by Daniel Golden and Kirsten Berg
ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as theyâre published.
This article was co-published with The Chronicle of Higher Education.
In August 2020, Boise State University chose a doctoral student in public policy, Melanie Fillmore, to deliver what is called a âland acknowledgmentâ speech at a convocation for incoming freshmen. Fillmore, who is part Indigenous, would recognize the tribes that lived in the Boise Valley before they were banished to reservations to make way for white settlers.
Fillmore considered it an honor. She was devoted to Boise State, where she had earned her bachelorâs and masterâs degrees, taught undergraduate courses and served on job search committees. She also admired Marlene Tromp, a feminist literary scholar who came from the University of California, Santa Cruz, in 2019 to become Boise Stateâs first female president. Tromp had been hired with a mandate to promote diversity, and including an Indigenous speaker in the ceremony marking the start of studentsâ higher education would advance that agenda.
The convocation was to be virtual, because of the pandemic. Fillmore put on beaded Native American jewelry and recorded an eight-minute video on her phone. She began by naming the ârightful owners of this land,â the Boise Valley Indigenous tribes, and then described her own âcomplicatedâ background. Her father was Hunkpapa Lakota, her mother white. âI can trace eight generations of my Lakota ancestors being removed from the land of their lifeblood to the reservation, just as I can trace seven generations of Norwegian and English ancestors taking that land,â she said.
Melanie Fillmore
(Angie Smith, special to ProPublica)
Fillmore urged viewers to âfind a way to share your story here at Boise Stateâ and to learn the history of Indigenous people. âWhen we acknowledge the Boise Valley ancestors and their land, we make room for that story of removal that was genocidal in purpose,â she said. âWhen we tell those stories honestly and fully, we heal, and our ancestors heal with us.â
She submitted her speech to the university, but the students never heard it. Boise State higher-ups thought that it was too long and too provocative to roll out in a politically precarious climate, one former official said. They consulted another administrator about whether to drop the speech. âI communicated that pulling it was a bad idea and incredibly wrong,â said this person, who has also left the university. âI donât believe in de-platforming Indigenous voices.â
The advice was disregarded. Two days before the convocation, the vice president for student affairs told Fillmore that her appearance was canceled, explaining that her safety might be at risk or that she might be trolled or doxxed online.
Fillmore was devastated. She had encouraged the students to tell their stories, and now hers was being erased. She wondered if administrators were worried about the timing. The Idaho Legislature â which normally meets from January to March, when it decides how much money to give to public education, including Boise State â would hold a special session three days after the convocation to consider COVID-19 measures. Conservative legislators, who ever since Trompâs arrival had been attacking Boise Stateâs diversity initiatives, might hear about Fillmoreâs talk and seize on it to bash the university.
âI didnât say anything that I havenât already been sharing with my research and work,â she wrote to a faculty mentor, political scientist Stephen Utych, in an email the next day.
âI was incredibly frustrated for Melanie, but also that the university caved on something so relatively benign, because thereâs so much pressure coming externally,â Utych said in an interview. He added that concerns about the Legislatureâs impact on Boise State were one reason he quit his tenured professorship this year to work in market research.
When the universityâs convocation committee, which organized the event, was informed of the decision, Amy Vecchione expressed misgivings. âI remember saying, âTypically, what we do is allow speech to take place, regardless of the content,ââ said Vecchione, assistant director of the universityâs center for developing online courses, who was the faculty senate liaison to the committee. ââWe process reactions if there are any. Thatâs part of academic freedom.ââ
After the convocation, Tromp commiserated with Fillmore over Zoom. âShe told me it was a sad outcome,â Fillmore said. Tromp did not respond to questions about the incident. Alicia Estey, chief of staff and vice president for university affairs, said in an email that âsafety was a concern.â
Almost two years later, Fillmore still broods about how she was treated. Although she loves teaching, sheâs rethinking her aspirations for an academic career. âI really lost a lot of faith in Boise State,â she said. âIt was more important for the university to cope with whatever the Legislature wanted than to advocate for students. I feel more like a liability than a part of the community.â
Across the country, elected officials in red states are seeking to impose their political views on public universities. Even as they decry liberal cancel culture, theyâre leveraging the threat of budget cuts to scale back diversity initiatives, sanitize the teaching of American history and interfere with university policies and appointments.
