor Heyns had named in 1968 as an Assistant Chancellor to oversee campus initiatives on racial diversity—the underlying “philosophy” of Berkeley’s then-newborn Department of Ethnic Studies was “basically reformist in character.” A program in which education “must be made relevant to the specific needs of the ethnic minority communities” had the potential to ameliorate the University’s broader matrix of racial relations. “Some have argued that the University as an institution,” suggested Billingsley, “needed Ethnic Studies more than minority group students do.” 59 Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 212 Billingsley cited students’ rationales for a new College along two lines: the underrepresentation of nonwhite students, faculty, and administrators vis-à-vis the broader state population; and the “International Third World movement” in postcolonial Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Yet the Assistant Chancellor nevertheless saw in the latter the basis for educational expansion within the framework of American cultural pluralism. “Third World Peoples in this country,” he assessed, consider themselves part of this international struggle for human dignity and freedom from subjugation. These innovative changes in American higher education are perceived as a step in that direction. For it will allow them to acquire a more accurate account of the history and contributions of their people…Third World students assume that more accurate knowledge will result in more respect and appreciation of cultural differences. This, in turn, would lead ultimately to a more peaceful and humanistic America. 60 Billingsley thus asserted to fellow Berkeley administrators that a College of Third World Studies could operate as the site of institutional integration par excellence. In his description, the academic domain over “accurate” knowledge production commuted the politics of anticolonial internationalism into the recognition of cultural difference within the U.S. nation-state. Billingsley’s commutation of Third World internationalism into American cultural pluralism, while manifest in its brevity, was certainly not unique. Strike leaders at UC Berkeley were no less caught between radical and normative visions for academic expansion. Beyond their list of demands, during the strike the TWLF also penned and disbursed a written formal proposal for the establishment of a College of Third World Studies. As the next section will explore, the institutional paper trails that accompanied public organizing and protest illustrate how student activist politics could made strange bedfellows with preexisting academic structures in the process of ethnic studies program development. Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 213 It thus behooves us to highlight the proposal as an institutional form that has yet to receive the critical scrutiny it merits. Creating structures for program development necessarily introduced contradictions between radical racial politics and the conceits of academic hierarchy and bureaucracy. Through proposals, students and faculty members labored to articulate race as an institutional category of difference, and a foundation for the growth of the University itself. Program proposals were thus implicit deferrals of ownership as well. Even as students and scholars of color invoked the politics of self-determination to make claims on their institutions of higher learning, the actual process of program development required that they literally write themselves into the academy. Proposing to the University On March 4, 1969, the Academic Senate at UC Berkeley overwhelmingly voted, 550 to 5, to approve an interim Department of Ethnic Studies “reporting directly to the Chancellor,” with “sufficient flexibility” to potentially become a college; the decision would precipitate the end of the campus strike. Two days later, the Third World Liberation Front and faculty supporters jointly sent to Chancellor Roger Heyns a formal proposal for the creation of a Third World College. 61 The college would “counteract external domination over Third World people,” read the proposal, and could address in particular a structural trend the authors named as academic colonialism. The preface opined that the academy had hitherto abetted the power relations that had constituted “reservations, ghettoes, and barrios” and, to “a lesser extent…chinatowns in this country” as “morbid colonies suffering from economic, political, social, and psychological deficiencies.” In particular, the proposal implicated “white social scientists” who “carved out” communities of color as “experimental laboratories.” The attendant Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 214 focus on the “socio-psychological makeup” and “systems of morality” of poor nonwhite people had thus failed to name and study the structural forces behind these dispossessions. 62 On the other hand, the proposal declared the programmatic autonomy of Third World Studies only insofar as the University could recognize the program as a legitimate unit of institutional praxis. The College’s nomenclature was itself a calculated assessment of, and appeal to, University bureaucracy—its proponents sought program development in the form of a College instead of a School precisely because the latter, by definition, could not admit lower- division students. 63 As such, Berkeley students’ appeal to bureaucratic authority epitomizes the contradictions inherent within activist ideations of “autonomy” and “self-determination.” Figure 4A: “Structure of the College of Third World Studies,” UC Berkeley, 1969 64 Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 215 Manuel Delgado, a leader of the campus’ Mexican American Student Confederation, had postulated that the College would be a “major academic subdivision” at the same tier as the College of Letters and Sciences. Third World Studies would be “significantly more community- oriented” than “other academic structures to be found on this campus.” 65 However, the proposal’s visual outline of the College structure largely preserved the extant hierarchy of University decision-making, with the Regents at the apex and the “community” on the bottom. 66 The authors of Berkeley’s Third World College proposal implicitly reinforced the sociopolitical relationships of authority that had elevated the academy over the working-class “community.” Students championed the College as a legitimated vehicle to direct state and institutional resources to the question of racialized poverty, such that it could “produce students having knowledge, expertise, understanding, commitment and desire to identity and present solutions to problems in their respective communities.” The academic status quo, the authors contended, threatened to professionalize Californians of color into an “educational experience that directs their interests, commitment and identity away from their communities of origin.” As such, said communities would constitute a “world destined…to remain one of dishwashers, fruit- pickers and laundry workers that cry out for the leadership and direction of its progeny.” 67 In other words, Berkeley students themselves upheld the notion that the academy was productive of an intellectual and political vanguard necessary for collective social advancement—as if the community was relegated to the perpetuity of poverty without the guidance of an academically trained, professional leadership. The proposal’s authors foregrounded their plans for a Third World Studies college as a corrective to the campus’ precedent efforts in racial incorporation, which they deemed piecemeal and plodding. “[M]inority groups,” averred the preface, “are no longer concerned simply about Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 216 having more of their people as students or faculty members for the sake of conforming to some integrationist ethic.” At the same time, the proposal thought it “obvious[s]” that the Third World College should not “be interpreted as a move away from other departments or colleges or the body of knowledge accumulated therein.” Its authors assured the “cooperative and collaborative relations” that the College would produce with other sectors of the University. 68 Notably, student proposals for UCLA’s ethnic studies centers would fashion program development within the parlance of the academy’s role in regional economic growth. Prevalent in these early ethnic studies proposals was a vernacular of development that concatenated the progress of students, the surrounding city, and academic programming alike. Student and faculty program proposals positioned the field as a vehicle to professionalize scholars of color into the academy—which putatively aligned with University administrators’ own professed goals of faculty diversity. As such, ethnic studies proposals also formulated their attendant programs as apparatuses for the self-reproduction of the academy itself. These documents offered development as a multifaceted framework: ethnic studies could facilitate the educational development of marginalized students; produce researched knowledge to abet the economic development of communities of color; and even sustain the academy through the production of a multiracial scholarly workforce. American Studies scholar Josefina Maria Saldaña-Portillo argues that “development” became central to the lexicon of post-World War II U.S. capitalism, particularly amidst the anticolonial and national independence movements that swept through the global South. Saldaña- Portillo contends that development was “inextricably linked to managing a crisis in capitalist production precipitated equally by the exhaustion of colonial capitalism’s expansive capacities and by the greatly expanded productive capacity of the U.S. postwar economy.” As a Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 217 “supplementary discourse,” development was a disciplinary formation that tethered teleological narratives of social progress to economic processes of industrialization and marketization. 69 Theories of development subsequently implicated individual subjects and citizens as themselves quantifiable metrics, identifying the putative modes of subjectivity that would properly socialize “underdeveloped” people and places into modernity. Critically, Saldaña-Portillo avers that revolutionary figures and movements across the Americas apprehended the logics of development for their own ideologies. 70 She offers a critical lens into the contradictions within Third World nationalisms—and as such, an analytical framework to trace the refraction of “Third World” subjectivity among students and scholars of color in postwar California. At UCLA, student activists began to author formal appeals for curricular expansion in conjunction with the University’s wider implementation of “urban crisis” programming in May 1968. On May 21, four days after President Hitch’s announcement of the Urban Crisis Program, the UCLA chapter of the Black Students Union submitted to the campus administration a proposal for a program of Afro-American Studies. It was in the University’s own language of crisis that the BSU framed the program as a productive component of institutional expansion. As “a creative and practical response to the nation’s major domestic crisis, the Afro-American Studies Center “will help lift UCLA into the first rank of American Universities.” The Hitch administration’s stated drive to direct the “intellectual resources of higher education” to matters of urbanized and racialized poverty had granted UCLA the chance to take a “leading role” in meeting “the physical and spiritual needs of urban America.” Towards those ends, the BSU outlined a multifaceted plan, including an “intensive research” unit, bachelors and masters degree programs, scholarships for “deserving students,” and a collection of research materials. 71 Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 218 To address the “physical and spiritual needs” of Black urbanites, the proposal fashioned Afro-American Studies as a bridge between two of the academy’s pedagogical formations: technical professionalization and liberal arts instruction. The BSU labored to connect Black Studies to the academic stake in regional economic growth, as if the study of people of color would produce new bodies of knowledge for postgraduate niches in the labor market. An Afro- American Studies Center could abet University efforts in professionalizing students into the “urban service establishment—the teachers, nurses, police officers, social workers, clinical psychologists, probation officers, parole officers, agency administrators and executive officers, urban renewal specialists, etc.” Even as the BSU proposal broadly assailed the institutional violences that had sustained Black inequality, it sought to use knowledge production to better interface Black people with a widening matrix of institutional crisis management. As such, the “increasing recognition that blacks must be brought into every phase of American capitalism and that every phase of American capitalism must enter the ghetto” made such a program particularly useful for clarifying Black people, and communities, for the purpose of capital investment. 72 The BSU also emphasized the hitherto unheralded “economically, socially, and culturally significant” role that Black people had occupied since the nation’s founding, having influenced the “attitudes and institutions of the black sub-society” as well as the white majority. Per the proposal, the systemic exclusion of African Americans from the academic canon helped to ensure that a “vitally important segment of our nation” was “denied a legitimate history and culture.” 73 In its appeal to University authority, the document implicitly affirmed the academy as the arbiter of “legitimate” knowledge; and thus the institutional gateway for the reproduction of American history and culture itself. Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 219 Indeed, the BSU asserted that a “Center for the Study of Afro-American History and Culture” could ameliorate on-campus race relations—and in the broader scope, affirm the benevolence of U.S. racial liberalism. For those Black students who had become disillusioned in the academy as an institution “designed to maintain de facto segregation” and “second-class citizenship,” the Center would evince that the University was committed to instantiating racial equity. Furthermore, the proposal asserted that Black Studies could “provide an avenue of understanding” to white students whose “values are distorted and perverted by racist attitudes,” and for whom the Center might “shake off the soul-stunting effects of white racism.” 74 Charlie Brown, the leader of Berkeley’s Black Students Union, would similarly open his June 1968 Black Studies proposal to the Heyns administration around the need to upend the campus’ own racial formations and relations. “As students on the white college and university campuses of American we have learned something,” Brown wrote in his good grievances. “WE ARE NOT WHITE. WE DO NOT WISH TO BE WHITE.” The document’s preface charged institutions of higher education as the “wholesale producers of a designated mentality conducive to the perpetuation and continuation of America’s present national life.” Yet Brown’s proposal for a curriculum and program structure preserved the organization, production, and transmission of knowledge through extant disciplinary divides in the humanities and social sciences: anthropology, criminology, philosophy, and psychology, to name a few. Undergraduate pedagogy followed the University’s divide between “lower” and “upper division” instruction; departmental operations required the division of labor between faculty and secretarial staff. Brown’s proposal is auto-disciplinary, seguing from a clarion call for a “radically reformed” education for Black students, to an affirmation of the University’s epistemological foundations. 75 Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 220 California’s African American elected officials themselves had come to identify Black Studies as a political goal and social good, which facilitated the possible incorporation of ethnic studies programs through wholly mundane means. A week after Hitch’s Urban Crisis announcement in May 1968, Willie Brown—a State Assemblyman and the future mayor of San Francisco—oversaw the passage of a House Resolution declaring the Assembly’s formal support for Black Studies. Citing the recent proliferation of written materials “enabling the sound development” of new academic programs, HR234 announced the “deep concern of the Assembly” for the establishment of said programs in the “public schools, colleges, and universities of California.” 76 Two months later, Los Angeles city councilman and future mayor Thomas Bradley wrote to President Hitch on behalf of Brown and the BSU, seeking support for their own curricular plans. A “Black Studies curriculum is considerably overdue and would serve a most useful purpose,” Bradley averred, relaying his “trust that [this] provision will be made at the earliest possible opportunity.” 77 At UCLA, the mandate to enact curricular expansion fell into the hands of Charles Young, whom the Regents named as Franklin D. Murphy’s successor in July 1968. Born in nearby San Bernardino County in 1931, Young served in the U.S. Air Force during the Korean War and thereafter earned his bachelors degree at UC Riverside in 1955. As a doctoral student in political science at UCLA, he worked as a staffer on the Master Plan survey team. Young had served under Murphy for the duration of the latter’s Chancellorship, rising to the ranks of Vice Chancellor in the process. The head administrator for UCLA’s special entry programs, Young was also the de facto liaison between student activists and the Murphy administration. At thirty- six years old, Young would become the youngest-ever executive of an American university. 78 Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 221 One of Young’s first acts upon his appointment was to name his assistant, Charles Z. Wilson, as a Vice Chancellor of Educational Planning to oversee the school’s Urban Crisis programming. Wilson, a native of Mississippi and scholar of economics, was trained at the University of Illinois. He had been recruited to UCLA in 1967 from the State University of New York at Binghamton. A year later, Wilson was UCLA’s highest-ranking Black administrator. 79 Upon news of Young and Wilson’s appointments, the local African American periodical Los Angeles Sentinel heralded UCLA’s “bright future” with its “new focus on urban problems” and the “education of minority students.” Sentinel reporter Anne Allen opined that Young’s track record of productive relations with student organizers presaged the avoidance of the “explosive situations” seen on other campuses. 80 By the time he assumed office, Young had already deployed Wilson as the head of a task force to explore UCLA’s capacities for implementing the University’s Urban Crisis platform. A tripartite committee of administrators, faculty, and students—namely, members of the BSU and UMAS—convened to draft preliminary plans for curricular expansions, urban research, and minority student recruitment. During the proceedings of the summer task force, UMAS members penned the first iteration of a proposal for a Center for the Study of Chicano History and Culture. Like the BSU before them, the proposal’s authors offered a heterodox vision for academic programming that variably critiqued, rationalized, appealed to, and miscegenated with forms of power. Chicanos were a “much afflicted group,” the authors opined, at the mercy of a “dehumanizing chain of events” that manifested in multiple forms of educational exclusion. “His history and his culture been placed at a low level of priority by the educational and cultural processes of the majority,” UMAS contended. Yet “the most frustrating” of these injustices “is the fact that the Chicano population is impotent to determine the functions and directions of those institutions which Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 222 govern and attempt to serve him.” UMAS’ lamentations that “the Chicano” lacked self- determination reiteratively equated the collective “group” and the singular “he,” a masculinist determination of Chicano subjectivity implicitly reinforcing men as the proper subjects of the public sphere. The entreaty foregrounded the same absences in academic knowledge on “this little known ethnic minority” that had prompted the Mexican American Study Project the decade prior. Not unlike Leo Grebler, UMAS posited that Mexican Americans’ “regionally-based population” and lack of political participation had enabled their neglect at the hands of the federal state; and that scholarship to date “focused on small isolated rural villages” at the expense of studying the “largely urban nature of the Chicano.” A research and study center thus offered the potential to accrue “pertinent information on problem areas” within Mexican American communities. “With America undergoing a crises (sic) in which minority groups are attempting to secure a more equitable position within the larger society,” stated the proposal, the collection, production, and transmission of knowledge might form a backbone of crisis management. UMAS even suggested that they might locate the raw data from MASP as part of their internal research archive. 81 Indeed, it was the Center’s research component that provided the connective tissue between the social scientific and humanistic dimensions of Chicano/a Studies. UMAS posited that the program’s “major emphasis” would concern the study of “contemporary problems of the Chicano,” but also posited that research and the accumulation of bibliographic and archival materials was a necessary precondition for developing the “Chicano History and Culture” that the proposal had promised. Hence, it was through “determin[ing] his unique role in the American past, present, and future” that a Chicano student might “develop the confidence in individual and Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 223 collective self” in order to “realize his full potential as a member of this society.” While castigating UCLA as an “impersonal and misguided institution,” UMAS students’ incipient vision for Chicano Studies reinforced the academic humanities’ extant functions in citizen- subject development. 82 Their proposal modified, but did not eschew, the notion that college was an individualist endeavor to become productive or a full participant in civic life. Ultimately, the UMAS proposal would serve as a template for a final version submitted by the program’s faculty advisory committee, whom the Young administration had assembled. UCLA’s Urban Crisis programming had tied the school’s two Mexican American faculty members—Simon Gonzalez, a professor of education and assistant to Young; and mathematician David Sánchez—to planning efforts for the school’s Chicano Studies program. Despite the marginal input of the faculty committee, the updated proposal for a “Mexican American Studies Center” was largely credited to UCLA’s white professoriate: including historian Gary Nash; economist James Clayburn LaForce, Jr.; Clifford H. Prator, founder of UCLA’s ESL programs; librarian Norah E. Jones; linguist and Nahuatl scholar William O. Bright; educational sociologist C. Wayne Gordon; law professor Lawrence Sager; and Eugene R. Hardwick, a chemist and high- ranking member of the Academic Senate. 83 While leaving the framework and most of the original content intact, the updated proposal added to the various disciplinary devices that could be used to study Mexican American populations. Since the “yardstick for measuring a group’s success” was “economic achievement,” the faculty proposers offered that UCLA’s Schools of Business Administration and Engineering “could be used to accelerate the business and technological development” of Chicano communities. Research on education would entail a proliferation of evaluative technologies to render Mexican American studies as knowable subjects—the “development of Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 224 valid testing mechanisms,” the “design of valid criteria” for hiring educators, the “selection, utilization and evaluation” of curricular materials. 84 In the absence of a given epistemological framework for Chicano Studies, early visions to fill in the historiographical and social scientific gaps in scholarship often merely transplanted multiple disciplinary models into an integrative whole. Despite UMAS’ critique that existing research on Mexican Americans relied on faulty “anthropological and sociological sketches,” both versions of the proposal largely projected Chicano Studies as a more veritable version of the same social sciences. 85 Initial plans for the Institute of American Cultures, also drafted during the summer of 1968, similarly envisioned UCLA’s ethnic studies programs as amalgamated knowledge projects that would draw in faculty widely from the University’s liberal arts departments and professional schools. 86 Accordingly, the proposal championed the imprimatur of academic knowledge over the self-assessments of the marginalized Angelenos whom the University could serve. It was “incumbent upon the university,” read their preliminary outline, to “move out of its sterile and pristine environment” to engage the totality of urban affairs. In order for UCLA to respond to the “urban crisis,” however, the university “must begin to give our communities what they need instead of what they want”— suggesting that professional expertise regarding communities of color could supercede the desires or demands of nonwhite peoples themselves. 87 The task force members preserved the authoritative capacity of the University to ameliorate structural racisms, even as they hailed UCLA as under-resourced and lacking in expertise on such matters. 88 The affirmations of academic authority common in such program proposals exemplify the novel forms of epistemological management enabled through interdisciplinary study. To be certain, ethnic studies theorists have both embraced and critiqued interdisciplinarity as a locus for the disruption of power. In her seminal Immigrant Acts, Lisa Lowe reads the interdisciplines Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 225 as the interstices of academic praxis, and as such are countersites to the “disciplinary methods that assume…the universality of the Western subject.” Interdisciplinary programs must be “vigilant in relation to institutionalization,” she argues, as bodies of knowledge putatively outside the normative boundaries of the academy. 89 Roderick Ferguson, on the other hand, contends that interdisciplinarity became a primary technology of the postwar U.S. academy. As the “episteme that organizes the regimes of representation for academy, state, and capital,” interdisciplinarity “represents not only an obstacle for and a challenge to dominance but the expansion and multiplication of power’s relays.” 90 Contra Lowe, Ferguson contends that the emergent challenges to the universal Western subject occasioned by new bodies of knowledge production were not so much a crisis for the U.S. academy as they were a possibility to draw new subjects into its epistemological and pedagogical apparatuses. Indeed, the very name “Institute of American Cultures” implied the administration’s acknowledgement that the postwar academy—at least in the case of the multiracial metropole of Los Angeles—was newly accountable for the management of a plurality of educational subjects. Unlike the Bay Area student strikes, which imagined Third World Colleges’ various programs of study as a collective political project among multiple racial justice movements, the plans for the IAC justified the simultaneous enactment of four ethnic studies centers as a vehicle to conduct comparative research on Los Angeles’ (and the U.S.’) multiple nonwhite communities. 91 This conceptual unification of ethnic studies on the plane of comparison offers a hint into the very nomenclature of “ethnic” within the study of race. Michael Omi and Howard Winant argue in their seminal work on Racial Formation that ethnicity constituted a dominant liberal paradigm in the social construction and scholarly production of racial difference between the 1930s and 1965. Indebted to the “race-relations cycle” popularized by Robert Park’s School of Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 226 Sociology at the University of Chicago, ethnicity supplanted biological notions of race in favor of cultural determinants that putatively marked the degree of assimilation into “dominant” cultural frameworks, economic markets, and political processes. 92 Early plans for UCLA’s ethnic studies centers advanced their program development within two epistemic frames that were both legible within the ethnicity paradigm: exploring minority “contributions” to American history and culture, or researching remediations for minority “problems.” While students and faculty involved in these planning efforts could fashion the Centers’ copresence as an act of political solidarity, the plans themselves framed this programmatic coexistence as an institutional project to apprehend various minority subjects’ gradations of social and political distance from a normative state of American affairs. In his intellectual history of sociological race relations, Henry Yu contends that the advent of programs like Asian American Studies augured a critical shift, from studying “Orientals” as “objects to be collected” to incorporating Asian Americans as “subject[s] of study” with critical input in the epistemological process. Prior to the 1960s, scholarship on “Orientals” had been the domain of white social scientists, for whom communities of color effectively operated as laboratories for the corroboration of assimilationist theories. Yu notes that the “rise of cultural and ethnic identity as a means of self-description and understanding” among Asian Americans coincided with Asian Americans’ claims to a stake in the scholarly process itself—that is, as epistemic subjects. Yet he also cautions the need to recognize the institutional lineages that form unobvious homologies between ethnic studies and the earlier sociology of race relations, as the former would rely on the latter’s “dominant language through which identity would be described and analyzed.” 93 Similarly, the advent of ethnic studies at UCLA confounds any easy divides between object and subject as opposing sides in the ownership of the means of Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 227 knowledge production. UCLA’s ethnic studies proposals—especially in the hands of faculty— rendered their racial subjects at the nexus of multiple forms of epistemic subjection, not a departure from disciplinarity but an amplification of its capacities. In the case of UCLA’s Asian American Studies program, the first iteration of a proposal came from a longstanding Nisei faculty member, Harry Kitano. Born in 1926 in San Francisco, Kitano was incarcerated at the Topaz (UT) War Relocation Center during World War II. Between 1945 and 1946, he sojourned in Wisconsin and Minnesota, working as a farmhand and a jazz trombonist in African American bands under the pseudonym of Harry Lee. Upon his return to California, he completed both undergraduate and doctoral work at UC Berkeley before joining UCLA in 1958 as a professor of social welfare and sociology. 94 While initially unaffiliated with the Japanese American Research Project, he assumed an advisory role over JARP in 1966 after the Japanese American Citizens League terminated its own researchers (see Chapter 2). Yet his specialty was in the study of juvenile delinquency, a discourse that midcentury social scientists adopted to explain the perceived antisocial, unpatriotic, or suspect behaviors among “deviant”— minority, working class, and/or nonheterosexual—subjects. 95 Kitano’s research on Japanese American acculturation and socialization largely affirmed the precepts of model minority discourse. Not unlike JARP’s publications, Kitano’s 1969 Japanese Americans: The Evolution of a Subculture posited that its subject “may give us optimism for the future of race relations in the American society.” Kitano offered that Japanese Americans offered an “illustration of a means of adapting to interethnic contact and conflict with a minimum of bloodshed and chaos”—as if the state of urban racial violence was borne from the life choices of poor people of color themselves. Conversely, Kitano posited that the “adaptation Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 228 of the Japanese to the United States” resembled “that of many European groups,” alluding to Robert Park’s “natural history cycle” of generational assimilation. 96 In turn, Kitano’s proposal for UCLA’s Asian American Studies Center justified its programming in relation to the state of “Oriental” middle-class mobility. Although the “role of the Oriental” had shifted “from that of the most despised minority” to a level of acceptance, Kitano asserted, necessary still was a “re-evaluation of the ethnic myths, stereotypes, identities, goals and feelings of success held by the Orientals.” The proposal cast the “Oriental student” as an isolated, and thus stunted, figure within the University, left wanting “exposure to his ethnic culture…He feels that a combination of his culture and the UCLA environment have not allowed for this maximum development.” Kitano’s own vision for an “interdisciplinary, intercultural, and international” program accordingly placed “the Oriental” within a panopticon of disciplinary gazes, as “economic, historical, sociological, psychological and other data will be brought together to better understand behavior.” 97 Like the similar appeals to study “the Chicano,” Kitano’s proposal largely apprehended “the Oriental” as an already singular subject, as a multiethnic cluster whose conceptual totality was a given. In effect, Kitano normalized the essentializing logics of white supremacy that had produced the “Oriental” as a collapsing of distinctions between a number of Asian nations, civilizations, and societies. At the same time, however, the “stratification” between the “ethnic (or nationality) groupings” of Asian communities in Los Angeles mandated that Kitano also qualify “Orientals” as a heterogeneous and multiethnic group. UCLA was an ideal site for an Asian American Studies program, he opined, not only because Los Angeles was the “center of the Japanese population” on the U.S. mainland, with “relatively large groups of Chinese, Filipinos and Koreans.” Kitano further emphasized the “various Oriental groups” who were Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 229 collaborating in their remediation of “Oriental community problems.” Oriental Concern, a UCLA student organization, was “symptomatic of the increased awareness of ethnicity” and subsequently had “looked to UCLA for support and direction.” 98 He thus rendered multiethnic student activism as the realization of a common identitarian framework that was already in place—not, as Asian American Studies scholars have emphasized, a creative project of racial formation that would supplant “Orientals.” 99 A short-lived student network on Southern California college campuses, the Oriental Concern emerged in the fall of 1968 as a counterpart to the northern Asian American Political Alliance. UCLA’s chapter had begun the summer prior as Sansei Concern, an outfit of “15 to 20” Japanese American undergraduates; they had decided to “broaden their scope” in coordinating with other Asian students. 100 The Young administration had already recruited a handful of Japanese American faculty into its campus Urban Crisis programming, including Kitano and an upstart scholar of African American history named Ronald Takaki. The avenues for collaboration that the BSU and UMAS had established with University officials would enable Asian American student organizers to similarly interface with inchoate planning efforts for an “American Oriental” Studies program. Oriental Concern representatives served on the preliminary committee that remodeled Kitano’s proposal for submission to administrators in the spring of 1969. 101 While Kitano would serve as the first Interim Director of the Asian American Studies Center in 1969, it was a co-founder of the Asian American Political Alliance, Yuji Ichioka, who chaired the proposing committee. Born and raised in the East Bay Area—minus his wartime incarceration at the Topaz War Relocation Center in Utah—Ichioka had graduated from Berkeley High School in 1954 and obtained a bachelor’s degree in history at UCLA in 1962. 102 Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 230 A failed start in a Chinese history doctoral program at Columbia University led to a series of odd jobs and sojourns, before he returned to graduate studies at UC Berkeley in 1967 with a newfound interest in nineteenth-century Japanese and Japanese American history. It was at UC Berkeley that Ichioka coined the term “Asian American” through his initiation of AAPA. By the time that AAPA members joined in the Third World strike in January 1969, however, Ichioka had graduated from his masters program in East Asian history. The following March, he returned to UCLA at the behest of Oriental Concern members who were coordinating a lecture series on “Orientals in America” through UCLA’s experimental course programs. 103 The advent of Ichioka would fittingly coincide with the adoption of “Asian American” as the accepted nomenclature of program development. However, the proposal itself—like with the Mexican American Studies Center—also drew from an array of scholars, including UCLA’s white professoriate. Philip Huang, a scholar of modern Chinese history, had signed on as a faculty advisor, as had a Chinese professor of economics Yung-ping Chen. Two white scholars of anti-Asian racism, UCLA’s Alexander Saxton and Nevada’s Stanford Lyman, contributed portions. Furthermore, the faculty members responsible for the JARP research data following the termination of the grant monies—social scientists Gene Levine and John Modell, and historian Robert Wilson—co-authored parts of the proposal. 104 The resulting document reflected the progressive multiethnic organizing that had transpired in California to date, but was nonetheless a heterodox assessment of what it entailed to institutionalize Asian American racial difference into University praxis. The updated proposal more consciously tied the formation of an Asian American Studies program to the pursuit of justice, noting that the “younger generation of Asian-Americans” amidst the “racial crisis…are beginning to speak out on long-standing grievances.” Contra Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 231 Kitano, the authors placed in scare quotes references to the “success” stories of “Orientals” as narrow narratives and anachronistic appellations. That is, the “material success” of an Asian American middle class had helped to obscure the “past and continuing difficulties of cultural and psychological adjustment” that had followed the “century of oppression suffered at the hands of white American society.” Citing JARP survey findings “that many Nisei are sympathetic to the plight of the Negro,” the proposal rendered abnormal such attitudes by proposing to study “whether such prejudice has been learned from the majority society,” or was a “function of psychological damage” accrued amidst anti-Asian racism and upward ability alike. As the “largest minority on campus,” Asian Americans merited the University’s commitment to lifting the “veil of stereotypes” in favor of concrete knowledge production. Like the other ethnic studies centers, Asian American Studies would form a nexus of academic pedagogies in simultaneously studying and teaching the “history, sociology, psychology and culture of the Asian- American.” 105 In establishing Asian Americans as knowable subjects, the final proposal similarly attempted to reconcile the contradictions in rendering a heterogeneous gathering of peoples into a racial singularity. “We cannot speak of the Asian-American community,” its authors asserted, given the “many small communities scattered throughout the Los Angeles area.” As such, part of the Center’s repertoire would entail “comparative research” on the “similar and dissimilar cultural elements” that conditioned “better or worse adaptation in American society.” At the same time, the proposal labored to antedate the multiethnic totality of Asian Americans by offering that the Center could produce for the first time a “unified Asian-American history.” Korean, Japanese, and Chinese migrants and settlers “shared much in common in the cultural baggage they brought,” especially as all occupied marginal positions in the labor market and Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 232 were “subjected to white American racism which placed them in a single ‘color’ group.” 106 That is, the proposal’s efforts to racialize Asian Americans as a people relied on a historical reconciliation and condensation of internal difference—and thus recapitulated the sorts of objectifying logics that epitomized the “Oriental problem” for white sociologists of yesteryear. Administrative responses to the prospect of an “Asian American” personhood were notably mixed. The Committee on Budget and Interdepartmental Relations, a subdivision of UCLA’s Academic Senate, emphasized in two missives to Chancellor Young their reservation whether “the Asiatics can be as easily classified into an ethnic unit as can the Mexican- Americans or the Blacks.” E.R. Hardwick, the CBIR chair, postulated that an Asian American Studies program was “formally necessary” but did not require as many resources as the other ethnic studies centers. Given that “the Asian-Americans generally seem to have integrated themselves” more than “other minorities,” Hardwick implied that there was less of a need to substantiate Asian Americans as subjects of crisis in American race relations. At the same time, administrators at the University’s central offices concurred with the proposers that it would be “[p]olitically logical for Asian-Americans to develop a common identity.” T.A. Porter, an assistant to UC Vice President Angus E. Taylor, commended as “excellent” the “intent to include Americans of Philippine descent as well as those of Chinese, Japanese, and Korean ancestry” in Asian American Studies research. 107 Administrative disagreements over the putative ideological investments and identitarian claims within ethnic studies proposals bespeak the hurdles of rendering into bureaucracy the dynamic racial subjectivities espoused in these documents. To wit, UCLA’s other ethnic studies centers passed through the University’s hierarchy of approval while likewise garnering divergent opinions about the proposals’ merits and efficacies. The CBIR’s Hardwick bristled at the Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 233 “strongly hortatory” and “inflammatory” vernacular of the Afro-American Studies proposal, evidence “that the blacks wish to introduce their own brand of apartheid both in the University and in the community.” Hardwick—who had co-authored the Mexican-American Studies Center proposal—named his own handiwork as “much more factual and down-to-earth.” 108 Meanwhile, the central University offices in Berkeley came to an inverse assessment: T.A. Porter wrote to Vice President Taylor lauding the plans for the Afro-American Studies Center as “most impressive” with a “very responsible approach” of developing curriculum “before a department will be proposed.” By contrast, Porter found the MASC proposal merely derivative, “a case of the Chicanos emulating the Afro-Americans so as to ‘keep up with’ their neighbors.” 109 Nevertheless, the administrative legitimation of UCLA’s ethnic studies centers during the 1968-1969 academic year ultimately relied on ethnic studies advocates’ ability to translate program development into essentially normative institutional frameworks. Charles Young himself would concur in his approbatory review of the proposals, which “substantial student and community involvement” but “call[ed] for the creation” of programs “not materially different” from the University’s previous research innovations. 110 The Committee on Educational Policy, another body of UCLA’s Academic Senate, approved the proposals “in principle,” as the “urgency of student and faculty demands” would “militate against any conventional review.” CEP Chair Colin Young relayed to the Chancellor the Committee’s reservations that the Afro- American and Mexican American Studies Centers might mutate into “propaganda outlets” with an “undesirable community direction.” Yet Colin Young, an African American scholar in the Department of Theatre, also acknowledged that the program proposals promoted “organizational structures…consistent with the primacy of their educational functions,” and relegated to the University the “prime responsibility” over their operation. 111 Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 234 While certainly the specter of student agitation was a substantial factor within the rapid implementation of, and programmatic expectations within, California’s first ethnic studies programs, it would be remiss to dismiss the mundane processes of authorization, legitimation, and evaluation that sustained these programs’ institutional emergence. Proposals enabled programs, which in turn begat monthly progress reports, annual budget requests, quinquennial reviews, and other kindred documentary traces of academic clockwork. That is, even the student- led, community-oriented, and otherwise dynamic forms of program development that oftentimes characterized the early years of ethnic studies constituted critical entry points for the academic institutionalization of racialized knowledge projects. Chains of Command While the bureaucratic process of proposing and approving UCLA’s ethnic studies centers would run the entire 1968-1969 academic year, students and faculty alike concurrently utilized the University’s experimental course programs to inaugurate courses on the study of race. The Committee for the Study of Education and Society, which the University had enacted in the fall of 1967, facilitated interdisciplinary and exploratory courses for which “neither departmental nor college support is appropriate or feasible.” 112 During the spring of 1968, leaders of the campus Black Students Union partnered with CSES affiliate Robert Kinsman, a professor of British literature and an Associate Dean of the Graduate Division, to launch UCLA’s first African American Studies course, “The Black Man in a Changing American Context.” The class functioned as a ten-week lecture series featuring an array of scholars, activists, local officials, and cultural producers, including UCLA historians Boniface Obichere and Ronald Takaki, the noted sociologist St. Clair Drake, and the poet Leroi Jones (later known Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 235 as Amiri Baraka). 113 Virgil Roberts, then the BSU President and a co-author of the Afro- American Studies Center proposal, recalled that the course’s popularity among students exceeded the physical capacity of the lecture hall, with upwards of five hundred students attending each session. 114 The CSES would similarly sponsor UCLA’s first Asian American Studies course, also a speakers bureau, in the spring of 1969. Besides the formal instructor, Yuji Ichioka, “Orientals in America” included scholarly lectures by UCLA’s own Harry Kitano as well as several community leaders and representatives: labor organizer Karl Yoneda; members of a local Asian American theatre troupe, the East West Players; and youth organizer Warren Furutani. Per a report in the May 1969 issue in the student activist newspaper Gidra, roughly nine-tenths of the nearly two hundred students in attendance for the first class meetings were Asian. 