Communications 2020

University President Kevin O’Brien, S.J., convened the 2020-2021 academic year with a reflection on the state of the University and conversations with Provost Lisa Kloppenberg and Vice President for Enrollment Management Eva Blanco Masias.

Our colleague Dr. Teresia Hinga from the Religious Studies department introduced me to a new term, or better, a new perspective on our work as educators. She gave me permission to share with you a practice in her classes: she welcomes her students with a South African Zulu greeting: Sabona (or Sawubona), which means, “I see you.” The customary response is Shiboka, “I am here.” Teresia encourages her students to greet each other in the same way.

This is more than pleasant ice-breaking. Far more: it is transformative for a classroom, and it can be transformative for us as a university that also wants to be a welcoming community. When we truly see another, we honor each other as more than an extension of ourselves. We say to the other: “You are important to me. I reverence you.” And when we hear the response, “I am here,” the other person affirms their place in our community.

As we as a nation and university strive for greater racial justice, I wish to say to Santa Clara’s Black students, faculty, staff, and alumni, as well as other persons of color: “Sabona, I see you.” My ardent wish as president, priest, and human being is that you are able to say in reply, Shiboka, “I am here.”

But we know that is not always the case. Throughout the summer I have heard from alumni who shared with me stories of not feeling at home here. I have heard from current members of our community that they are not seen or heard for who they are.

In my own examination of conscience, a practice in the Catholic tradition, I realize how my vision is limited by sin, limited by the pervasiveness of white supremacy that has inflicted this nation for hundreds of years. To borrow the biblical metaphor, I have eyes but do not always see. In contrast to such myopia are the eyes of those who see more clearly because they dare to look, or in the words of St. Oscar Romero: “There are many things that can only be seen through eyes that have cried.”

As one entrusted with leadership of this university, on behalf of my predecessors, I wish now to extend this examination of conscience. I offer my deepest apology to those members of our Santa Clara family, past and present, who have suffered the painful sting of racism here. I apologize for racist policies and practices, for actions and inaction, that have caused harm to people of color over the years at Santa Clara. I want to name in particular the pain suffered by Black members of our community. In the course of this summer, as this nation faced a long-overdue reckoning with the vestiges of slavery, I learned from letters and calls with alumni, from conversations with students, faculty and staff, from voices of protest. I have read and heard stories of our brothers and sisters, our friends and colleagues, being slighted, ignored, insulted, or profiled at Santa Clara. I see you.

As a Catholic, I know that penitence must come with conviction to make amends and actions to make those amends real. During my years of service here as president, I will prioritize making Santa Clara an anti-racist institution. I invite you to join with me in this vital priority, for such transformation requires many hearts, hands, minds, and souls. Becoming anti-racist as an institution means looking deep within ourselves for personal conversion. It also means looking at our practices and policies all over campus, not just those related to campus safety but also those related to recruitment and retention of Black students, faculty, and staff and ensuring they can thrive here. Becoming anti-racist as an institution means examining how we teach, coach, and mentor, as well as what we teach and do not teach. In short, we need to move beyond self-examination to systems examination in all parts of campus.

We have collated the recommendations of past task forces and commissions, along with recent demands, and are developing benchmarks for achievement and accountability. Some of these are already posted online, as I announced last week, but we are working to improve our tracking, especially as we develop a strategic plan to achieve the goal of becoming a more anti-racist campus that goes beyond these demands or recommendations.

There is a lot of work to do, and we will be transparent about our progress. But let us not underestimate the awesome power of saying to another: Sabona, “I see you,” And then creating an environment for another to say proudly – not desperately – in reply, “I am here.” This moral imperative, as Dr. Hinga calls it, is a necessary step for the reconciliation we all seek. And it will fortify our community for the long work of restorative justice ahead.

As educators in the Jesuit tradition, we must always consider the context within which we teach, learn and live, so that we can more effectively serve others and redress injustice. The movement for racial justice is a critical part of that context. So are the pandemic that we continue to live with, and the fires around us, a telling sign of the climate change that is threatening our common home.

In these challenging times, I have frequently been asked in different ways: “How do we find hope?” This question is not a philosophical one but deeply personal, even visceral, for we all carry within our bodies and souls the suffering of our times.

But still, I hope. Hope is both a gift and a choice. It is a gift given to us by others. I find hope in the social movements we have seen all summer and recently on our campus, movements fueled by the inspiring energy and conviction of young people. I find hope in our faculty and staff, who have rallied together to offer an excellent Jesuit education for our students in circumstances we never imagined a year ago. I find hope in the God who has always guided us and who surely does not abandon us now. This hope will not disappoint.

Hope is a gift, but it is also a choice. Hope is not naïve optimism: to the contrary, it is grounded in reality with all of its complexities, even losses. It’s easy to fall into cynicism and despair, easy to blame and divide rather than to come together. So we must choose hope. To be frank, this is easy for me to do on good days when the path is clear but so much harder on those bad days, when I doubt, struggle, or mess up. Especially then, I choose hope by drawing on deep wells of creativity and talent in our community, deep wells of persistence and hard work, faith and kindness that are present here among us. I choose hope by relying on you, knowing that we are in this together and no one carries any burden alone.

In the middle of Big Basin, that amazing state park nearby that is filled with towering redwoods, there stands a tree, the Santa Clara tree. A century ago, my predecessor, Fr. Robert Kenna, S.J., and some very determined students and faculty, helped to inspire an environmental movement to create a preserve for the redwood forest. In 1902, to recognize those Santa Clara activists, a tree was named in our honor, a tree that measures the largest in diameter.

This summer, fires ravaged Big Basin but all signs indicate that most of the redwoods – some as old as 2,000 years – survived. Among them, as far as we know now, is the Santa Clara tree. Perhaps a bit charred, but still standing proud and tall and strong. As we shall be as a university. If we do this work together – with generosity and clarity of conviction—if we choose hope and stay faithful to our mission, we will be better and stronger because of how we met this moment together.

May God bless our year at Santa Clara.