In Georgia, the governorâs appointees have made it easier to fire tenured professors. Florida passed a law requiring public universities to survey faculty and students annually about âthe extent to which competing ideas and perspectives are presented,â and allowing students to record professorsâ lectures as evidence of possible bias. In North Carolina, the Republican-dominated legislature, through its control over key positions, is âinappropriately seeking to expand [its] purview into the day-to-day operationsâ of state campuses, the American Association of University Professors reported in April. In Texas, the lieutenant governor and conservative donors worked with the state universityâs flagship Austin campus to start an institute âdedicated to the study and teaching of individual liberty, limited government, private enterprise and free markets,â according to The Texas Tribune.
Perhaps reflecting such tensions, the average tenure of public university presidents has declined from nine years to seven over the past two decades, and they are increasingly being fired or forced to resign, according to data prepared for this article by Sondra Barringer and Michael Harris, professors of higher education at Southern Methodist University. Between 2014 and 2020, 29% of departures by presidents of NCAA Division 1 public universities were involuntary, up from 19% between 2007 and 2013, and 10% between 2000 and 2006. Moreover, based on media reports and other sources, micromanaging or hyperpartisan boards were responsible for 24% of involuntary turnover at such universities in red states from 2014 to 2020, a rate more than four times higher than in blue states, Barringer and Harris found.
âOne way to weaken these institutions is to weaken the leadership of these institutions,â Harris said. âHigher education is under attack in a way that it has never quite been before. These are direct assaults on the core tenets of the institutions. ... Boards are running leaders out of town. Itâs scary stuff.â
The pressure has been intense in Idaho â and especially at its largest university, Boise State. Egged on by the Idaho Freedom Foundation, a nonprofit group dedicated to âexposing, defeating, and replacing the stateâs socialist public policies,â conservative legislators have pushed to prevent an overwhelmingly white institution from considering diversity in its policies and programs.
In 2020, Idaho banned affirmative action at public universities. Last year, the state trimmed $1.5 million from Boise Stateâs budget, targeting diversity, equity and inclusion programs, along with a total of $1 million from the other two state universities. Idaho also became the first of seven states to adopt laws aimed at restricting collegesâ teaching or training related to critical race theory, which examines how racism is ingrained in Americaâs laws and power structure. The lieutenant governor convened a task force to âprotect our young people from the scourge of critical race theory, socialism, communism and Marxismâ in higher education. This year, the Legislature adopted a nonbinding resolution condemning critical race theory and The New York Timesâs 1619 Project for âdivisive contentâ that âseeks to disregard the history of the United States and the nationâs journey to becoming a pillar of freedom in the world.â
Boise State is a revealing prism through which to examine how public universities, meant to be bastions of academic freedom, are responding to red-state pressures. The school would seem to be in a strong position to resist them. It receives a relatively modest 18% of its budget from the state, with the balance from tuition, student fees, federal student financial aid, research grants and donors. Buoyed by its nationally known football team, which plays on a blue field that has come to rival the potato as Idahoâs most recognizable symbol, and located in one of the nationâs fastest-growing metropolitan areas, Boise State has seen its academic stature and private fundraising rise. It received $41.8 million in donations in fiscal 2021, up from $34.2 million in 2020, although one prominent donor vowed to reduce his giving, complaining that the university was trending leftward.
But for all its seeming clout and independence, Boise State has yielded again and again. It has canceled events, like Fillmoreâs speech, that might alienate conservatives; avoided using the terms âdiversityâ and âinclusionâ; and suspended a course on ethics and diversity with 1,300 students over a legislatorâs unfounded allegation of misconduct by a teacher.