115 Experimental curricular platforms at the UC campuses had emerged out of institutional efforts to propose potential educational reforms for the Berkeley campus following the 1964- 1965 Free Speech Movement. A year-long study, addressing in part student charges of an impersonal and Taylorized pedagogical model, produced a comprehensive slate of recommendations to adapt the “traditions of humane learning and scientific inquiry” to the University’s “challenging conditions of size and scale.” The 1966 Muscatine Report posited that a “path of diversified experiment” in curricular design offered a middle ground between “wholesale resistance” and “wholesale surrender to change” in academic repertoire. Introducing “special machinery,” its authors offered, might meet the “challenge of involving students from the most diverse backgrounds,” producing curricular innovations in the interstices of traditional departmental concerns while erecting a systemic framework for assessment and evaluation. 116 Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 236 Experimental course design began at Berkeley in 1966 through the Board of Educational Development (BED), and the Muscatine Report would induce the similar creation of programs on the UC’s other campuses, like UCLA’s CSES. 117 Yet the Muscatine Report’s concerns that experimental education might cause conflicts over the legitimacy of University pedagogy quickly came to fruition at Berkeley. In September 1968, the Regents voted to restrict the ability of a BED course, “Dehumanization and Regeneration in the American Social Order,” to feature Black Panther Minister of Information Eldridge Cleaver in a ten-part guest lecture series. Against the wishes of Governor Reagan, the Regents voted to limit Cleaver to a sole lecture on the basis of his lack of credentials, rather than ban him outright. 118 At Berkeley, the dismissal of Cleaver would contribute to the breakdown in relations precipitating the Third World strike. The Regents’ ruling bristled many University scholars, but the conflict over Cleaver’s lectureship impelled administrators on other UC campuses to shore up the regulations and criteria for experimental courses. The UCLA Academic Senate’s Committee on Educational Freedom condemned the September 1968 decision as a “critical setback to the principles of academic freedom” and a violation of a course that already had a “carefully arranged procedure for evaluation.” While repudiating “Cleaver’s views,” the Committee lamented that Berkeley students would be denied the “opportunity to face [his] militant and disturbing ideas” for their own intellectual assessment. 119 Yet the prohibition of Cleaver also led some administrators and faculty to question the vulnerability of UCLA’s kindred Council on Educational Development (CED), an experimental class initiative that the faculty Senate had approved the previous May. Although the Regents had themselves approved the formation of the CED—unlike Berkeley’s BED—the potential repercussions of political controversy helped to instantiate experimental and student-initiated courses as objects of administrative regulation and scrutiny. 120 Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 237 To be certain, several UCLA administrators and faculty members supported ethnic studies program development for its potential to divert the radical energies of student activism into channels of formal, and thereby disciplined, participation. Amidst campus planning for the Urban Crisis Program in the fall of 1968, European historian Jere C. King proposed to his faculty colleagues that an ethnic studies degree program drawn from preexisting course offerings “would obviate confrontations over demands for autonomous Black, Brown, Chinese, Japanese colleges, etc. within the University” and would be “intellectually respectable and as demanding” as traditional liberal arts pedagogy. 121 Chancellor Young himself largely attributed the “quality and imaginativeness” of the proposals to the student co-authors, “and through them the organizations they represent…The results reflect especially on their commitment.” 122 UCLA law professor Monroe E. Price likewise surmised that ethnic studies could harness the “new-found energies” of student adovcates and “emphasize the healthy aspects of the current educational brouhaha rather than the constant emphasis on violence.” To accentuate the need for ongoing student input, Price gestured to ongoing protests at community colleges in East and South Los Angeles even after the instatement of Black and Mexican American Studies classes. Students who were “relegated to their former passive status after having played an extraordinary…part in the process of encouraging change,” Price suggested, were liable to pursue alternative tactics for collective action. 123 Indeed, the University’s intercampus planning efforts for its early ethnic studies initiatives partially hinged on administrative concerns over the potential linkages between programmatic form and student agitation: in particular, the internecine strife between Black and Chicano/a students over the distribution of resources that had periodically flared up on some campuses. By 1970, administrators identified four pairs of programmatic types across the UC’s Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 238 eight general campuses: departments, colleges, instruction-oriented interdepartmental programs, and (including UCLA) Organized Research Units emphasizing research and public service. Yet University officials were unable to determine any coherent link between program structure and localized “ethnic rivalry.” For instance, UC Berkeley’s amalgamated Department of Ethnic Studies and Santa Barbara’s twin Black and Chicano Studies programs were beset by student strife, whereas Irvine and San Diego’s “comparative” and “Third World” multiethnic programs seemingly enjoyed harmonious relations between students of color. 124 Both the presence and absence of conflict across multiple programmatic arrangements, that is, precluded any easy assignment of culpability to its putative origins or possibilities for administrative remediation. Figure 4B: Breakdown of UC Ethnic Studies Programs by Type/Subfields (1970) 125 Program Structure Campus Black / Afro- American Chicano / Mexican American Asian American Native American Department Berkeley X X X X Riverside X X Interdepartmental Program Davis X X X X Irvine Program in American and Comparative Culture (multiracial) Research and Public Service Emphasis (ORU) Los Angeles X X X X Santa Barbara X X College San Diego Third College, with Third World Studies (multiracial) Santa Cruz College VII (incipient stages of planning) Indeed, potential strain between Black and Chicano students remained an administrative concern far beyond the exigencies of the late 1960s. In 1976, Vice Chancellor Charles Z. Wilson would express to Charles Young the theory that such interracial conflicts were borne in part from the conviction among Chicano advocates that Educational Opportunity Programs “will do for Chicanos what Black colleges did for the Blacks over a period of 50 years.” He surmised that Mexican Americans’ politics of institutionalization—cohered, as we have seen, in El Plan de Santa Barbara—had their corollary in the Historically Black State Colleges of the South, a Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 239 connection he at once proposed and repudiated as temporally incongruent. Per Wilson, the conviction among Mexican Americans that the University’s affirmative action apparatus was the primary “source of compensatory and recruitment efforts in the Chicano community” had amplified the internal push for the equitable distribution of resources. 126 Nevertheless, UC officials were not so much openly antagonistic towards declarations of student empowerment as they were concerned with ethnic studies development in lockstep with the University’s mandates towards research, knowledge production, and professionalization. Despite their attention to the “balance of advantage” between ethnic studies subprograms, the systemwide administration surmised that the dearth of available funds and the existing imbalances in program quality would require the targeted disbursement of monies to specific campuses. In the summer of 1970, Vice President Angus E. Taylor identified the initiatives whose early success and critical masses of students made them possible “Centers of Excellence”: Native American Studies at the Berkeley and Davis campuses, UC Santa Barbara’s Chicano Studies program, and UCLA’s Chicano and Asian American Studies Centers. The focus on research and fieldwork at UCLA’s Institute of American Cultures furnished the “intellectual foundation necessary to stimulate curricular development” in ethnic studies. The Young administration had also developed some of the University’s most extensive library acquisitions to supplement research in the incipient field, including the Japanese American Research Project archives and the Arthur B. Springarn collection of materials on slavery and the African diaspora. 127 Even the directors of UCLA’s ethnic studies centers in their years of infancy themselves hailed the potential for such programs to operate as disciplinary mechanisms for the student activists who had requested or demanded ethnic studies. As early as February 1969, before the Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 240 centers’ formal approval, Chicano Studies interim chair David Sánchez proposed to his fellow chairs that students could form the backbone of programmatic labor. Not only would relegating the “development of course outlines, bibliography, class projects, and structure” to “qualified undergraduate and graduate students” help to circumvent modest budget allocations, but would serve to discipline students into academia as well. “Once they have sweated and worked out a first rate course outline,” Sánchez assured, “they will know what ‘ethnic studies’ really means.” Per the mathematician, who chaired the Chicano Studies Center in its early years given the absence of Chicano humanities or social science faculty, the absence of a regulatory regime for students would itself lead to a “lack of ‘relevance’ for one’s own peoples.” 128 In his 2011 memoirs, Sánchez recalls that his leadership of the incipient Chicano Studies program included extensive organizing with activists and educators from East Los Angeles, including the 1968 walkout leader Sal Castro and the radical Brown Berets, as well as participating in campus protests against a racist fraternity. However, he repeatedly asserts that his experiences in the Chicano movement never led to his radicalization: rather, he had accepted the leadership role “to be a facilitator and to lend credibility” to the emergent program of study. “I was occasionally called a vendido (sellout) by some of the radicals,” he avers, but “kept pushing the notion of quality” for the Chicano Studies Center’s scholarship and programming. 129 Lucie Hirata Cheng, a sociology professor who chaired the Asian American Studies Center for sixteen years, similarly recounts in her 2004 oral history interview that her own support for community organizing in Chinatown and the principle of “collective leadership” did not dampen her conviction in her authority over students. When she assumed directorship of the AASC, she recalls that the four ethnic studies Centers “were really run basically by very committed students” who “didn’t like this authority kind of relationship that the faculty bring to Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 241 the situation,” and that tensions between students and faculty had driven the last two directors to resign (her predecessor “just left a note on his desk and disappeared,” she remembers). Cheng’s successful tenure as the Center chair, as she remembers, ultimately meant disregarding the “joint management” envisioned by student activists in order to achieve the progressive aims of the program. “I didn’t want to be the puppet of any group of people,” she relays. 130 One of the eminent contradictions in the implementation of ethnic studies at UCLA was that the extensive role of students within the Centers’ initiation and early operations coincided with the ongoing fractionalization of student autonomy. Indeed, the Young administration’s efforts to normalize relations with student activists could compel the latter to abide by the standards of diplomacy. Meetings between the Chancellor and United Mexican American Students leaders in May 1969 led to a joint press release affirming Young’s commitment, “with enthusiasm and without reservation,” to UMAS’ proposal that UCLA begin a five-year plan to bring the percentage of Mexican American students to equal the proportion of Mexican Americans in the “population of the local area predominantly served by UCLA.” 131 UMAS even released a subsequent press release the following day, to correct local news reports that had misnamed the organization’s “primary goals”—that is, commitments to cooperate with the Young administration—as “demands” instead. 132 At the same time, student activists could cite instances of their marginalization from the ethnic studies centers’ decision-making bodies as acts of administrative aggression. A November 1968 press release from the campus BSU charged the Young administration with reiteratively deferring the implementation of Black Studies classes and degree programs. Per the BSU, UCLA officials had requested students’ ideas for curricular innovation in the form of a proposal, only to reject the proposal “due to [the] inability to secure Black faculty.” 133 The following May, Asian Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 242 American students similarly highlighted the “hassels (sic) among the students, faculty, and administration” that had followed their push for representation on the Asian American Studies Center’s steering committee. Lambasting the administrative “threat” to nix the program lest “the student portion be cut down,” the activist newsletter Gidra reported that the resultant “mistrust” had “forc[ed] the administration and the students to interact as two enemy camps.” The editors of Gidra avowed that the “administration’s fear of student power” had coincided with UCLA’s multiple ethnic studies centers expressing their “grievances and ideas” in “united action,” and “proposing to create their own definition” of the Institute of American Cultures. 134 Former UCLA student and Black Studies advocate Virgil Roberts would later recall the dynamic—if not sometimes volatile—upheavals and convergences among student activists in the Vietnam War era. As a leader of the campus Black Student Union in 1968, Roberts joined Chancellor Young’s Urban Crisis task force and drafted the first proposal for the Center for African American Studies. However, he was subsequently excommunicated from the BSU when its members accused him and his co-authors of “selling out to white folks.” At the same time, Roberts noted in a 1998 oral history, the sheer paucity of nonwhite students at UCLA made solidarity politics a matter of necessity, both among the campus’s small Black student body and between student organizations of color. Activist groups, he suggested, could attempt to balance external support in broader coalitional politics while maintaining a “structure that doesn’t allow them to control your destiny.” 135 That is, the paper trails through which ethnic studies advocates could pursue normative modes of program development does not and should not invalidate the radical and alternative worldviews through which student activists of color contested those very terms of incorporation and advanced their own notions of academic community. As the following chapter explores, the Chapter 4 Protests, Proposals, Professions 243 flexible and dynamic modes of student activism that facilitated their acquiescence to normative program development could also compel students to test the limits of academic governance. At UCLA, students of color would claim squatters’ rights on a previously abandoned academic building in an effort to edify ideals of racial alterity and self-determination, as campus administrators simultaneously endeavored to render their long-term building occupation as an acquiescence into the traditional halls of academic matriculation. Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 244 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall: PROGRAMMED OCCUPATIONS & EDIFICIAL DETERMINATIONS Fewer tactics seized the radical imaginaries of student mobilizations in the Vietnam War era than the theatrics of occupation, and antiracist campus activism in Southern California was certainly no exception. On the morning of October 14, 1968, a dozen members of the Black Students Union at UC Santa Barbara seized the Computer Center in North Hall for several hours. Although they ultimately damaged no property, the occupiers threatened to destroy the school’s $30 million IBM mainframe and campus databases unless the administration acquiesce to their demands, including an African American Studies college; more Black professors, administrators, and coaches; and a campus commission to investigate cases of racist activity. 1 Less than three weeks later, BSU students at San Fernando Valley State College seized the administration building with the help of white student sympathizers, detaining thirty-four staffers and the school’s acting President, Paul Blomgren, for four hours. Among the BSU’s demands were for the admission of five hundred Black students ever semester; for the President to “strongly recommend” a Black studies department; for “qualified black people” put in “positions of responsibility”; and for a “tutorial office” that the BSU and United Mexican American Students (UMAS) could use to advise students in the Educational Opportunity Program. 2 Over the following year, a different kind of building occupation would transpire at the University of California – Los Angeles. The administration of Chancellor Charles E. Young had temporarily designated a vacant academic building for the use of UCLA’s four ethnic studies centers and the High Potential Program, an experimental initiative to recruit and educate traditionally ineligible working-class students of color from local communities. However, students of color would reject the administration’s plans to relocate ethnic studies out of Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 245 Campbell Hall, which the Los Angeles Times described in 1969 as “undistinguished looking structure…an L-shaped brick and cement building, much of it badly in need of repair.” A multiracial coalition would eventually claim success in their efforts to stay in Campbell, an enactment of racial self-determination in a building that students had come to name as a “home.” 3 For University officials, however, the student defense of Campbell Hall was hardly an affront to the institution: the theatrics of decolonization would not abate the deeper channels of regulation that constituted campus planning. This chapter centers the multiracial occupation of Campbell Hall to explore the histories of academic institutionality and racial justice politics that converged within. I argue that this historical and analytical scale—at the level of a single building—constitutes a novel perspective to explore the development of the University’s racial equality programming. For one, Campbell Hall physically situated the school’s ethnic studies and affirmative action programs in the same building, thus conjoining two initiatives that have typically been disaggregated in academic analysis. Secondly, this framework provides a vantage point to interrogate the politics of racial self-determination central to antiracist activism in the Vietnam War era. The student defense of Campbell, which opened in 1954 as the Home Economics Building, entered into the history of an edifice that was erected to socialize women undergraduates into gendered labor niches or familial domesticity. The building itself was renamed in 1968 to commemorate Lily Bess Campbell, an esteemed Shakespearean scholar who taught at UCLA from 1922 and 1950, and served as a professor emerita until her passing in 1967. 4 Unlike their peers at colleges across California whose politics emphasized the resignification of campus spaces—Lumumba-Zapata, Malcolm X, and Third World Colleges, for instance—UCLA activists endeavored to no such renaming in their configuration of Campbell Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 246 Hall as a rampart for nonwhite students. UCLA student efforts to map the racial politics of self- determination onto an academic building named after a gatekeeper of the Western canon thusly symbolized the convolutions and contradictions emergent in the academic institutionalization of racial difference. Student activists reiterated in their arguments to administrators that the building offered symbolic value of interracial cooperation and self-organization; in turn, University administrators acquiesced to their squatters’ rights while tightening the regulation of the programs housed therein. The three-year history of UCLA’s High Potential Program (1968-1971)—an experimental venture housed in Campbell Hall to circumvent, and thus test, the University’s standards for undergraduate admission—illuminates the sorts of supervisory infrastructures that regularly accompanied student-led campus endeavors. The early successes of UCLA’s Educational Opportunity Program and the exhortations of the University’s Urban Crisis Program (see Chapters 1 & 3) enabled the formation HPP, a year-long specialized curricular program to cultivate promising albeit underqualified working-class Angelenos of color for University instruction. In part due to its participants’ political affiliations, High Potential persisted as a failure in the eyes of campus officials and prefigured a statewide institutional shift away from the maximal admission of traditionally ineligible students. Students’ reclamation of Campbell Hall in the late 1960s transpired amidst the legacies of institutional planning and scholarly development that flowed through the building. Just as with proposals for program development, claims to campus space necessarily entailed acceding to the inner workings of administrative management and regulation that constituted the quotidian governance of the University. Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 247 Building the Academic Homestead In 1951, amidst the multiple waves of capital construction and campus expansion in the decades following World War II, UCLA administrators announced plans for a new building to house the Department of Home Economics. Slated to open in 1954 ad designed to be “of contemporary architecture,” the structure was to house a ground-floor dining hall and kitchen, as well as separate laboratories for textile production, food preparation, and testing new home appliances. 5 The University simultaneously constructed its Home Management Laboratory, a dormitory-cum-classroom nearby on the eastern edge of campus, for home economics students to practice the craft of housewifery. As the Daily Bruin reported in February 1954, majors in the department had to live in the Laboratory for five weeks, where “the girls plan menus, shop, cook, clean, wash dishes, manage the house and entertain guests." 6 As historian Carolyn M. Goldstein demonstrates, the academic and professional field of home economics coalesced in the early 1900s as a Progressive science of modern consumption. Home economists researched techniques of domestic management amidst technological upheavals in the public sphere that putatively threated the sanctity of heterosexual nuclear familiarity. At the same time, however, the emergence of a mass market in consumer goods would also instantiate home economics as a professional space for women to become experts in the application of new amenities, household appliances, and methods of food and clothing production. “Gendered notions of consumption as female,” Goldstein argues, “opened up avenues for home economists to professionalize” despite their relegation to career paths in “socially acceptable ‘feminine’ pursuits.” That is, home economists in the early 20 th century flexibly appealed to and subverted normative notions of womanhood in order to carve out occupational and authoritative spaces in the American consumer public. 7 Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 248 In the post-World War II era, amidst the critical mass of women’s entry into U.S. labor markets, home economics could provide institutional spaces in higher education for women to either become professionals or homemakers. A March 1956 open house for UCLA’s newly opened Home Economics building emphasized for interested “mothers and daughters” the potential career paths for departmental majors: including “elementary school teacher,” “hospital dietician,” “public health nutritionist,” “cafeteria manager,” and “textile technician.” Yet department chair Wendell Griffith, relayed the Los Angeles Times, also emphasized that “no other field offers women a better preparation for running their own households after they are married.” 8 Male professors and administrators at postwar UCLA could herald the field of home economics as an apparatus for the future vitality of traditional domesticity amidst the upheaval of gendered relations in the public sphere, as a critical mass of women entered higher education and the managerial workforce. A 1958 proposal for the expansion of the Department averred the field was “essential to successful family living,” given the “many indications that the American family is in a state of deep-seated unrest.” 9 The same year, Professor of Education Lloyd Morrisett wrote to then-Chancellor Raymond B. Allen, arguing in defense of Home Economics as an essential vehicle for the social reproduction of the state itself. The “safety of the State in the long pull,” he wrote, “is not secured solely by science and machines of destruction.” Rather, “it rests on the intelligence, fidelity and courage of the people to discipline themselves and live together well and happily in the face of adversity.” Morrisett’s call to “forge a pattern of life more in harmony with the aspirations of ordinary people everywhere” by “com[ing] back to the home” was indicative of an effort to naturalize the gendered divisions of economic and familial labor that the influx of women into higher education and the workforce were threatening to undo. 10 Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 249 Beyond the academic realm, by the 1960s home economics could be deployed—and marketed—to heterosexual men as a signifier of traditional gender hierarchies. For instance, the Daily Bruin periodically ran cigarette ads in the 1960s that associated women in home economics courses with both domestic comfort and sexual appeal. A 1962 advertisement for Pall Mall cigarettes in the Bruin, styled as a “Girl Watcher’s Guide,” offered that the “natural habitat of the Cupcake is the Home Economics kitchen.” The advertisement would also scoff at the notion that men heed feminist principles or the decorum of gender equity. While “today’s more enlightened male students” might find this comment “unsophisticated,” asserted the ad, the Home Economics “Cupcake” both “has a way with a dish” and is “quite a dish herself.” An accompanying image featured a trio of young men, licking their lips, staring through the glass door of a “Home Economics” kitchen at a woman in a dress and heels taking a tray out of the oven. 11 That is, the cigarette ad would associate Home Economics as an educational site for the male consumption of both women’s domestic work and women themselves. However, by the 1950s the academic field of home economics was facing obsolescence not only due to changing cultural norms and gender relations, but also the broad reorganizations of academic colleges and departments that accompanied the technological upheavals of the mid- twentieth century. As Carolyn M. Goldstein argues, by the 1950s the “values of economy, efficiency, health, nutrition, sanitation, and control” that Progressivist home economists had long championed were “so embedded in notions of middle-class—and American national—identity” that home economics had outlived its very necessity as a pedagogy and theory of modern consumption. Consequently, home economics appeared a “very incoherent field” of assorted “subdisciplines” whose “boundaries and unifying concepts” had become unclear. While home economics hypothetically offered young women the ability to train in any number of Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 250 occupational fields, the very nomination of home economics was less palatable in an academic environment that was coterminous with the increasing specialization of jobs in management, business, engineering, and the sciences. 12 Such was the case at UCLA, where administrators had come to question the utility of Home Economics five years after the opening of the eponymous building. Warren L. Stafford, the Dean of UCLA’s School of Medicine, circulated an administrative memo in March 1959 that home economics had a “self-limited scope” as an instructional field with little capacity to generate research investments. Consequently, the department’s “cooking and sewing stations” could be converted into research laboratories. 13 During the following spring, UCLA Chancellor Vern O. Knudsen oversaw the dissolution of the College of Applied Arts, which housed the Department of Home Economics. In conjunction with the mandates of the Master Plan, the University would shift away from the sorts of “vocational” and technical training that the College had offered, and relocating several other departments—art, music, theatre, business education, and journalism—to other corners of the institution. While reassigning Home Economics to the College of Arts and Sciences, Knudsen noted to the Daily Bruin in February 1960 that the department’s future was uncertain. Under Knudsen’s successor, Franklin D. Murphy, the bulk of the Home Economics faculty and courses transferred into a Nutritional Sciences program within UCLA’s brand-new School of Public Health. Murphy himself would later remark that Home Economics’ awkward inclusion in UCLA’s “bouillabaisse” cluster of Applied Arts programs made the department eliminable, above the objections of “angry women writing me” from across the state. 14 The transfer of the building from Home Economics to Public Health reflects UCLA’s accretion of research and professional schools in conjunction with the Master Plan. The 1963 Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 251 Vocational Education Act, which specifically disbursed funds to states for home economics instruction, offered the financial incentive for home economics to remain in the California’s designated technical and trade institutions, the community colleges. Conversely, the burgeoning field of Public Health—geared toward the study of health institutions, relationships, and behaviors on the level of populations—offered a host of opportunities in research, graduate instruction, and professionalization within a growing matrix of health management systems. By 1967, the School of Public Health’s offered an undergraduate major with eighteen concentrations, a doctorate with nine specializations, and masters programs in Biostatistics, Health Education, Public Health and Nutritional Sciences. 15 The edifice itself was renamed as the Public Health Building in 1964. 16 The rapid buildup of UCLA’s professional programs (and, consequently, new buildings) during the 1960s coincided with the systemic reordering of campus space. By 1963, the Murphy administration’s Long Range Development Plans had already foreseen the southward relocation of the School of Public Health to join with the University’s other health sciences programs and disciplines. The future Campbell Hall, located in the humanities and social sciences sector of campus, was slated that year to house UCLA’s incipient programs in Ethnic Arts and Sciences. 17 Consistent with Murphy’s investment in the campus’ artistic profile, UCLA acquired several collections of non-Western art and artifacts over the course of the 1960s. 18 Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 252 Figure 5A: Physical growth of the postwar campus, via excerpts from UCLA’s annual course catalogues (Campbell Hall highlighted/circled in red) 19 Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 253 For the Murphy administration, Ethnic Arts offered to the postwar university a claim to cultural pluralism and international scope, and perhaps even an entry point for students of color in the U.S. to engage in studies of antiquity and indigeneity. Paul O. Proehl, director of UCLA’s African Studies Center and a future Vice Chancellor under Charles E. Young, wrote a September 1967 guest column for the Los Angeles Times, arguing that the study of “Africa’s ancient, rich, and varied culture” would be necessary for African Americans and Black Africans alike formulating new ideas about blackness, racial identity, and heritage. Unlike the many “immigrants who carried the past, like baggage, with them,” Proehl argued, the “American Negro” had long been “cut off” from his ancestors, “the values they held dear” and “the dances they danced.” While “American history must give its due to the American Negro,” Proehl argued, it would be essential to unearth the transatlantic and civilizational history of African peoples to validate “the black man’s claim that his race has made a unique contribution to art and culture.” Ideally, he postulated, these new terrains of knowledge might discipline the thrust of African American justice politics, engendering a form of “black power” that “contributes positively to American life.” 20 In his 1976 oral history, the former Chancellor Murphy offered that his own personal interest in “the art of technologically primitive people, whether it be Africa or pre-Columbian America or in Oceania” guided UCLA’s institutional investments in the discipline during his tenure. Non-Western art was the “most honest,” he averred, “created for a purpose”—as if such civilizations were incapable of abstract representation. Nevertheless, Murphy also saw in such programs a developmental catalyst for disadvantaged nonwhite Americans. For the “Africans” and “Mexican-Americans” who had been “chopped off from their cultural roots,” art could help “explain to these people that they have a right to cultural self-confidence” as much as the Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 254 descendants of European immigrants. By contrast, in his oral history Murphy chastised ethnic studies programs as “psychotherapy rather than intellectual activity…needed to quiet people down.” The scholarly shortcomings, in his estimation, made ethnic studies a “miscarriage of space” to “provide a sort of social meeting room for those people.” Yet it was upon Murphy’s departure from the Chancellorship in 1968 that the “arrogant kids” whom he disfavored would make claims to such a space on campus for the very sake of cultural and political self- realization. 21 By 1968, upon the opening of the new Public Health center, the former Home Economics building had been temporarily abandoned. The Ethnic Arts facilities had moved instead into the nearby School of Architecture. 22 While the student body government would weigh the possibility of establishing a restaurant in the former home economics kitchen and an auxiliary student health center in the basement, the Young administration ultimately reserved the building to relieve the critical need for space among the Humanities departments. Pending significant renovations, the former home economics laboratories would serve as foreign language listening centers, and the rest of the complex as office space. It was under those circumstances that University luminaries opted to rename the building after Professor Lily Bess Campbell in April 1968. 23 It was during this same period that students of color would take advantage of the building’s vacancy, in order to operate some of the experimental programming from the Young administration’s Urban Crisis response. Former student and Black Student Union leader Webster E. Moore recalled that BSU members physically pried off the boards sealing the building to gain access. 24 Subsequently, Campbell Hall would serve as a base of operations for the students and scholars involved in developing the ethnic studies centers during the 1968-1969 academic year. Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 255 The political symbolism of the occupation was not lost on administrators. Heated conversations between the BSU and campus officials in September 1968 revealed to the latter that student activists had commuted their programmatic visions into “something in the way of a physical center.” According to Vice Chancellor Proehl, a recent meeting with BSU president Floyd Hayes and Dr. Alfred Cannon, a professor of psychiatry and community liaison, had evinced that “the blacks” envisioned “a sort of combination gathering place, social group, political action unit” for their programming efforts, rather than “an academically oriented study center.” Proehl likened the desired facility to the campus’ “Hillel and Newman establishments” for Jewish and Catholic students. He noted that the BSU leaders had come to their conclusions after consultation with their community advisors, raising the alarm that student plans had diverged from the administration’s investments in research. Because UCLA was a “national rather than a local university” and “the black community of Los Angeles is one of many in the United States,” tempered the Vice Chancellor, there was no inherent obligation for the proposed African American studies program to tether itself to local political movements. 25 These conflicts between Black student activists and campus leaders would come to a head in April 1969, when the Young administration denied the continued use of Campbell Hall for the newly-formed Afro-American Studies Center. 26 Chancellor Young announced that the University was renovating space in nearby Royce Hall for the four ethnic studies centers, and dismissed the request to stay as an “absolute waste of space” and an “infringement” on the foreign languages departments that the administration had planned to move into Campbell. 27 Subsequently, both the Center’s staff and the Black Students Union rejected the proposed move to Royce Hall. The campaign for UCLA’s ethnic studies programs to remain in Campbell Hall would subsequently become a staple among activists at UCLA for the next year, even among the Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 256 majority-white student antiwar movement. That same April, for instance, a coalition of students from the Students for a Democratic Society, Women’s Liberation Front, and three other organizations demanded at a solidarity rally for a recently-suspended SDS leader that the “University halt its racist operations” such as the “allocation of space in Campbell Hall” alongside calls for the removal of Los Angeles Police Department officers from campus. 28 Students, staff, and faculty located in Campbell also mobilized amongst themselves, forming a “Minority Coalition” of student organizations and ethnic studies centers unified in their commitment to remaining in Campbell Hall. Some officials in the Young administration had earlier dwelled on the manifest fissures between Black and Chicano/a studies advocates that might preclude collusion. Vice Chancellor Paul Proehl, for instance, had relayed to fellow administrators the previous autumn that the BSU was “resisting the participating of the Mexican- Americans” in developing the incipient ethnic studies centers. It had become “clear that they do not agree to ‘parity’ with the Brown,” Proehl write, and had further demonstrated their penchant for “playing it big” as the leaders of nonwhite student activism.” 29 In the 1969 defense of Campbell Hall, however, Black, Chicano/a, Native American, and Asian American students would fashion themselves as a united front. Nor was the campaign relegated to students. Robert Singleton, an Assistant Professor in the Graduate School of Business Management whom the Young administration appointed as the chair of the African American Studies Center in 1969, later recalled that he and his fellow ethnic studies directors all sided with the students. “What I suspected,” noted Singleton, “was that we were going to get put into little, narrow cubicles somewhere.” Simon Gonzalez, a professor of education and the interim director of the Mexican American Studies Center, posited in the Daily Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 257 Bruin that students of color “would like to have Campbell Hall because it has a psychological advantage” and functions as a “home base.” 30 The argument that Campbell Hall provided a psychological refuge was not uncommon among student activists and their supporters. On June 27, 1969, the Daily Bruin printed a series of statements from faculty and student representatives decreeing their intention to stay put. In an open letter to the Young administration, Robert Singleton wrote that the “students’ argument for Campbell Hall is not one many Anglos would concur in (sic).” Singleton relayed students’ concerns that “minorities…have a problem Anglos don’t have at the University: of negative self- image in an Anglo-dominated system.” As a response, a “kind of ‘community’ of the Third World [had] begun to flower at Campbell Hall,” above the “deliberate attempts by some to split the Third World spirit.” In turn, the American Indian Student Association cited the importance of a “home on a campus” for the indigenous student unaccustomed to life “beyond his reservation of a few hundred people.” The AISA placed the administrative claims to Campbell within a continuum of Native people’s territorial dispossession—the building was a “symbol of hope,” and “now they tell us they are taking that away too.” 31 The United Mexican American Students, in their own statement, offered that the Chicano/a occupants of Campbell Hall had commuted the University’s mere “rhetoric of change” into a “sincere commitment” towards the broader state of racial injustice. Contra the University’s “historically inept gabacho 2 efforts” to recruit Mexican American students, UMAS had “brought onto campus an expertise about the Chicano that was absent prior to our arrival.” Towards these ends, Campbell Hall offered a psychically cathartic “refuge from the unfamiliar and hostile environment they found around them” and was essential for students of color “to feel secure in 2 Chicano slang for “white person” Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 258 their surroundings in order to build a confidence in the University.” Furthermore, UMAS’ statement suggested that the building served as restitution for UCLA’s historical role in “granting degrees that gave their holder the power of life and death—intellectually and even psychically—over Chicanos.” Not unlike their Native counterparts, UMAS membered likened the impending seizure of Campbell Hall to the residential displacement of Chicano/as “from one barrio to another…in the name of Urban Renewal.” 32 In a subsequent declaration, Asian American student activists cited the Young administration’s failures to deliver on its budgetary promises for the ethnic studies centers as a primary reason to interrogate the University’s offer of new office space. Yet equally central to their argument was, similarly, the notion that Campbell had become a site of cultural gravitas for students of color. “Given the choice between the plush plastic offices of Royce Hall and the spirit of home that exists with Campbell Hall,” stated a position piece printed in the Daily Bruin, “Asian students know that our work is best accomplished in an environment with which we can identify, which has soul…And we will start with home, which is Campbell Hall.” 33 Editors of the activist periodical Gidra, amidst calls to maintain the “community-orientation” of the Asian American Studies Center, had earlier avowed the viscerality of students’ attachment to the building. “Campbell Hall has become the heart and guts of people,” read an editorial in the paper’s May 1969 issue. “And so it shall remain.” 34 UCLA faculty who had previously contributed to the Young administration’s Urban Crisis initiatives formulated sympathetic, albeit divergent, assessments of the collective refusal to abandon Campbell Hall. In a missive to Vice Chancellor David Saxon, Colin Young, an African American professor of theatre arts and Academic Senate leader, suggested the “humor in laying Lily Bess to rest around this problem.” Nonetheless, Young urged that students’ Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 259 “symbolic argument has weight” and that “their rationality should not be dismissed because they are based on grounds” unconventional to University life. “It is likely that all mythologies have such arbitrary origins,” he surmised, “and it would be specious to argue against the Third World Group that their demand is accidental.” 35 Conversely, the associate dean and English professor Robert Kinsman invoked the putative underpreparedness among Black and Latino/a students as subjects of the University. Kinsman, who had sponsored UCLA’s first African American Studies course in 1968, suggested to Vice Chancellor David Saxon that the interracial relations fostered within Campbell Hall might offer a benevolent assimilation of sorts for socially remedial students. “In my own opinion,” he wrote, “Campbell serves as a necessary bulwark of the moment and the most important means of psychological support for students from the Ghetto and the Barrio…who are not ready to be set into a classroom or shoved into a classroom or dormitory room without a great deal of added counsel and support or without extensive and patient orientation into ‘university ways.’” 36 Los Angeles Times reporter John Dreyfuss, covering the struggle over Campbell Hall, similarly noted the “practicality” of the student demands in spite of the radical posturing. The students in Campbell, Dreyfuss wrote, “know that normal problems and confusion faced by newcomers to college are multiplied many times over for minority students.” Student efforts to remain in the building, then, demonstrated the “pride” and affective attachment they had to the learning process. Campbell, that is, “has become a symbol of progress for the students” whose “organizational and operational efforts” had clustered therein. 37 Ultimately, the administration’s reversal of their earlier decision at the end of the summer was far from climactic: budget cuts in capital construction stalled the slate of building Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 260 renovations and prompted Chancellor Young to accommodate the ethnic studies centers in Campbell instead. Concurrently, for two consecutive Fridays in August 1969, the Minority Coalition had staged campus demonstrations and issued an ultimatum for Young to decide the building’s fate. Flyers for the rallies, both of which attracted a few hundred students, would declare the “CRISIS!” over UCLA’s commitment to “ETHNIC AND SPECIAL EDUCATIONAL PROGRAMS” and announced a refusal to “SUBMIT TO EVICTION” from Campbell. The Minority Coalition, in turn, promised to name the “systemic tactics” that the University employed “to exclude oppressed people in general and minority groups specifically.” 38 While Young himself would deny any causal linkage between the demonstrations and his change of mind, students would declare victory in their confrontation with the administration. A front-page article in the September 1969 issue of Gidra proclaimed that students of color had “defied the Chancellor’s attempt to ‘divide and conquer’” and that the administration had “probably headed off protracted conflict” by acquiescing to student wishes. 39 Nonetheless, student activists of color could continue to frame their occupation of Campbell Hall as a stand against state repression, especially in the heat of campus protest. On the afternoon of May 5, 1970, the Young administration declared the first-ever state of emergency at UCLA. At noon, thousands of students had gathered at UCLA’s Meyerhoff Park to protest the National Guardsmen’s murder of four students at Kent State University the day prior, along with the recent U.S. military invasion of Cambodia and bombing campaign in North Vietnam. After Vice Chancellor David Saxon addressed the crowd in an entreaty for peace, a faction of around seventy white antiwar protestors peeled off to the campus’ Reserve Officers’ Training Corps headquarters in the Men’s Gymnasium. By two o’clock, a series of broken windows and assorted property damage in the gym and the administrative building, Murphy Hall, prompted Saxon and Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 261 fellow administrators to call in the Los Angeles Police Department to restore order. Around two hundred and fifty officers swarmed the campus, placing the entrances and exits on lockdown as two police helicopters circled overhead. At the end of the day, the LAPD and campus police had made eighty-one arrests, including four faculty members. 40 In its initial coverage, the Los Angeles Times cast the event as a “clash” between the police and hundreds of students on a “window-smashing march.” Per the LAPD, twelve students and nine officers had been injured. 41 Yet a collective counternarrative among UCLA student and faculty witnesses quickly emerged that centrally castigated the policemen onsite that day for indiscriminately attacking students, fomenting much of the campus violence, and making unnecessary arrests. The following week, at a ten thousand-person antiwar rally at UCLA’s basketball arena, Pauley Pavilion, BSU spokeswoman Cheryl Dearrdon contended that the “pigs came into Campbell Hall” not to “protect us; they came to kill us.” The events of May 5, Dearrdon contended, were but part of the “constant state of emergency” that Black students faced on campus. 42 On May 14, the administrators of UCLA’s special admissions programs collectively wrote to Chancellor Young, asserting that Campbell Hall “was the only building where staff and students were run-down, attacked, and beaten.” One officer had discharged his weapon on the third floor, grazing the ear of a Native American student whom he subsequently arrested (and punched in the eye). Three policemen had, without saying a word, clubbed a Chicano student on the building’s patio, and the “pool of blood is still visible.” The letter further charged that the LAPD and campus police had swept up a disproportionate number of Black students, including several passersby attempting to avoid protest activities, for what was a “predominately white confrontation.” 43 Webster E. Moore, a leader of the BSU and one of the arrestees that day, would Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 262 later recount in a 2004 oral history that LAPD officers had spotted him from afar—perhaps because he was wearing a dashiki—and had chased him down without provocation. 44 A faculty commission whom Chancellor Young appointed to investigate the incident largely concurred, devoting twelve pages of the report to student-initiated damage and twenty-six to police violence. Per the report, the LAPD had exceeded their authority by sweeping into areas where student demonstrations had already subsided, arresting innocent bystanders and attacking people without provocation. While noncommittal on whether the LAPD’s entry of Campbell Hall constituted a deliberate “invasion” of the de facto student of color headquarters, the report noted that police only entered Campbell and the nearby University Research Library, recounted one officer’s anti-Semitic remarks, and averred the discriminatory “pattern of attack and arrest” that had largely targeted “the long hairs, the Blacks, the Mexican-Americans, the Asian- Americans, and American Indians.” The commission also noted that two days following the police sweep, on May 7, it became public that the LAPD had been infiltrating students and classes. Their cover was blown when students and faculty in the History Department uncovered police sergeant Ted Kozak, who had been posing as an undergraduate activist and had attempted to incite students to property damage at previous campus protests. 45 During the conflict over Campbell Hall during the summer of 1969, for instance, Kozak had written to the editors of the Daily Bruin, lamenting the Minority Coalition’s “racist oratory” against white people and questioning whether Campbell Hall was indeed a “center for revolutionary change.” 46 If the University’s deep financial ties to the regional military industrial complex provided campus antiwar advocates an analytical linkage between institutional power and imperialism in Southern California and Southeast Asia, the specter of police repression made all the more tangible the broader technologies of state violence. Hewing to Reagan’s orders, the Young Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 263 administration cancelled classes for the week of the demonstration but kept UCLA open as usual for the remainder of the term. However, throughout May progressive students and faculty alike sought to disrupt the modus operandi by organizing periodic demonstrations and creating a daily curriculum of the oppressed as an alternative to regular classes. While the campus antiwar Left had previously coalesced under an alliance known as The Coalition; the May 1970 strike drew in a broader array of students to lobby for the broader democratization of the University. Alongside calls to abolish the campus ROTC program were, for instance, demands from the strike’s Women’s Caucus for a “free, parent controlled” childcare center on campus for the families of students, faculty, and workers alike. 47 The police attacks and subsequent strike would also intertwine the largely white campus antiwar movement’s demands with those from students of color, as both parties had been implicated in the events of May 5. As Vice Chancellor Saxon left the midday antiwar demonstration, he had encountered a group of students seeking to deliver a list of “Chicano proposals” to the administration. “In effect,” MEChA wrote in an attached plan, “the present structuring of Chicano programs is no structure at all.” Citing the “Chicano Master Plan,” their proposal offered to ensure that the University would meet its “three-fold historic commitment” to “teaching, research, and public service to the Chicano community.” 48 The student contingent took Saxon’s hasty deflection of their plea as a slight—especially given the Vice Chancellor’s appeal to the antiwar crowd just prior. In turn, a few Chicano/a students joined in the spree of window breaking; others would face LAPD reprisals regardless of their actual participation. 49 Later that month, MEChA would reprint their proposals as a series of demands, in conjunction with separate demands from the Black Students Union and a group calling itself the Asian Strike Committee. The three organizations co-published a pamphlet denouncing the Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 264 “Three Wars” currently at play: at Kent State, in Cambodia, and in New Haven following the murder trial of Black Panther Party co-founder and chairman Bobby Seale. 50 Their demands each called for the administrative commitment to recruit more nonwhite students and faculty, while independently highlighting other grievances. The BSU, for instance, demanded the barring of all non-University police from UCLA and the disarming of campus police. The Asian Strike Committee called for the Young administration to ensure that the ethnic studies centers would “evolve” into a Third World College, “because of our belief that true self-determination can only be achieved under such an arrangement.” Meanwhile, MEChA reiterated earlier requests to UCLA officials that Campbell Hall remain the permanent site for “minority programs.” 51 However, by then the administration had long ago decided that the concession of Campbell Hall could itself serve as an act of disciplinary development, and as such a justification to carefully evaluate the programs therein. Campus Advocate Thomas J. Scully had earlier recommended to Chancellor Young that ceding Campbell Hall to student demands could mandate that the building’s programs “prove up [their] present priorities and present equities for the use of academic space,” shifting the “burden for the decisions” and “keep[ing] the pressure where it belongs on the participants—not on the Chancellor.” 52 Young suggested to the Los Angeles Times thereafter that “in the long run it will help the whole university” to show students of color that “they are important” and “can get things simply on the basis of their merits.” 53 Young’s appeal to merit subtly signaled the sorts of institutional conceits that would necessarily undergird the occupation of Campbell Hall as an act of racial self-determination: if the building was “home” to its students, then intellectual quality alone could renew the lease. These tensions between the politics of racial self-determination and administrative regulation would reiteratively come to a head throughout the duration of the High Potential Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 265 Program, an experimental initiative for specially-admitted students of color housed on the ground floor of Campbell Hall between 1968 and 1971. While High Potential students, teachers, and supporters could point to the program as a successful venture into autonomous and race- conscious pedagogy for putatively “unqualified” students, UCLA administrators would see in High Potential the testing grounds for the institution’s principles about selective access and academic excellence. Low Hopes for High Potential Amidst the programmatic proposals that the campus’ Urban Crisis task forces formulated in the summer of 1968 were a series of interwoven programs designed to augment the flow of “local minority” (by this measure, “Chicano, Black and American Indian”) and “low-income” students into UCLA’s undergraduate populace. In an extension of prior campus efforts, one such measure proposed to train “mature college students” as full-time counselors and deploy them to ten area public high schools, located within Black and Mexican American neighborhoods across the basin of South and East Los Angeles, as well on the eastern side of the San Fernando Valley and the working-class coastal neighborhood of Venice. By offering a tutorial and college preparatory services, these College Commitment offices could disinter the “submerged college potential” of aspiring youth who would otherwise fall short of the admissions standards. 54 At the same time, the joint committee of faculty, administrators, and students also laid the groundwork for a “High Risk Program” that would admit a limited number of nonwhite students from the Los Angeles metropolitan area into instructional and tutorial programs with discrete Black and Mexican American components. By using alternative indices of evaluation, the University could recruit and admit one hundred Angeleno high school graduates “who lack the Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 266 customary credentials but not the qualities for formal education,” and who would not count towards the 4% of special action admits. The program would cover participants’ full expenses, provide campus housing, and offer extensive tutorial and counseling; those who satisfactorily completed a year’s worth of the program would be able to advance into the undergraduate student body. 55 While advocates of the initiative would continue to characterize its goals as culling the most “alienated” of nonwhite working-class students, the criteria for admission nevertheless rested on the idea that alternative measures of capacity and character might refract (without abandoning) the University’s self-ascribed standards of academic excellence. The Young administration shifted gears from the moniker of “high risk” to the more optimistic rendition of the High Potential Program (HPP). Per the joint committee that devised HPP, admissions criteria tended to favor a narrowly construed concept of intelligence centered on “acquisitive capacities,” technical and logistical skillsets “stimulated and molded by tutorials, lectures, the printed word, indoctrination and other training procedures.” As such, the committee reasoned, admissions criteria were flawed insofar they relied on rigid indices of achievement at the expense of more holistic appraisals of applicants’ creativity or experiential wisdom. 56 Hence, the architects of High Potential prescribed a broad range of personal characteristics and comportments that could serve as markers for possible success in the University. Some criteria broadened the parameters for student achievement, such as through a “long term successful commitment” to a profession, military service, a “civil rights” or “social reform” effort, or any other “problem centered outside themselves.” Other proposed standards for entry into High Potential rested on more subjective and interlocutory assessments at the hands of admissions officers and committees: a “display of creativity,” or a sense of autonomy Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 267 “coupled with an absence of pretension or defensiveness.” Even a “sophisticated” sense of humor “free of sadism, disparagement, or bitterness,” reasoned the program planners, could indicate students’ ability to succeed at UCLA. 57 What would make the High Potential Program unique among the University’s student affirmative action plans was its administration among racial lines: the Black and Chicano components would operate separate curricular programs for their respective students. To ease the transition onto campus, the program would hire Black and Chicano educators from the neighborhoods of East and South Los Angeles who “have lived many of the experiences that these students have had,” but who had earned bachelors and/or masters degrees and had thus “learned how to operate within the main stream of American life.” 58 To oversee High Potential’s twin components, the Young administration appointed Mexican American and Black co-coordinators: Joseph (Jose) Barry, a staff member for UCLA’s international student programs; and Beverlee P. Bruce, a graduate student in education. Bruce had been appointed on the basis of her past experience launching a tutorial program for young girls at the Jordan Downs Housing Projects in Watts, an initiative she had operated with future High Potential student and Black Panther cadre Elaine Brown. Brown, who would assume leadership of the Black Panther Party in 1974, recalled in her memoirs A Taste of Power that Bruce was adeptly versed in the works of “Malcolm X, Langston Hughes, Ralph Ellison, and Richard Wright,” and had first introduced Brown to Black radical politics in the mid-1960s. 59 Members of UCLA’s United Mexican American Students and Black Students Union were instrumental in amassing the first crop of High Potential students. In 1968, both organizations received funds from the Teen Opportunity Program, a UCLA student activities program, to launch a pair of community centers and tutoring sites in East and South Los Angeles. Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 268 Albeit short-lived, the Emiliano Zapata Educational and Cultural Center and the Black Awareness and Educational Center would serve as recruitment centers for the new program. 60 Despite the extensive input and participation of student activists, however, High Potential’s programming and admissions criteria could still uphold the institutional pretense that University matriculation would produce a particular kind of self-disciplined, middle-class subject. Co-coordinator Joseph Barry emphasized to the Academic Senate that HPP was “not a remedial program” but a testament that nontraditional recruitment and instructional methods, combined with “constant on-going evaluation,” could engender otherwise ineligible students of color suitable for University coursework. The program’s administrative paper trails also betray the philosophy that High Potential would operate as a vehicle to socialize low-income Black and Latino students into middle-class campus norms, wherein participants would learn to “live in a society founded upon human dignity rather than mere materialism and minimal survival.” Per Barry and his colleagues, the average High Potential student would ideally develop a sense of self-worth and safety within the milieu of an affluent suburban campus, whereas “[i]n his own terms his security lies within his family, within his friends and within his gang.” 61 Such sweeping references to gangs could oversimplify the vigorous efforts within Black urban political circles of the 1960s to harness gang networks as self-organized community organizations that had the potential for political mobilization. Most famously, Huey P. Newton and Bobby Seale had founded the Black Panther Party in Oakland in 1966 under the supposition that poor Black people functioned as an American lumpenproletariat and thus constituted a potential revolutionary vanguard with proper mobilization. In January 1968, Panther leaders seeking to expand operations in Los Angeles entrusted the formation of a new Southern California chapter to Alprentice “Bunchy” Carter, the leader of the five thousand-member Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 269 Slauson Renegades gang. Twenty-five years old in 1968, Carter had recently completed a four- year stint in prison, where he had studied revolutionary theory and became an adherent of the late Malcolm X. Carter, along with fellow Panthers John Huggins, Elmer “Geronimo” Pratt, and Elaine Brown, was admitted as a member of High Potential’s inaugural class. 62 In her autobiography, Brown remembers the Panthers’ participation in High Potential as purely a strategic maneuver to recruit members, which proved difficult. Carter was attending to fulfill his parole violations, Pratt, a recently discharged Vietnam War veteran, was designated as Carter’s bodyguard, and Brown was to “take care of the superficialities of class assignments for everybody.” She recounted the frustration that she and her comrades experienced in trying to motivate the Black students at UCLA, as the undergraduates already on campus were worried less about “the raging war in Vietnam” than whether “Marvin Gaye’s version of ‘I Heard it Through the Grapevine’ would be piped into the dormitories.” Her fellow High Potential students, meanwhile, “wanted to break their bonds with the ghetto,” and to “avoid the issues and relax in the sunshine of Westwood.” 63 Mary Jane Hewitt, a coordinator of minority student programming who worked in Campbell Hall, similarly observed that High Potential students were overwhelmingly “committed to getting an education” despite the “small minority” who treated HPP “as an aspect of revolution.” Nonetheless, in its first year the High Potential Program would be implicated in a larger ideological and territorial power struggle between the Black Panther Party and US, a cultural nationalist organization and the most prominent Black radical group in Los Angeles in the late 1960s. Helmed by community leader and UCLA alumnus Ronald Everett, who had rechristened himself as Maulana Karenga, the US Organization had placed several allies on the Community Advisory Board for UCLA’s forthcoming African American Studies Center. Furthermore, Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 270 Karenga had lobbied Chancellor Young to appoint for the center’s leadership Charles W. Thomas, a medical scholar and civic leader who had cofounded the Watts Health Center in the mid-1960s. Upon reaching campus in the fall of 1968, High Potential Panthers mobilized fellow Black students to reject Thomas in favor of their own candidates. 64 Tensions between the two organizations escalated at the start of the following term, leading to an armed standoff between the Panthers and the Simbas, the US Organization’s muscle, on the ground floor hallway of Campbell Hall. Two days later, on the afternoon of January 17, 1969, members of US shot and killed “Bunchy” Carter and John Huggins in the first- floor test kitchen as students were dispersing following a meeting. Another High Potential student, Donald Ray Hawkins, was one of three men arrested and convicted for the shootings. 65 The double homicide aided the eventual campaign to keep the ethnic studies centers in Campbell Hall, according to Robert Singleton, as administrators “felt…that their hands were tied” from immediately taking over the space. However, the killings would push several High Potential students to quit the program, as well as co-founder Beverlee Bruce. 66 Furthermore, the publicity from the incident would generate among some Angelenos the immediate association between HPP students and criminality. At a “white power” rally on campus the following summer, UCLA chapters of the National Youth Alliance and White Students League raised as one of their demands the termination of the program, “which has brought so many thugs to campus.” An anonymous letter to the editor of the Santa Monica Outlook questioned sarcastically why UCLA had yet to use High Potential to admit more criminals, who were “badly under-represented” on campus. After all, “it takes courage and presence of mind to arrange a hold-up” and “vitality to commit a rape.” 67 Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 271 In the aftermath of the shootings, UCLA faculty and officials alike were quick to declare support for the still fledgling program. Thomas G. Robischon, a professor of education and the faculty sponsor for High Potential, penned a column in the Daily Bruin to defend the program despite its self-evident limitations. High Potential “allow[s] the University to continue its elitist practices” while giving the appearance of “coping with the problem,” Robischon argued. By “bend[ing] our standards” to admit a few students through the “back door,” the University had created “an academic second-class citizen.” And yet, he noted, it was those very students who were apt to raise the “question of validity” as to “our most familiar and hallowed practices and policies.” The University had engendered its own “most severe critics” by upholding “exclusionary practices” of access. 68 The Young administration publicly backed the High Potential Program for its palpable successes to date, but also as a counterpoint to more radical challenges to the admissions standards. A February 12 press release from the University touted that over four-fifths of the participants had enrolled in standard UCLA coursework for the second term of the program. Chancellor Young extolled the students’ “high qualities of intelligence” and relayed his hopes that most of them would go on to enroll as regular undergraduate students. 69 In a Valentine’s Day memorandum to the Academic Senate, Young characterized High Potential as an exemplary “experimental, innovative program” and a testament to the collaborative energies of the students, professors, and administrators who had developed an “in-depth measurement of potential” to find the program’s participants. By contrast, he castigated in the same letter the “nihilistic nonsense” of any student group calling for open admissions for students “with a poverty, working-class or minority background,” rejecting such a measure as a threat to the very “essence Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 272 of higher education in California.” 70 Such was the thrust of the student demands in the two Bay Area strikes, which were ongoing at the time. High Potential would recover and expand for the following academic year, but rising tensions between the different components of the program would throw the program’s future into uncertainty anew. For the 1969-1970 academic year, High Potential more than doubled its capacities, admitting one hundred Black and Chicano/a students apiece along with eighty-eight indigenous students and twenty-five Asian Americans. The increase in students would, however, strain the staffing capacities of High Potential and induce internal strife between student organizations and campus communities of color. An UMAS member and public administration graduate student named Osvaldo Romero wrote to Chancellor Young in September 1969, decrying the “inefficiency and security” of the administration, citing HPP’s “Black component” hiring of a student counselor while “the Brown did not.” 71 Inaugurating the Asian American and Native American programs for the second year of High Potential had induced a new series of logistical and political tensions, as HPP’s incumbent Black and Chicano staff first held jurisdiction over their operations. Yet their inability to handle the extra workload elicited “crisis situations” and a “nearly disastrous struggle,” per Cynthia Ong, the coordinator of HPP’s new Asian American component. 72 Faced with a deficit in financial aid monies promised to the Asian American HPP participants, the staff and UCLA students mobilized community contacts to pressure administrators to rectify the situation. Multiple leaders of the Japanese American Citizens League wrote to Chancellor Young: National President Jerry Enomoto noted the organization’s interest in the “young people in our Asian community who do not fit the usual favored oriental stereotype,” while Pacific Southwest District leader Bob Suzuki refuted the “widespread belief that Asian American students are Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 273 financially able to take care of themselves.” 73 The campus student activist periodical Gidra would ultimately claim victory in their campaign to secure resources from the administration, despite student charges that HPP coordinator Joe Barry was “insensitive to the needs of Asian American students.” 74 That is, even as the students of Campbell Hall during these years collectively opposed the relocation of UCLA’s Ethnic Studies and affirmative action programs, the continuity of interethnic conflict would also characterize the multiracial polity that had come to occupy the building. In the fall of 1969, the faculty advisors whom the Young administration had tasked to evaluate High Potential raised concerns that the program’s political impulses and nonacademic conceits had sullied its effectiveness. Purporting a routine waste of monetary resources and fearing that HPP would “grow into a hydra-headed monster fully capable of devouring us all,” the faculty report went so far as to charge that UCLA officials were “paying hush money (or bribery) to keep peace” among the program’s malcontents. 75 Mary Jane Hewitt, a program director at UCLA who assumed stewardship of UCLA’s High Potential and Equal Opportunity Programs in 1968, would tender her letter of resignation in December 1969. As a move of solidarity, Hewitt had threatened to resign in protest the past summer should the Young administration remove the ethnic studies centers from Campbell Hall. However, she wrote to Chancellor Young, High Potential’s “interethnic warfare on a small scale” between students would subsequently compel her to call it quits. Such was the vexing task of coordinating a program for the “traditional losers in this society” whom High Potential had given a “last chance.” Hewitt pointed to the the irony of the program’s adherents being unable to “rally around and subordinate themselves to the leadership of one of their own.” It was seemingly easier for students “accustomed to subordinate roles under white leadership” to Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 274 confront those same authority figures; instead, she offered, she “symbolize[d] an obstacle to many” as an African American woman. 76 Hewitt later reasoned that the internecine strife between the High Potential Program components was inevitable, another instance of “the minorities…fight[ing] over the crumbs” because “they didn’t have the big pie to fight over.” At the same time, she recalled how the “radical Asians” and Native American students had “picked up all the language” and “body posturing” of the Black student activists for their own politics of confrontation. 77 Despite internecine struggles over limited programmatic resources, the coordinators of High Potential’s four components had agreed to parity in student admissions when UCLA officials announced a reduction of admission slots for the 1971-1972 academic year. Yet University administrators rejected outright the “rainbow philosophy” that each component receive an equal number of slots, deciding instead to cap the Asian American and indigenous programs at twenty-five students apiece and the Black and Chicano sections at twice the capacity. HPP’s faculty advisory committee intimated to Vice Chancellor David S. Saxon in the spring of 1970 that the Native American program had all but ceased to exist, particularly as the indigenous occupation of Alcatraz (November 1969 – June 1971) and other American Indian Movement mobilizations had drawn the majority of Native students off campus. The leadership of High Potential was again “sacrificing educational quality for political expediency,” lamented the faculty advisors, as the “movement has devoured its own children.” 78 Fearing the continued inefficiency of a large program with students who required significant individual attention, the committee justified the retraction in High Potential slots by arguing that California’s state and junior colleges would instead need to create like programs. UCLA’s programming alone, they reasoned, “would not even make a dent” in the broader challenge of educational disparity. 79 Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 275 While imparting no similar qualms about High Potential’s Asian American component, it is probable that the University’s advisors and administrators had operationalized the presumption that Asian American students were less subject to crisis. Both student organizers and the High Potential staff beseeched the administration to acknowledge and respond to the disparities of wealth, income, and status within the multiethnic polity of “Asian Americans.” Amy Uyematsu, an undergraduate organizer, drafted a report for campus officials in February 1970 to corroborate Filipinos as one of California’s most undereducated and economically marginalized ethnic groups, and thus reason enough to augment High Potential’s Asian American programming. The “subordinate position of Filipinos is strikingly similar to that of blacks, Chicanos, and American Indians,” reasoned Uyematsu, surmising as well that the uncertain racial taxonomy of Filipinos had made them difficult to apprehend as subjects of the regional welfare state. Filipinos were formally classified as “Other” on the US Census, but as local school districts furnished demographic data through visual surveys of students (with explicit prohibitions against asking students outright) Uyematsu reasoned that many local Filipino youth had been inadvertently surveyed as Mexican and thus obscured within the broader subsection of “Spanish Surname” students. As such, recruiting Pinoy students from local schools would require concerted efforts beyond the confirmation of enumerative data. 80 HPP Coordinator Cynthia Ong in particular took umbrage with the programmatic disparities in resources and space. In a progress report, Ong asserted that the influx of Asian immigrants following the 1965 Hart-Cellar Act had introduced to the “Asian ghettoes” a host of “crisis situations,” including “[s]piraling rates of unemployment” and substandard housing, educational, and health conditions. The shifting landscape of Asian Los Angeles was decidedly heterodox, Ong suggested, calling for High Potential recruitment efforts among the “scattered Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 276 and fragmented” pockets of dispossessed Guamanian, Samoan, Korean and Chinese émigrés. Yet she was also adamant that UCLA could increase academic support to Japanese Americans whose economic misfortunes lingered from their parents’ wartime incarceration. While acknowledging the difficulties that had arisen between the various components of High Potential, however, Ong maintained the Young administrations’ “imposing bureaucratic and racist controls on our program” was ultimately culpable. 81 Other High Potential staffers, by contrast, would assert that the hostilities between the different communities of color in Campbell Hall were less institutional and structural machinations than the inevitable result of a multicultural crucible. While all HPP courses were offered and taught strictly along ethnoracial lines for the first two years, the announcement that the 1971-1972 program would dissolve some courses into multiracial, integrated units drew ire from High Potential coordinators. Seneca Turner, the acting coordinator of HPP’s Black component, penned a personal missive to Vice Chancellor Saxon in June 1970, warning that the campus strife “between Black and Brown is not engendered by, nor confined to” UCLA, but rather “continues…throughout the history of social discourse between the different ethnic groups.” Per Turner, federal administrators in charge of antipoverty programs “have long recognized and accepted the premise that one cannot impose an ethnic mixture with any amount of success in attempting to make the program effective.” In Turner’s estimation, the desegregation of HPP coursework into a “color-blind structure” would exacerbate enmities between the High Potential components, while simultaneously (if not paradoxically) engendering a “Third World atmosphere” that threated to subsume multiple communities of color into an indistinct nonwhite mass. After all, averred Turner, High Potential “was not conceived to improve racial relations.” 82 Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 277 Despite consenting to the integration of the program’s math and science classes, a coterie of HPP staff and educators implored the Young administration in the summer of 1970 to maintain High Potential’s “ethnically separated” English and social studies courses. “The students are allowed the privacy…to hear their history among their own ethnic group,” read their joint proposal, which would enable “an unabashed personal reaction to their own past.” A united front of UCLA’s Special Education staffers also relayed to David Saxon their lack of confidence in HPP director Joe Barry, whom they centrally faulted for proposing the “colorblind, remedial, junior college program for ethnic minorities” that they feared High Potential would become. 83 To wit, High Potential educators could champion the comprehensiveness and intellectual complexity by which they had come to formulate racial subjectivity as academic knowledge. The Black component’s social sciences course “began with the historical and geographical relationship with Africa to Europe and of both to America,” following the development of transatlantic political economy and Enlightenment thought to American chattel slavery, and ended on Dred Scott v. Sanford. In their own progress reports, the instructors for the Chicano social science courses accentuated the interdisciplinary approach to cultivating students’ “quest for self-identity,” overlapping the historical, anthropological, and philosophical study of Mexicans and Mexican Americans in the U.S. Southwest. Cynthia Ong similarly extolled the successes of the Asian American social studies class for emphasizing the simultaneous “awareness of identity crisis, community crisis, and national crisis” and thus analytically concatenating the constitution of self and society. 84 Despite the High Potential staff’s reiterative claims to the program’s success, however, by the summer of 1970 the Young administration had increasingly come to view the program as a financial, logistical, and political liability. Joe Barry’s retirement in July prompted UCLA Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 278 officials to appoint Winston Doby, a graduate student in education and the University’s assistant track and field coach, as the administrative head of High Potential. Doby, who was born in Alabama in 1940 and moved with his family to the Los Angeles neighborhood of Watts during the wartime Great Migration, had himself traversed the very educational pathways that the University’s affirmative action matrix had come to ideate. As a star high school athlete in the 1950s, he had intended to attend the local junior college in Compton before obtaining a scholarship at UCLA with the help of his coach. Upon graduating with a degree in mathematics, Doby returned to Watts to teach at Fremont High School during the mid-1960s before returning to his alma mater as the first African American member of UCLA’s athletic staff. He would eventually become the longest-serving Vice Chancellor in UCLA history. 85 While the advent of minority student recruitment programs offered a space for the Young administration to advance a handful of Black administrators, the students and faculty within programs like High Potential could actively push against being written into the structures and strictures of University governance. A 1970 congratulatory letter written by HPP’s Black instructors to the students who met the requirements to advance to regular UCLA enrollment elicited particular scorn from David Saxon, who took offense to the letter’s polemics and vernacular. While heralding Black people as the “chosen people of the 20 th century America…because of our genuis (sic) for survival,” the four instructors also used the missive to air their broader grievances about student comportment and conduct. “We have seen niggahs plotting on and threatening niggahs,” lamented the letter, “as though they caused and created this racist system under which we all live.” It was “against insurmountable odds and an endless stream of niggahs murder mouthing the program” that High Potential’s Black component had been able to “foment discipline” and advance its students. 86 The HPP students from that Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 279 graduating class would respond to Saxon’s disapprobation themselves, castigating the Vice Chancellor for disregarding their “mental capacity” to distinguish between an “official communiqué of the university” and an intimate message between educators and pupils. “This letter was not meant for a white person such as yourself,” the students wrote in a letter to Saxon. “For future reference, we therefore suggest that you be able to interpret what you read before you attempt to write on a subject for which you may have no understanding.” 87 In the third and final year of High Potential, the students themselves would declare their political autonomy from the logistical machinations of the staff. Winston Doby commented to the Daily Bruin upon assuming leadership in the fall of 1970 that “High Potential is not really going to change the University,” and in its limited capacity the “goal is to prepare people to cope with the situation as it is.” 88 Faced with the challenge of curtailing lesson plans to a group of students with a variety of academic strengths and weaknesses, Doby implemented a diagnostic test during the same term to assess students’ extant capacities in English and Math. In response, the students collectively boycotted the exam, charging it as the sort of insensitive and abstract standardized testing that High Potential had been designed to combat. The Asian American students, for example, asserted that a diagnostic test would necessarily elide over the “varied cultural backgrounds” of HPP’s participants; while the Chicano contingent alluded to El Plan de Santa Barbara in castigating “culturally baised (sic)” testing as a metric of academic achievement. 89 Furthermore, the student participants were suspicious that their presence on campus had rendered them as test subjects in an educational experiment, a “study of the residents in Campbell Hall.” The students relayed their concern to Doby that UCLA administrators could potentially use low test scores as a justification to eliminate High Potential outright. 90 Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 280 By the spring of 1971, University administrators had indeed surmised that the experiment was a failure, even as they publicly pronounced their ongoing commitment to an “innovative model” for educating marginalized students. In February, Saxon ceded control the program to Vice Chancellor Charles Z. Wilson, who opted to dissolve High Potential by integrating its counseling and tutorial services with the Educational Opportunities Program under a new programmatic umbrella, the Academic Advancement Program (AAP). While retaining UCLA’s counseling and tutorial functions for low-income undergraduates of color, AAP dissolved HPP’s racial and ethnic program divisions and severed the campus’ student service programming from ethnic studies coursework. 91 Instead, the AAP proposal rendered nonwhite racial difference as a set of cultural and phenotypical markers whose subjective experience at the University was a matter of individualistic comportment, interiority, and self-worth. Per the document’s authors, an AAP student would “demonstrate a positive self-concept relating to race” with: 1. Acceptance of one’s own race and individual styles of expression, physical characteristics and outward manifestations 2. Belief in abilities of others in one’s race 3. Positive identification with one’s race whether in or out of an organization 4. An expression of pride in one’s own race which is not based on appraisal of other races 5. Appreciation of one’s own linguistic patterns and also the knowledge of a need to transfer these patterns into standard English in appropriate settings 6. Appreciation of one’s own history and culture and the range and beauty of the oral and folk literature. 92 That is, instead of understanding race as a dynamic sociohistorical relation of peoples and populations to the overlapping forces of statecraft, political economy, and civic society; Wilson and his colleagues advanced a rendition of race as a series of cultural codes—style, vernacular, “folk” culture—whose differences were at least somewhat compatible with the disciplinary regime of higher education. By this measure, the University had the means to produce or Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 281 cultivate racial subjectivity above and beyond the critical capacities of organic and/or community political organizations. Faced with the potential termination of High Potential, the staff and faculty of the Asian, Chicano, and American Indian components had decided to coordinate their negotiations with UCLA officials, rejecting in tandem an invitation to the committee that would structure the Academic Advancement Program. Notably, their coalitional stance put the future of High Potential at odds with the machinations of Charles Wilson and Winston Doby, the Black administrators whom the Young administration had tasked to coordinate UCLA’s affirmative action programming. The Asian American staffers’ final program evaluation, for instance, charged “minority administrative bureaucrats” with betraying the original intent of High Potential “with demands that we show the immediate results of their dollar investment.” 93 In a last-ditch effort, the program’s coordinators had counter-proposed to relocate High Potential for a two-year provisional period under the jurisdiction of the school’s four Ethnic Studies centers. Rejecting the accusation that teaching through a “minority point-of-view” meant that High Potential had been “developing militancy” in its student body, the proposal nonetheless claimed the “right of more self-determination” and heralded High Potential as a bulwark for the academic and financial “survival” of its students “at this middle class white institution.” Per the HPP coordinators, keeping the curricular and counseling services for minority students intertwined would also “educat[e] white people at the university about the corrosiveness of their racist attitudes.” High Potential’s proponents thus charged that the formation of a racially equitable institution would require applying questions of social and cultural development to the campus populace writ large. By contrast, they would castigate the Academic Advancement Program for abandoning the tenets of intra-racial collectivity towards a multiethnic “rainbow” Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 282 program that threatened to elide over systemic and sweeping differences in students’ experiences of racial inequality. 94 High Potential staff’s extended critique of the Academic Advancement Program plans charged the AAP with abandoning the principle of addressing societal disadvantage. The Wilson committee’s AAP proposal, read the critique, failed to “recognize that institutionalized racism in education, employment, housing, etc. is a basic cause for the continued oppression of minority people.” Implicit in the HPP’s critique, then, was the notion that the AAP proposal had presumed “disadvantage” as a state of emergency inherent to the behavioral mechanisms of the students themselves. Such “negative assumptions” in the proposal included the intention to have students “sign contracts promising to attend classes,” and the plan’s naming of qualities like intention, willingness, and self-control as presumed deficiencies in working-class students of color. The High Potential proponents admonished that such a “remedial skills program” would elide over the “complex motivational and educational needs of Chicanos, Blacks, Asians and Indians” to instead manufacture a highly proscribed intellectual subject. Per their charges, the AAP “creates regimented, mechanical, programmed, and computerized robots” of its students and teachers, and rendered the former as “guinea pigs” for professorial and graduate research. 95 For a program founded on goals of evaluating student capacity through non-standardized, alternative metrics, High Potential would die an ironic death of purely quantitative analysis. Insofar as High Potential had always been an “experiment” in administrative parlance, Vice Chancellor Wilson would cap the end of the program in 1971 by reaping the student data from the laboratory of Campbell Hall. An assessment of the “scholastic achievements” of HPP students by Wilson’s assistant Susan Meives offered a sober state of affairs: of the 583 students admitted over the three years of High Potential, nearly equal numbers were in good academic Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 283 standing (227, or 38.9%) and had dropped out or been dismissed from UCLA (211, or 36.2%). Just over half of the High Potential students from the first two years had left the University; one student from the inaugural class had graduated, and the remainders were either on probation or were facing dismissal themselves. Per Meives, a preliminary analysis of students’ GPAs reinforced the notion that High Potential did not “adequately prepare its students for survival” in regular University courses. 96 In a May 1971 Los Angeles Times article announcing the demise of High Potential, Winston Doby contended that the program had failed in part because it questionable whether the “benefit [had] been equal to the cost”: the level of financial investment per student should have portended better academic performance. Per Doby, the class of High Potential students who started in the fall of 1968 had witnessed a forty-six percent attrition rate two years later, as opposed to thirty-three percent for the overall student body from the same class. Insofar as High Potential served its purpose, it was as test balloon for other schools to replicate themselves. 