University administrators âseem to want to placate the conservatives,â said sociology lecturer Michael Kreiter, who was an instructor in the suspended course and teaches classes on racism. âTheir goal, in my view, is just to stay out of sight, hoping that all of this backlash wonât get focused on them.â
Idahoâs anti-critical race theory law âhas chilled some Boise State educators and shut down their teaching and speech about race and gender in the classroom,â said Aadika Singh, legal director at the ACLU of Idaho, which investigated potentially unconstitutional enforcement of the law. âBut it is also clear that some courageous educators have doubled down and reacted to the legislatureâs attacks on education by teaching more controversial topics. The university administration has not been courageous; they havenât had their facultyâs backs.â While the investigation remains open, Singh said, the ACLU of Idaho shifted its focus to educating faculty members on their academic freedom and free-speech rights in the classroom.
From left, Idaho Gov. Brad Little; Kevin Satterlee, president of Idaho State University; Marlene Tromp, president of Boise State University; C. Scott Green, president of the University of Idaho; and Jim Everett, co-president of the College of Idaho, at Boise Entrepreneur Week in 2019.
(Photo by Angie Smith)
Boise State spokesperson Mike Sharp said that the 18% slice of its budget doesnât convey the full scope of the stateâs support for the university. Its land is titled in the name of the state Board of Education, and its buildings are all state buildings, he said. If Boise State had to cut programs to meet payroll, he added, enrollment would decline, and its credit rating might be downgraded. Without state support, âBoise State as it exists today would disappear,â Sharp said.
In an email to ProPublica, Tromp explained her strategy. âMy aim is to support our faculty, students and staff and to open lines of dialogue with those in our community who are certain universities donât see or hear them,â she wrote. âThe work we are doing has the potential to be truly transformative â not just here but more broadly.â She declined to comment further, saying it is âa delicate moment, in which it continues to be easy to harm the best efforts in almost any direction.â
Some professors worry that the unanswered attacks are hurting Boise Stateâs credibility. When faculty members and community organizations recently sponsored a symposium on how to adjust property taxes to help homeowners affected by Boiseâs soaring housing values, they held it off campus and didnât list the university as a sponsor, in contrast to a similar symposium that the university conducted on campus 15 years ago.
âI am saddened by whatâs happened in the last couple of years,â said Boise State political scientist Stephanie Witt, who helped organize the discussion. âThereâs the perception that working with us is somehow connected to this taint on all higher education. We canât be trusted.â
As it searched for a president in 2019, Boise State was increasingly gaining national recognition â and not just for athletics. Founded as a junior college by the Episcopal church in 1932, it entered the state system in 1969 and became a university in 1974. For years thereafter it was largely a commuter school for working adults. But now enrollment was steadily growing, especially from out of state; 17% of its undergraduates come from California. Its status had recently been upgraded to âhigh research activityâ under the Carnegie system for classifying universities, and U.S. News & World Report had named it one of the countryâs 50 most innovative universities.
One shortcoming stood in the way of its aspirations: a lack of diversity. Its faculty is 83% white, 5% Latino, 5% Asian and 1% Black. Even though 43% of degree-seeking undergraduates come from outside predominantly white Idaho, fewer than 2% are Black. Latinos make up 14%. The services needed to attract faculty and students of color, as well as low-income and LGBTQ students, and make them feel at home were scanty compared with many universities.
âWe are a modern day Cinderella story,â a university commission concluded in 2017. âUnfortunately ... it is not clear that everyone is being invited nor supported to participate in the ball.â It called for creating âan infrastructure with executive leadership, and with the appropriate resources.â
During the presidential search, faculty, staff and students emphasized the importance of diversity. But some candidates were wary of Idaho politics. One finalist, Andrew Marcus, former dean of arts and sciences at the University of Oregon, cited âlimited state funding and a climate of growing national concern about universitiesâ as challenges in his job application. A Boise State staffer warned Marcus that Idaho was a one-party state in which Republicans were split into three factions: Mormons, who supported state funding for higher education; and libertarians and Trump acolytes, who didnât.