97 UCLA administrators themselves would continue to test the capacities of the special actions admissions process through the Academic Advancement Program, recruiting increasingly higher numbers of special action admits in the early 1970s. In the fall of 1971, the AAP’s two hundred seventy-five incoming special admissions students nearly doubled the High Potential Program’s final class size. The faculty screening committee for substandard applicants would acknowledged the need to emphasize outreach and recruitment in underserved communities of color. In particular, AAP prioritized Filipino students because they were “passed over by traditional educational institutions,” and advocated the admission of Native American applicants for whom “special education programs serve as [the] only avenue to higher education.” To select candidates for admission, the screening committee assigned each applicant a trio of scores on a Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 284 one-to-five scale: for high school scholastic achievement; the student’s projected need for tutorial and counseling support; and “personal attributes” like “motivation, leadership, and positive self-concept.” Program guidelines for assessing positive “personal attributes” emphasized the applicants’ absence of “Severe Personal Problems,” such as significant financial arrears, “habitual drug use,” or their apparent “[u]nrealistic perceptions of ability or accomplishments.” The selection committee prioritized this scalar assessment of character— gleaned from application essays, letters of recommendation, and sometimes an interview—above the other two criteria, admitting only eleven students with low “personal” scores. 98 Ultimately, pushing the admissions rates of traditionally ineligible students far past the 4% quota convinced UCLA officials that their standards of student excellence were valid. Special actions admits comprised 8.2% of all new students in the fall of 1970, which would increase to 11.6% in 1971 and 14.5% in 1972. The elevated shares were in part borne from the increased admission of junior college students who were either a few course credits shy or a few GPA points short of the threshold for transfer to a UC campus. 99 Yet it is not without irony that University administrators gauged the efficacy of their special admissions programs—efforts to explore how traditional metrics of academic achievement could systemically fail to capture the intellect of low-income nonwhite students— by measuring student success using traditional metrics. Vice Chancellor Wilson’s office analyzed the state of special actions admissions at UCLA since 1963 and concluded that the increased flow of formally ineligible students onto campus had revealed the “steadily increasing deficiencies” within the pool of special action admits. Per a 1973 administrative report, UCLA had shifted from recruiting “barely admissible” students to a wider swath of admits without “much potential for academic success” at UCLA. 100 Consequently, the AAP significantly tapered Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 285 off its incorporation of traditionally ineligible students by mid-decade, who comprised 71.8% of new AAP admits in 1972 to 11.9% and 9.4% the following two years. 101 In 1976, an external review of the University’s minority student recruitment initiatives, at the requirement of the California Postsecondary Education Commission, declared UCLA’s AAP a model program by fairly conventional standards of academic excellence. Per the Evaluation and Training Institute, a Los Angeles-based company that the Commission commissioned to conduct the survey, UCLA’s affirmative action initiatives “had outgrown their experimental nature,” favoring academically eligible students over the “unethical” practice of dooming “academically weak” undergraduates to failure. Contra “to the confusion and contradiction of previous EOP-type programs,” the AAP was “notably consistent philosophically and politically,” and “not prone to whimsical innovation for its own sake.” 102 Per the report, the relative successes of the AAP under traditional metrics of achievement were in part due to the uneven institutional reforms to meet the demands of minority student recruitment. Born “hurriedly” and “out of political expediency,” the report offered, EOPs had generally suffered from their planners’ failure to “chang[e] the structures” of academic governance “in order to accommodate the programs.” 103 As such, UCLA’s targeting of conventionally qualified students registered as a palpable measure of programmatic success. The year prior to the CPEC report, the Daily Bruin interviewed a handful of the students who had been admitted through the High Potential Program and had moved to regular undergraduate coursework at UCLA. The former HPP students contested the recollections of administrators that the program had been a failure; as Carol Bigpine offered, the one year of instruction had qualified students for many jobs for which they were previously ineligible. Kenwood Jung, another alumnus of High Potential, contended that the “University serves just a Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 286 certain class of people” and that the HPP had been a necessary corrective to the trend. One of High Potential’s dropouts, Rita Ledesma, had eventually returned to UCLA after attending community college; she too would cite the program for offering her an opportunity she had not envisioned in high school. “They had me in home economics,” Ledesma recalled. 104 Coda: Shadows of Self-Determination An October 1972 visit to the “three-story building plastered with graffiti” on the northeast side of campus revealed to one Daily Bruin reporter a cornucopia of cultural difference in “colorful Campbell Hall.” Walking down the halls revealed “Chicano students chattering away in Spanish” and “Black students wearing African style shirts,” and posters featuring “Chinese and Japanese characters” and a Native person “in a feather headdress.” 105 The following week, a staffer of the Asian American Studies Center wrote to the editors of the Bruin, decrying the description for all but implying that Campbell Hall was the “only place on campus where dashikis are worn” or people conversed in Spanish. Worse yet was the idea that the article had conflated “cultural identity” with the building’s ethnic studies programs, instead of the Center’s research or community outreach work. 106 The idea that Campbell Hall served as a social space for students of color could nonetheless persist in outside appraisals of the building’s programs. A 1975 external review of UCLA’s ethnic studies Centers suggested that they “operate[d] like nineteenth century settlement houses, handling virtually every problem that confronts their constituencies.” Because they were “highly visible,” the reviewers opined, the ethnic studies programs served for students of color as “agencies” for any “general difficulty” at the University, or bases from which to lobby critiques at the administration. 107 Yet the militant defense of Campbell six years past would give way to Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 287 the mundane cycles of long-term occupation: the Office of Housing moved into the basement in the early 1970s with little fanfare. Students and staff involved in the formation of the Center for African American Studies would recall in their oral histories the labyrinthine avenues of institutional decision-making that had made the attempted seizure of power a fantastical affair. Virgil Roberts, a former Black Students Union leader and coauthor of the proposal for the Center, recalled the University of California as less a monolithic power than a “feudal system in which you have a lot of royalty that have little kingdoms” with marginal cohesion between them. Mary Jane Hewitt, a program director in UCLA’s early programs for undergraduates of color, characterized the “naiveté” of those who looked to seize an institution with multiple layers of jurisdiction and “administrative tentacles that reach out over the whole place.” 108 Perhaps it is fitting, then, that Campbell Hall’s most enduring reference to activists’ imaginative reclamations of space occurred through the establishment of two activist journals. In 1970, a group of graduate students launched the first issue of Aztlán, the flagship Chicano/a Studies journal, in conjunction with the Chicano Studies Center. Over the following decade, the editors would help to form an emergent network of Chicano/a scholars, and through the journal substantiate UCLA itself as the institutional clearinghouse for Chicano/a Studies. 109 Similarly, in 1973 UCLA’s Asian American Studies Center would assume permanent management over Amerasia, a journal founded by graduate students at Yale. 110 “Aztlán” and “Amerasia” both invoked conceptual polities, linking discourses of racial self-making to flexible articulations of territory, community, and personhood. 111 Yet they also represented institutional capital for two programs whose fields were in the infancy of professionalization, the mapping of an intellectual Chapter 5 The Third Worlds of Campbell Hall 288 community in diffuse campus buildings at kindred institutions. The battle for Lily Bess Campbell Hall was, in a nominal sense, a battle for entry into the academic canons. Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 289 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination: THE CASE FOR INSTITUTIONALIZED DIVERSITY “ETHNIC DIVERSITY AT UCLA,” declares a brochure from the Office of Undergraduate Admissions and Relations with Schools, before describing the “[s]tately Romanesque buildings” and “park-like atmosphere” of campus. Despite the proximity of “high- rise urban canyons,” the University of California – Los Angeles is an “oasis of broad lawns, tree- lined walks, flowers, and lush greenery in West Los Angeles.” You can major in African Area Studies, Afro-American Studies, Asian American Studies, Chicano Studies, Ethnic Arts, and Latin American Studies, taking classes from Japanese American History to Dance in Mexico. Seven different food dispensaries offered culinary options like quiche and “pita bread ‘pocket’ sandwiches.” You can attend the job fair on Minority Recruitment Day, or listen to the “Latin rhythms and songs” of UCLATINO, or coordinate the “annual Mardi Gras carnival” and its “camp for underprivileged children.” A disclaimer in fine print at the end notes that UCLA “does not discriminate on the basis of sex, race, color, handicap and national or ethnic origin.” 1 There is no date listed—perhaps before 1981, if the actress Natalie Wood herself sponsored the scholarship in her name. But the date does not matter here. The place barely matters, besides being nearby the ocean, or Westwood Village. This is an “ethnic diversity” independent of history, of urbanity, of class; a diversity of cultural panorama; a diversity that looks globally but ends at the campus edge; a diversity of ethnic diversities. The two-sided sheet of paper elevates, per Vijay Prashad, a “celebration of difference” that abandons the “history of oppression and the fact of exploitation” towards a “narrat[ion] of ethnicity for the consumption of others.” 2 UCLA is an expert manager of that diversity, assures the flyer, for your sake. Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 290 This sixth and final chapter explores some of the programmatic pathways and structural refurbishments by which the University of California endeavored to manage multiracial difference and diversity over the 1970s, especially as programs initiated amidst social and political unrest in the decade prior matured into normativity. Over the decade, I argue, the University professionalized race as part of its academic and institutional praxis: administrators and officials instantiated multiracial difference as a fundamental component of University policymaking. At the same time, however, the administration of racial difference also commuted race as a sociohistorical relationship of violence into an abstract form of categorical management. Indeed, the widespread proliferation of “affirmative action” as an institutional—if not societal—vernacular in the 1970s bespeaks the very sorts of ahistorical and atemporal constructions of racial difference inherent in the concept. As Roderick Ferguson argues, affirmative action policies commuted the “protean and dynamic character of racial meaning” into the “fixed and discrete unit of academic calculation,” stable categories for the perpetuity of institutional administration. Per Ferguson, the very process of “quantification” as “the standard by which to incorporate racialized subjects” would “ironically” render race “as an abstraction divorced from historical contexts.” 3 In regards to the postwar University, the institutional incorporation of historically marginalized Californians drifted from the principles of regional educational development that animated University programming in the thrust of “Urban Crisis.” At the same time, the professionalization of race did not amount to a uniform institutionalization of once-experimental operations like ethnic studies and affirmative action. The silent hindrance of faculty intransigence could counterweigh University directives, investments, and philosophies. Affirmative action policies that repudiated numerical objectives and race-specific initiatives confronted the endurance of residential segregation and racialized Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 291 poverty in California. Student activists and other discontents formed new organizations and mobilizations, rendering programs like ethnic studies into a genealogy of antiracist struggle. University officials could both claim competency over the management of racial difference while failing to contain the wider terrain of racial politics in postwar California: that is, the politics of the regional welfare state to which the University was always already connected. At UCLA, official efforts in ethnic studies program development in the late 1960s and early 1970s were inseparable from the institution’s broader plans to rapidly increase its meager numbers of nonwhite faculty. University administrators sought to mobilize the school’s privileged role in graduate instruction and organized research, as the accelerated training and matriculation of scholars of color could fill the emergent labor market in ethnic studies instruction at all levels of California postsecondary education. In 1971, UCLA officials secured a half-million dollar grant from the Ford Foundation to establish masters degree programs in ethnic studies, sponsor graduate and faculty research, and diversify the school’s professoriate. In the process, the school’s leaders rendered the institutional development of ethnic studies at UCLA as consistent with the Master Plan’s hierarchical division of labor. While able to recruit and hire faculty of color, UCLA failed the terms of the grant to establish masters degree programs—less a result of strict administrative neglect than the multiple limits of executive power in the diffuse infrastructure of academic governance. The piecemeal institutionalization of ethnic studies in the 1970s reflects the general bureaucratization of racial difference within the University of California, as organizational concerns over racial representation became increasingly tied to the logistics of internal management instead of remediating social crisis or inequity. To be certain, the principle of justice remained formative to the institutional discourse of affirmative action, especially as a Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 292 basis for intra-campus contestations over financial resources and programmatic autonomy. Yet the University’s archival records reveal the persistent dialectic tensions between the University acting as a producer of the social relations girding racial democracy in civic society and political economy; and as a reflector of the student demographics resultant of K-12 educational patterns, state governance, and market forces. In turn, this broader institutionalization of a racial bureaucracy was a fundamental precondition of the University’s defense of Bakke v. Regents. In scholarly accounts of Bakke, the University of California is largely read through the narrow prism of the admissions policy for one professional school on a UC campus peripheral to the state’s urban centers. Yet the University’s affirmative action apparatus far outpaced and overextended the special admissions program under strict scrutiny in the case. I contend that the U.S. Supreme Court’s famous split decision in Bakke v. Regents—that racial diversity was a viable factor for higher educational admissions, but numerical quotas were a violation of the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment—ultimately reinforced the logistics of racial incorporation that University administrators had already thought and declared their institution to be following. The general counsel who represented the Regents in the case had long emphasized the unconstitutionality of racial quotas to University administrators. Furthermore, UC officials had largely come to their own decisions that admitting “less qualified” students was a political and financial liability, and beyond the scope of the University’s capacity. By the dawn of the 1980s, University officials had come to apprehend the forthcoming challenge of interfacing with a state population that would become majority nonwhite by the turn of the century. Yet the University’s leadership had already decided to relegate the issue of campus racial representation to the outcome of public secondary educational quality, which Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 293 would portend future educational crises in the face of conservative divestments from the public welfare state. Yet this is not to discredit the critical capacities of antiracist activists to keep in frame the contradictions of racial liberal policy. In contrast to the Saxon administration’s declaration of victory in the Bakke decision, some Californians of color apprehended not the promise of a colorblind future than the urgency of an anti-egalitarian present. As Daniel HoSang posits in his concept of political whiteness, the discrepancy in post-WWII California between an increasingly heterogeneous polity and a predominantly white electorate resulted in a continuum of ballot referenda that embargoed working-class people of color from the bounties of the midcentury social welfare state and subsequently divested from its apparatuses by the turn of the century. Concurrent with the Bakke ruling, the failures of desegregation school busing and the financial restructuring of the suburban tax revolt would exacerbate the racial and class asymmetries in educational infrastructure. 4 Over the “great transformation” of U.S. academia in the 1960s and 1970s, the University of California would stage the open and the closure of a racial reconstruction, a period that would revamp and retrench alike the UC’s relations of multiracial incorporation. Failures of Mastery Not long after the establishment of the University of California’s first ethnic studies programs, UC administrators apprehended that the cultivation of ethnic studies scholars and instructors was a critical matter—whether to placate activist grievances over systemic discrimination, or for the institution’s own internal mandates to racially diversify. At UCLA, the administration of Chancellor Charles E. Young sustained the inchoate needs for ethnic studies scholars and program leaders through the Faculty Development Program, which Young had Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 294 authorized as part of the campus’s “Urban Crisis” response in the fall of 1968. In the first five years of the Program, UCLA funded and housed forty-five advanced graduate students and recent Ph.D. recipients—twenty-eight Black, ten Chicano/a, four Asian American, and three white scholars—across sixteen departments. Multiple participants would serve for varying lengths as directors for the ethnic studies centers: speech scholar Arthur Lee Smith, economist Robert Singleton, political scientist Raymond Rocco, historian Juan Gomez-Quiñones, and sociologist Lucie Hirata Cheng. Notably, it was also through the Faculty Development Program that UCLA brought on Angela Y. Davis, a philosophy scholar and veteran of the UCSD Che- Lumumba movement whose affiliations with the Communist Party would prompt the Regents to terminate her appointment in 1969. 5 However, the development of ethnic studies educators was not just a concern for the racial heterogeneity of the University’s own professoriate, but a statewide necessity for a field professionalizing within multiple strata of state education. In 1969, the State Board of Education authorized specialized teaching credentials in Afro-American and Mexican American Studies for community college instructors. Two years later, the California community college system’s Board of Governors (the equivalent of the Regents) voted to require all ninety-three of the state’s junior colleges to offer ethnic studies courses by 1975. 6 By the early 1970s, demand for credentialed ethnic studies instructors at the community college level raised the critical urgency for the University of California—as the Master Plan’s preeminent graduate institution—to develop masters programs to train future educators. As all three tiers of California’s public postsecondary education simultaneously enacted ethnic studies courses in the late 1960s and early 1970s, the statewide need for trained instructors engendered what legal scholar Monroe Price hailed as a “virtual emergency” for the UCs to meet the demand for teaching labor. 7 Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 295 At the close of the 1960s, UCLA officials weighed different possibilities for the institutional cultivation of this regional labor pool. In May 1969, administrators at UCLA and the University of Southern California (USC) submitted a joint proposal to the Ford Foundation to fund a five-year visiting faculty program to train and fund ethnic studies scholars. Together, USC and UCLA would recruit “minority group faculty members” from local state and community colleges to fulfill ethnic studies instruction needs at both schools, and whose “past, and present, activities suggest that they will return to their home college” upon completion of the program. 8 In the proposal to the Foundation, UCLA Vice Chancellor Charles Z. Wilson gestured to the “severity of the shortage of minority faculty” that had already gripped Southern California: at UCLA, only sixteen of 1,200 faculty members were Black; at USC, just eight out of 1,150; and merely forty-four of the three thousand faculty at the five California State Colleges in Southern California. Moreover, Wilson argued, it was urgent for such a “sprawling metropolitan area” with “some of the largest concentrations of Oriental-American, Mexican-American and American Indian populations” to have so few representative scholars. 9 Ford Foundation officers rejected the proposal—for one, it was difficult to glean whence the applicant pool if nonwhite faculty were already underrepresented at local colleges—but left open the possibility for funding in other arenas of ethnic studies development. 10 In late 1969, Dean of the Graduate Division Horace W. Magoun circulated a comprehensive position paper on UCLA’s capacity to train ethnic studies faculty. Magoun posited that U.S. ethnic studies programs had come into a “paradoxical situation”: the greatest demand was for undergraduate courses, with comparatively little attention paid to the “presently unmet” need for graduate education to produce the faculty for said classes. Moreover, graduate research was necessary to generate applied knowledge towards the “solution of current social Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 296 problems” that student activists themselves had articulated. The emergent demand for Black studies faculty had initially occasioned a mass recruitment of scholars out of Southern institutions, which had “begun to protest this talent drain” as of late. Magoun opined that the multiracial demography of Southern California created a unique opportunity—if not obligation— to professionalize not only Black scholars but faculty of color writ large. In “regions of the country where Mexican-Americans…constitute substantial or predominant minorities, or where Asian-Americans or American Indians are represented in large numbers,” he contended, it was incumbent upon local academic institutions to train faculty members who were likewise underrepresented in the professoriate. 11 In the absence of a precedent framework for ethnic studies graduate program development, Magoun gestured to two “recent educational developments” that offered potential logistical and intellectual models: foreign area studies, and to a lesser extent, American studies. The former was concentrated on “non-European areas of the world, a number of which…form the ancestral backgrounds of large proportions of contemporary U.S. minorities.” Both U.S. ethnic and international studies, surmised Magoun, took as their subjects “major population groups whose history and culture has (sic) differed, often markedly, from that of the Western world.” In turn, the UCLA dean positioned American studies as a counterpart to research in foreign affairs. After post-WWII “international tensions related to the rise of new nations and ideologies” had motivated American intellectuals to “become better acquainted with the rest of the world with which its future is associated,” the United States’ ascendancy to global prominence spurred “a reciprocal interest in learning more about our own life and culture.” Consequently, he foresaw U.S. ethnic studies as the logical overlap of these two interdisciplines, as students of color “want to learn more about the historical and cultural aspects of their Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 297 heritage” from the nations of “ancestral origin” to “contemporary American society.” In other words, Magoun formulated ethnic studies as an epistemic incursion of global racial difference onto the interdisciplinary parameters (cultural, historical, legal, etc.) of white American identity, illuminating the underexamined internal heterogeneity within “our own life and culture.” 12 Simultaneously, scholars within UCLA’s incipient ethnic studies centers would fashion their own stratagems for training scholars. The Asian American Studies Center submitted plans for a masters program in the spring of 1970, proposing to “train teachers to staff the new curriculum on Asian Americans being developed at all educational levels” in California. The interdisciplinary curriculum would rest on five major foci: “sociological methodology”; an “understanding of Asia during the periods of immigration”; “historical, sociological, and political” analyses of “Asians in America”; fieldwork on “[c]ontemporary problems within the Asian American communities”; and a comparative study of “other racial minorities in America” to “place the entire problem area in a broad perspective.” The proposal gestured to international studies as a potential model for an Asian American studies graduate program, but asserted that “[e]thnic studies must attempt to do more” than the application of area studies towards policymaking and diplomacy. Rather, Asian American Studies “must maintain a focus on social action addressed to the urban and racial crisis.” 13 The Graduate Council of the Academic Senate outright dismissed plans for the degree program, relaying to Yuji Ichioka their misgivings over the proposal’s “social action” orientation and questioning “whether an adequate body of literature exists for graduate work” in Asian American Studies. In a separate missive to Vice Chancellor Saxon, the Council warned that the “serious deficiency in academically responsible faculty,” with “neither direction nor participation” by UCLA’s professoriate, would render the program impossible. 14 The Center for Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 298 African American Studies also drafted a masters degree proposal in 1970, but, according to CAAS Chair Arthur L. Smith, these plans faltered amidst the “reluctance…towards innovation” that was “as entrenched as ever” amidst the UCLA leadership and Academic Senate. 15 However, administrative shifts within the Ford Foundation in the early 1970s created a window of opportunity for the Young administration and the ethnic studies centers alike to address the intertwined needs for advanced degree programs and a critical mass of faculty. Between 1969 and 1970, the Ford Foundation made thirty grants to Black Studies academic programs, conferences, and organizations, at a total of $3.2 million. As both Fabio Rojas and Rodolfo Acuña argue, the Ford Foundation’s investments in the nascent field of Black studies reflected the organization’s liberal integrationist approach to higher education and its leaders’ open disregard for “black militancy” or “Afrocentrism.” 16 These ideological motives are evident in the few grants that the Foundation awarded to ethnic studies programs at individual UC campuses in the early 1970s. In 1970, Ford earmarked a two-year, $149,428 grant for UC San Diego to develop undergraduate courses at the Third College. Despite the “angry accusations, glittering generalities, and veiled threats” from student activists, suggested Ford officers in their case for the grant, future plans for the college could nonetheless harness student participation while “strongly emphasiz[ing] academic excellence rather than ideological fervor.” In 1973, the Ford Foundation disbursed $77,420 to UC Santa Cruz to develop courses that utilize the “ethnic experiences of American minority groups as a springboard into the ‘mainstream’ of the liberal arts,” as opposed to racialized fields like Black or Chicano studies. 17 As Ford Foundations officers themselves noted in 1971, by the turn of the decade the Ford Foundation’s interest in ethnic studies had largely moved towards professionalization, and thus “upward to the graduate level where scholars and scholarly materials are produced.” Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 299 Accordingly, in 1970 Ford officers rejected a proposal from UC Berkeley’s nascent Department of Ethnic Studies to establish four “student-community centers” in local neighborhoods of color to stimulate “mutually beneficial functional relationships between the minority students and their people.” UCLA’s own revamped proposal to the Ford Foundation in 1971 would conversely contend that the ethnic studies Centers’ incipient commitments to community service had diverted resources away from “teaching and research purposes” and created an “illusion of curriculum development” that precluded the formation of permanent course offerings. To the extent that the Centers had engaged in research, UCLA officials suggested, they had done so “without assigning priority to facilitating the growth of faculty.” 18 Specious as this claim was— the Centers were unable to hire faculty based on University protocol—the Young administration positioned the intervention of the Ford Foundation as a necessary step in the professionalization of the Institute of American Cultures. Fortuitously for UCLA officials, following its two-year period of funding Black Studies initiatives the Ford Foundation was interested in applying funds “outward to embrace the study of other ethnic minorities whose history and culture had received relatively little scholarly attention. The Foundation earmarked $2 million in the 1971 fiscal year to fund a handful of graduate programs with emphases in ethnic studies beyond African Americans. Out of this directive, Ford awarded half-million dollar disbursals to develop Native American Studies at the University of Arizona, and to Notre Dame’s Julian Samora, a professor of Mexican American Studies (and former Mexican American Studies Project collaborator); as well as agreeing to fund a Puerto Rican studies program at the City University of New York in the near future. Based on UCLA’s own plans for multiethnic graduate studies, the Ford Foundation approved a $527,508 grant to UCLA in June 1971. 19 Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 300 The Young administration proposed two major goals in their application of the Ford grant. For one, over the grant period UCLA would hire twenty-five scholars in ethnic studies, over all three tiers of professorship, spanning eleven disciplines: English, communications, theater arts, philosophy, art, sociology, education, history, political science, anthropology, and psychology. In addition, the Institute of American Cultures would develop masters degree programs for all four of the school’s ethnic studies fields. While offering the possibility of coordinated research between foreign area and U.S. ethnic studies—such as determining the “contribution of the African Ethos to Afro-American behaviors”—UCLA’s proposal mostly adapted the pedagogical structure of international studies programs, whereby specialized, interdisciplinary masters degrees prepared students to then enter traditional Ph.D. programs. 20 In order to provide the “cultural and social foundations for graduate curricula,” UCLA would also need to buttress its library and research holdings in ethnic studies. Not unlike the Japanese American Research Project a decade prior, UCLA officials proposed to archive “raw data” by recording oral history interviews and assembling the family records of nonwhite Californians. As Vice Chancellor David Saxon had previously conveyed to Ford Foundation officers, without “accurate and reliable information about the economic, political, educational, and social behavior of individuals” in communities of color, UCLA was necessarily hindered in its ethnic studies program development. Notably, Saxon framed the absence of “empirically derived material” for ethnic studies research as an issue endemic to social and cultural attitudes towards education within communities of color. “In well established societies,” the Vice Chancellor wrote to Ford officer John Scanlon, “it is common to accept the university and its facilities” as a “keystone of knowledge out of which grows much of the community’s problem- solving capability.” However, Saxon surmised, the “groups served by the ethnic study centers” Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 301 had failed to perceive libraries “as a source of information as does the traditional academic community”—a cultural conceit that had supposedly prolonged the state of racial inequality. Saxon’s casual deference to the “culture of poverty” argument about poor people of color and intellectuality therefore absolved the University and its own precedent gaps in knowledge. 21 Accordingly, UCLA officials foregrounded their proposal to the Ford Foundation by affirming the University’s manifest capacity to professionalize its ethnic studies programs. When preparing the proposal, campus administrators had acknowledged amongst themselves that the UC’s initial efforts to address “problems of inequity and limited involvement” among Californians of color had clarified the extent to which UCLA “lacked any basic understanding on how best to serve such groups.” To Ford Foundation officers, however, the Young administration instead accentuated its institutional competency in affairs of racial inequality. “UCLA has moved from the position of an almost exclusively white institution to a multi-cultural one,” the proposal stated. As such, the “time has arrived” for ethnic studies to grow “from a collection of special service programs” into “legitimate, permanent, and well-accepted academic programs with…unique pedagogical foundations.” 22 To be certain, University administrators were apt to cite the institution’s rapid accretion of ethnic studies programs, however piecemeal, as evidentiary basis for the University’s active investments in multiracial curricular reform. In the fall of 1971, California state assemblymember John Vasconcellos successfully sponsored a legislative decree for institutions of higher education to “help develop greater understanding and tolerance among people of varying ethnic backgrounds.” Assembly Concurrent Resolution 78 stipulated that California’s public colleges and universities “encourage the development of educational programs in American history and American institutions” that “more adequately reflect the contributions of Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 302 people from ethnic minority backgrounds.” In their respective responses to Vasconcellos and the legislature, both the Coordinating Council for Higher Education and the Hitch administration detailed the proliferation of ethnic studies programs across the state as proof that California higher education had already fulfilled the legislative mandate. 23 UC officials’ survey of individual campus responses to ACR 78 revealed a general consensus that University instruction and research had substantially acknowledged the racial heterogeneity of American national subjects. UCLA Academic Senate leader Ralph H. Turner wrote in his response that “the faculty have been sensitized to this issue for several years,” and therefore “no real problem exists any longer.” At UC Berkeley, Vice Chancellor John Henry Raleigh even suggested that the school’s actual pedagogical gap was in the “contributions of the non-English peoples” who had emigrated from Europe since the eighteenth century: that is, the plurality of white ethnic difference without which “the real history of the United States” was presumably impossible. 24 However, the Young administration’s successful bid for a half-million dollar grant from the Ford Foundation coincided with ongoing tensions at UCLA over the institutional capacity to integrate ethnic studies as a standard academic unit. Because (as Organizational Research Units) the four Centers could not offer classes on their own, the entirety of the IAC’s courseload had fallen under the jurisdiction of the Council on Educational Development, UCLA’s repository for experimental courses. Of the 171 courses offered through the CED between its creation in 1968 and 1972, fifty-five had been ethnic studies courses with an aggregate enrollment of over two thousand students. However, as Vice Chancellor Charles Z. Wilson noted, several of the courses had become repeat offerings, incommensurate with the CED’s mission of providing space for academic innovations. 25 As such, the Vice Chancellor postulated that the Young administration Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 303 “should go into unscrambling the ad hoc responses brought on by student crises.” During the “early days of the Ethnic Centers,” the Council on Educational Development had quickly filled a curricular gap to deter the likelihood of student agitation. While the CED had been a “responsive mechanism of dealing with ‘student power,’” Wilson contended, the haphazard planning for ethnic studies had left the Centers in a “state of disarray.” There was, therefore, a manifest contradiction between the administration’s “commitment to excellence in ethnic programs” that the Ford Foundation grant had recognized, and the abject absence of a permanent curricular program. 26 Wilson asserted that the “constraints” with UCLA’s ethnic studies programs were not primarily “financial, but manpower in nature. We have not advanced to the next state due to limited faculty development.” To wit, out of CED’s fifty-five ethnic studies courses, full-time faculty members taught only ten, with the majority falling to graduate students, staff members, and lecturers. 27 Rodolfo Alvarez, who briefly chaired the Chicano Studies Center in 1973, would similarly characterize the Council on Educational Development as a “general dumping ground for responsibilities that neither Departments nor [the] central administration want (sic) to shoulder.” Per Alvarez, the preponderance of ethnic studies courses in CED was also the outcome of traditional departments’ intransigence to recruit faculty of color, who could feasibly offer such courses through conventional channels. 28 This diffuse inaction among the University’s academic community would likewise stymie the ethnic studies programs’ capacity for graduate curricular development. While all of the Centers would furnish outlines and proposals for masters degrees throughout the 1970s, three of the four program plans would fail to materialize as promised during the grant period. In April 1972, CAAS director Arthur L. Smith wrote to Vice Chancellor David S. Saxon admonishing the Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 304 widespread institutional intransigence towards UCLA’s ethnic studies programs that had deterred the development of the MA program in African American Studies. A masters degree, Smith asserted, was the “necessary lodestone” for the “critical mass of faculty” necessary for ethnic studies to “achieve full maturity.” Nor was the underdevelopment of scholars a crisis of only local proportions: by the early 1970s, CAAS had fielded requests from the private Claremont College system in nearby Pomona, as well as California State College campuses in Fullerton, Northridge, Fresno, and East Los Angeles—all of which were in need of credentialed Black Studies instructors. 29 Smith was a pronounced proponent of pedagogical self-determination, threatening to resign if the Young administration proceeded with its inchoate plans to create a Black Studies bachelors degree in the history department instead of deferring to CAAS. 30 In the second iteration of his MA proposal in 1972, however, the communications scholar markedly framed the field as a legitimate academic venture against the machinations of those politicos who had “succumbed to the temptation to make Afro-American Studies propagandistic.” His plan, for instance, pointed to UCLA’s growing collection in African American library materials as the largest such archive west of the Mississippi River, which made the campus an ideal place to institutionalize graduate research. The “absence of clamor” by the early 1970s, Smith cautioned, had not abated the critical need for such curricular expansions, but the plan nonetheless praised UCLA administrators as “wise” for “not rushing to set up an autonomous department” amidst the ardor of student demands. 31 The UCLA Academic Senate passed CAAS’ proposal for an African American Studies masters degree in May 1973, but the Young administration again tabled plans when Arthur Smith departed for the State University of New York at Buffalo the following spring. 32 Indeed, Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 305 UCLA lost Smith in more ways than one: a trip to Ghana in 1972 newly politicized Smith to shed his Westernized birth name in favor of the pan-Africanist moniker Molefi Kete Asante. In his own trajectory towards becoming the famed scholar of Afrocentric thought, Asante took with him to SUNY Buffalo the Journal of Black Studies, leaving CAAS with neither a director nor a claim to authority through scholarly publication. 33 The national demand for Black Studies scholars and consequent intra-institutional competition had thus ironically reified Smith’s warning to Saxon about the consequences of inertia. Only the Asian American Studies Center witnessed the approval of its masters program during the Ford grant period, in part due to the higher numbers of Asian American faculty at UCLA relative to their Black, Chicana/o, and Native colleagues. The AASC’s second MA proposal, submitted in 1974, defended the importance of community action and service to Asian American Studies pedagogy, but explicitly differentiated the academic field from the lingering specter of student agitation. “In the past,” the updated proposal posited, “Asian American Studies as a discrete body of knowledge has all too frequently been confused with…a political concession created to placate militant student unrest.” In siding with the former perspective, the proposal opined that the “nature of the struggle for ethnic studies programs has changed” from self-deterministic development to “a field of intellectual inquiry.” For one, the widespread demand for community college educators and “secondary school specialists” had accentuated the need for Asian American Studies programs to train students as educators. 34 Moreover, the plan’s authors contended that the tendency among the “original founders of studies centers and departments” to see their resident institutions “as undifferentiated pipelines for the transmission of academic funds” into local communities had fallen short, as the first generation of ethnic studies scholars had discovered “that a mechanical application of funds to Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 306 community problems has seldom alleviated and sometimes compounded the difficulties they sought to eradicate.” In this context, a program of graduate study and research would help comprise a “longer, more deliberate action” towards judicious solutions for racial inequality. 35 Despite the proposal’s demonstrative deferral to professional development over the exhortations of community empowerment, the Academic Senate’s Coordinating Committee on Graduate Affairs barely passed the plan in the fall of 1975. The committee’s critics accused the Asian American Studies Center of promulgating an “academic cover” for a “social activist movement” in the guise of a graduate program, and repudiated the notion of Asian Americans as an valid epistemological concept. The AASC’s plan had alluded to the “definite lack of systematic knowledge” of Asian Americans as a multiethnic totality, while also emphasizing the focal point on “groups of new immigrants, such as the Pilipinos, Samoans, Thais and Koreans” on whom academic knowledge was virtually nonexistent. Yet members of the Academic Senate outright rejected a “unified field of study” as possible given that “Asiatics are not so homogenous as Chicanos.” Despite that the AASC’s predominantly Japanese- and Chinese American scholars and staff had proposed to expand the Center’s coverage of other Asian American communities, faculty skeptics would nevertheless suggest that scholars “of Japanese ancestry” were only invested in histories of their kinfolk, “not that of other Asiatics.” While ultimately approving the Asian American Studies MA as the first of its kind, UCLA faculty betrayed their nonchalance toward ethnic studies (not to mention their own worldviews on race, inequality, and ability) that would inevitably frame UCLA’s implementation of the Ford grant. 36 Easily the most recurrent theme within Ford Foundation officers’ internal memoranda and correspondence with UCLA officials was the sense of dismay that the University had failed the conditions of the grant. Midway through the funding period in 1974, the Young Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 307 administration requested a modification of the grant terms, in order to allocate a greater share of the monies for funding individual research projects. Ford official Dr. Benjamin Payton raised the suspicion to the Foundation that the request was borne from the incapacity of UCLA— “including the Centers and the departments as well as the administration—to identify and appoint the expected number” of faculty of color. 37 Writing to UCLA Vice Chancellor Elvin Svenson in December 1975, Payton chastised the Young administration for taking the “far easier (and in our judgment, less important and interesting) route” of subsidizing research projects. By UCLA officers’ own admission, Payton noted, the glacial pace of faculty recruitment would further decelerate the formation of graduate degree programs. Indeed, by the end of the original grant period in 1976, UCLA had recruited fewer than half of the promised twenty-five scholars, and was just on the cusp on inaugurating the sole masters program in Asian American Studies. Ultimately, the Ford Foundation would extend the grant period through the 1979-1980 academic year for UCLA to fulfill the terms of faculty recruitment. 38 While occasionally questioning the “pedestrian quality” of the Centers’ scholarship, Ford Foundation offers assigned to the UCLA grant reserved far greater scorn for the Young administration. 39 In a November 1974 campus meeting with Charles Z. Wilson, Foundation representatives had found that the Vice Chancellor was “very unsympathetic” with the Young administration in its handling of ethnic studies. Wilson had expressed his own disagreement with UCLA’s request for a modified grant, noted Payton, given that administrators had not “moved vigorously or imaginatively enough” to promote curricular and faculty development amongst the four Centers. 40 The departure of David Saxon, who succeeded Charles Hitch as the University President, in the following year, had left Saxon’s replacement as Executive Vice Chancellor underprepared and unknowledgeable about campus ethnic studies programs. Furthermore, Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 308 Payton and his colleagues had found the Institute of American Cultures to be “largely a paper organization” whose sole purpose was to act a “conduit” for the Ford monies. Payton would lament in a November 1975 circular that “a genuinely multi-cultural University remains only a potential yet to be achieved at UCLA,” paraphrasing the administration’s own claims to multiracial competency in its grant proposal four years earlier. The University’s own intent to redistribute the grant monies away from faculty recruitment and degree programs was thus contradictory from its initial proposal to address the “absence of a systematic approach” to curricular development. 41 However, the slowdown of programming also resulted from a diffuse abdication of investment amongst the University professoriate. A faculty committee’s five-year review of the four ethnic studies Centers, part of the University’s normal cycle of program evaluation, similarly highlighted the “good deal of intellectual snobbery” that had hindered the Centers’ growth. Although concerned about the rotating door of the Centers’ leadership to date, the review committee noted the discrepancy between the “[p]ositive of verbal support” from their own interviews with other departments, and the absence of any activity from those same academic units. 42 Multiple meetings with the directors of UCLA’s ethnic studies Centers similarly impressed upon Ford Foundation officers the “intolerable situation” of relying on departments to house the twenty-five ladder-rank faculty supported through the grant. The Chicano Studies Center, for instance, had only secured the appointment of a single anthropology professor (out of nine total) by January 1976, but not for lack of interest. To obtain that single placement, the Center had surveyed 750 applicants and recommended twenty-six scholars to sixteen different departments. As Foundation officers would note amongst themselves, the issue was never the University’s lack of funds, even in a period of fiscal constraint: by 1980, UCLA Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 309 had expended $4.87 million on Ford-supported ethnic studies initiatives, over nine times the amount of the grant itself. Of far greater concern was the combination of poor centralized planning and widespread faculty indifference. 43 Ford Foundation officials had concluded by 1975 that the “massive failure of leadership on the part of the Chancellor’s office” was itself to blame for the “sharp cleavages between the managers of the University and the faculty” and the widespread departmental recalcitrance to hiring ethnic studies scholars. Although UCLA’s “Central Administration” had furnished “noble objectives” in ethnic studies program development, they had offered little strategy for getting faculty to comply with administrative designs. On multiple occasions, Ford operatives described UCLA’s four ethnic studies Centers as “almost super-imposed” upon the professoriate, who were understandably detached given that the programs “did not evolve from faculty interests.” After the “flash points of student rebellion” had “prompted [the UC’s] central bureaucracy to move with uncharacteristic decisiveness,” Young and his cohort had neglected to protect the Centers’ longevity as first proposed. 44 To wit, only two of the four masters degree programs were either operative or in planning phases by the end of the grant period. The approval of the African American Studies masters degree in May 1979, a full decade after the establishment of the Center for African American Studies, would rehearse familiar institutional debates over the viability of a field that had already professionalized beyond the UCLA campus. In their updated proposal, CAAS scholars asserted that the “movement for Afro- American Studies sprang from the highest traditions of university life,” inasmuch as activists placed pressure on institutions “still afflicted by the heritage of institutional racism” and thus unable to “discharge properly their obligation to offer objective obstruction across the spectrum of human endeavors.” Given the University’s successful creation of an “intellectual ambience Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 310 congenial to Afro-American concerns,” the proposal contended, the degree program “ought to be viewed as a natural progression” for UCLA’s “fulfillment of its educational and academic mission.” 45 While unanimously voting to pass the proposal, members of the Academic Senate’s Planning Committee nonetheless objected to both the intellectual merit and professional pragmatism of African American Studies degrees. In particular, political science professor David T. Cattell posited that the field lacked any market potential “other than that of raising consciousness with regard to ethnicity,” and as such was beneath or beyond the scope of University operations. 46 And yet, it was precisely along the lines of “raising consciousness” that University officials authorized ethnic studies as an academic program. That is, ethnic studies could function as a consciousness of the institution itself, validation of the institution’s extant capacity to render legible the expanse of American racial difference. Such was the contradiction of professionalizing race into the diffuse architecture of academic governance: the form of racial difference could operate independently of the content of racial identity. The Bureaucracy of Racial Difference Starting in the late 1960s, University of California officials increasingly referred to the institution’s multiplex initiatives for multiracial recruitment—among staff, faculty, and students alike—under the overarching rubric of affirmative action. The term was first normalized within University parlance as part of a program to ensure nondiscriminatory practices and multiracial representation among contractors that the UCs hired for capital construction projects. 47 By 1970, administrators had appropriated the nomenclature of affirmative action to critically examine their internal hiring practices for staff and faculty. During that summer, the administration of UC Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 311 President Charles Hitch requested of each campus a written Affirmative Action Program, demonstrating comprehensive efforts to ensure racial, gender, and religious equality of employment opportunity beyond the University’s traditionally passive practice of nondiscrimination. While the UC, as a public academy, was beholden to federal regulations established by the U.S. Department of Health, Education and Welfare, UC Vice President Robert L. Johnson cited the University’s moral imperative to “becoming a model employer…because it was the just and human thing to do.” As one of the largest employers in the state, averred Johnson, the University of California bore the dyadic task of diversifying its own personnel, and offering the “job experience and training that so often bar entry into the job market.” 48 In compliance with the system-wide directive, Chancellor Young furnished a series of “Goals and Timetables” for employment equity at UCLA in the spring of 1971. As part of a self- described “aggressive and positive process” that exceeded the minimum mandates of employee nondiscrimination, UCLA’s Affirmative Action Program called for each organizational unit on campus to ultimately “contain a minimum number of minority employees at all levels which is no less than the total proportion of minorities” in the Los Angeles County workforce. 49 However, the Young administration’s stated goals to make a “truly integrated staffing pattern” prompted a contingent of faculty to sign a statement of opposition to the plan, charging the practice of proportional hiring was “wholly at variance with the ideals of a university and the spirit of our laws.” In an open rebuttal to the dissenting memo, Young challenged the notion that the administration’s goal was “instant numerical rectification” to “eliminate the effects of past discrimination.” Per the Chancellor, the plan might seem to be an “apparent paradox” based on the misconception that the targeted employment of people of color and women constituted “preferential treatment.” Rather, Young assured, the University’s affirmative action employment Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 312 plans were based on the concept of “underutilization”: individual offices would actively consider nonwhite and/or female applicants for hiring and promotion only in those institutional units where said employees were represented at “less than the departmental goal.” 50 However, the cautious approach to affirmative action could raise alarms among other University functionaries over the efficacy of institutional planning. A May 1973 report from the systemwide Office of Planning contended that the principle of “underutilization” was a “status quo policy,” insofar as it set its “maximum goal” of mirroring the present workforce and thus the “same level of discrimination practiced by the rest of society.” Instead of advancing concrete goals to remediate the injuries of racial discrimination, UC’s affirmative action plans thus approximated the colorblind “nondiscrimination” policies predating the mid-1960s. “Not only is the University avoiding a leadership role in the area of affirmative action,” the report offered, “it does not appear that the University is adequately meeting the minimum requirements.” 51 The language of “utilization” and “goals and timetables” was itself an attempt to reconcile the evaluation and management of institutional integration processes with a continual resistance to the notion of “quotas”—that is, positions or seats in limited appointments that were ostensibly “set-asides” for designated minority groups. As the historian Terry Anderson notes, the attachment of “quotas” as an epithet to any antidiscrimination policy became a staple conservative strategy during congressional debates over the 1964 Civil Rights Act. During the 1972 Presidential campaign, the incumbent Richard Nixon invoked the same specter of “quotas” to discredit the proportion-based employment plan of his Democratic opponent, George McGovern. 52 Opponents of antiracist programming and affirmative action thus appropriated the discursive concept of quota—historically a white supremacist mode of exclusion—within the Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 313 American political imaginary to instead describe, and denigrate, systemic plans for demographic incorporation. The widespread intra-institutional opposition to Young’s Affirmative Action Program evinced that this equivalence of racial incorporation as a form of anti-white discrimination had achieved a state of commonsense among some swaths of UCLA’s professoriate. The year after Nixon’s reelection, UCLA chemistry department chair Robert L. Scott wrote to Vice Chancellor David Saxon in a “protestation of good intentions” over the logistical dynamics of “goals and timetables”: in Scott’s estimation, the phrase was either vague enough to be “nearly meaningless” or otherwise “ha[d] to be regarded as quotas.” 53 By the 1970s, conservative discourses around civil rights as “reverse discrimination” had achieved enough salience such that quota could be an effective smear against any sort of quantitative-based system of demographic management. Charges of University favoritism towards Black and Latino/a students were also the province of some antidiscrimination advocates, such as Jewish American politicos who had come into the shifting sociopolitical boundaries of whiteness following World War II. In July 1972, the B’nai Brith Anti-Defamation League (ADL) assailed the University for its allegedly “preferential treatment and quota systems” in admissions and hiring, such that a “white person must sacrifice his personal right to be judged on his merit by accepting discrimination against himself.” 54 Though expressing sympathy for the “speedy and complete eradication of unequal opportunity,” the ADL contended that the “practical consequence” of injustice towards white people who bore no individual responsibility for systemic racial discrimination had invalidated the University’s racial equity programming. 55 Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 314 In his response to the Anti-Defamation League, President Hitch surmised that it was possible that the University could house “individual instances of reverse discrimination” in cases where there was a “tendency for the pendulum to swing too far the other way,” assuring that his administration would “guard against” any such institutional practices. 56 Behind closed doors, however, the University’s counsel admonished Hitch that the ADL had espied the “open secret” of the UC’s “preferential treatment in employment, student admissions, and financial aid on the basis of race, national origin, and more recently sex.” Per University attorney Thomas J. Cunningham, the Hitch administration and individual campuses alike had reiteratively “ignore[d] the legal implications” of their affirmative action programs and had exposed the institution to “litigation for which there is no valid defense.” 57 As Chapter 3 demonstrates, the University’s general counsel had long taken a hardline stance against the UC’s specific targeting of nonwhite students and employees, contending themselves that racial equality initiatives constituted “racial discrimination in reverse” insofar as any affirmative racial recognition was a potential violation of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. 58 Nonetheless, members of the Hitch administration had argued against the very use of the term “reverse discrimination” in University parlance because of the term’s inescapable political connotations. A few months before the ADL’s public criticism of the University, a coordinator of affirmative action personnel programs named James C. Goodwin wrote to UC Vice President Robert L. Johnson to contest the counsel’s reading of race-conscious programs as unconstitutional. Goodwin, a veteran of the famed Tuskegee Airmen of World War II and an alumnus of UC Berkeley’s law school, offered a counter-interpretation of legal precedent as well as a case against the concept of “reverse discrimination” itself. The phrase “offends minorities and women,” Goodwin averred, and thus reveals “more about the users of the metaphor” than the Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 315 substance of the accusation. As with other “illuminated clichés,” the terminology “impedes sound analysis.” 59 The counsel’s stance on affirmative action would also stoke the ire of Don Bunker, a UC Irvine chemist and the chair of the University’s statewide faculty Affirmative Action Committee, who saw the attorneys’ “reactionary view” towards equal opportunity initiatives as the epitome of a general, institution-wide state of noncompliance. Bunker would summarize the state of the University’s affirmative action apparatus in the summer of 1976 by simply suggesting: “There isn’t any.” Per Bunker, the University had routinely failed to adhere to state standards for equal opportunity in employment; and had largely avoided scrutiny by the Department of Health, Education and Welfare’s Office of Civil Rights because the local OCR agents had directed their “undersupported enforcement efforts” to the state’s “major stragglers” in affirmative action like Stanford and the University of Southern California. Even the University campuses most compliant with proportional workforce measures, reasoned Bunker, were still likely below compliance because of the “increasing availability” of nonwhite workers in the 1970s. 60 Additionally, by the mid-1970s the University would face the task of producing student affirmative action plans for each campus in order to meet both federal compliance and the mandates of the California State Legislature. In 1974, the Legislature passed Assembly Current Resolution 151, a statutory decree authored by Assemblyman Jose Vasconcellos, which stipulated that all three tiers of California’s public postsecondary education system “should strive to approximate by 1980 the general ethnic, sexual and economic composition of the recent California high school graduates.” 61 The enactment of ACR 151 prompted University officials to acknowledge internally that the institution lacked any systemic, statewide coordination between its student racial and gender equity initiatives. 62 Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 316 To formulate the first University-wide structure for regulating student racial representation, President Charles Hitch convened a series of task forces—comprised of faculty, administrators, and students across the University campuses. Released in July 1975, the resultant Student Affirmative Action (SAA) plan—the first use of affirmative action in reference to University admissions and student services—was an exploration of programming possibilities to increase the pool and flow of eligible nonwhite and female high school graduates onto campus. To be certain, the task forces recommended the suspension of the SAT and other standardized exams as application requirements until the University could either correct for the tests’ “ethnic biases” or offer feasible alternatives. Nevertheless, by emphasizing a tandem of high school recruitment and augmented student services, the University’s affirmative action programs largely served to affirm the legitimacy of the school’s admissions standards. 63 Indeed, the SAA plan often framed the problem of racial incorporation as one of miscommunication or culture shock, mostly at the expense of interrogating the University’s own “ethnic biases.” While calling for the aggressive and mass hiring of nonwhite employees “in ALL areas at ALL levels of responsibility,” the plan justified such measures through presumptions that the University would need to interface with the disciplinary tics of nonwhite students. Personnel affirmative action was a necessary step so that the University was staffed by people who knew, “about the differences among various subgroups in perception of time and punctuality” and who were “familiar with barrio/ghetto life and the unique aspects of each.” The plan also called for extensive University intervention among high school teachers and counselors in nonwhite communities, whom its authors had determined to be a critical source of “misinformation” in the course of their research. There had reportedly been “hundreds of stories” of high school students being told that they would “only be a number at the University of Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 317 California,” requiring further University programming to dispel such ideas. 64 Of course, the plan’s very presumptive language betrayed the racialized ideas about ability and intellect that might have contributed to such apprehensions of the UC’s machinations in the first place. This is not to say that the University was uninterested in rendering its students of color as data points; on the contrary, UC officials were still grappling with the etymological and logistical conundrum of enumerating a racially heterogeneous student body. President Hitch had previously written to Assemblyman Willie L. Brown, Jr., who had deemed inadequate the UC’s affirmative action staff reports to the Legislature, to assert the University’s “huge data problem” with integrating ethnic and racial information into previously colorblind databases. 65 At a March 1974 hearing of the Assembly Ways and Means Committee—of which Brown was the Chairman—representatives from Hitch’s office cautioned that the “inadequacy of student ethnic identification” would preclude the University from formulating accurate goals and timetables for student affirmative action. As the University was legally prohibited from compelling students to disclose racial identity, administrators had to rely on voluntary data with highly uneven response rates between campuses and the questionable reliability of students’ racial self-identification. Indeed, only the campus Educational Opportunity Programs—whose racial and ethnic data had long been the objects of institutional scrutiny—had verifiable and complete figures. 66 The SAA Plan itself counterposed the legislature’s proposal for proportional enrollment by pointing out that neither the state nor the University had comprehensive information on the racial and gender composition of California’s high school graduates. As such, the University had no measure against which to measure the effectiveness of their demographic approximations in the student body. 67 The systematization of statewide student affirmative action measures first and foremost required an augmentation of the state’s enumerative capacities, constructing the Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 318 infrastructure to apprehend racial difference as a constitutive mode of demographic differentiation and institutional management. In the case of postwar California, moreover, the institutional mandate to reflect the state’s ethnic diversity required that the University adhere to a completely dynamic standard. The UC’s affirmative action apparatus thus required that the institution first incorporate “race” as a categorical function in an expanding web of demographic difference in order to admit and index students along those same lines of difference. For instance, the University altered the categorical spectrum on its ethnic survey in 1975 to capture the multiple inflections of Asian American and Latino ethnic/racial identity over which the earlier survey threatened to elide: Figure 6A: Alterations in UC Ethnic Survey Categories, 1974-1975 68 1 9 7 4 1 9 7 5 Black / Afro American Mexican / Mexican American Other Spanish American Caucasian Oriental / Oriental American American Indian Other Black Chicano / Mexican American Latino / Other Spanish White Japanese / Japanese American Chinese / Chinese American Korean Thai / Other Asian Pilipino / Filipino Polynesian Other Notably, the enumerative disaggregation of Asian American ethnic difference on University surveys coincided with categorical shifts in the federal administration of racial difference. In 1976, the Equal Employment Opportunities Commission amended its taxonomy to include the category of “Asian or Pacific Islander,” which grouped Asian peoples formerly designated as “Oriental” with Filipinos, “Polynesians,” and other ethnic groups once relegated to the catch-all category of “Other Nonwhite.” The following year, EEOC criteria shifted peoples Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 319 of the Indian subcontinent out of “White” and into the expanding web of Asian American polity. 69 Amidst the burgeoning transnational routes following the liberalization of U.S. immigration policy—not to mention U.S. Cold Warfare in Southeast Asia—reconciling the institutional category of “Asian American” with actual Asian American people required a reiterative renegotiation of the institution’s racial parameters. In the early 1980s, a UCLA task force admonished that the “linguistic and cultural differences” and “local demographic patterns” among Asian and Pacific Islanders Southern California had rendered the existing taxonomy obsolete: namely, that “Thai/Other” was an antiquated categorization when Vietnamese people in Los Angeles County had come to outnumber Thais, sixty thousand to seventeen thousand. 70 Indeed, these subtle categorical shifts within the University’s racial enumeration make it difficult to quantify enrollment rates over the arc of the 1970s. Figure 6E aggregates two data sources for student body demographics, joining the two between 1974 and 1975—during which the rate of Asian American graduate enrollment drops by over three percent. To be certain, the overall trends indicate rising Asian American enrollment amidst plateaus or declines amongst Black and Latino/a students. Yet the statistical blips gesture to the institutional challenges of building the architecture of racial difference vis-à-vis a sociological landscape that was itself in constant reformation. Next page: Figure 6B 71 Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 320 0% 5% 10% 15% 20% 25% 1968 1969 1970 1971 1972 1973 1974 1975 1976 1977 1978 1979 1980 Enrollment Distributions for Undergraduate Students of Color at the University of California 0% 5% 10% 15% 20% 25% 1968 1969 1970 1971 1972 1973 1974 1975 1976 1977 1978 1979 1980 Enrollment Distributions for Graduate Students of Color at the University of California Black Asian American Mexican American/Chicano American Indian Total Nonwhite Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 321 The shifting institutional categories of racial difference gesture to both an increasingly multifaceted complex of Asian American communities in postwar California; as well as the political maneuverings around the institutional recognition and incorporation of these “new” shades of nonwhite. The amendments to the University’s racial lexicography in the mid-1970s hint at the pushback against this administrative racial formation. To be certain, Yen Le Espiritu argues in her study of Asian American panethnic politics that the realignment of the “Asian Pacific Islander” category was in part the initiative of Asian American organizations for whom the expanding demographic boundaries offered new political blocs in state and civic affairs. 72 However, the racial aggregation of “Asian Pacific Islanders” could also constitute a political threat in a period when University officials formed an emergent consensus that Asian Americans—particularly Chinese and Japanese Americans—were mostly not disadvantaged enough to merit coverage in student affirmative action measures. In 1974, University statistics offered that Asian American students constituted 8% of enrollment at the UCs, at a rate roughly four times that of Asian Americans’ general share of the California population. At UCLA, more white than Asian American students were admitted as Academic Advancement Program participants between 1971 and 1973; and targeted efforts in graduate student recruitment and outreach in the mid-1970s passed over Asian Americans because they were ostensibly overrepresented in University graduate programs. While graduate and professional admissions procedures were decentralized by design, some University schools, such as Berkeley’s School of Law, independently determined that “applicants of Chinese and Japanese ancestry” constituted too large of a pool to be fully considered in special admissions programs. 73 The disaggregation of Asian ethnic and national groups within UC racial taxa also demonstrate the rapidity with which “Asian American” had transmuted from an Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 322 antiestablishment political project of self-determination—in which the shared histories of anti- Asian racism constituted a shared destiny in the future of racial justice—into an institutional category whose formal criteria might seem a total imposition. The University’s 1975 Student Affirmative Action plan exhorted that UC personnel not amalgamate students into “ethnic groups if they are from distinctive cultures (e.g. Japanese American, Chinese American, Korean American, Samoan American, etc.),” and that employees “should understand the differences between the various Asian peoples” and “the desirability of not confusing them.” 74 The prevailing administrative concern with Asian American heterogeneity was thus partially a matter of human relations in institutional life—a need to accommodate students of color into a campus culture that was potentially unfamiliar with the spectrum of racial and ethnic difference. Nonetheless, the conceptual enigma of Asian American racial identity was far less prevalent a concern of University affirmative action than was the issue of interfacing with Chicanos, the state’s largest nonwhite population. The spring before the University released the Student Affirmative Action Plan, the Hitch administration published the Report of the President’s Task Force on Chicanos and the University of California. Convened at the behest of President Hitch in the fall of 1971, the ten-person Task Force had included faculty, students, staff, and administrators representing five campuses and the central offices. The committee was co-chaired by UC Vice President Robert L. Johnson and Jesús Chavarría, a UC Santa Barbara sociologist who was one of the organizers of the conference that had produced El Plan de Santa Barbara. The report itself invoked El Plan in calling for the University to institutionalize Chicano Studies curricula alongside increased student, faculty, and staff recruitment. 75 Notably, the Task Force acknowledged its own “problem of quantifying the Chicano presence” at the University’s campuses while conducting research for the report. As with the Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 323 UC’s Student Affirmative Action plan, the report’s authors urged that the administration assess its capacities to enumerate the racial breakdown of its students and personnel. Yet their report offered that Chicanos/as posed a unique epistemological enigma for the UC’s racial taxonomy— if not the operations of the state writ large. Their report, for instance, cited contradictory estimations that Chicanos/as constituted either 13% or 17% of the state population. 76 Aside from needing to disaggregate Mexican Americans from other “Spanish surname” peoples, moreover, the University had to confront the challenge of instantiating an omnibus category for a multiplicity of ethnic, national, and racial identifications among scholars and students of Mexican origin. The Task Force’s own survey of Mexican American faculty at the University revealed an array of self-identifications: Chicana and Chicano, Mexican, Mexican American, Spanish American, Latino, and Other. 77 Chicano/a Studies and affirmative action advocates thus had to grapple with the subjective heterogeneity within Chicano/a communities that grand designs like El Plan de Santa Barbara had threatened to abstract. 78 The Task Force reconciled this internal diversity by offering that all peoples of Mexican descent in the U.S. occupied points along a “highly complex bilingual and bicultural social continuum” regardless of their national origins, “age, sex, or educational background.” Per the report, this bicultural/bilingual ontology had “principally evolved out of a mid-nineteenth century historical and cultural matrix” (presumably, the realignment of national boundaries following the Mexican-American War). The sociohistorical context of territorial conquest was germane to all Mexican Americans despite the “varying scope and duration” of their bilingual and bicultural socialization. The Task Force equated Chicano Studies programs with the sort of “bilingual-bicultural education” necessary to incorporate Chicano/a students, arguing that the lack of such pedagogical models had contributed to the University’s acute underrepresentation of Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 324 Chicano/a students and staff. Without such administrative reform, implied the report, the University would remain an “all-White institution” whose admissions and student services were derived from “experience with White students from middle and upper income families.” 79 At the same time, the Task Force also suggested that Chicanos alone suffered a specific state of University underrepresentation compared to other nonwhite Californians at the University. Mexican Americans outnumbered all other nonwhite Californians by a factor of 1.5, yet other students of color surpassed Chicano students (3% of the UC student body in the mid- 1970s) more than threefold. Indeed, the Task Force Report posited that Chicano students alone had fallen far short of reaching student numbers in proportion to the share of the state population, compared to the parity rates of Black, Native, and Asian Americans at the University. With the addition of the UC Irvine, San Diego, and Santa Cruz campuses in the 1960s, Chicanos had come to “invariably comprise the largest minority group” in every area surrounding a University campus—making extant discrepancies in enrollment and employment particularly egregious. 80 While noting the interrelatedness of underrepresentation among Chicano/a students, scholars, and staffers in the University, the Task Force posited that the institution’s highest priority therein was to augment student enrollment. “If the University of California does not educate Chicano doctors, lawyers, physicists, psychologists, and other members of the academic and professional communities,” the Task Force opined in their conclusion, “then who will?” 81 With Charles Hitch’s retirement in the summer of 1975, the response to the recommendations of the Task Force would fall upon his successor, David Saxon. While vocally sympathetic to the state of Chicano/a underrepresentation at multiple tiers of University operations, the new President contended to a group of Chicano faculty in March 1976 that the low rates of eligibility among Chicano high schoolers precluded commitment to population Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 325 parity in the student body. Saxon characterized student admissions as a zero-sum game, as “to tie the University to a parity would require us to foreclose on those whose ethnic group has exceeded parity.” 82 In a circular to the Chancellors the following month, he urged each campus administration to delineate its own approach to “Chicano problems” while echoing the sentiments of his former colleagues at UCLA: Chicano/a recruitment “must take place within the framework of our overall affirmative action programs” instead of racially-specific initiatives. 83 It is unsurprising that Saxon, a seasoned administrator of UCLA’s affirmative action matrix, would find the prospect of racial self-determination anathema to the academy. In his comments, the President echoed the Task Force’s support for Chicano Studies, but disaggregated said programs of study from the “narrowness” of educating students “for careers of service to the Chicano community.” Similarly, Saxon dismissed the proposal to establish a statewide Chicano Commission, noting its incongruity with University policy against programs “setting Chicanos apart from other minorities,” as well as the decentralization of affirmative action efforts. 84 Nevertheless, both the low rates of Chicano/a (and Black) student representation, and the widespread state of residential segregation in California, required the University to pursue targeted recruitment efforts in neighboring communities of color. Following the discontinuation of High Potential and the decline in special admissions as a share of student affirmative action, the Young administration augmented its efforts in ameliorating local high school achievement gaps. In 1976, UCLA officials identified clusters of “predominantly Black” and “predominantly Chicano” high schools, respectively scattered across South and East Los Angeles, as well as a smattering of “ethnically diverse” schools across Central, West, and South L.A. UCLA’s College Commitment Program would thus locate potential applicants of color through the sweeping racialization of schools, space, and students across the Los Angeles flatlands. 85 Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 326 Figure 6C 86 Despite ceding authority over affirmative action programming to individual campus administrations, in 1976 President Saxon authorized the development of a systemwide Early Outreach program to public junior high schools in the regions surrounding University campuses. Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 327 The constellation of UC programs in area high schools over the decade prior had convinced administrators that, in the words of Charles Z. Wilson, student development efforts had to “begin as early as possible in the education cycle.” 87 Following nearly a decade of “urban” programming, campus administrations were generally able to identify area high schools with substantial nonwhite enrollment and a subpar flow of students into the UC undergraduate pool. The Saxon administration’s Early Outreach initiatives disbursed resources to place counselors, tutors, and other UC delegates in local middle schools that fed into the high schools in question. Using state enrollment data, University researchers identified over five hundred public intermediate schools in California that had at least one hundred Black, one hundred Chicano, and/or thirty-five Native American students. Schools with a critical mass of Mexican American students comprised four-fifths (428/536, or 79.9%) of the sample, including over one hundred middle schools with overlapping Black or Native American student populations. In Southern California alone, schools meeting the criteria of Chicano/a enrollment comprised a majority (280 schools, or 52.2%) of the statewide tabulation. From this list, UC officials selected ninety target schools in Northern California and one hundred in the Southland whose students could advance “the development of an appropriate ethnic mix” for recruitment efforts. 88 Figure 6D: Public Intermediate Schools with “Substantial Minority Enrollments” (1976) 89 Black Black & Chicano Chicano Native & Chicano Native TOTAL N O R T H E R N C A L I F O R N I A UCs Berkeley, Davis, San Francisco, Santa Cruz 42 30 112 6 22 212 S O U T H E R N C A L I F O R N I A UCs Los Angeles, Irvine, San Diego, Riverside, Santa Barbara 42 62 214 4 2 324 T O T A L 84 92 326 10 24 536 Since each Chancellor had the latitude to determine the campus’ final selection of affiliated schools, UCLA leaders opted to optimize the ongoing coordination of public Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 328 educational systems in the Los Angeles metropolitan area. The campus’ Early Outreach component to public intermediate schools would thus constitute the first stage of the University’s ongoing counseling efforts in area high schools and community colleges, which the Young administration sought to synchronize. UCLA officials ultimately selected twenty-two middle schools within the Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD)—ten apiece were majority Black and Chicano/a, two were “multi-ethnic” schools—because they graduated students into a dozen public high schools belonging to UCLA’s Secondary School Consortium. In turn, the Partnership Program concatenated its secondary school services to UCLA’s Southern California College Consortium, which helped to prepare promising community college students to transfer to the UCs. Beginning in 1971 with four junior colleges, by 1976 the College Consortium had expanded to sixteen member campuses as far afield as Pomona, forty miles east of UCLA. In this regard, the Partnership Program affirmed the “vertical relationship” between four tiers of California public education, from middle schools to the University of California, which the 1960 Master Plan had initially idealized. Expanding the scope of University provisions in local public schools increased the possibility of discovering and cultivating gifted students who could meet the extant standards of admission to UCLA. As a baseline, however, the program also promised to increase the flow of students from partner secondary schools into the two-year public college system, which would funnel putatively prepared students into four-year collegiate education. Indeed, this pyramidal distribution of public collegiate students in California was a staple of the Master Plan’s efforts to manage its statewide applicant pools. In other words, the backbone of UCLA’s student affirmative action efforts by the mid-1970s served to legitimate, rather than push against, the conventional standards for undergraduate admission. Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 329 The Young administration decided to focus on the LAUSD in part because of their prior relationships with both district officials and local personnel in South, East, and Central Los Angeles schools that were majority nonwhite. In the LAUSD subareas on which UCLA focused its efforts, 35,873 of the 41,285 public middle school students, or just under 87 percent, were from “underrepresented ethnic groups.” Concurrent with this “high concentration of ethnic minority/low income students,” the thirteen member high schools of UCLA’s Secondary School Consortium collectively sent fewer than thirty students per year to the UCs. By strengthening ties to their feeder middle schools, the Partnership Program sought to enhance “curriculum articulation” between the tiers of public education, synchronize the training of counselors in college advisement, and standardize outreach materials. Furthermore, the architects of UCLA’s Partnership Program called for the University to translate its “bi-lingual materials in English and Spanish” for the “other major language groups represented in the Los Angeles service area.” 90 At the same time, Southern California’s growing nonwhite populace and its patterns of residential segregation and development also meant that focusing on “inner-city” communities under the LAUSD would necessarily elide over the working-class nonwhite neighborhoods adjacent to the L.A. city limits. The eventual diminishment of housing market segregation and consequent white flight to newer suburban peripheries (especially after the 1965 rebellion) had enabled Black, Latino, and Asian American people to settle in the industrial and middle-class suburbs to the East and South of the city proper. The postwar deindustrialization of the manufacturing base, coupled with global recession and Reagan-era divestments from public education, left wide swaths of nonwhite students in poorly subsidized schools beyond the scope of the LAUSD alone. 91 Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 330 Figure 6E 92 To be certain, UCLA administrators were cognizant that student support services engaged the “symptoms rather than the source” of racial and class disparities in education, per Vice Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 331 Chancellor Wilson. “Providing assistance to a selected number of students,” he wrote to a UC official in 1977, “does not sufficiently alter the system which perpetuates the problem.” 93 Nevertheless, inasmuch as University officials were unwilling to revisit the de facto exclusions of the school’s admissions policy, regional secondary school outreach would remain a staple of UCLA’s affirmative action matrix. However piecemeal or finite its endeavors, the University of California built an entire programmatic framework around cataloguing racial difference and achievement in order to keep static the University’s threshold for admission. The prevailing conviction that the University had maneuvered to diversify its student population without sacrificing academic quality—and that all of its students were perfectly qualified—would guide the University’s defense against the lawsuit brought by Allan Bakke in 1974. Bakke and Third World California In November 1973, an aspiring physician named Allan P. Bakke registered a formal complaint with the U.S. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare against the UC Davis School of Medicine. In a letter to HEW’s Regional Civil Rights Director, Floyd Pierce, Bakke contended that his rejected application to the program was a consequence of a “separate admissions subcommittee” with jurisdiction over sixteen of the one hundred annual admits. While “[o]stensibly these selections are based on educational and social factors, and not on race,” contended Bakke, “[i]n practice this subcommittee acts to fill a 16% racial quota” reserved for students who were historically likely to underperform in medical school. 94 Bakke’s decision to circumvent the HEW petition process the following year and sue the University of California on the grounds of anti-white racial discrimination, in violation of Title Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 332 VI of the Civil Rights Act, was less preordained than the end result of his reiterative failures to gain acceptance to multiple medical school programs across the country. His first claim to discrimination was on the basis of ageism: he was in his mid-thirties when applying to medical schools, which was older than most programs’ typical age threshold at the time. 95 Yet the legal challenge to the medical school’s sixteen special admissions seats—just one amongst a constellation of discrete University affirmative action programs for graduate and professional students in the 1970s—would resonate with a statewide and national public invested one way or another in the legality of the welfare state’s investments in remediating racial injustice. In April 1974, two months before Bakke filed suit against the UC Regents, the U.S. Supreme Court declared moot a similar case, DeFunis v. Odegaard, in which the Supreme Court of Washington had previously declared constitutionally sound the special admissions programs at the University of Washington’s School of Law. Because the plaintiff, a law student named Marco DeFunis, was by then nearing graduation, the U.S. Supreme Court would await a future case to rule on the matter of student affirmative action. 96 The resolution of affirmative action in the judicial arena was arguably an expected outcome, given the emergent contradictions between the federal welfare state’s efforts to remediate racial injustice and the conflicting interpretations of nondiscrimination policy enshrined in civil rights legislation. In a meeting with the Regents’ Committee on Finance the month after Bakke filed suit, UC counsel Donald Reidhaar lambasted the “great deal of hypocrisy” in the antiracist apparatuses of the state. “We have federal officials at one and the same time demanding nondiscrimination and at the same time demanding results from affirmative action which I think can only be produced by actively taking race into account,” the attorney noted. While Reidhaar himself had long been opposed to race-conscious admissions Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 333 policies for this very concern of legal vulnerability, he advocated to the Regents that the University not concede Bakke’s demand for admission to UC Davis lest the case open the floodgates to further lawsuits. 