Another hopeful bowed out after researching state politics. âI felt my values may not be shared by the governance structures in Idaho,â she said. âI didnât want to have those fights.â
Tromp was the clear choice for the job. Born in 1966, she was raised a two-hour drive from the Idaho border, in Green River, Wyoming. Her father was a mechanic in a trona mine, a mineral processed into baking soda, and her mother was a telephone operator. Her high school guidance counselor applied to colleges for her, because she couldnât afford the application fees. When an East Coast university offered her a full scholarship, her father said, âHoney, what would happen if you got all the way across the country and this turned out not to be real?â She enrolled at Creighton University in Nebraska, where she was smitten by Victorian poetry.
After earning her doctorate at the University of Florida, she spent 14 years at Denison University, a liberal arts college in Ohio. An English professor and director of womenâs studies, she earned teaching awards and churned out books and articles. She advocated for nontraditional departments such as queer studies, said Toni King, a professor of Black studies and womenâs and gender studies at Denison. âShe cares very deeply about individual people, she pulls talent together, she innovates beyond,â King said. âShe was always, âWe can get there quicker, sooner, bigger.ââ
The Boise State campus
(Angie Smith, special to ProPublica)
Tromp immersed herself in campus life, speaking at âTake Back the Nightâ marches to raise awareness of violence against women. She was married on the steps of Denisonâs library in 2007. Music department faculty played in the reception band. When she left for Arizona State, King thought, âThere goes a college president.â
At Arizona State, Tromp served as dean of a college that offered interdisciplinary programs across the sciences, social sciences and humanities. At UC Santa Cruz, which she joined in 2017 as executive vice chancellor, she launched a mentoring program for faculty from underrepresented groups. She also proposed a new strategic plan too quickly, without enough familiarity with campus culture, according to Ronnie Lipschutz, an emeritus professor of politics.
âMarlene swept in and wanted to make an impact,â said Lipschutz, who is the author of an institutional history of UC Santa Cruz that examines why numerous strategic plans there have failed. âShe didnât talk to many people about how the place operated.â Tromp did not respond to questions about the strategic plan and her experience at Santa Cruz.
The battle over her plan was dragging on when Tromp left. She told the Santa Cruz academic senate that âincidents involving her personal and familyâs safetyâ led her to accept the Boise State presidency, according to meeting minutes summarizing her talk. She also âexpressed fear that there may be a lack of understanding of how easy it is to incite rage against the leaders in our community.â Santa Cruz colleagues said that she had been alarmed when people threatened and jeered her while she was jogging along a coastal road. They may have been unhoused students for whom dormitory space wasnât available, and who had been denied permission to live in their cars and park in a campus lot, one friend said.
For a feminist university president, Idaho seemed unlikely to provide a safer, less volatile environment. âWe were all surprisedâ at her departure, âespecially since her project had not finished,â Lipschutz said. âThe fact that she was going to Idaho was also a bit of a surprise. It was like, âWhy on earth would you go to Idaho?ââ
Tromp had no such doubts. âShe was very enthusiastic and very much felt that she was coming home to the region that shaped her,â King said.
The Legislature wasnât about to give her a honeymoon. In June 2019, Boise Stateâs interim president had highlighted the universityâs diversity initiatives in a newsletter. They included graduation fetes for Black and LGBTQ students, six graduate fellowships for underrepresented minority students, recruiting a Black sorority or fraternity and implicit bias training for employees.
The next month, eight days after Tromp started, half of the 56 Republicans in Idahoâs House of Representatives wrote to her, assailing these programs as âdivisive and exclusionaryâ and âantithetical to the purpose of a public university in Idaho.â
Through no fault of her own, Tromp was boxed in. She responded by calling for âmeaningful dialogue,â thanking legislators for their âgenuine engagementâ and saying she looked forward to hearing their concerns.
In the midst of this firestorm, she met with three student activists. Ushered into her office, they noticed her treadmill desk and the bookshelves featuring her own works. When they told her about racism on campus, including swastikas painted on dormitory walls, Tromp started crying, according to two students, Ryann Banks and Abby Barzee.