97 Hence, one of the University counsel’s eventual arguments in the Bakke case was that the plaintiff had improperly circumvented the grievance processes with the Department of Health, Education and Welfare (HEW). Allan Bakke had filed a letter of complaint with HEW, contended the UC’s attorneys, but pursued a lawsuit before following through with the standard protocol. 98 Notably, by the mid-1970s UC administrators had themselves lamented interfacing with the federal equal opportunity bureaucracy, decrying the burgeoning matrix of federal affirmative action compliance measures required of the University. In an October 1975 report submitted to the Department of Labor, University Vice President Archie Kleingartner lamented that UC personnel had committed far too much time and money on “gathering data, refining definitions, and compiling reports in response to the multiplicity of federal regulations and guidelines and request from State governmental agencies.” Between January 1974 and January 1976, one campus alone had to submit eleven major reports to federal agencies. This administrative burden was compounded by the task of developing and maintaining affirmative action plans for fifteen separate jurisdictions: nine campuses, three research laboratories, an agricultural extension program, the Regents’ office, and the systemwide administration. Furthermore, University planning efforts were beholden to an entanglement of legislative acts and executive orders, which not only required the “needless duplication” of reportage but also created “mutually inharmonious” demands when these directives “require different ethnic breakdowns.” Kleingartner estimated that data compilation and reportage for governmental oversight cost the University between two and three million dollars a year. 99 Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 334 Nonetheless, Kleingartner’s reiterative contention that affirmative action regulations constituted an “enormous administrative burden” does not mean that the relations of authority between the University and the federal government were unidirectional. 100 Given their own experience with racial equity programming, University of California administrators were among those whom the HEW’s Office of Civil Rights had sought for input in drafting their own affirmative action employment guidelines. 101 Furthermore, UCLA’s Vice Chancellor for Faculty Relations, legal scholar Harold Horowitz, had served as HEW’s associate general counsel from 1961 to 1964 and was present during the Johnson administration’s enactment of the Civil Rights Act. He understood the intent of Title VI to authorize the divestment of federal funds to institutions in violation of the Fourteenth Amendment, such as Southern schools that resisted desegregation. Horowitz, who advised the University counsel for the Bakke case, had assured that HEW was aware of academic programs with “dual-track” admissions with specialized slots for disadvantaged student, and had never withdrawn funding on the basis of racial discrimination against white applicants. 102 Nevertheless, on November 20, 1974 the Yolo County Superior Court ruled in favor of Allan Bakke, stating that the special admissions program at the UC Davis School of Medicine violated Title VI of the Civil Rights Act and was thus invalid. Both sides subsequently appealed the case: Bakke because the Court had stopped short of ordering his admission, and the University to defend the constitutionality of its admissions protocols. Despite his own legacy of personal skepticism over the University’s race-conscious programs that targeted nonwhite students, general counsel Donald Reidhaar publicly denounced the “emotionally charged term” of “reverse discrimination” following the Superior Court decision. At the 1975 conference of the National Association of College and University Attorneys, Reidhaar averred to colleagues that Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 335 the limited displacement of a few white applicants in special admissions programs was an “unfortunate consequence rather than the purpose” of such initiatives—a context that the moniker of “reverse discrimination” threatened to erase from the public imaginary. 103 A public firestorm over the counsel’s capability to defend affirmative action would emerge after the California Supreme Court ruled on behalf of Allan Bakke on September 16, 1976. In a 6-to-1 ruling, the Court upheld the ruling of the lower courts in favor of Allan Bakke, asserting that the Davis School of Medicine’s allotment of sixteen annual placements for “disadvantaged minority students” was unconstitutional insofar as it “violates the constitutional rights of nonminority applicants” by assigning preference to students on the basis of race. “To uphold the University,” wrote Justice Stanley Mosk for the majority opinion, “would call for the sacrifice of principle for dubious expediency and would represent a retreat in the struggle” for judgment on the basis of individual merit. While the University could administer “flexible admissions standards” beyond grades and test scores, such programs for “disadvantaged” applicants would have to be colorblind. 104 The UC’s counsel appealed the decision while securing a stay from the U.S. Supreme Court, lest the University have to immediately dismantle its affirmative action infrastructure. Some of the swiftest and furthest-reaching responses to the state Supreme Court ruling came from California’s Chicano/a intelligentsia and political circles. In early November, a “wide coalition” of students, educators, collegiate staff, and community organizations convened at UCLA and agreed to partner with the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund (MALDEF) to oppose the court’s ruling. Foreseeing the Bakke case as a vehicle to address “the total issue of underrepresentation of Mexicanos in higher education,” the coalition thus called for Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 336 “statewide mobilization at four different levels: educational, judicial, political and organizational.” 105 Following the decision, MALDEF joined with over twenty fellow legal and civil rights organization—including the NAACP Legal Defense and Education Fund, the National Conference of Black Lawyers, and the National Lawyers Guild—beseeching the University to abandon its appeal. The coalition contended that the Davis School of Medicine was a “first generation special admissions programs” that were susceptible to charges of quotas, and as such was far less worthy of legal defense than the University’s other, less vulnerable affirmative action programs. If the relatively liberal California Supreme Court had ruled against the University, moreover, the U.S. Supreme Court was unlikely to present a favorable reversal of the ruling. Not only could “California’s disaster…become a national disaster,” read the coalition’s entreaty to the Saxon administration, but the University had also advanced the case with negligible representation or “intervention” by “representatives of the minority community.” 106 At the heart of such critiques was the admonition that the courts had opted for what the editors of El Mirlo Canta called the “social harmony of the dominant majority.” In the following issue of the newsletter, Chicano Studies Center chair Juan Gomez-Quiñones contended that the state Supreme Court’s ruling had promulgated a “formal abstract logic” of racial equality that amounted to white enfranchisement over the remediation of white supremacist injury. By disregarding the “reality of national and class differences” in favor of “[l]iberal safeguards,” the Court had “enforced" an individualist mode of antidiscrimination “against peoples who because of social, cultural, economic reality are unequal.” 107 The courts, in other words, had enfranchised an immaterial and ahistorical rendition of racial equality whose application would counterintuitively foreclose the targeted allocation of resources to dispossessed nonwhite people. Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 337 However, Chicano/a political and intellectual challenges to Bakke largely critiqued the University’s line of defense to a far greater extent than the comparatively liberal California Supreme Court, concurring with the majority opinion that the UC’s counsel had presented a meager case. Juan Gomez-Quiñones charged that the University had offered no evidence of “historic systematic exclusion” of nonwhite people from the UCs, nor the current “dismal low minority figures” among students, staff, and personnel. “Rather,” he contended, the defense had merely offered “through the testimony of an associate Dean that the Davis program was a good one.” Gomez-Quiñones essentially accused Donald Reidhaar and his fellow attorneys of capitulating to public scrutiny and treating Bakke as a throwaway “test case on the legality of its admissions programs,” in which the counsel’s own antipathy towards “quotas and preferential treatment of minorities” had foreclosed the possibility of a potent defense. 108 A 1977 legislative report from the state Assembly Permanent Subcommittee on Postsecondary Education, chaired by Assemblyman John Vasconcellos, expressed a similar bewilderment over the University’s approach in Bakke. In a departure from the “usual practice” of careful deliberation, “UC all but raced into court asking for a ruling,” which the report’s authors took as evidence that the Saxon administration “is more anxious to seek any judicial resolution than to vigorously defend its admissions programs.” Vasconcellos and his co-authors contended that the defense had petitioned the court to rule on the constitutionality of the University’s special admissions programs via Bakke—a risky proposition when the UC’s minority admissions programs varied vastly in form, and other initiatives were “far more likely to withstand constitutional scrutiny” when compared to that of the UC Davis School of Medicine. “Trust between the University and minority groups within California regard Bakke is minimal,” averred the report; and its authors stressed that “rhetoric and good intentions from the Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 338 president’s office” would be insufficient to “stimulate questioning of conventional policies at local campuses.” For the impending U.S. Supreme Court case, moreover, the UC Regents had buttressed the defense with legal scholars but had made a show of poor faith by neglecting to add counsel of color. 109 Amidst the plurality of pleas for the University to abandon its appeal, President Saxon made a handful of appeals in the courts of public opinion. In a January 1977 op-ed in the Los Angeles Times, Saxon proclaimed Bakke v. Regents as potentially the most important education case since Brown v. Board. Special admissions procedures for University medical training, he asserted, were necessary to mediate the “severe maldistribution of medical services favoring wealthier, whiter communities.” Saxon repudiated the charges among racial justice organizations for the University to drop its pursuit, as the “Regents felt they had no right to sacrifice the entitlement of Californians to the fullest possible judicial hearing” on such a germane matter. Absent an appeal, Saxon relayed, the UCs would likely have to dismantle all of their minority admissions initiatives, and “would not minority groups six months or a year from now protest strongly about our inability to admit more minority students?” The UC President presented the University as an arbiter amidst an external challenge to its authority, as it was “not through the University’s instigation” that the case arose in the first place. 110 Certainly, Saxon’s public statements evince how the broader discourse of affirmative action and racial justice had in some ways subsumed the details of Bakke itself. In a press release the following fall, Saxon publicized his concern that the Davis School of Medicine’s special admissions program had erroneously been labeled as a quota in the public imaginary, “set[ting] off a wave of emotionalism that is endangering a fair national discussion of the real issues.” The reservation of placements for nonwhite students constituted a “goal,” per Saxon, as quotas Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 339 historically placed upper limits on minority access as institutional technologies of exclusion. This widespread mischaracterization of University programming, he admonished, would put the UCs in a double bind with respect to left and right politics alike. “Current misunderstanding about the Bakke case,” that is, “would seem to place universities in the curious dilemma of being accused of bad faith if they fail to reach affirmative action goals and of using racial quotas if they succeed in reaching their goals.” Saxon chastised those who appended the term quota to the Bakke case for “refusing to recognize the facts in a terribly complex case.” Yet equally at stake in this misapprehension was the future of the University’s legitimacy, should the inevitable increase in “fully qualified minority applicants” amidst broader demographic shifts in California invite widespread accusations that the University was employing racial quotas. 111 On the other hand, in separate comments Saxon also downplayed the potential impact of the Bakke ruling within the much broader framework of policies, social forces, and institutional concerns that comprised the University’s affirmative action apparatus. At the February 1978 meeting of the Society for the Advancement of Chicano and Native Americans in Science, Saxon surmised that the “greatest danger of an adverse decision” in Bakke was the chance that it “might be read as a message of discouragement to minority students,” not the possible invalidation of University protocol. Accordingly, his conference speech framed student underachievement not as an outcome of systemic discrimination, but rather as a measure of motivation and willpower: The evidence I’m aware of seems to indicate that minority and white children start off pretty much on a par in terms of readiness to learn and eagerness to succeed. But as time goes on, something begins to happen. We don’t know why…But the plain and terrible fact is that minority students begin to fall behind, a cycle of alienation apparently sets in, and minority youngsters simply do not acquire, as a group, the basic skills they so desperately want and need. 112 By this logic, racial inequality was less an intergenerational state of structural violence than a set of divergent developmental pathways following a theoretically nascent state of human equality. Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 340 Saxon only gestured to the broader social and cultural forces shaping educational disparities insofar as said forces engendered perceptible divergences in individual development. In a University-wide statement released in March 1977, Saxon had named race as “so crude a measure, so impoverished a way of classifying human beings” –as if racial justice required the elimination of race itself as a sociopolitical ontology. 113 As such, Saxon’s cognizance of racial justice would run afoul of Calfornians of color for whom race constituted a system of sociohistorical disadvantage in which the University itself was culpable. Vasconcellos’ legislative report castigated the University of California and the state Supreme Court alike for failing to understand race as a fundamental determinant of historical discrimination. “[G]iven this tragic history,” the institutional recognition and numeration of race was “perhaps the only” means of meeting what the court itself called the “compelling state interest” of educational integration. 114 In December 1976 Robert M. Takasugi, a Nisei judge and former internee whom President Gerald Ford had recently appointed to the U.S. District Court for the Central District of California, assessed the societal implications of the Bakke case in a column for the Los Angeles- based Japanese American periodical Rafu Shimpo. “For those whose vision and wisdom terminate upon the analysis of supportive law or case precedence to buttress Bakke,” wrote Takasugi, “the minority voice seeks a call for a deeper human dimension.” As such, the legal outcomes of the case were potentially less important than “what that decision purports to stand for and how the educational and institutional societies react” to Bakke. The judge advanced an historical analysis of the Bakke case as the latest iteration of “the classic dilemma of the dispossessed in America—the choice between the conflicting loyalties of race and class identification.” As with the anti-Chinese sentiments among organized labor in 19 th -century Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 341 California, he surmised, Bakke demonstrated the enduring “inability of disadvantaged groups to recognize areas of mutual self-interest.” A broader social failure to reconcile white working-class politics with racial justice politics, Takasugi offered, might result in a “stalemate” of affirmative action programs that only recruited “the most advantage[d] minorities in each respective community” and thus preserved a “basically inequitable structure.” 115 The regional history of white supremacy in California, particularly against Asian Americans and Chicanos, would also form the argumentative basis for two of the fifty-eight amicus curiae briefs filed to the U.S. Supreme Court for Bakke. Importantly, both amicus briefs emphasized the multiple nonwhite peoples that had constituted the California populace since its annexation in 1848, and thus the scope of the University’s obligation to racial equity along multiple axes of difference. The Asian American Bar Association of the Greater Bay Area placed the injustice of California’s nearly “all-white legal profession” within a legacy of “sordid treatment” of Asian Americans, such as anti-Chinese immigration restriction policy and the state’s Alien Land Laws. To stress the continuum of anti-Asian racism prevalent in the state, the Association cited recent court cases in which the school districts of both San Francisco and Los Angeles—which housed fifteen percent of Asian American pupils nationwide—were declared racially segregated. 116 Similarly, MALDEF and Assemblyman John Vasconcellos joined a group of ten other organizations to author an amici brief detailing the “abysmal history” of racism confronting Mexican Americans in California and the Southwest. The coalition—which also included the G.I. Forum, the League of United Latin American Citizens, the National Council of La Raza, and a coalition of MEChA members from Los Angeles colleges—historicized Mexican Americans as subjects of the “officially sanctioned policy of genocide” against indigenous Californians upon Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 342 the advent of U.S. statehood in 1848. While the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo had enshrined former Mexican nationals as white, the brief contended that public schools had long found “legal justification” to segregate Mexican American students. Despite the specificity of territorial dispossession and racialization that had sutured Mexican American racial identity, however, the brief nonetheless offered that the “story told here” was both applicable to other nonwhite Californians and people of color writ large, given the “sadly similar….state sanctioned discrimination” against nonwhite groups. 117 That is, the situated legacy of racial exclusions from the regional welfare state offered common ground between professionals, lawyers, academics, and activists of color in California. Chicano/a leftists, for instance, placed Bakke within a radical counterhistory in which preexisting affirmative action initiatives were spoils of war in a struggle for racial self-determination. “The Mexican community as workers and as members of the society contribute to the wealth that supports public institutions,” Juan Gomez-Quiñones wrote in El Mirlo Canta, a benefit to the commonwealth that far outweighed the presence of Mexican Americans at the UCs. In turn, higher education was “a right and not a privilege” whose equitable access was a necessary corrective to the historical and contemporary dimensions of racial hierarchy in U.S. labor markets “The debt is due now,” Gomez-Quiñones proclaimed, calling for a response to Bakke in which the “higher education system, the courts, and individual campuses” were targets for protest. “Denying a people education” was thus “an element in continuing domination,” which made collegiate access “an aspect of resistance.” 118 Centro de Acción Social Autónomo (CASA), a Chicano/a socialist organization based in Los Angeles, similarly argued in its newspaper Sin Fronteras that for “Mexican people” and “all oppressed peoples in the U.S.,” the advent of special admissions programs like that of UC Davis’ Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 343 medical school “was a victory of the masses…won with sacrifice, blood, imprisonment, and discrimination.” CASA apprehended education as a necessary component of the “struggle of peoples for liberation,” as it could furnish both the “intellectual skills necessary for the correct interpretation of our reality” and the praxis for enacting revolution. While championing the “development of intellectuals who will align themselves with the forces of progress,” CASA’s Marxist cadre fittingly called for the autonomous mobilization of Mexican workers “who produce the social wealth which builds and maintains the educational system” as the essential foundation of “true democracy.” 119 Chicano/a activists’ rhetorical sovereignty over University special admissions programs betrayed a dyad of contradictions between radical analyses of institutional power and the extant structure of the University. Laying claim to the genesis of affirmative action—a host of administratively sanctioned endeavors like the Educational Opportunity Programs—flattened the University’s matrix of liberal programming efforts into a monolith of power, and elided over the multiplex relations of negotiation and collaboration that conditioned the development of ethnic studies and affirmative action programs (see Chapters 3 & 4). The student Third World Coalition at UC Berkeley, for instance, called for a demonstration against Bakke by reinscribing the 1969 campus strike as a triumphant blow against a “violent University opposition,” forming a narrative by which the University’s special admissions programs had to be collectively defended from conquest. 120 Secondly and relatedly, progressive Chicano/a critiques of Bakke frequently vacillated between apprehending collegiate institutions as vehicles of oppression and salvation. That is, activists could simultaneously demand access to the University while challenging American academia as a tool of capitalist indoctrination. “In the U.S.,” posited CASA in Sin Fronteras, Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 344 “education, like the press, radio, [and] t.v., is used to propagate the ideas that justify exploitation in general and in particular…the racist exploitation of the non-white peoples at the hands of the oppressor nation.” According to CASA, the appellation of “disadvantaged” was a prime example of this racist social reproduction: educational institutions furthered the “oppressed conditions of the victims” by promulgating the idea that disadvantage was the result of personal or cultural deficiency. 121 By envisioning affirmative action programs as insurgent incursions against this racist institutionality—seizing the means of knowledge production, so to speak—Chicano/a activists could thus fashion self-determination out of inherently piecemeal, partial bestowals of resources and authority. This was a political modality that blurred the lines between educational autonomy and willing representation within preexisting institutional norms: a contradiction that had permeated Chicano/a academic politics since (at least) El Plan de Santa Barbara. Just as the Bakke case itself indexed a wider “reactionary trend in the United States,” per Gomez-Quiñones, the organized responses to the case likewise surveyed the broader discourses of racial justice, democracy, and revolutionary ideology within the U.S. left. Such was evident in the two major activist coalitions formed in the wake of the California Supreme Court decision. The larger of the two, the National Committee to Overturn the Bakke Decision (NCOBD), was founded by radical activists of color who championed a “united front” strategy of movement building that would bring together racial justice advocates with labor organizers, student activists, and community and religious groups. “While the University ‘lost’ the case” in the California Supreme Court, read a 1977 NCOBD brochure, “the real losers are minority students and workers” who would suffer should “the idea of ‘reverse discrimination’…become the law of the land.” 122 The NCOBD sponsored a series of local demonstrations across the U.S. in April Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 345 1978, including a march in Washington, D.C. that attracted somewhere between ten and fifty thousand protesters. 123 The California-based Anti-Bakke Decision Coaliton (ABDC), in turn, formed out of a coalition between an Asian American and a Chicano Marxist organization, the I Wor Kuen and the August Twenty-ninth Movement. The ABDC reiteratively challenged the NCOBD with eschewing radicalism for reform, while the latter charged the former with the “ultraleftist” obsession with revolutionary party-building. This strife stemmed in part from ongoing tensions between the radical organizations that had established these groups, including ideological and interethnic rifts within the Asian American left: the Bakke case coincided with conflicts between the Chinese American and Filipino socialists that respectively coordinated the ABDC and NCOBD. 124 The competing responses of these multiracial coalitions, in other words, bespoke how the court case necessarily evoked larger ideological and organizational questions about the interrelated futures of white supremacy and capitalism. Activists’ and administrators’ divergent appraisals of affirmative action would inevitably produce disparate reactions to the U.S. Supreme Court’s split decision on Bakke on June 28, 1978. Inasmuch as the decision had partially reversed the lower court’s ruling against the unconstitutionality of race-conscious recruitment, the University would claim itself the winner in spite of the Supreme Court’s invalidation of UC Davis’ particular admissions protocols. Following the decision, Donald Reidhaar cautioned UC administrators that recruitment goals and timetables hewing to any numerical figures were potentially suspect because of the court’s own loose interpretation of racial quotas. Nevertheless, David Saxon would publicly declare victory “for minorities, for social justice, and for higher education” given that the University could maintain most of its affirmative action apparatus. 125 Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 346 Californians of color offered more apprehensive responses. In the fall of 1978, the Anti- Bakke Decision Coalition sponsored demonstrations at UC Davis coincident with Allan Bakke’s matriculation, going so far as to picket Bakke himself. Later in the term, students at UCLA staged a sit-in and hunger strike in the campus law school building to protest the University’s defanged promotion of “diversity for diversity’s sake,” which they saw as the outcome of the Supreme Court’s sanitized justification for academic affirmative action. “We are not here to diversify anybody’s experiences,” a member of the Chicano Law Students Association asserted to the Los Angeles Times. 126 At the end of the calendar year, UCLA Vice Chancellor Charles Z. Wilson conveyed to Chancellor Young the palpable mistrust on the part of nonwhite students with whom he had in the wake of the Bakke case. Students of color, offered Wilson, largely dismissed the University’s community relations programs as “‘nickel and dime’ commitments…designed to buy social consciousness for UCLA.” The perception that the Young administration was only superficially committed to its racial equality initiatives had further politicized the discourse over minority admissions, as student activists foresaw the need to “recruit students…to fight for more special action efforts.” Furthermore, increased attrition rates among nonwhite students sparked concerns of their own professors’ “non-caring attitude,” as well as the prospect that higher dropout rates among minority students could spark “more Bakke-type suits” against the UCs. 127 The directors of UCLA’s four ethnic studies centers issued a joint letter to Chancellor Young similarly warning that Bakke offered the legal and social precedent to further dismantle racial equality initiatives in higher education, and as such the “principle” of affirmative action “has indeed been jeopardized.” The directors warned that Bakke would produce hollow affirmative action policies impuissant to regulate the institutions that were apt to practice racial Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 347 discrimination absent state intervention. Without the aid of quantifiable objectives, the decision “relies basically on the good intentions of administrators and admissions offices” who “rarely selected minority people before the federal government began to intervene.” 128 In addition, Bakke constituted a political threat to racial equity insofar as it would further politicize white people against the mandates of antiracist nondiscrimination policy. Gomez-Quiñones had earlier warned that the state Supreme Court’s decision had “insinuate[d] to white students that minority rights can be granted only at their expense.” That is, irrespective of the justices’ precise opinions, the case would offer political capital to a mode of white racial identity outwardly hostile to the civil rights appendages of the welfare state. 129 To UC officials, conversely, the greater threat of Bakke was the public perception that the University was uncommitted to its nonwhite constituencies, rather than any actual decline in students of color. The Committee on Educational Policy reported in early 1980 that Bakke “appears to have had little effect” on enrollment, but did compel the University to “preserve the momentum of more than a decade” of prior efforts in student affirmative action. 130 While the plateauing rates of Chicano/a and Black enrollment over the 1970s had been an earlier cause for concern, in the aftermath of Bakke the very cause of minority student recruitment was cause for institutional self-recognition. Not unlike the Urban Crisis Program a decade prior, Bakke served as a pivot for institutional narratives of crisis that would further justify extant planning efforts. While Bakke had negated the usage of precise numerical goals for racial representation in hiring and admissions, administrators could advance the “long-range goal” of proportional parity with the state population, inasmuch as such targets were shifting figures contingent upon social forces beyond the University’s own control. At the decade’s end, the UC’s student affirmative action plans for the 1980s noted the “long-range goal” for the student body to “mirror the State Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 348 population by ethnic identity and sex composition,” while hewing the University to the more immediate objectives for each tier of collegiate education to reflect the graduation rates from the level prior. That is, “graduate and professional admissions” should emulate the racial and gender composition of California’s college graduates; while the University’s undergraduates should follow the “ethnic representation among high school graduates.” 131 While such plans were homologous to the state legislature’s previous calls for proportional representation at the UCs, the absence of a timeframe for such enrollment targets meant that the University would cede to the pace of demographic and market growth. Ultimately, the onus was on student development prior to reaching college age. Indeed, University affirmative action plans did state as a guiding objective the “equalization of opportunities for those who have, historically, faced serious disadvantages in our society,” but such factors were subordinate to the structural principle of academic excellence. Inasmuch as the “selection of a diversified student body” was an institutional commitment, the University could fashion such goals as necessary for the maintenance of its own educational fidelity. “Only a heterogeneous student body,” posited the 1979 plan for graduate and professional student affirmative action, “can produce the many kinds of skills, talents, and knowledge necessary to serve the total of society in a particular field or profession.” 132 In other words, the University had come full circle from the Kerr adminstration’s slogan of “University and Diversity” in the early 1960s, by which diversity signaled the multiversity’s multiplicity of form and function, or perhaps the divisions of labor within the modern capitalist economy. By these regards, racial inequality was far less an outcome of systemic exclusion than an administrative hurdle for the University to solve in an otherwise antiracist society. Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 349 One of the commonplace defenses of race-conscious affirmative action initiatives has been the notion that they serve as a means towards a colorblind future—where, in the words of University counsel Donald Reidhaar, “[r]ace will become irrelevant” as a matter of legal and institutional concern. Certainly, such arguments could counter charges that the United States had already achieved a state of racial equality to justify legal colorblindness in the present. 133 Nevertheless, the University’s own operations in the wake of Bakke would betray any such internal consensus that a colorblind California was foreseeable in the years to follow. In his own public comments, David Saxon continued to stress the need to persuade Californians of color of the institution’s commitment to affirmative action. Yet his administration had failed to capture the anxiety among some of the University’s nonwhite scholars: that the court decision signaled not a victory for institutional programming, but a harbinger of a looming social crisis. For Californians of color, the promise of a racially egalitarian future was substantially threatened by the ramifications of an antibrown present. For one, the University’s state population projections portended the realization of a white minority in California as soon as the year 1990. Even before the federal Bakke decision, Saxon invoked the impending transition of California into “this nation’s first ‘third world’ state” in order to refute the idea that racial disparity and access was “a limited or shortterm problem.” 134 UCLA’s demographic and enrollment projections further suggested that the state’s peoples of color were on the whole younger than white Californians—an impending majority-minority society manifested in a substantial racial generation gap. 135 The University would thus witness an incoming demographic shift in the composition of college-age youth. In this context, the formalization of population parity standards meant that University affirmative action efforts were far less affirmative than confirmative—that is, less an effort to produce a particular distribution Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 350 of employment or recruitment than a recognition of an incoming demographic shift that the University would eventually absorb. The Saxon administration’s call for a proportional parity system across the state also required that the University compensate for the state’s highly asymmetrical distribution of its nonwhite communities and students. As such, Saxon mandated that the UCs would have to abandon the practice of regional student recruitment for a coordinated statewide system of admissions and entry. 136 Consequently, University administrators seized upon the “strategic importance of the Los Angeles Basin to the recruitment pool for all campuses,” as the metropolis’ substantial nonwhite populace could ostensibly supply the student applicants for a systemwide balance of student demography. 137 The decision decoupled the institutional principle of racial representation from the forces of regional population development—a critical turn towards the future of University admissions practices in which the constitution of the campus could become detached from the racial and class dynamics of the metropolitan area in its midst. Indeed, the University’s own arguments in Bakke affirmed the likelihood of a de facto segregated state, even while defending affirmative action policies as constitutive of a colorblind society in the future. By justifying the special admissions procedures at the Davis School of Medicine as a concerted effort to increase the state’s supply of Black and Mexican American doctors, the UC’s counsel had largely conceded the likelihood that community development was beholden to the ongoing state of residential segregation. As such, the efficacy of University affirmative action policies would require substantiating race as a fundamental mode of differentiation for statecraft and institutional management—if not the distribution of space in postwar California itself. Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 351 For instance, University administrators were aware that the state’s efforts to desegregate school districts through intra-city busing programs had largely failed by the late 1970s. In a 1980 missive to Charles Young, Winston Doby (by then a UCLA Vice Chancellor) relayed the critical need for “outside pressure and intervention” in “segregated minority schools” given the ongoing concentration of the state’s Black and Latino students for the foreseeable future. Per Doby, desegregation busing was “becoming increasingly unacceptable, politically, to the minority community” who feared the “‘brain drain’ from their communities.” 138 Community activists of color were indeed among those who helped pass Proposition 1, a California ballot measure absolving school districts from mandatory desegregation busing orders, by a whopping thirty- seven percentage points in 1979. Nevertheless, the widespread resistance to busing practices centrally implicated middle-class white families, who responded to the mandate of educational desegregation through a host of strategies. In the 1960s and 1970s the integration of the Los Angeles Unified School District would spur the “white flight” of families with school-age children out of the district and/or into private schools. 139 The suburban homeowner politics behind Proposition 1 had, in the year prior, also labored to divest taxpaying property owners from helping to subsidize a racially diversifying citizenry. The same year as the Bakke decision, California voters would pass Proposition 13, a comprehensive cap on the increase in property tax rates. Prop 13 was the province of suburban homeowners and community associations seeking to cut taxes as a cap on growth in a period of stagflation. However, its passage would exacerbate the state funding for public schools, retrenching the state’s extant educational disparities along the lines of racial and class segregation. 140 The machinations of the state’s electorate—which had continually voted down bond measures for college building construction since 1968—would thus confound the Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 352 University’s affirmative action plans to produce a more heterogeneous student body through proportional reflection of the state’s high school graduates. As Robert Self argues, it is necessary to view California’s suburban tax revolts and urban racial justice politics in the same framework. 141 The organized demands among people of color for an equitable distribution of state resources was inextricable from the efforts among California’s voters, who were older and whiter as a whole, to close the boundaries of the midcentury welfare state to those populations that had historically been denied its material benefits. This is to recognize, as Ira Katznelson argues, that “affirmative action” is itself a concept whose parameters have been constrained by the terms of debate—one that imagines people of color as potentially unworthy encroachers upon a commonwealth by failing to acknowledge the white racial enfranchisement upon which the New Deal state was itself built. 142 Arturo Madrid, an Associate Dean at the University of Minnesota, placed Bakke vs. Regents within the context of these political forces in his analysis of the U.S. Supreme Court decision for El Mirlo Canta. “Our push for educational improvement” and “economic, political, and social parity,” Madrid wrote, had emerged in “a very expansive moment in American history” in which the concurrence of “sustained growth in education” and racial justice movements engendered “modest beginnings” in higher educational equity for people of color. Yet the combination of “financial crisis, the change in majority demographic patterns, and the tax revolts of the 1970s” had signaled the end of an era and the imminent threat of retrenchment to prior disparities. “If the future of higher education is one of preoccupation to majority educators,” per Madrid, “to minority educators it is cause for profound pessimism. We can no longer take for granted our continued progress.” 143 Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 353 Coda In a June 1983 presentation to the UCLA Academic Council—the faculty heads of departments, divisions, and colleges—Asian American Studies Center Chairwoman Lucie Hirata Cheng warned that affirmative action had become “too narrowly defined” at the University. A focus on the calculus of admissions and the “mere numbers” of student data, argued Cheng, had supplanted the UC’s comprehensive obligation to its students of color in all corners of institutional life. The ongoing demographic shifts, moreover, meant that affirmative action would necessarily grow from its original goals to “bring a few minority bodies to university campuses” into a “concern for educating the majority of our youth.” Faculty “who have been accustomed to teaching a mostly-white, middle-class…student body will have to be sensitized to different learning styles” in order to be effective educators in increasingly heterogeneous classrooms. Yet Cheng foregrounded her speech by acknowledging that her programmatic prescriptions were hardly unprecedented, nor the first time she had to explain such ideas. “I am afraid that as I realize this as I speak, I may become more and more frustrated,” Cheng cautioned. “[I]t’s bad for my mental health.” 144 Under Cheng’s leadership, the Asian American Studies Center had garnered praise as an exemplary model for ethnic studies programming and scholarship. During their visits to campus in the mid-1970s, Ford Foundation officers reiteratively cited the AASC as the most stable of the four programs and the best in terms of student-faculty relations, crediting Cheng as a stabilizing force. 145 Yet Cheng, the first Asian American scholar and first woman hired as a ladder-rank professor in the sociology department, would later recall in an oral history interview the utter precariousness of program development throughout the 1970s. She recalled the hurdles of attempting to get Asian American Studies courses approved by committees of “all white men” Chapter 6 Professionalizing Race, Reversing Discrimination 354 who repudiated the idea that there was a “sufficient body of literature,” and that any course “having to do with community [or] women” was “just a no-no.” She was appointed to a University committee that was otherwise all white men, who subsequently implored her to make coffee and take notes at meetings. Her own career was potentially at stake, too: Malcolm Kerr, the esteemed scholar of Middle Eastern and Arab studies and UCLA’s Dean of Social Sciences in the mid 1970s, had warned Cheng that her own tenure case was at risk because of her leadership of the AASC. 146 Such was the life of navigating an institution in the throes of professionalizing race. Institutions are assemblages of mechanisms and forms and functions into which race might enter as a mode of human difference: as new areas of study, or academic units, or systemwide policies, or job titles, keynote speeches about affirmative action, the concept of affirmative action itself. Yet institutions are also hierarchical relationships of people. At the University of California, the middle-class professionals who populated the halls of governance were certainly no united front: many opposed the Reagan administration’s budget cutbacks, many committed to the practice of racial integration, some even in solidarity with struggles for justice. Yet many of those people of the institution would necessarily trace the regional geographies between campus and suburban home, daily subjects of the racialized spatial divides that mapped the political struggles over the lifeblood of the late twentieth century welfare state. In such an institution, within the networks of people and paper trails, we might find the changing same of affirmative action speeches, of an “ethnic diversity” of campus cuisine and dance troupes, of a well-regarded social scientist emerging from an academic meeting, “exhausted” and “visibly shaken,” weeping with her colleague under a tree in the courtyard “because you just felt so helpless and you don’t know what’s going to happen.” 147 Conclusion At the Crossroads of Past and Future 355 Conclusion: AT THE CROSSROADS OF PAST AND FUTURE In 1994, while reflecting on his theories of the multiversity from three decades past, Clark Kerr rescinded his previous disregard for the University’s ethnic studies and women’s studies programs, which the former UC President characterized as a hybrid of “internal” and “external reform efforts.” While such interdisciplinary studies of social difference “have few vocational or professional uses,” posited Kerr, the programs had ostensibly flourished after “budgets and faculty positions followed closely” the enthusiastic enrollment of students. 1 However, Kerr’s idyllic recollection of ethnic studies as an affirmation of laissez-faire student preference ran counter to ethnic studies scholars and advocates’ ongoing struggle for intellectual and institutional legitimacy, which episodically spilled over into the area of mass mobilization. The year prior, student and community activists staged a hunger strike and series of protests at UCLA, in pursuit of a Chicano Studies Department. In 1999, students at UC Berkeley followed suit, resurrecting the Third World Liberation Front moniker to protest administrative rollbacks from the Department of Ethnic Studies. 2 Nor were hunger strikes a tactic reserved for students on UC campuses, or within California: over the course of the decade Stanford, Northwestern, Columbia, Sarah Lawrence College, the University of Colorado Boulder, and the University of Hawaii at Manoa were among the campuses that hosted public fastings in pursuit of ethnic studies programs, curricular reforms, and improved resources for nonwhite and historically marginalized students. 