âDidnât you know about this before you took the job?â Banks asked her.
âI did not know,â Tromp said.
About 10 days after the legislatorsâ letter, cartoon postcards were mailed anonymously to state officials and lawmakers, depicting Tromp as a clown. Other attacks ensued. Although Tromp had spent only two years at UC Santa Cruz, the Idaho Freedom Foundationâs sister organization, Idaho Freedom Action, lampooned her as a âCalifornia liberal ... Turning Boise State Into a Taxpayer-Funded Marxist Indoctrination Center.â A scholar of xenophobia in Victorian England, Tromp was experiencing fear of outsiders firsthand.
After the foundation encouraged its supporters to troll her, Tromp received âhundreds and hundreds and hundreds of some of the most venomous hateful emails I could possibly imagine,â she said at a private 2021 meeting, according to a recording the Idaho Freedom Foundation obtained and posted. âThreats to drag me out in the street and sexually assault me and kill me. Messages of hatred. ... Itâs a manifestation of the toxicity of the political climate across our country.â
Much as former President Barack Obama once courted congressional Republicans, Tromp sought to conciliate the conservative legislators. In one-on-one meetings, she assured them that she took the free-speech rights of a student wearing a Make America Great Again hat as seriously as anyone elseâs. âAll means allâ became her mantra. Previously either a Democrat or undeclared, she registered to vote in Idaho as a Republican.
But she faced several disadvantages, starting with her gender. âThese extremists think that itâs easier to pick off a woman than a man, and so they go afterâ her, said former Boise State President Bob Kustra.
Trompâs striking appearance â sheâs tall and slender, with close-cropped hair, glasses (often red) and multiple ear piercings â may have disconcerted some Idahoans. âI sometimes wonder if Dr. Tromp isnât an easier target because she looks like a modern woman,â said Witt, the political scientist. âPeople say, âSheâs got more than one hole in her ears, sheâs got short hair.ââ
As Idahoâs only urban university, Boise State attracts disproportionate media attention and conservative skepticism. It also has few of the natural allies on whom universities often lean politically: alumni in key government posts. Tromp reports to the state Board of Education, which has only one Boise State graduate among its eight members.
While its campus is a mile from the state Capitol building, Boise Stateâs presence there is sparse. About 10% of legislators are Boise State alumni, which may be partly attributable to its lack of a law school. Two Mormon institutions, Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, and Brigham Young University-Idaho in Rexburg, together have about twice as many alumni in the Legislature as Boise State does. The University of Idaho has almost double Boise Stateâs representation. Gov. Brad Little is a University of Idaho graduate.
The disparity is even greater on the Joint Finance-Appropriations Committee, which sets the higher education budget. Six members of the Republican majority on JFAC graduated from the University of Idaho, including a co-chair, and none from Boise State.
As Idahoâs only land-grant university, with the stateâs only public law school, the University of Idaho possesses in-state cachet and connections that Boise State is hard-pressed to match. Its diversity initiatives are comparable to Boise Stateâs. It has a chief diversity officer, as well as a director of diversity and inclusion for its engineering college. Boise State has neither position. Yet the Legislature appropriated 72% more per student to the University of Idaho in fiscal 2022 than to Boise State.
The University of Idahoâs president, C. Scott Green, called out the freedom foundation this past January, denouncing âa false narrative created by conflict entrepreneurs who make their living sowing fear and doubt with legislators and voters.â
Green avoided any pushback because âhe has friends in key positions,â said Rep. Brent Crane, a committee chairman and former House assistant majority leader, who graduated from Boise State in 2005.
Brent Crane
(Angie Smith, special to ProPublica)
Even though Crane is an alumnus, Boise State canât count on his support. His father, a former state legislator and treasurer, is treasurer of the Idaho Freedom Foundation, with which Crane agrees 82% of the time, according to its rankings.