3 The Motley Tower has explored how the infrastructural and ideological innovations that were inaugurated, refined, and disputed in California higher education radiated outwards to Conclusion At the Crossroads of Past and Future 356 inflect the national organization of academia. Functional, physical, and fiscal logistics inhered in the Master Plan became the modus operandi of state governments; but California also helped to erect an institutional framework for the apprehension and management of racial difference beyond the commonplace referent of Blackness as the unitary contradiction of U.S. racial democracy. As with both the suburban tax revolt and Allan Bakke’s lawsuit against a program with specific and regionalized concerns about interfacing with a growing Latino/a constituency, California’s refractions of conservative backlash would have national ramifications as well. As Christopher Newfield argues, the “culture wars” over the multiculturalization of liberal arts and the Western canon formed the public face of an economic project to disenfranchise the academic pursuit of “cultural” knowledges that were tangential to the mandates of capital. 4 If the late 1960s were a formative space of potential for students and scholars of color to imagine new solidarities and sovereignties in the critique of power, so was it the training ground for a former actor turned statesman to formulate a strategy and technique of divestment from the midcentury welfare state. In his rise to the White House, Ronald Reagan would bring with him members of his Sacramento brain trust to enact austerity measures, declare culture wars, and embrace the Monroe Doctrine. Edwin Meese III, who as Governor Reagan’s Chief of Staff had opted to deploy police forces against UC Berkeley protestors in the late 1960s, would serve as an advisor and briefly the Attorney General in the White House. In the mid-1980s, he would seek to dismantle antidiscrimination measures as “preferential” against white people, arguing as well that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. would have opposed affirmative action as incompatible with his “colorblind” philosophy. Reagan’s state director of finance in the late 1960s, Caspar Weinberger, held the University’s Urban Crisis Program budget in abeyance, as we have seen—although Conclusion At the Crossroads of Past and Future 357 Weinberger is known far more for his stint as the Secretary of Defense and one of the primary architects of the Iran-Contra affair. 5 The illicit circuits of Cold Warfare would leave the indelible imprints of Reagan’s federalization back on California, as the state funding of counterrevolutionary attacks on democratic sovereignties in Central America stoked the civil wars from which many people would flee to the United States. Those who arrived in Los Angeles in the late 1980s and early 1990s would build new community in the working-class basins of South, East, and Central L.A.—where the Contras’ cocaine trails had already landed. 6 In Southern California, global recession in the 1970s had accelerated the pace of broad economic restructuring, the deindustrializing ebb of a regional manufacturing base that had been the primary engine of wartime and early postwar growth. The reciprocal expansion of the regional service sector signaled the stakes of educational and professional mobility amidst the growing bifurcation of labor markets into professional technocracy (“FIRE”—finance, insurance, real estate—e.g.) or low-wage and piecemeal service labor. The deregulatory drip of Reaganomics had abetted the mass proliferation of an employed nonwhite working class in Los Angeles held in abeyance by corporate cultures of povertymaking. Contra white fantasies of the inner-city underclass that had helped to fuel the mass suburbanization of decades past, the daily injustices of working poverty would coalesce with anger over the violence of the police state as South Los Angeles reignited in the closing days of April 1992. Furthermore, the 1973 mayoral election of Thomas J. Bradley had ushered in the multiracial incorporation of personnel into a city government that had its own hand in the exacerbation of asymmetrical regional development through the courting of multinational capital. 7 Conclusion At the Crossroads of Past and Future 358 The electoral climate in California, especially in the aftermath of the Los Angeles civil unrest, would affirm what the political reaction to 1965 had evinced a generation prior: white suburbanites in California would reject the welfare state as a multiracial state, in which public higher education loomed large as a terrain for divestment. In the first decade of a majority- nonwhite California, voters passed ballot measures to disallow public services to undocumented immigrants (Proposition 187, 1994) eliminate affirmative action in state public institutions (Proposition 209, 1996), and discontinue multilingual education in public K-12 schools. Moreover, the decrescendo in funding capital construction for public higher education in the 1970s coincided with the surge in voter-approved public prison construction through the 1980s and 1990s. 8 The advent of a Third World California thus witnessed the effects of a decade-long defanging of the sorts of liberal institutionality that had made possible the University’s Urban Crisis response thirty years before. In this context, it is unsurprising that in the late 20 th century two competing, albeit coexistent, narratives of ethnic studies program development could coalesce. In one—as with Kerr’s assertion, the crossroads of “great transformation” in the 1960s and 1970s had reoriented the University of California and other public academies to cohere multiracial difference as a central organizing principle of academic governance, in which ethnic studies as an interdiscipline had weathered the storms of culture warfare to grow, however precariously, as legitimate academic programs, fields, and discourses. On the other hand, that very precariousness demarcated both the economic state of affairs and the political disapprobation of racial justice that demanded organized dissent against the tides of disinvestment. In this milieu, the earlier histories of student coalition-building, direct action, and freedom dreaming could sustain the critical capacities for students to challenge the prerogatives of neoliberal academia. Conclusion At the Crossroads of Past and Future 359 By these measures, I grapple with the political and ethical ramifications of furnishing this extended critique of the University of California and the normative pretenses of student activism from a bygone era. For instance, the advent of ethnic studies graduation requirements in both the San Francisco and Los Angeles Unified School Districts might raise questions as to the pedagogical translations of concepts like white supremacy in the regulatory arms of the state. Meanwhile, the College of Ethnic Studies at San Francisco State University, the only “Third World” college to emerge out of the wave of ethnic studies programming, faces severe budget cuts. 9 How do we level these critiques in a political landscape where we might earnestly consider the defense of ethnic studies programs, even in an imperfect idiom, as a victory? Perhaps it is unsurprising that, at the time of writing, the demographic constitution of the American populace has been cemented as a major, if not the major pivot around electoral contestations over civil liberties, the role of the federal state, and national identity, history, and memory. Social scientists of demography and inequality like Manuel Pastor have argued that the demographic shifts in California in the late 20 th century might offer clues to the emergent national political discourses over racial equity and national belonging as the United States as a whole progresses towards a majority-nonwhite polity. 10 The coalescence of Donald Trump’s presidential campaign and its adherents epitomize a vehement repudiation of the “official antiracisms” that Jodi Melamed argues have become hegemonic social orders since World War II. Bombastic calls to deport over twelve million undocumented immigrants from the U.S. en masse, or to construct a wall running the entire length of the U.S.-Mexico border, or to forcibly regulate the migratory pathways of all Muslims to the U.S, recall such efforts in 1990s California to mobilize white voters across the socioeconomic spectrum against the regional welfare state Conclusion At the Crossroads of Past and Future 360 and the putative threats of resource distribution to such “unqualified” people like unsanctioned migrants or beneficiaries of affirmative action programs. Of course, these latest reverberations of white supremacy in the electoral sphere are far from novel—whether the appeals to immigrant scapegoating, or incitations of mob violence, or the public resurgence of noted figures like David Duke. Yet, as Daniel HoSang argues, it is insufficient to characterize such expressions of white identity politics as a “backlash” against civil rights, multicultural, or liberal antiracist politics: for the politics of whiteness are no less contingent or shifting as are articulations of nonwhite racial difference. 11 We must acknowledge how these emergent affirmations of white supremacy index contemporary ideas about race, nation, and the state even as their adherents invoke a tradition of the (white) American past. That is, Trump’s slogan of “Make America Great Again” is a twenty-first century phenomenon just as much as it appeals to a tradition of racial hierarchy: that is, one made possible anew through the putative threats to extant hierarchies posed by figures like Barack Obama, however enduring the state of structural racism across many realms of social, political, and economic life. Even if anti-Latino or anti-Muslim politics have deep historical legacies in the United States, contemporary conservatisms necessarily reconfigure ideas about citizenship and criminality into new social and political imaginaries—e.g., raising the notion that agents of ISIS or other Islamist groups might flood the U.S. from Mexico. 12 Indeed, the post-9/11 racializations of Muslim, Arab, and South Asian Americans and immigrants as terrorists bespeak the shifting grounds on which white supremacist politics can rearticulate the parameters of nonwhite racial difference, and project novel hierarchies of racial order and national belonging. Conversely, the Democratic Party in 2016 has staged debate over both the contemporary welfare state, and the position of racial justice politics within a party increasingly beholden to a Conclusion At the Crossroads of Past and Future 361 multiracial constituency. For all of the rhetoric of “political revolution” in the primary challenge of Bernie Sanders, the Vermont Senator’s campaign hinged on a model of the federal welfare state reminiscent of New Deal and Great Society-era programs—a different kind of appeal to an American prosperity of yesteryear, albeit one secured through a robust federal social services apparatus. Notably, Sanders’ call for tuition-free public college for all students—which Hillary Clinton has herself supported for students from families earning less than $125,000 yearly— would mirror the state of financial affairs in California public higher education during the passage of the Master Plan a half-century prior. 13 Yet such calls for more expansive public subsidy in education, healthcare, social security, and the like must necessarily address the state of racial inequity that the New Deal Democrats of the mid-twentieth century elided over, if not directly abetted through programs routinely denied to people of color. That is, putatively “universal” social service programs need to heed the particularity of racism as an assemblage of structural and social forces that are co-indicated with, albeit nonequivalent to, those that reproduce class inequality. Indeed, the overwhelming alignment of voters of color with the Democratic Party—itself a phenomenon with roots in the Party’s midcentury support for some civil rights causes and policies—marks one terrain upon which people, organizations, and movements of color have maneuvered to access, protect, and/or expand the modern welfare state. At the same time, the Democratic Party as an institution has continued to operate in dissensus with grassroots movements like Black Lives Matter, whose organizational tactics and radical imaginaries might incorporate—yet oftentimes exceed—the realms of electoral politics, policymaking, and/or partisan institution-building. Of course, presidential elections index much wider ideological and cultural conflicts; as such, we should expect institutions of higher education to continue to constitute a constellation Conclusion At the Crossroads of Past and Future 362 of campus stages for similar conflicts over racial equality and diversity initiatives. In just this past week, Washington, D.C.’s Georgetown University announced a series of amends for its sale of two hundred and seventy-two slaves in 1838: including preferential admissions to any descendants of slaves from whose labor the University had exploited; an slavery studies institute; and a public memorial to the slaves themselves. Meanwhile, the University of Chicago’s dean of students recently mailed a letter to all incoming first-year undergraduates repudiating the presence of campus “safe spaces” for historically marginalized students and sexual violence trigger warnings on class syllabi, denigrating such programming as an affront to the principle of academic freedom. A few months prior, in June 2016, the U.S. Supreme Court upheld race- conscious admissions policies at the University of Texas, ruling against two white female plaintiffs who had charged that their denial of admission was an act of anti-white discrimination. 14 It is nigh impossible to espy any single vector by which higher education might address the contemporary resonances of historical and past oppression, if not also the organized challenges to such efforts from both within and beyond the walls of the institution. The Motley Tower has historicized both the failures and the limits of the liberal academy to remediate the very structural dispossessions to which the institution’s own growth was inherently tethered. However, I do not want to marginalize how the University of California was nonetheless a staging ground for critical potentiality of academic desegregation, which the telos of the 1980s and beyond threatens to obscure. The advent of a “majority-minority” United States in the decades to come—while not quite the “Third World” proscribed by the student decolonizers of decades past—is certain to bring forth not only conflicts over the composition of the commonwealth and national identity, but possibilities anew to push against the institutional modalities of representation and diversity: not in some fanciful plan to seize the means of Conclusion At the Crossroads of Past and Future 363 multicultural knowledge production, but to embrace the unlikelihood that institutions of higher education, especially those nominally public, will cease to be training and meeting grounds for critical thinkers to interrupt the regular cycles of planning and crisis with their own plans for, and imaginations of, justice. September 1, 2016 Notes 364 NOTES ARCHIVAL ABBREVIATIONS AS/UCLA Administrative files of the Executive Office of the Academic Senate, Los Angeles Division, UCLA University Archives CAAS/UCLA Center for African American Studies program files, UCLA Department of Special Collections CHAN/UCB Records of the Office of the Chancellor, Bancroft Library, UC Berkeley CEY/UCLA Administrative files of Chancellor Charles E. Young. UCLA University Archives CSPR/UCB Chicano Studies Program Records, Ethnic Studies Library, UC Berkeley EQ/STAN Eduardo Quevedo Papers, Special Collections, Stanford University FC/JARP Frank Chuman Papers, Japanese American Research Project, UCLA Department of Special Collections FDM/UCLA Administrative files of Chancellor Franklin D. Murphy, UCLA University Archives FORD/RAC Ford Foundation project files, Rockefeller Archive Center GD/UCLA Administrative files of the Dean of the Graduate Division, UCLA University Archives GSM/UCLA Anderson Graduate School of Management Reports, UCLA Department of Special Collections HML/UCB Him Mark Lai Papers, Ethnic Studies Library, UC Berkeley JARP/UCLA Japanese American Research Project, UCLA Department of Special Collections Notes 365 JGM/JARP Joe Grant Masaoka Papers, Japanese American Research Project. UCLA Department of Special Collections JM/CSRC Joan Moore Papers, UCLA Chicano Studies Research Center JN/CSRC Julian Nava Papers, UCLA Chicano Studies Research Center MR/STAN Manuel Ruiz Papers, Special Collections, Stanford University PIO/UCLA Public Information Office, Administrative Files of Chandler Harris, 1965-1987, UCLA University Archives SAC/UCLA UCLA Students, Student Activism materials, 1927-2014, UCLA University Archives SLAM/UCLA Steve Louie Asian American Movement Collection, UCLA Department of Special Collections SUBJ/UCLA Subject Files, UCLA University Archives RF/RAC Nelson A. Rockefeller papers, Projects, Series L, Rockefeller Archive Center TJB/UCLA Mayor Tom Bradley Administration Papers, UCLA Department of Special Collections TSM/UCLA T. Scott Miyakawa Papers, UCLA Department of Special Collections UCPP/UCB University of California Office of the President Records: Permanent Files, 1952-1975, Bancroft Library, UC Berkeley UCPR/UCB University of California Office of the President Records: Routine Files, 1968-1975, Bancroft Library, UC Berkeley YI/UCLA Yuji Ichioka Papers, UCLA Department of Special Collections Notes 366 INTRODUCTION 1 Martin Luther King, Jr., Speech delivered at UCLA, April 27, 1965. Audio transcribed from YouTube, “Martin Luther King, Jr. at UCLA, 4/27/1965,” <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ny6qP0rb_Ag>; “200 Selma Negroes Lose Jobs, Dr. King Charges,” Los Angeles Times, April 28, 1965 2 Martin Luther King, Jr., Speech delivered at UCLA, April 27, 1965. Nikhil Pal Singh, Black is a Country: Race and the Unfinished Struggle for Democracy (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2004) 3 Franklin D. Murphy, “Inaugural Address,” September 23,1960. Transcript of speech by UCLA Office of Public Information, 6, 8, 10. Box 107, “Speeches, Statements, and Articles by the Chancellor, 1960” Folder, FDM/UCLA; Franklin D. Murphy, Introductory comments for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., April 27, 1965. Audio transcribed from YouTube, “Martin Luther King, Jr. at UCLA, 4/27/1965,” <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ny6qP0rb_Ag> 4 “Lost MLK Speech Uncovered at UCLA,” Canyon News (website), January 20, 2015. << http://www.canyon-news.com/lost-mlk-speech-uncovered-ucla/14793>> 5 Clark Kerr, “Civil Rights and the University,” Speech delivered at UCLA, April 2, 1965. Reprinted in: University Bulletin 13, No. 33 (April 26, 1965), 211-212 6 Clark Kerr, The Great Transformation in Higher Education, 1960-1980 (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1991), xii-xiii. See also: Clark Kerr, The Uses of the University, 5 th ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001); Cristina Gonzáles, Clark Kerr’s University of California: Leadership, Diversity, and Planning in Higher Education (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Partners, 2011); Wilson Smith and Thomas Bender, eds., American Higher Education Transformed, 1940-2005 (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008) 7 Michael Omi and Howard Winant, Racial Formation in the United States: From the 1960s to the 1990s, 2 nd ed. (London/New York: Routledge, 1994), 96-99 See, for instance: Yen Le Espiritu, Asian American Panethnicity: Bridging Institutions and Identities (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992); David G. Gutiérrez, Walls and Mirrors: Mexican Americans, Mexican Immigrants, and the Politics of Ethnicity (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995); Michael Liu, Kim Geron, and Tracy Lai, The Snake Dance of Asian American Activism: Community, Vision, and Power (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2008); Ian Haney López, Racism on Trial: The Chicano Fight for Justice. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003; Steve Louie and Glenn Omatsu, eds. Asian Americans: The Movement and the Moment (Los Angeles: UCLA Asian American Studies Center Press, 2001); Carlos Muñoz, Jr., Youth, Identity, Power: The Chicano Movement (London/New York: Verso, 1989); Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allen Warrior, Like A Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee. New York: The New Press, 1996; Gary Y. Okihiro, Margins and Mainstreams: Asians in American History and Culture (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1994); Singh, Black is a Country; Andrés Torres and José E. Velázquez, eds., The Puerto Rican Movement: Voices from the Diaspora (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998); Notes 367 Cynthia Young, Soul Power: Culture, Radicalism, and the Making of a U.S. Third World Left (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006) 8 John Aubrey Douglass, The California Idea and American Higher Education: 1850 to the 1960 Master Plan (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), John Aubrey Douglass, The Conditions for Admission: Access, Equity, and the Social Contract of Public Universities (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2007) 9 Daniel Martinez HoSang, Racial Propositions: Ballot Initiatives and the Making of Postwar California (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2011) 10 Christopher Newfield, Unmaking the Public University: The Forty-Year Assault on the Middle Class (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2011), 12 11 Murphy, “Inaugural Address,” 4-6; Margaret Leslie Davis, The Culture Broker: Franklin D. Murphy and the Transformation of Los Angeles (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007), 42-74; Marina Dundjerski, UCLA: The First Century (Los Angeles/London: Third Millennium Publishing, 2011), 141-154 12 Murphy, Inaugural Address, 7, 9. For more on land-grant universities, see: John R. Thelin, The History of American Higher Education (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 74- 109; Douglass, The California Idea, 26-44; 13 Kerr, The Great Transformation in Higher Education, xii-xiii; Christopher P. Loss, Between Citizens and the State: The Politics of American Higher Education in the 20 th Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012), 12 14 See: Michael B. Katz, The Price of Citizenship: Redefining the American Welfare State (New York: Metropolitan Books, 2001), Ira Katznelson and Margaret Weir, Schooling for All: Class, Race and the Decline of the Democratic Ideal (New York: Basic Books, 1988), Miriam Cohen, “Reconsidering Schools and the American Welfare State,” History of Education Quarterly 45:4 (Winter 2005), 511-537 As Katz cautions, the modern vernacular association of welfare with public assistance programs—a discursive outgrowth of conservative attacks on social welfare in the late twentieth century that sought to associate “welfare” with monetary handouts to single mothers and poor families of color—obscures the longstanding tradition of welfare in the American political imaginary as an inclusive term for public investment in the well-being of the polity. 15 Cohen, “Reconsidering Schools and the American Welfare State,” 513-514, 518-519 16 Loss, Between Citizens and the State, 4 17 Stuart Hall, et al. Policing the Crisis: Mugging, the State, and Law and Order (Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 1978), 212 18 Roderick A. Ferguson, The Reorder of Things: The University and Its Pedagogies of Minority Difference (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012), 9, 198 19 Ferguson, The Reorder of Things, 33 Notes 368 20 Jodi Melamed, Represent and Destroy: Rationalizing Violence in the New Racial Capitalism. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011), 95 21 For scholarship on antiracist student activism, see: Rodolfo Acuña, The Making of Chicana/o Studies: In the Trenches of Academe (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2011), Martha Biondi, The Black Revolution on Campus (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012), Mario T. García and Sal Castro, Blowout! Sal Castro and the Chicano Struggle for Educational Justice (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2011); Ibram H. Rogers, The Black Campus Movement: Black Students and the Racial Reconstruction of Higher Education, 1965-1972 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), Fabio Rojas, From Black Power to Black Studies: How a Radical Social Movement Became an Academic Discipline (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007); Jason Michael Ferreira, “All Power to the People: A Comparative History of Third World Radicalism in San Francisco, 1968-1974.” Ph.D. dissertation, University of California-Berkeley, 2003 22 Ferguson, The Reorder of Things, 114 23 Michael Soldatenko, Chicano Studies: The Emergence of a Discipline (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2009), 14-15 24 Mark Chiang, The Cultural Capital of Asian American Studies: Autonomy and Representation in the University (New York: NYU Press, 2009), 4-5. See also: Rodolfo Acuña, The Making of Chicana/o Studies: In the Trenches of Academe (New Brunswick (NJ): Rutgers University Press, 2011); Fabio Rojas, From Black Power to Black Studies 25 Bess M. Wilson, “Eastern Cities Acclaim ‘Panel of Americans’: Tour of Six U.C.L.A. Co-eds Representing Varied Creeds and Race Roots Lauded,” Los Angeles Times, March 2, 1947; “Students Probe Amity: 6 on UCLA Panel Unit Speak at Wilberforce,” Afro-American, April 26, 1947; “Member of American Panel Tells of Tour,” The Pittsburgh Courier, May 17, 1947, 8 26 Carey McWilliams, Southern California: An Island on the Land (Layton (UT): Gibbs Smith, 1973 [1946]), 165, 326 27 Nayan Shah, Stranger Intimacy: Contesting Race, Sexuality, and the Law in the North American West (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2011), 154 28 Tomás Almaguer, Racial Fault Lines: The Historical Origins of White Supremacy in California (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2009 [orig. 1994]), 7, 205 29 Almaguer, Racial Fault Lines, 205 Other scholars have stressed how state exclusions could interpellate multiple peoples of color in forming the social and legal codes of citizenship. For instance, as Mae Ngai demonstrates, the expansion of immigration policy and regulation between the 1920s and 1960s extended the parameters of what constituted illegal entry and thus helped to construct the “illegal alien” as a subject. This midcentury federal regime implicated both Latino and Asian migrants, whose incorporation into Southern California rested on mechanisms of labor and population control that Notes 369 could flexibly redraw the boundaries around these tenuous forms of inclusion in times of crisis. The massive waves of Mexican repatriation (including U.S. citizens) in the Depression Era and the incarceration of (citizen and noncitizen) Japanese American internees during World War II, Ngai posits, “reveal[s] the malleability of citizenship as a legal-status category and as a political- subject identity.” Mae M. Ngai, Impossible Subjects: Illegal Aliens and the Making of Modern America: Politics and Society in Twentieth-Century America (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2004), 172 30 Laura Pulido, Black, Brown, Yellow, and Left: Radical Activism in Los Angeles (Berkeley/Los Angeles, UC Press, 2006), 24-25 31 See: Ellen Wu, The Color of Success: Asian Americans and the Origins of the Model Minority (Princeton/Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2013) 32 Natalia Molina, How Race is Made in America: Immmigration, Citizenship, and the Historical Power of Racial Scripts (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2014), 3, 5, 12; HoSang, Racial Propositions, 4 33 For instance, Eiichiro Azuma and George Sanchez respectively demonstrate how Japanese Americans and Mexican Americans constructed said identities in the 1930s amongst themselves, as political and cultural subjects between two separate sovereignties. Azuma, who characterizes Japanese Americans as a “borderland minority,” argues that pre-World War II Japanese American subjectivity was the result of a complex set of transpacific relations in which migrants negotiated overlapping Japanese and U.S. national interpellations. The subjectivity of Zaibei Doho (Japanese in the U.S.) grew out of a sense of dual nonbelonging and estrangement as both an émigré from the Japanese empire and the “shared experience of being a racial Other in America.” Sanchez’s history of Mexican American identity formation in pre-WWII Los Angeles similarly notes how Mexican immigrant families operated in binational framework, while a distinctly “Mexican American” identity coalesced in the 1930s “within the context of a hostile, racist environment which sought to deny Mexican Americans a claim to being ‘Americans.’ Eiichiro Azuma, Between Two Empires: Race, History, and Transnationalism in Japanese America (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 37, 61, 215; George J. Sánchez, Becoming Mexican American: Ethnicity, Culture, and Identity in Chicano Los Angeles, 1900-1945 (New York: Oxford University Press, USA, 1993), 13 34 See, for instance: Luis Alvarez, The Power of the Zoot: Youth Culture and Resistance During World War II (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2008); Wendy Cheng, The Changs Next Door to the Díazes: Remapping Race in Suburban California (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013); Anthony Macías, Mexican American Mojo: Popular Music, Dance, and Urban Culture in Los Angeles, 1935-1968 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2008); Vijay Prashad, Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting: Afro-Asian Connections and the Myth of Cultural Purity (Boston: Beacon Press, 2001); Daniel Widener, Black Arts West: Culture and Struggle in Postwar Los Angeles (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010) 35 See, for instance: Shana Bernstein, Bridges of Reform: Interracial Civil Rights Activism in Notes 370 Twentieth-Century Los Angeles (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2011); Mark Brilliant, The Color of America Has Changed: How Racial Diversity Shaped Civil Rights Reform in California, 1941-1978 (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2010); Matthew Garcia, From the Jaws of Victory: The Triumph and Tragedy of Cesar Chavez and the Farm Worker Movement (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2014); Scott Kurashige, The Shifting Grounds of Race: Black and Japanese Americans in the Making of Multiethnic Los Angeles (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010); Leland Saito, Race and Politics: Asian Americans, Latinos, and Whites in a Los Angeles Suburb (Champaign (IL): University of Illinois Press, 1998); George Sánchez, "What's Good for Boyle Heights is Good for the Jews: Creating Multiculturalism on the Eastside during the 1950s." American Quarterly 56.3 (2004). 663-661; Robert O. Self, American Babylon: Race and the Struggle for Postwar Oakland (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003); Raphael Sonenshein, Politics in Black and White: Race and Power in Los Angeles (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994) 36 See, for instance: Joshua Bloom and Waldo E. Martin, Jr., Black Against Empire: The History and Politics of the Black Panther Party, (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2013); Ernesto Chávez, “Mi Raza Primero!” Nationalism, Identity, and Insurgency in the Chicano Movement in Los Angeles, 1966-1978 (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2002); Max Elbaum, Revolution in the Air: Sixties Radicals turn to Lenin, Mao and Che (New York: Verso, 2006 [2002]); Diane C. Fujino, Samurai Among Panthers: Richard Aoki on Race, Resistance, and a Paradoxical Life (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012); Robin D. G. Kelley, Freedom Dreams: The Black Radical Imagination (Boston: Beacon Press, 2002); Daryl Maeda, Chains of Babylon: The Rise of Asian America (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009); Laura Pulido, Black, Brown, Yellow, and Left 37 See: Brilliant, The Color of America Has Changed, 160-162, 258 38 HoSang, Racial Propositions, 20-22 39 See, for instance: Terry H. Anderson, The Pursuit of Fairness: A History of Affirmative Action (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004); John David Skrentny, The Ironies of Affirmative Action: Politics, Culture, and Justice in America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996) 40 Adrian Burgos, Jr., Playing America’s Game: Baseball, Latinos, and the Color Line (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007), 3 41 Ferguson, The Reorder of Things, 17 The commutation of racial justice into institutional forms of paperwork also reverberates with Denise Ferreira Da Silva’s admonition that the U.S. “Third World” movements of the 1960s and 1970s invoked liberation in “that ever-receding promised land of self-determination,” writing themselves into the structures and strictures of Western subjectivity and representation even as they proclaimed their freedom from the colonization of hearts and minds. See: Denise Ferreira Da Silva, Toward a Global Idea of Race (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2007), xxxii 42 Self, American Babylon, 330-332 Notes 371 43 See, for instance: Lisa McGirr, Suburban Warriors: The Origins of the New American Right (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001) 44 Ann Laura. Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010), 20, 33 45 Ruth Wilson Gilmore, Golden Gulag: Prisons, Surplus, Crisis, and Opposition in Globalizing California (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007), 174-175, 178-179; Janet Roitman, Anti-Crisis (Durham: Duke University Press, 2014), 4 46 Roitman, Anti-Crisis, 3-4 47 Murphy, “Inaugural Address,” 6; Franklin D. Murphy, “The State of the University,” Transcript of speech printed in: UCLA from the Chancellor’s Desk 10, No. 3 (July 1968), 4-5. “From the Chancellor’s Desk” Folder, University Subject Files, UCLA University Archives 48 Edward W. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places (Malden (MA): Wiley-Blackwell, 1996) 49 Thomas J. Sugrue, The Origins of the Urban Crisis: Race and Inequality in Postwar Detroit, Rev. ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005) See also: Henry L. Taylor, Jr. and Walter Hill, eds., Historical Roots of the Urban Crisis: African Americans in the Industrial City, 1900-1950 (New York/London: Routledge, 2013); Mike Davis, City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles (London & New York: Verso, 2006) CHAPTER 1 1 Charles J. Hitch, to the Regents of the University of California, “What We Must Do: The University and the Urban Crisis,” May 17, 1968, 12. Box 45, Folder 7, AS/UCLA; Gladwin Hill. “U. of California Proposes New Fight on Urban Crisis: President Hitch Asks 100 Other Schools in State to Join in Using Resources of Education on Cities’ Problems.” New York Times. May 18, 1968, 1 2 Roy Haynes, “UCLA Ceremony Installs Hitch as President of UC: He Calls for Coalition of Youth and Universities in Battling Nation’s Social Ills,” Los Angeles Times. May 24, 1968, 3 3 F. E. Balderston, “The University of California and the Urban Crisis: A Position Paper.” May 1, 1968, 1. Box 155, Folder 15, UCPP/UCB 4 Ruth Wilson Gilmore, Golden Gulag: Prisons, Surplus, Crisis, and Opposition in Globalizing California (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007). 24 5 Joshua Bloom and Waldo E. Martin, Jr., Black Against Empire: The History and Politics of the Black Panther Party, (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2013); Matthew Garcia, From the Jaws of Victory: The Triumph and Tragedy of Cesar Chavez and the Farm Worker Movement (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2014); Robert O. Self, American Babylon: Race and the Struggle for Postwar Oakland (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003) Notes 372 6 Gilmore, Golden Gulag, 26 7 See, for instance: Kenneth Jackson, Crabgrass Frontier: The Suburbanization of the United States (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987); Scott Kurashige, The Shifting Grounds of Race: Black and Japanese Americans in the Making of Multiethnic Los Angeles (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010); Douglas S. Massey and Nancy A. Denton, American Apartheid: Segregation and the Making of the Underclass (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993); Ta-Nehisi Coates, “The Case for Reparations,” The Atlantic, June 2014. Retrieved online on August 29, 2016. <<http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2014/06/the-case-for-reparations/361631/>> 8 Stuart Hall, et al. Policing the Crisis: Mugging, the State, and Law and Order (Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 1978), 333 9 Sugrue and Kurashige both make note of the phenomena common to many U.S. cities at this time—such as the so-called “race riots” that surged throughout dozens of cities in the industrial North and West in the mid-1960s—while noting the specific factors that produced the localized inflections of political and economic crisis in the 1960s. Kurashige’s history of Los Angeles, for instance, narrates local African American and Japanese American politics in the context of the region’s postwar globalization. The interlinked emergence of the “world city” and the “urban crisis,” he argues, illuminates the sorts of uneven development that exacerbated racial and class inequities in Southern California. Thomas J. Sugrue, The Origins of the Urban Crisis: Race and Inequality in Postwar Detroit, Rev. ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005); Kurashige, The Shifting Grounds of Race, 5-7 10 Janet Roitman, Anti-Crisis (Durham: Duke University Press, 2014), 3, 7, 12 11 California State Data Center. “Historical Census Populations of Counties and Incorporated Cities in California, 1850-2010.” Accessed from the California Department of Finance website. <<http://www.dof.ca.gov/research/demographic/state_census_data_center/historical_census_185 0-2010/view.php>>; Neil J. Smelser, “Growth, Structural Change, and Conflict in California Public Higher Education, 1950-1970.” In Public Higher Education in California, Neil J. Smelser and Gabriel Almond, Eds. (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974), 45, 49; John Aubrey Douglass, The California Idea and American Higher Education: 1850 to the 1960 Master Plan (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 350-352 12 California State Data Center, “Historical Census Populations” 13 Smelser, “Growth, Structural Change, and Conflict,” 45, 49 14 California State Data Center, “Historical Census Populations” 15 Douglass, The California Idea, 110-113 16 California State Data Center, “Historical Census Populations” 17 Kevin Starr, Golden Dreams: California in an Age of Abundance, 1950-1963 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), 240-244 Notes 373 18 Balderston, “The University of California and the Urban Crisis,” 9 19 Daniel Martinez HoSang, Racial Propositions: Ballot Initiatives and the Making of Postwar California (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2011), 90; Gilmore, Golden Gulag, 36. For more on Prop. 14, see: HoSang, Racial Propositions, pp. 53-90; Kurashige, The Shifting Grounds of Race, 260-267; Self, American Babylon, 167-169, 260-265 20 Christopher P. Loss, Between Citizens and the State: The Politics of Higher Education in the 20 th Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012), esp. 53-87 21 Douglass, The California Idea, 170-173; Gilmore, 34-37 22 Loss, Between Citizens and the State, 91-120; Ira Katznelson, When Affirmative Action Was White: An Untold History of Racial Inequality in Twentieth-Century America (New York: W.W. Norton & Co, 2005); John Aubrey Douglass, The Conditions for Admission: Access, Equity, and the Social Contract of Public Universities (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2007), 42 23 Douglass, The California Idea, 171-172, Smelser, 21-23 24 Douglass, The California Idea, 197 25 Smelser, 54-55; F.E. Balderston, “Financing California’s System of Postsecondary Education.” In Public Higher Education in California. Neil J. Smelser and Gabriel Almond, Eds. (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974), 154 26 Loss, 4-15, 155-160; Douglass, The California Idea, 246-247; “State Construction Program Bonds.” Summary of California Proposition 3, 1956. California Ballot Measures Database. UC Hastings Law Library website. <<http://repository.uchastings.edu/ca_ballot_props/569/>>; “State Construction Program Bonds.” Summary of California Proposition 3, 1958. California Ballot Measures Database. <<http://repository.uchastings.edu/ca_ballot_props/589/>> 27 Douglass, The California Idea, 248-250; Starr, Golden Dreams, 231-233 28 Douglass, The California Idea, 202 29 College administrators were hardly a united front amongst themselves. State college officials increasingly protested that the University of California’s effective monopoly on graduate degree programs and research in public higher education impeded their own institutions’ programmatic and economic vitality. UC administrators, meanwhile, were determined to preserve their privileged roles in these domains. Douglass, The California Idea, 201; Smelser, 66-74 30 Smelser, 15 31 Douglass, The California Idea, 259 32 James C. Scott, Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998), 87-93 Notes 374 33 Text of the 1929 California Planning Act quoted in: Edward M. Bassett, The Master Plan (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1938), 98-99; Scott, Seeing Like a State, 88, 103-114 34 Bassett, The Master Plan, 63-64, 142-143 35 Charles M. Haar, “The Master Plan: An Impermanent Constitution,” Law and Contemporary Problems 20, No. 3 (Summer 1955), 354-355 36 Haar, “The Master Plan,” 361, 365, 374 37 Greg Hise, Magnetic Los Angeles: Planning the Twentieth-Century Metropolis (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 4, 26, 33 38 Marina Dundjerski, UCLA: The First Century (Los Angeles/London: Third Millennium Publishing, 2011), 37-40; Greg Hise, “Border City: Race and Social Distance in Los Angeles,” American Quarterly 56, No. 3 (September 2004), 545-558 39 Home Owners Loan Corporation, Residential Security Map of central Los Angeles, 1939. 40 Scott, Seeing Like a State, 87 41 Jackson, Crabgrass Frontier 42 Henry M. Wriston et al., The Report of the President’s Commission on National Goals (New York: American Assembly, 1960), 26-27 43 Douglass, The California Idea, 297 44 Alexander W. Astin, “The Myth of Equal Access in Public Higher Education,” 1975, 1-6, 18. Box 4, Folder 5, AS/UCLA 45 “Builders and Pioneers of the Dream,” LIFE Magazine, October 19, 1962 (special issue), 96A 46 Clark Kerr, The Uses of the University, 5 th ed. (Cambridge (MA): Harvard University Press, 2001 (orig. 1963)), 1, 14-15, 66, 83; Smelser, 56, 69 47 Office of the President, Unity and Diversity: The Academic Plan of the University of California, 1965-1975, 53. Box 2, Folder 3, AS/UCLA See: Clark Kerr, “University and Diversity in the Statewide University of California,” inaugural speech as UC President, September 26, 1958, 11-12. Box 2, Folder 3, AS/UCLA 48 Campus Planning Committee and Office of Architects and Engineers. UCLA Long Range Development Plan, December 1963, 11. “Long Range Plans” folder, SUBJ/UCLA 49 Margaret Leslie Davis, The Culture Broker: Franklin D. Murphy and the Transformation of Los Angeles (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007), 42-74; Starr, pp. 248- 150; Eric Avila, The Folklore of the Freeway: Race and Revolt in the Modernist City (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014), 56 50 Correspondence from Andrew Hamilton (Manager, Office of Public Information) to Clark Kerr. November 11, 1958; “Westside, UCLA Debate Planning.” Daily Bruin. December 15, Notes 375 1958. Front page; Felicia Mahood. “Original Idea Almost Lost.” Westwood Hills Press. January 15, 1959. n.p. All files from: Box 109, “University-Community Relationships, 1958-1964” folder, FDM/UCLA 51 Correspondence from Franklin D. Murphy, to UCLA Vice Chancellor William G. Young. September 27, 1963; UC Office of the President, to Members of the Committee on Grounds and Buildings. Memo, “Re: Proposed Routing of Beverly Hills Freeway, Los Angeles.” November 12, 1963; UCLA Office of Public Information. “UC Regents, Kerr, Murphy Oppose Sunset Routes for Freeway.” Press release. November 18, 1963. All files from: Box 109, “University Cooperation with Government and Private Agencies, 1963-1967” folder, FDM/UCLA 52 Eric Avila, Popular Culture in the Age of White Flight: Fear and Fantasy in Suburban Los Angeles (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2006) 206-215; Robert Gottlieb, Reinventing Los Angeles: Nature and Community in the Global City (Cambridge (MA): The MIT Press, 2007), 195; Kurashige, 234-241 53 Cf., e.g., Long Range Development Plan, 13, 20 54 Correspondence from Franklin D. Murphy to E.A. Irwin. June 10, 1964. Box 109, “University Cooperation with Government and Private Agencies, 1963-1967” folder, FDM/UCLA 55 Davis, The Culture Broker, 90, 94; Marina Dundjerski, UCLA: The First Century (Los Angeles/London: Third Millennium Publishing, 2011), 158 56 Long Range Development Plan, 13 57 Peter Kamnitzer, “Urban Laboratory: A Proposed Project,” December 27,1966, 1-2. Box 173, Folder 1140, RF/RAC 58 UCLA School of Architecture and Urban Planning, “UCLA: An Urban Laboratory,” Pamphlet from proposal to the Rockefeller Foundation, est. June 1967, n.p. Box 173, Folder 1140, Nelson A. Rockefeller papers, Projects, Series L, RF/RAC 59 Correspondence from George A. Dudley, Dean of the School of Architecture and Urban Planning, to the Rockefeller Brothers Fund, June 15, 1967. Box 32, Folder 281, RF/RAC; UCLA School of Architecture and Urban Planning, “UCLA: An Urban Laboratory”; Kamnitzer, “Urban Laboratory” 60 UCLA School of Architecture and Urban Planning, “UCLA: An Urban Laboratory” 61 Nathan E. Cohen, “The Los Angeles Riot Study,” Social Work 12, No. 4 (October 1967), 14- 15, 21 62 Charles E. Young, Report to Clark Kerr re: UCLA research on minorities and civil rights, January 17, 1964, 2. Box 76, “Research Contracts, 1964-1965” Folder, FDM/UCLA 63 John J. Goldman, “U.S. Businessmen Turn Light on Urban Crisis: Two N.Y. Meetings Show Deep Concern—and Positive Programs to Aid Negro Poor,” Los Angeles Times. January 14, 1968. p. E3; Bruce Davidson, “Top executives warned anew: ‘Urban crisis your business.’” Boston Globe, January 24, 1968, 22; Otto Kerner, et al., Report of the National Advisory Notes 376 Commission on Civil Disorders, May 1968, 1, 6; “Urban Crisis: NEA to probe city schools.” Boston Globe. April 21, 1968, A47; James Real. “RAND vs. The Urban Crisis,” Los Angeles Times, June 30, 1968, O15; Aleene MacMinn, “Three-Part Series: NBC to Study the Urban Crisis,” Los Angeles Times, September 13, 1968, D20 64 Hitch, “What We Must Do,” 1 65 Charles J. Hitch, “Institutional Redirection to Deal with the Urban Crisis: Some Fundamental Policy Questions and Implications,” Speech at the All-University Faculty Conference, UC Riverside, March 25, 1969, 6. Box 45, Folder 7, AS/UCLA 66 Stuart Hall et al., Policing the Crisis, 263, 318 67 Gilmore, 79 68 Hall et al., 52, 322 69 “The Urban Crisis,” Op-ed, The New York Times, July 24, 1964, 26 70 Victor Gruen, The Heart of our Cities: The Urban Crisis: Diagnosis and Cure (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1964), 34, 65, 79 71 “Guide to Future: State Plan for Growth of Southland Told,” Los Angeles Times, July 14, 1963, P8; Ray Hebert, “L.A. Typifies World Urban Crisis, Vienna-born Architect-Planner Says,” Los Angeles Times, July 19, 1964, I6 72 Gruen, 82 73 August Kerber and Barbara Bommarito, eds., The Schools and the Urban Crisis: A Book of Readings (New York/Chicago/San Francisco: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc., 1965), v 74 Kerber and Bommarito, The Schools and the Urban Crisis, 56-96 75 Robert F. Kennedy, “The Urban Crisis and The Negro,” Op-ed., New York Amsterdam News, April 23, 1966, I16 76 Robert B. Semple, Jr., “Urban ‘Crisis’ Will Be Studied At Hearings Called by Ribicoff,” New York Times, August 2, 1966, 48; Bruce Winters, “Senators Told Urban Crisis Must Be Tackled Promptly,” Baltimore Sun, August 16, 1966, A1; Bruce Winters, “Urban Crisis Ideas Urged: Robert Kennedy Challenges Secretary Weaver,” Baltimore Sun, August 17, 1966, A6 77 Daniel Patrick Moynihan, “Is There Really an Urban Crisis?,” Challenge 15, No. 2 (November/December 1966), 20-22, 49-50 78 Gino Germani, “Urbanization, Social Change, and the Great Transformation,” in Modernization, Urbanization, and the Urban Crisis Germani, Ed. (Boston: Little Brown and Company, 1973), 47 79 Thomas Bradley, “How To Do Something About the Urban Crisis,” Text of speech to the Robert F. Kennedy Democratic Club and other local organizations, January 26, 1971, 1-2. Box 2126, Folder 17, TJB/UCLA; Thomas Bradley. “The City’s Perspective on Urban Problems,” Notes 377 Text of speech to the 10 th Annual Conference of the California Council for the Social Studies, March 12, 1971, 2. Box 2126, Folder 25, TJB/UCLA; Tom Bradley, “A Crisis Must Be Faced,” Text of speech, purpose unspecified, 1971. Box 2127, Folder 19, TJB/UCLA; Thomas Bradley, “Crisis of the City,” Text of speech to the Management Club, Hughes Tool Company, Aircraft Division, September 9, 1971. Box 2127, Folder 13, TJB/UCLA 80 Martin Nolan, “Logue Gets Call to U.S. City Probe,” Boston Globe, November 29, 1966, 23; Martin F. Nolan, “Dr. King Hits ‘Ill-Considered’ Vietnam War,” Boston Globe, December 16, 1966, 2; Martin Luther King, Jr., “Beyond Vietnam: A Time to Break Silence,” Text of speech delivered at Riverside Church, New York City, April 4, 1967, Transcript from American Rhetoric Online Speech Bank. <<http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/mlkatimetobreaksilence.htm>> 81 Hitch, “Institutional Redirection,” 6, 11, 32-33 82 Hitch, “Institutional Redirection,” 3, 7, 33 83 Hitch, “Institutional Redirection,” 7 84 “Suggested Framework for Discussion with F. Champion Ward, Ford Foundation,” March 4, 1970, 2. Box 130, Folder 1, FDM/UCLA 85 UC Office of the President, to the Regents of the University of California, Memo for Regents’ meeting of March 15, 1968. Box 92, Folder 1, FDM/UCLA; “Some Remarks Regarding Admission Policies and Procedures,” Info sheet from the UCLA Urban Crisis Task Force. June 27, 1968. Box 125, Folder 1, FDM/UCLA 86 Charles J. Hitch, “Opening Remarks at Urban Crisis Conference Planning Session,” June 12, 1968, 3-5. Box 155, Folder 15, UCPP/UCB 87 For more on the Chicano Walkouts, cf. Mario T. García and Sal Castro, Blowout! Sal Castro and the Chicano Struggle for Educational Justice (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2011), 133-193 88 Garcia and Castro, Blowout!, 143, 153 89 Balderston, “The University of California and the Urban Crisis,” 1-2 90 Avila, Popular Culture in the Age of White Flight; Mike Davis, City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles (London & New York: Verso, 2006); Lisa McGirr, Suburban Warriors: The Origins of the New American Right (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002); Robert O. Self, American Babylon: Race and the Struggle for Postwar Oakland (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003) 91 Kerr, The Uses of the University, 96-113; Smelser, 107-111, 131-134; Starr, 241-244 92 Christopher Newfield, Unmaking the Public University: The Forty-Year Assault on the Middle Class (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), 26-32 Notes 378 93 Lou Cannon, Governor Reagan: His Rise to Power (New York: PublicAffairs, 2003), 129- 161, 278-285; Carl Greenberg, “Reagan UC Edict: ‘Abide by Rules or Get Out’; Voice of the People Must Be Heard, Gov.