The 47-year-old Crane represents the Boise suburb of Nampa, where he was born and grew up, and where heâs vice president of his familyâs security and fire alarm business. He and his brother also own a fire sprinkler company. At a nearby coffeehouse, he said that, when he was a political science major at Boise State, his teachers never revealed their opinions. âWhat I respected most about my professors was that I didnât know if they were Democrats or Republicans,â he said. âWhatever the student thought, the professor took the opposite tack. In my perfect world, Iâd like to see Boise State get back to where it was when I was there.â
Crane, who is white, said that he disagrees with critical race theory: âThereâs no racism in my life.â In his boyhood, he said, âAfrican Americans were revered and looked up to. They were the athletes who played on the football and basketball teams. They were the heroes.â
Under immediate pressure, Tromp began rethinking her agenda. âFrom day one, when she came in, and the letter from the legislators came in saying, âYouâre under a microscope, youâd better start scrubbing your campus of these programs,â that changed the operating environment from her perspective, and probably the perspective of everyone,â one insider said.
âThere was a quiet reassessment of what can we reasonably accomplish and an ongoing conversation about how do we serve our students best without unnecessarily inflaming the rage and the accusations of these legislators?ââ
Crane, the legislator and Boise State alumnus, had a role in one of the universityâs early concessions. Boise State was advertising for a new position: vice provost for equity and inclusion. It would be the top diversity job at the university, implementing Trompâs agenda. The vice provost would oversee recruiting and retaining faculty, building diversity into the curriculum and monitoring the campus climate.
The search produced two finalists. One of them, Brandy Bryson, looked into Idaho politics and withdrew her name from consideration. âThere was no way the institution was going to survive the political strong-arming that was coming from the Legislature,â said Bryson, director of inclusive excellence at Appalachian State University in North Carolina. âBoise Stateâs desire to hire a vice provost for equity and inclusion was a clear commitment to academic excellence and the empirically proven benefits of diversity, which the Legislature didnât seem to understand or value.â
The other finalist, John Miller Jr., then chair of social work at a liberal arts college in the South, noticed that someone from the Idaho Freedom Foundation was tracking him on social media. Nevertheless, he accepted an invitation to visit Boise State, where he met in March 2020 with Tromp and other leaders, and gave a presentation.
Some search committee members had reservations about Miller, who wasnât a shoo-in, insiders said. Still, âthe vibe I got, when I was dropped off at the airport, I fully expected an offer,â Miller said. âI was definitely under strong consideration.â
After the student newspaper reported on the opening, though, Boise Stateâs critics weighed in. Idaho Freedom Foundation President Wayne Hoffman wrote on the groupâs website that âBSU didnât get the messageâ from the âwritten rebukeâ by the 28 legislators. Shortly after Miller returned to South Carolina, Crane denounced his alma mater for hiring a âvice president of diversity,â calling it âa direct affrontâ to the Legislature and âme personally.â Despite getting the job title wrong, Crane clearly meant the vice provost position.
Crane also conveyed his concerns privately to Tromp. He regarded the new position as part of âthe woke agenda sweeping the country: I donât want to see Boise State caught up in that,â he told ProPublica. The House had already killed the higher education budget twice. If Tromp had forged ahead, other Boise State priorities might not have been funded, Crane said.
âShe and I disagree on the vice provost of diversity,â he told ProPublica. âThatâs not a hill she wants to die on. She chose to pay deference.â A week later, Boise State notified Miller that it had halted the search. It never filled the position.
Crane continued to lambaste Boise State. During an April 2021 debate on the higher education budget, Crane read aloud what he said was an email from an unnamed Boise State music student complaining that a professor had asked a class to discuss how Black composers are superior to white composers. The student protested that skin color has nothing to do with the quality of music but was purportedly told to be quiet. (The incident could not be confirmed.)