-Elect Declares,” Los Angeles Times, December 3, 1966, 1; William Trombley, “UC Officials See Grave Problems From Budget: Woes for Various Elements of University Enumerated After Study of Money Slashes,” Los Angeles Times, July 24, 1967, A1 94 Douglass, The California Idea, 310; Hitch, “Institutional Redirection,” 24 95 Davis, The Culture Broker, 94-100; Cannon, Governor Reagan, 271-278; Daryl E. Lembke, “Kerr Fired as UC President in Surprise Vote by Regents: Reagan Sides With Majority in 14 to 8 Decision,” Los Angeles Times, January 21, 1967, 1 96 Hill, “U. of California Proposes New Fight on Urban Crisis.” 97 William Trombley, “UC President Attacks Reagan Budget Figures: Evidence of Crisis Pictured to Regents in Hitch’s Analysis,” Los Angeles Times, February 7, 1968, 3; see also: Jack McCurdy, “Hitch Denies Reagan Charge of Politics on UC Budget Issue: University President Defends Himself and Regents on Plea to Override Veto but Stops Short of Open War,” Los Angeles Times, July 19, 1968, 3; Tom Goff, “Reagan Charges Hitch Misleads Public on Budget: Criticizes UC President for Urging Legislature to Override Reductions,” Los Angeles Times. June 30, 1968, 3 98 Julian Hartt, “Ready to Quell Riots Quickly: State Guard Called Best Prepared in U.S.,” Los Angeles Times, May 5, 1968, 1. 99 cf. Gilmore, 24-26; Hall et al., 240-260 100 For more on the East L.A. 13 trial, cf. Ian Haney López, Racism on Trial: The Chicano Fight for Justice (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003, 157-177); Garcia and Castro, 194-210 101 “Bonds to Provide State College, Junior College and University Facilities, to Provide Facilities to Care for Mentally Retarded and Mentally Ill and to Provide Narcotics Control, Correctional and Forest Fire Fighting Facilities,” Summary of California Proposition 1a, 1962. California Ballot Measures Database. <<http://repository.uchastings.edu/ca_ballot_props/656/>>; “Bonds to Provide State College,” Summary of California Proposition 2, 1964, California Ballot Measures Database. <<http://repository.uchastings.edu/ca_ballot_props/660/>>; “Bonds to Provide State College and University Facilities,” Summary of California Proposition 2, 1966, California Ballot Measures Database. <<http://repository.uchastings.edu/ca_ballot_props/679/>>; “Bonds to Provide State College, University, and Urban School Facilities,” Summary of California Proposition 3, 1968, California Ballot Measures Database. <<http://repository.uchastings.edu/ca_ballot_props/701/>>; “Detailed Analysis by the Legislative Counsel” and “Argument Against Proposition No. 3” (by John L. Harmer, State Senator). California Voters Guide. November 1968, 8-9. California Ballot Measures Database. << http://repository.uchastings.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1700&context=ca_ballot_props>>); Notes 379 John L. Harmer, “Senator Answers Senator on Bonds,” Op-ed, Los Angeles Times, October 26, 1968, A4 102 Herman Wong, “County’s Stake in Proposition 3 Cited at $22.8 Million,” Los Angeles Times. October 24, 1968, D1; “Prop. 3: A Positive Approach,” Op-ed. Los Angeles Times, October 27, 1968, OC1; “Prop. 3 Essential to California,” Op-ed. Los Angeles Times, October 30, 1968, B6 103 “Junior College Construction Bond Act of 1968,” Summary of California Proposition 2, 1968. California Ballot Measures Database. <<http://repository.uchastings.edu/ca_ballot_props/700/>>; “University of California Health Science Facilities,” Summary of California Proposition 1, 1970, California Ballot Measures Database. <<http://repository.uchastings.edu/ca_ballot_props/712/>>; “Bonds to Provide Public Community College Facilities,” Summary of California Proposition 1, 1972, California Ballot Measures Database. <<http://repository.uchastings.edu/ca_ballot_props/742/>>; “Bonds to Provide Public Community College Facilities,” Summary of California Proposition 4, 1976. California Ballot Measures Database. <<http://repository.uchastings.edu/ca_ballot_props/813/>> 104 Robert M. Gettemy, “Point to Campus Turmoil: Educators Cite Factors in Prop. 3 Defeat,” Los Angeles Times, November 7, 1968, G1; John Dreyfuss, “Educators Fear 1971 Impact of Prop. 3 Defeat: Planned Enrollment for State University, College Campuses May Be Slashed,” Los Angeles Times. November 14, 1968, D1 105 “Bond Votes Carry Clear Message,” Op-ed. Los Angeles Times. November 7, 1968, B6 106 Hitch, “Institutional Redirection,” 21-22 107 Smelser, 74 108 UC Office of the President, to members of the Regents’ Committee on Finance, Memo, “Re: Plan and Budget for the Program of Research and Public Service Relating to the Urban Crisis, 1969-1970 Through 1973-1974,” 4, Exhibit A. Box 45, Folder 7. AS/UCLA; Final Report of the Chancellor’s Committee to Study Campus Urban Crisis Program, Prepared for UC Berkeley Chancellor Roger W. Heyns, June 1969, 5. Box 98, Folder 17, CHAN/UCB 109 Charles E. Young, to the Members of the Academic Senate, Los Angeles Division, “Report on UCLA’s Response to the Urban Crisis, ” 1-3. Box 45, Folder 7, AS/UCLA 110 UC Office of the President, “Re: Plan and Budget for the Program of Research and Public Service Relating to the Urban Crisis,” 4 111 Charles E. Young, “Report on UCLA’s Response to the Urban Crisis.” 112 “Resolution A,” Mail ballot for the Los Angeles Division of the UC Academic Senate, re: UCLA’s Urban Crisis initiatives. Box 124, Folder 3, FDM/UCLA 113 Leon Letwin, Transcribed excerpts from the meeting minutes of the Academic Senate, Los Angeles Division, December 10, 1968, 6-7. Box 30, Folder 5, CEY/UCLA Notes 380 114 “Resolution B,” Mail ballot for the Los Angeles Division of the UC Academic Senate, re: UCLA’s Urban Crisis initiatives. Box 124, Folder 3, FDM/UCLA 115 Jack Hirshleifer and Richard A. Lanham, Transcribed excerpts from the meeting minutes of the Academic Senate, Los Angeles Division, December 10, 1968, 7-8, 11-13. Box 30, Folder 5, CEY/UCLA 116 Office of the Vice President of Planning and Analysis to members of the Regents’ Committee on Finance, Circular, “Re: Plan and Budget for the University of California Program of Research and Public Service Relating to the Urban Crisis, 1969-1970 Through 1973-1974,” 13. Box 98, Folder 12, CHAN, UCB 117 John A. Martin (Coordinator, Urban Research and Public Service) to the UC Chancellors. Circular, re: state funding of Urban Crisis projects. March 13, 1969; Records of the California Legislative Analyst, Items 109-113. pp. 399-402. Both located in: Box 98, Folder 16, CHAN/UCB 118 Hitch, “Institutional Redirection.” p. 18 119 Hitch, “Institutional Redirection.” pp. 15-16 120 F.E. Balderson to Charles Hitch, Executive Vice President Oswald, and the UC Chancellors. Correspondence, re: delays in Department of Finance assessment of Urban Crisis funding proposals. September 4, 1969. Box 98, Folder 18, CHAN/UCB, re: the state government’s deferred and rejected UC Urban Crisis proposals, November 17, 1969, Box 98, Folder 19, CHAN/UCB 121 UC Office of the Vice President of Planning and Analysis, “Urban Research and Public Service Program: Projects Submitted to State Department of Finance During 1969-1970,” July 16, 1970, 10. Box 45, Folder 7, AS/UCLA 122 Gilmore, 55 123 Balderston, “The University of California and the Urban Crisis,” 10 124 Correspondence from Charles J. Hitch to Mrs. Martin Luther King, September 17, 1968. Box 200, Folder 3, UCPR/UCB; University of California, Office of University Relations, Press release, re: UC’s Conference on Equal Access to Higher Education, December 2, 1968. Box 200, Folder 4, UCPR/UCB 125 “Attack on Nation’s Urban Crisis: Committee Named to Plan Major Conference in Fall,” University Bulletin, June 17, 1968, 1. Box 200, Folder 2, UCPR/UCB 126 Charles J. Hitch, “Equal Access to Higher Education: A Moral and Social Necessity,” Text of speech for the Conference on Equal Access to Higher Education, San Francisco, California. To be delivered December 13, 1968, 1, 5. Box 200, Folder 4, UCPR/UCB 127 John Dreyfuss. “Turmoil Delays Talks on Minority Education: S.F. Conference to Be Attended by 700 Postponed Because of City’s Racial Unrest,” Los Angeles Times, December 12, 1968. n.p. Notes 381 128 Karen Umemoto, “‘On Strike!’ San Francisco State College Strike, 1968-69: The Role of Asian American Students," Amerasia 15:1 (1989), 8-9, 21; Martha Biondi, The Black Revolution on Campus (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2012), 51 129 For more on the Third World Liberation Front strike at San Francisco State College, see: Biondi, The Black Revolution on Campus, 43-78; Mark Chiang, The Cultural Capital of Asian American Studies: Autonomy and Representation in the University. New York: NYU Press, 2009. pp. 57-92; Jason Michael Ferreira, “All Power to the People: A Comparative History of Third World Radicalism in San Francisco, 1968-1974.” Ph.D. dissertation, University of California-Berkeley, 2003; Daryl Maeda, Chains of Babylon: The Rise of Asian America (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009), 40-72; Fabio Rojas, From Black Power to Black Studies: How a Radical Social Movement Became an Academic Discipline (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007), 45-92; Umemoto, “On Strike!,” 3-41 130 Charles J. Hitch, Announcement and explanation of conference postponement, December 11, 1968, 2. Box 125, Folder 5, FDM/UCLA. Also printed in: Hitch, “Conference Postponed on Problem of Improving Access to Higher Education, University Bulletin, December 18, 1968. n.p. Box 200, Folder 4, UCPR/UCB 131 Laura Pulido, Black, Brown, Yellow, and Left: Radical Activism in Los Angeles (Berkeley/Los Angeles, UC Press, 2006); Cynthia A. Young, Soul Power: Culture, Radicalism, and the Making of a U.S. Third World Left (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006); Donna Jean Murch, Living for the City: Education, Migration, and the Rise of the Black Panther Party in Oakland, California (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2010), esp. p. 100 132 Immanuel Wallerstein and Paul Starr, eds., “Introduction,” in The University Crisis Reader, Volume One: The Liberal University Under Attack, (New York: Random House, 1971), xxi- xxiv; 133 Immanuel Wallerstein and Paul Starr, eds., “Introduction,” in The University Crisis Reader, Volume Two: Confrontation and Counterattack, (New York: Random House, 1971), xi-xii; Immanuel Wallerstein, “Radical Intellectuals in a Liberal Society,” in The University Crisis Reader, Volume Two, 476 134 John Vasconcellos et al., Report of the Joint Committee on the Master Plan for Higher Education, September 1973, 10, 20-21 135 Ronald W. Lopez and Darryl D. Enos, “Chicanos and Public Higher Education in California,” Joint Committee on the Master Plan for Higher Education, December 1972, 77; Nairobi Research Institute, “Blacks and Public Higher Education in California,” Joint Committee on the Master Plan for Higher Education, February 1973; Robert B. Yoshioka et al., “Asian Americans and Public Higher Education in California,” Joint Committee on the Master Plan for Higher Education, February 1973, 68. CHAPTER 2 1 Charles Muñoz, Jr., “Mexican Culture.” Los Angeles Times. April 15, 1964. A4 Notes 382 2 Carlos F. Borja, Jr., “Mexican-American Community’s Lack of Interest Told by Group.” Los Angeles Times. April 20, 1964. A4 3 Letter from Minoru Yasui to Masaru Satow. January 23, 1964. Box 122, Folder 3, JGM/JARP 4 Mark Brilliant, The Color of America Has Changed: How Racial Diversity Shaped Civil Rights Reform in California, 1941-1978 (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 6 5 Ellen D. Wu, The Color of Success: Asian Americans and the Origins of the Model Minority (Princeton/Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2013), 162 6 Wu, The Color of Success, 172 7 After maintenance workers rediscovered MASP’s original survey questionnaires in the basement of a UCLA library in 1993, Edward E. Telles and Vilma Ortiz conducted a longitudinal study of the surviving original respondents and their progeny. As the duo describe in Generations of Exclusion (2008), they “take the generational approach that has become the sociological standard for understanding immigrant integration” to extend the survey by nearly four decades. Edward E. Telles and Vilma Ortiz, Eds., Generations of Exclusion: Mexican Americans, Assimilation, and Race (New York: Russell Sage Foundation Press, 2009), 10; Wu, The Color of Success, 150. 8 As Acuña opines, MASP’s influence on the field of Chicano Studies was dubious, not in the least because Grebler “knew almost nothing about Mexicans on either side of la linea.” Rodolfo Acuña, The Making of Chicana/o Studies: In the Trenches of Academe (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2011), 16 9 Clark Kerr, The Great Transformation in Higher Education, 1960-1980 (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1991), xii-xiii 10 “UPC Preliminary Research Report: Undergraduate and Graduate Opportunity Programs,” 1974, 2. Box 331, Folder 5, CEY/UCLA 11 Tomás Almaguer, Racial Fault Lines: The Historical Origins of White Supremacy in California, 2 nd ed. (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2009), 205 12 See, for instance: Martha Biondi, The Black Revolution on Campus (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012); Daryl Maeda, Chains of Babylon: The Rise of Asian America (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009); Carlos Muñoz, Jr., Youth, Identity, Power: The Chicano Movement (London/New York: Verso, 1989); Laura Pulido, Black, Brown, Yellow, and Left: Radical Activism in Los Angeles (Berkeley/Los Angeles, UC Press, 2006); Ibram H. Rogers, The Black Campus Movement: Black Students and the Racial Reconstruction of Higher Education, 1965-1972 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012) 13 Michael Omi and Howard Winant, Racial Formation in the United States: From the 1960s to the 1990s, 2 nd ed. (London/New York: Routledge, 1994), 96 Notes 383 14 JARP and MASP embodied what Omi and Winant aptly call a racial project, “simultaneously an interpretation, representation, or explanation of racial dynamics, and an effort to reorganize and redistribute resources along particular racial lines.” Omi and Winant, Racial Formation, 56 15 I am indebted here to Roderick Ferguson, whose poststructuralist analysis of the postwar U.S. academy informs my own historical investigation into what Ferguson calls the “incorporation of minority difference.” Ferguson argues that American universities actively embraced the representational politics of student protest movements, insofar as racial identity and subjectivity formed new ways for the academy itself to categorize, enumerate, and validate multiracial diversity as part of its own regulatory mechanisms. As such, he asserts that institutions of higher education were crucial in institutionalizing racial difference and plurality as social forces consistent with the logics of U.S. Cold War capitalism, rather than political threats thereto. See: Roderick A. Ferguson, The Reorder of Things: The University and Its Pedagogies of Minority Difference (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012) 16 Academic Plan for University of California, Los Angeles, March 15, 1962, 2-3. Box 2, Folder 2, AS/UCLA 17 Natalia Molina, Fit to Be Citizens? Public Health and Race in Los Angeles, 1879-1939 (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2006), 13. See also: Tomás Almaguer, Racial Fault Lines; Carey McWilliams, Southern California: An Island on the Land (Layton, UT: Gibbs Smith, 1973 [orig. 1946]) 18 Leo Grebler, Profile of the Los Angeles Metropolis, Its People and Its Homes: Part 1, Metropolitan Contrasts. Research Report #3, Real Estate Research Program (Los Angeles: UCLA Graduate School of Business Administration, 1963), 14-15. Found in: Box 11, Folder 6, JM/CSRC 19 Grebler, Metropolitan Contrasts, 16 20 Leo Grebler, “Biographical Sketch,” c. 1964. Project No. 64-102, Section 1, FORD/RAC 21 Eric Avila, Popular Culture in the Age of White Flight: Fear and Fantasy in Suburban Los Angeles (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2006), 34-42; Kurashige, The Shifting Grounds of Race, 162, 236-237; George Sánchez, “What’s Good for Boyle Heights is Good for the Jews: Creating Multiculturalism on the Eastside during the 1950s,” American Quarterly 56, no. 3 (2004), 636-637; Josh Sides, L.A. City Limits: African American Los Angeles from the Great Depression to the Present (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2003), 59, 107-108 22 “Realty Research Project’s Second Semester Started,” Los Angeles Times, March 30, 1968, F14; Grebler, Metropolitan Contrasts, 49 See also: Hosang, Racial Propositions, 56-58; Kurashige, The Shifting Grounds of Race, 237, 260-277; Sides, L.A. City Limits, 115, 119 Notes 384 23 Leo Grebler, “Proposal for a Comprehensive Study of the Socio-Economic Conditions of Mexican-American in Urban Areas of Five Southwestern States,” November 1963, 1-2, 7, 15. Project No. 64-102, Section 1, FORD/RAC 24 “Prospectus of the Mexican-American Study Project,” Jan. 27, 1964. Box 3, Folder 7, EQ/STAN; Grebler, “Proposal for a Comprehensive Study,” 19 25 For more on Roybal, see: Shana Bernstein, Bridges of Reform: Interracial Civil Rights Activism in Twentieth-Century Los Angeles (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2011) 26 Letter from Carlos Borja to Leo Grebler, December 30, 1963. Box 3, Folder 6, EQ/STAN; “Carlos Borja Named to Head CMAA Group,” Los Angeles Times, June 24, 1963, C9 27 Juan Gomez-Quiñones, Chicano Politics: Reality and Promise, 1940-1990 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1990), 67-68, 92-93. According to Gomez-Quiñones, MAPA’s initial prerogatives were “the election and appointment of Mexican Americans and other persons sympathetic to our aims to public office” and “to take stands on political issues and to present and endorse candidates for public office.” 28 Ralph Cortez Guzmán, The Political Socialization of the Mexican-American People (Ph.D Dissertation, University of California-Los Angeles, 1970), 260-261. See also: Brilliant, The Color of America Has Changed, 167 29 Ruben Salazar, “Mexican-American Assn. Backs Negro ‘Coalition.’” Los Angeles Times, June 15, 1964, 30; “More Attention to Latin Culture in School Urged.” Los Angeles Times, May 3, 1964, G6. See also: Brilliant, The Color of America Has Changed, 230 30 Circular from Shigeru Wakamatsu to JACL Executive Committee, Sept. 28, 1960. Box 520, Folder 1, FC/JARP 31 Letter from T. Scott Miyakawa to Shig Wakamatsu, Mar. 20, 1962. Box 521, Folder 1, FC/JARP 32 In 1960 alone, the Ford Foundation disbursed a $4 million block grant to UC President Clark Kerr, and a $1.24 million grant specifically to UCLA’s Institute of International and Foreign Studies. UCLA would receive an additional $2 million in 1965. “Dr. Neumann to Direct UCLA Foreign Study,” Los Angeles Times, November 10, 1958, C9; “$1.2. Million Grant to Aid Foreign Studies,” Los Angeles Times, October 23, 1960, WS12; “UCLA Given $2 Million by Foundation,” Los Angeles Times, April 6, 1965, A10 33 T. Scott Miyakawa, “Proposal for A Definitive History of the Japanese in the United States, 1860-1960: The Preliminary Outline for Discussion and Review” (unpublished document), 1. Box 9, Folder 7, TSM/UCLA See also: Wu, The Color of Success, 163-164 34 JACL’s proposal for the Japanese American Research Project, part of a letter from Frank Chuman to Franklin D. Murphy, Mar. 23, 1962, 5. Box 521, Folder 1, FC/JARP Notes 385 35 In Ellen Wu’s words, JARP served to racialized Japanese Americans as “not-black,” through a “discourse portray[ing] Japanese American assimilation as a model for solving the intractable American Dilemma” of Black dispossession. Wu, The Color of Success, 168-170 36 Letter from Miyakawa to Shig Wakamatsu and Frank Chuman, Feb. 9, 1962. Box 521, Folder 1, FC/JARP; Joe Grant Masaoka, “Japanese Americans: Perplexities of the Past,” transcript of speech delivered at the World Conference on Records, Aug. 5–8, 1969, 3. Box 125, Folder 2, JGM/JARP 37 In Murphy’s first year, the University launched its Graduate School of Library Science, announced the construction of a $5 million graduate research library, and promised to house four million volumes by the end of the decade. The libraries would also be an entry point for UCLA to globalize its liberal arts scholarship. University librarians purchased large, private collections of nonwestern “folklore” and rare books; campus libraries hosted temporary installations of literatures on ancient and modern Mexico, and a private collection culled from “5,000 volumes written by and about Negroes” from the U.S., Caribbean, and Africa. “UCLA Picks New Head Librarian,” Los Angeles Times, September 21, 1960, 14; William Murphy, “Latin American Folklore Library Bought by UCLA,” Los Angeles Times. March 19, 1961, WS6; “UCLA Library to Be Finished in November,” Los Angeles Times, July 1, 1962, WS18; “Mexican Books Shown in Exhibit on Campus,” Los Angeles Times, June 7, 1962, K6; “Volumes About Negroes to Be Shown At UCLA.” Los Angeles Times, February 3, 1966, A8. 38 Letter from Miyakawa to Shig Wakamatsu and Frank Chuman, Feb. 9, 1962. Box 521, Folder 1, FC/JARP 39 For more on JERS and the resettlement process, cf. Yuji Ichioka, Ed., Views From Within: The Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study (Los Angeles: UCLA Asian American Studies Center, 1989) 40 Official Meeting Minutes, 1962 JACL 17 th Biennial Convention, 19. Box 297, Folder 1, Folder 3, JARP/UCLA; Letter from T. Scott Miyakawa and Robert Wilson to Franklin D. Murphy, Sept. 25, 1962. Box 124, Folder 1, JGM/JARP; Bill Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice (New York: William Morrow and Co., 1982), 219; Henry Yu, Thinking Orientals: Migration, Contact, and Exoticism in Modern America (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 121-123. 41 While the organization claimed a scant 2,639 members across 32 chapters in 1947, membership more than quadrupled to 11,153, with 87 chapters, by 1954. By 1960, the JACL would claim an additional six thousand members, and its ranks would continue to grow throughout the decade. Lon Kurashige, Japanese American Celebration and Conflict: A History of Ethnic Identity and Festival in Los Angeles, 1934-1990 (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2002), 75-116; Kurashige, The Shifting Grounds of Race, 108-131; “JACL Membership Bulletin,” April 1, 1947, and Aug. 2, 1954. Box 297, Folder 1, JARP/UCLA; Official Meeting Minutes, 1962 JACL 17 th Biennial Convention, 6. Box 297, Folder 1, JARP/UCLA Notes 386 42 Letter from Ralph P. Merritt to Clark Kerr, June 26, 1961. Box 155, Folder 17, UCPP/UCB; Letter from Ralph Merritt to T. Scott Miyakawa, July 7, 1961. Box 521, Folder 6, FC/JARP; Ralph Palmer Merritt, “After me cometh a builder,” 50, 61. Regional Oral History Office, Bancroft Library, UC Berkeley; Brian Masaru Hayashi, Democratizing the Enemy: The Japanese American Internment (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), 209 43 Letter from Franklin Murphy to Dr. Henry Heald, President of the Ford Foundation, June 18, 1963. Box 76, “Surveys, 1964-1967” Folder, FDM/UCLA; Letter from Clark Kerr to Dr. Alan Pifer, Vice President of the Carnegie Corporation, Oct. 29, 1963. Box 122, Folder 1, JGM/JARP; Letter from Murphy to Pifer, Oct. 14, 1963. Box 124, Folder 1, JGM/JARP; 44 Press release from the Carnegie Corporation of New York, Apr. 7, 1964. Box 125, Folder 2, JGM/JARP; “UCLA to Open Study of Mexican-Americans,” Los Angeles Times, January 22, 1964, E7 45 The JACL first coined their study as the “Issei Story Project” and continued to refer to JARP as the “Japanese History Project” throughout the 1960s. Meanwhile, Grebler devised MASP under the wieldy moniker of “A Comprehensive Study of the Socio-Economic Conditions of Mexican-American in Urban Areas of Five Southwestern States.” While some types of ORUs— Centers, Institutes, and Museums—were long-term investments, JARP and MASP’s status as Projects meant that they were by definition finite, and offered no permanency beyond the capacity to secure monies. Office of the President [Clark Kerr], “Policy of the University of California on Organized Research Units,” 1-3. Box 76, “Research 1960-1970” folder, FDM/UCLA; Grebler, “Proposal for a Comprehensive Study.” In the case of JACL and its use of the “Japanese History Project” in both private and public correspondence, see: Shig Wakamatsu, “Chronology of Japanese History Project,” February 19, 1965. Box 124, Folder 2, JGM/JARP. 46 Charles E. Young, Report to Clark Kerr re: UCLA research on minorities and civil rights, January 17, 1964, 2. Box 76, “Research Contracts, 1964-1965” Folder, FDM/UCLA 47 “International and Comparative Programs,” Brochure/booklet, UCLA, 1966, 50. Box 92, Folder 6, CEY/UCLA 48 UCLA Office of Public Information press release, Sept. 1964. Box 3, Folder 7, EQ/STAN 49 Anne Allen, “Progress Report, UCLA Educational Opportunities Program,” March 1965, 3. Box 36, “Educational Opportunities Program, 1963-1965” Folder, FDM/UCLA; Author unspecified, Letter to UC Vice President Shepard, re: “Los Angeles Campus Requests for Educational Opportunity Funds, 1966-1967,” September 13, 1966. Box 92, Folder 1, FDM/UCLA. 50 Anne Allen, “The Establishment and First Outcomes of the UCLA Educational Opportunities Program,” June 30, 1965, 4; Letter from Anne Allen and Barbara Gates to Charles E. Young, January 13, 1965. Both documents located in: Box 36, “Educational Opportunities Program, 1963-1965” Folder, FDM/UCLA. Notes 387 51 Japanese American Research Project, “Nisei Questionnaire,” Revised edition, April 1967. Retrieved online from the Resource Center for Minority Data, Inter-university Consortium for Political and Social Research. <<http://www.icpsr.umich.edu/icpsrweb/RCMD/studies/8450>>; Mexican American Study Project, “Questionnaire for Household Surveys in Los Angeles and San Antonio,” 1965. Reprinted in Leo Grebler, Joan W. Moore, and Ralph C. Guzmán, The Mexican-American People: The Nation’s Second Largest Minority (New York/London: The Free Press, 1970), 648-663 52 Letter from T. Scott Miyakawa to Shig Wakamatsu, Mar. 20, 1962. Box 521, Folder 1, FC/JARP 53 Pete Hironaka, Various one-panel cartoons, Pacific Citizen. June 8, 1962; June 19, 1964; and Oct. 1, 1965. 54 Wu, The Color of Success, 150-152 55 In February 1943, the War Relocation Authority administered a mandatory survey to all inmates seventeen or older. The WRA, whose machinations were unbeknownst to the internees, would use the results of the survey to vastly reorganize its internee population; culling a select subsection of young, upwardly mobile, and patriotic Nisei to either resettle East of the evacuation zone, or join the U.S. military. Quintessential to their plans—and equally as central to Japanese Americans’ consternation—were the survey’s 27 th and 28 th questions, which demanded that respondents indicate whether they would foreswear all allegiance to Japan, and demonstrate willingness to serve in the American armed forces. As historians have argued, the pair of questions bewildered many Japanese Americans who had to condense complex political affiliations—not to mention deep-seated anger over their incarceration—into a mere yes/no answer. Rather than a mere affirmation of internees’ ideological ties, these questions became for many respondents a vexing imposition of state power that elicited a host of strategies in response. See: Brian Masaru Hayashi, Democratizing the Enemy: The Japanese American Internment (Princeton/Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2004), 137-147; Lon Kurashige, Japanese American Celebration and Conflict: A History of Ethnic Identity and Festival in Los Angeles, 1934-1990 (Berkeley/Los Angeles: UC Press, 2002), 101-108; Mae Ngai, Impossible Subjects: Illegal Aliens and the Making of Modern America: Politics and Society in Twentieth-Century America (Princeton/Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2004), 181-187 56 Gene Levine, a UCLA social scientist who would later publish statistical analyses from JARP survey data, claimed that fewer than one percent of Issei respondents refused the request for an interview, though Joe Grant Masaoka’s research notes might challenge this low figure. See: Joe Grant Masaoka, October 1964 progress report. Box 125, Folder 1, JGM/JARP; Joe Grant Masaoka, May – September 1967 progress report, Oct. 5, 1967. Box 523, Folder 6, FC/JARP; Gene Levine and Colbert Rhodes, The Japanese American Community: A Three-Generation Study. (New York: Praeger, 1981), 18 57 Minoru Yasui, a Denver attorney, briefly resigned from his post as a regional Project coordinator after frustratingly attempting to follow JARP survey directives. Yasui contended that Notes 388 Miyakawa and the UCLA offices had failed to comprehend the difficulty of recruiting interviewees from widely dispersed communities in rural Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, and Idaho. Letter from Min Yasui to Patrick Okura, Aug. 29, 1963. Box 122, Folder 1, JGM/JARP; Letter from Min Yasui to Miyakawa and Gladys Stone, Nov. 2, 1963. Box 122, Folder 1, JGM/JARP; T. Scott Miyakawa, “Special Review from July, 1963 to May 21, 1964.” Box 125, Folder 1, JGM/JARP 58 Letter from Miyakawa to Gladys Stone and Mas Satow, Aug. 13, 1963. Box 122, Folder 1, JGM/JARP; Miyakawa, confidential memo to Wakamatsu, Chuman, et al., Oct. 25, 1963. Box 122, Folder 1, JGM/JARP 59 “The Role of the JACL Chapter,” part of a progress report from the JACL national board meeting. Mar. 18, 1961. Box 520, Folder 2, FC/JARP; “Japanese History Project, Financial Campaign to Date,” Dec. 19, 1962. Box 124, Folder 6, JGM/JARP; Memorandum from Wakamatsu and Akiji Yoshimura to “All Chapter and District Chairmen,” June 6, 1962. Box 521, Folder 2, FC/JARP; Letter from Wakamatsu to Frank Oda, June 5, 1962. Box 521, Folder 2, FC/JARP; Directive from Wakamatsu to JACL national board and chapter presidents, Dec. 24, 1962. Box 521, Folder 3, FC/JARP; “Chuman admonishes PSW chapters,” Pacific Citizen, May 25, 1962. Letter from Joe Grant Masaoka to Wakamatsu, July 26, 1965. Box 121, Folder 6, JGM/JARP; Masaoka, March/April 1965 progress report. Box 125, Folder 1, JGM/JARP; Letter from Masaoka to Wakamatsu, July 26, 1965. Box 121, Folder 6, JGM/JARP; Masaoka, March/April 1965 progress report. Box 125, Folder 1, JGM/JARP 60 John Modell, “The Japanese American Family: A Perspective for Future Investigations.” Pacific Historical Review 371 (February 1968), 70 61 Eiichiro Azuma, Between Two Empires: Race, History, and Transnationalism in Japanese America (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 210-211 62 The six economic brackets were: “Wealthy (Big landowner or Operator or large Businessman); Well off (Large farmer or substantial Businessman); Comfortable situation (Independent Farmer or Storekeeper); Moderate means (Salaried or Farm Renter); Marginal existence (Laborer); and Difficult circumstances or on relief (Itinerant worker).” Gene Levine and Colbert Rhodes’ posthoc analysis of the JARP data evince the discrepancies in the data regarding the omission of high school dropouts. In one section, the authors note that “[f]orty-three percent of the Nisei respondents…are high school graduates, 30 percent have had at least some college, 14 percent are college graduates, and 13 percent have carried out postgraduate work.” That would equal one hundred percent of the respondents, suggesting that none of the Nisei surveyed were high school dropouts. Other charts, however, suggest that the rate of Nisei respondents who did not graduate from high school was around 5 percent in Los Angeles. Gladys Ishida Stone, “Instruction on Issei Classification for Rural Sampling.” Box 121, Folder 4, JGM/JARP; Gladys and Gregory Stone, “Procedure for Sampling Urban and Rural Nisei,” June 16, 1965. Box 124, Folder 2, JGM/JARP; Levine and Rhodes, The Japanese American Community, 40, 95 Notes 389 63 Also raising the JACL’s ire was Ishida Stone’s husband, a well-known sociologist named Gregory Stone. While they had hoped to get his (uncompensated) advice, the League’s leaders found him to be a condescending alcoholic. Two separate letters from Shig Wakamatsu to Frank Chuman, Aug. 26, 1963. Box 122, Folder 1, JGM/JARP; Letter from Gladys Stone to the JACL Executive Committee, June 15, 1964. Box 124, Folder 2, JGM/JARP; Letter from J.G. Masaoka to Mary I. Watanabe, Dec. 1, 1966. Box 121, Folder 6, JGM/JARP 64 The WRA consequently granted him early release to Denver in late 1942, where he would later assist in the resettlement of other early parolees. “Bibliographic Sketch of Joe Grant Masaoka,” n.d. Box 121, Folder 1, JGM/JARP; Bill Hosokawa, JACL, 179, 219. Masaoka’s Job Description card from the University of California Personnel Office, Jan. 9, 1967. Box 121, Folder 2, JGM/JARP; Hayashi, Democratizing the Enemy, 114, 128, 134, 297. Hayashi documents some of the death threats towards Citizens’ Federation members that only list their initials, but the group was only about twenty people and only one person had the initials “J.M.” Hayashi also notes that Masaoka’s bilingualism made him a particularly effectual documentary historian for the WRA; his reports are now part of JERS. 65 To borrow from Benedict Anderson’s seminal theory of nationalism, Masaoka effected a “print nationalism” by using Japanese American periodicals to insert individual respondents and communities into a “homologous space-time” of Nikkei nationwide. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, revised ed. (New York and London: Verso, 1991), 24 For examples of Joe Grant Masaoka’s travelogues: Box 124, Folders 2-3, JGM/JARP. Examples of his press releases sent to Japanese American newsletters—“Japanese Helped to Introduce Salad Vegetables to U.S. Menus, Says Issei,” “Issei Were Main Labor Source for Principal Industries of the Pacific Northwest,” “First Issei Industrialist Began at Tombstone, Arizona,” “Issei Burned Alive in Ludlow Massacre of 1914,” “Issei Pleasure Girls Were Reputed to Be The First Japanese in Denver, History Project Learns.” 66 As Eiichiro Azuma argues, Issei intellectuals had utilized the term pioneer in the early 20 th century to interpellate Japanese migrants in the U.S. as settlers of the Japanese imperial state. Masaoka, however, suggests how the Japanese American public could recast pioneer in order to incorporate the Issei into the narrative arc of American exceptionalism. The “pioneer” moniker was a rhetorical maneuver that could suggest the Issei were not too different from the white, westward migrants more typically associated with the term. Azuma, Between Two Empires, 89-110; Joe Grant Masaoka, “Texas Issei Pioneers in Farming Had Little Thought of ‘Hiki-age,’” Pacific Citizen, Jan. 15, 1965; Masaoka, “History Project Administrator Urges Issei Virtues be Retained,” press release, Nov. 16, 1964. Box 125, Folder 2, JGM/JARP. Notes 390 67 As Eiichiro Azuma argues, Issei intellectuals had utilized the term pioneer in the early 20 th century to interpellate Japanese migrants in the U.S. as settlers of the Japanese imperial state. Masaoka’s recapitulation of Frederick Jackson Turner’s myth of the “closing frontier,” however, suggests how the Japanese American public could recast pioneer in order to incorporate the Issei into the narrative arc of American exceptionalism. “Issei History is Like Time Capsule, Says Project Administrator,” press release, Nov. 23 1964. Box 124, Folder 2, JGM/JARP; Azuma, Between Two Empires, 89-110 68 Masaoka, June 1965 progress report. Box 125, Folder 1. JGM/JARP; Letter from Masaoka to Mary Kawakami, Jan. 10, 1967. Box 122, Folder 1, JGM/JARP 69 Joe Grant Masaoka, “Japanese Americans: Perplexities of the Past,” Transcript of speech delivered at the World Conference on Records, August 5-8, 1969, 1-2. Box 125, Folder 2, JGM/JARP. 70 Memorandum from Wakamatsu to the JACL project committee, 19 April 1969, Box 124, Folder 6, JGM/JARP. 71 Yasuo Sakata’s resume, March 15, 1973. Box 27, Folder 4, YI/UCLA 72 People of mixed parentage, Mexican Americans without Spanish family names, and people whose surnames were ambiguous and indeterminable (Martin/Martín, Albert) risked omission from the Project’s algorithmic settings; and such demographic criteria also risked including non- Mexican Latin Americans residing in the U.S. Southwest. Furthermore, MASP scholarship notes the possibility of an undercount within Mexican American communities, based on “the fact that the census has failed to enumerate Negroes as completely as whites”; with the “fear of governmental authority or dubious legality of residence status” as potential factors for a statistical inaccuracy. Mexican American Study Project staff. “Application for a Renewal Grant, Submitted to the Ford Foundation.” December 1965, 5, 24. Box 8, “Mexican American Study Project” folder, GSM/UCLA; “Electric Computer Recognizes Spanish Surnames,” Mexican-American Study Project Progress Report, No. 2 (April 1965), 4. Project No. 64-102, Section 5, FORD/RAC; Frank G. Mittlebach, Joan W. Moore, and Ronald McDaniel, Intermarriage of Mexican- Americans, Advance Report 6, Mexican American Study Project. (Los Angeles: UCLA Graduate School of Business Administration, 1966), 51-58; Grebler et al., The Mexican-American People, 603 73 For a full list of the Advance Reports, see: Grebler et al., The Mexican-American People, xii. 74 MASP staff, “Application for a Renewal Grant,” 7, 24 75 The San Antonio committee had already disintegrated due to a “severe split” after MASP scholars attempted to bring together businessmen with labor leaders and “more militant groups.” MASP staff, “Application for a Renewal Grant,” 52, 55 For the full list of advisors, see: Grebler et al., The Mexican-American People, xiii-xiv. The San Antonio committee also included U.S. Representative Henry B. Gonzalez; John C. Alaniz, a state Notes 391 representative; Hippo Garcia, a county court judge; and Albert A. Pena, Jr., the Commissioner of San Antonio’s Bexar County.The L.A. Advisory Committee included Leopoldo Sanchez, a municipal court judge; Eugene Gonzales, an assistant to the State Superintendent of Public Instruction; and Joseph Maldonaldo, the executive director of the Economic and Youth Opportunities Agency of Greater Los Angeles. 76 MASP staff, “Application for a Renewal Grant,” 53-54 77 MASP staff, “Application for a Renewal Grant,” 1, 3; Minutes from Community Advisory Committee meeting, Sept. 26, 1964, 8-9. Box 4, Folder 6, EQ/STAN. 78 Guzmán also wrote for local newspapers The Eastside Sun and the Los Angeles Free Press; organized for the California branches of the American Civil Liberties Union; and coordinated regional Democratic Party efforts to register Black and Latino voters. Upon earning his bachelors and masters degrees at Los Angeles State College in the late 1950s, he served as a regional director for the U.S. Peace Corps in Venezuela and Peru until matriculating at UCLA in 1964. Ralph Cortez Guzmán, “Vita,” The Political Socialization of the Mexican-American People (Ph.D Dissertation, University of California-Los Angeles, 1970), xi; “High Mexican American Vote Record Cited,” Los Angeles Times, May 14, 1961, 18; Ernesto Chávez, “¡Mi Raza Primero!” Nationalism, Identity, and Insurgency in the Chicano Movement in Los Angeles, 1966-1978 (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2002), 12-14, 63; Bernstein, Bridges of Reform, 138-184 79 Joan W. Moore and Ralph Guzmán, “The Mexican-Americans: New Wind from the Southwest,” The Nation, May 30, 1966. Found in: Project No. 64-102, Section 3, FORD/RAC 80 David G. Gutiérrez, Walls and Mirrors: Mexican Americans, Mexican Immigrants, and the Politics of Ethnicity (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995); Lorena Oropeza, ¡Raza Si! ¡Guerra No! Chicano Protest and Activism During the Viet Nam War Era (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2005), 54-56; Kelly Lytle Hernández, Migra! A History of the U.S. Border Patrol (Berkeley/Los Angeles, University of California Press, 2010), 191-194; Wu, The Color of Success, 145 81 Moore and Guzmán, “New Wind from the Southwest” 82 Paul Beck, “Mexican-American Walkout Mars Job Conference,” Los Angeles Times, March 29, 1966, 3; “The Albuquerque Walkout and the UCLA Mexican-American Study Project,” MASP Progress Report, No. 6 (June 1966), 7. Project No. 64-102, Section 3, FORD/RAC; Oropeza, ¡Raza Si! ¡Guerra No!, 54-55 83 Leo Grebler, “Neglect by the Federal Government of Mexican-Americans Ignored,” Los Angeles Times. April 5, 1966, B4 84 MASP staff, “Application for a Renewal Grant,” 36, 39. 85 Rockefeller Foundation representative “LCD,” Notes from UCLA campus visit, May 26, 1967. Box 300, Folder 1863, Rockefeller Foundation Records, projects, Rockefeller Archive Center Notes 392 86 Leo Grebler, “Report on My Study Tour in Mexico, Summer 1965,” 2-3, 13-14. Box 2, Folder 18, JN/CSRC 87 Grebler, “Report on My Study Tour in Mexico,” 10; MASP staff, “Application for a Renewal Grant,” 42 88 MAPA press release, May 3, 1966. Box 8, Folder 5, MR/STAN; Letter from Leo Grebler to Eduardo Quevedo, June 14, 1965. Box 3, Folder 8, EQ/STAN 89 Correspondence between Leo Grebler and Manuel Guerra, esp. March 8, 1964 and March 22, 1964. Project No. 64-102, Section 4, FORD/RAC 90 MAPA Education Council, “An Evaluation and Critique of ‘The Mexican American Studies Project,’ A Ford Foundation Grant Extended to the University of California at Los Angeles,” 1. Box 8, Folder 5, MR/STAN; Untitled and undated critique of MASP, c. 1965, 2. Box 8, Folder 5, MR/STAN 91 Quoted in Jack Jones, “Revolt in the Barrios: Social Ferment Stirs Mexican-Americans,” Los Angeles Times, May 8, 1966, B6. 92 Letter from Mexican-American Los Angeles Community Advisory Committee to Leo Grebler, May 11, 1966. Project No. 64-102, Section 4, FORD/RAC 93 Hon. Edward R. Roybal, Text of remarks on the Congressional floor, February 15, 1966. Found in: Project No. 64-102, Section 4, FORD/RAC 94 MAPA Education Council, “An Evaluation and Critique,” 11 95 Chávez, “¡Mi Raza Primero!,” 39-41 96 Jose Antonio Villarreal, “Mexican Americans in Upheaval,” Los Angeles Times, September 18, 1966, Sec. W. Gomez-Quiñones, Chicano Politics, 174-175. Juan Gomez-Quiñones argues that middle-class liberal organizations like MAPA, the League of United Latin American Citizens, and the G.I. Forum shifted approaches over the 1960s by “working in the movement tide”—working to build ties to student and community activist formations to their political left. 97 “Cosas de MAPA/Items from MAPA,” Latin Times, January 17, 1969, 2 98 Leo Grebler, “Comments on ‘An Evaluation and Critique of The Mexican-American Studies Project,’” July 25, 1966, 12. Project No. 64-102, Section 3, FORD/RAC 99 Joan W. Moore, “Political and Ethical Problems in a Large-Scale Study of a Minority Population,” 1966, 4, 19, 24. Project No. 64-102, Section 5, FORD/RAC. 100 Moore, “Political and Ethical Problems,” 22 101 Mario T. García and Sal Castro, Blowout! Sal Castro and the Chicano Struggle for Educational Justice (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2011); Ian Haney López, Notes 393 Racism on Trial: The Chicano Fight for Justice (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003), 19-40, 134-177; Muñoz, Youth, Identity, Power, 64-68 102 López, Racism on Trial, 42-45. López also notes that MASP’s usage of the 1960 U.S. Census became a point of contention in the trial, as the prosecution highlighted the attendant contradictions in identification and terminology that had previously vexed the researchers. That is, the prosecuting attorneys highlighted the Project’s own usage of the “white persons with Spanish surnames” subcategory to undermine Moore’s quantitative and statistical-based testimony to the racial minority status of Mexican Americans. Nevertheless, the defendants were exonerated in 1970 when a California appellate court declared that their conspiracy charges constituted a violation of the First Amendment. 103 Oscar Zet