âIâm disgusted. Iâm embarrassed and Iâm ashamed,â Crane told the legislature. âThere has been a direct shift in the ideology thatâs being taught at Boise State University. ... Our tax dollarsâ do not âneed to be spent silencing kidsâ voices on our college campuses.â
One way that Boise State sought to reduce legislative pushback was by adjusting its language. For example, Tromp asked a university planning committee to avoid the words âdiversityâ and âinclusion,â which legislators would be searching for, said Angel Cantu, a former student government president on the committee. Boise Stateâs 2022-26 strategic plan doesnât mention âdiversityâ or âinclusion,â while the phrase âequity gapsâ appears four times. By contrast, the University of Idahoâs plan calls for building an âinclusive, diverse communityâ and creating an âinclusive learning environment.â
Boise State administrators discussed the importance of terminology at several meetings, a former official recalled. The message was that âyou can use different words to have the same meaning. Equity and words like that are less incendiary.â
The university tweaked job titles similarly. In August 2020, Francisco Salinas, then the universityâs top diversity officer, moved from âdirector of student diversity and inclusionâ to âassistant to the vice president for equity initiatives.â
Although his responsibilities did change, Salinas said, the new description wasnât his choice, and he disagreed with scrubbing words like diversity. âThe tactics being usedâ against Boise State, he said, âwere bullying tactics. Itâs the same thing you learn as a kid. If a bully is successful at taking your lunch money, theyâre going to keep going. You have to stand up and let them know they canât do that to you.â
Discouraged, Salinas left Boise State in April to become dean of equity, diversity and inclusion at Spokane Falls Community College in Washington. He said other diversity officials have fled. âI know what Dr. Trompâs heart is,â he said. âI was very pleased she was hired. I thought sheâd be able to make progress along this axis. But the environment did not afford that.â
The legislative barrage also affected recruitment. âIâve been on hiring committees and I see who applies for jobs here,â said Utych, the former political science professor. âThey are a lot whiter than they are at other universities. Part of that is the location, but part of that is also the Legislature attacking diversity and inclusion.â
Tromp âdescribed being very, very disheartened that the best thing to do might be to pull back because of the resistance,â her friend King recalled. âThere was concern, with all the information she had before her, how could she move forward? She had to think about the university as a whole.â
The Rainbow Graduation in April
(Angie Smith, special to ProPublica)
When the university did move forward with a lightning-rod event, it took precautions to avoid a backlash. Republican legislators had attacked the âRainbow Graduation,â which honors LGBTQ students, in their letter to Tromp, and the Idaho Freedom Foundation had accused Boise State of holding âsegregationistâ commencements. At this springâs Rainbow Graduation, Boise Stateâs dean of students pointedly reminded the 30 or so seniors that âthis is not a commencement ceremony.â Since they were aware that they would actually graduate nine days later, the disclaimer appeared to be intended for critics outside the university.
Some faculty were undaunted. The sociology department has doubled the number of its courses focusing on race and racism from two to four, and it opened an Anti-Racism Collective that brings in speakers. âThis is a great opportunity in some sense,â said sociology department chairman Arthur Scarritt. Added Kreiter, who doesnât have tenure: âI feel I donât have a lot of longevity here. Iâm just going to teach this as fiery as I can.â
Several professors and administrators urged Tromp to fight back. âThere were a lot of people on campus, even in senior leadership, who said, âYou canât get out of this by taking the high road,ââ one recalled. âI would have preferred a more direct approach.â
Tromp drew the line at cultivating the Idaho Freedom Foundation. Hoffman said he has asked to meet with her on multiple occasions and has been refused. âNothing has changed at Boise State,â he said in an email. âItâs just handled more carefully.â
There is some evidence for the contention by Crane and other critics that conservative students at Boise State tend to feel squelched in class. A state Board of Education survey completed last November found that 36% of Boise State students who self-identified as right of center felt pressured often or very frequently to accept beliefs they found offensive, as opposed to 12% of students in the center and 6% on the left. Conservative students were more apt to feel this pressure from professors; liberals, from classmates.
Still, the faculty encompasses a range of views. Anne Walker, chair of the economics department, holds a fellowship in free enterprise capitalism. One member of the lieutenant governorâs task force on communism in higher education was Scott Yenor, a Boise State political scientist and occasional Tucker Carlson guest. In December 2020, Yenor and an Idaho Freedom Foundation analyst co-authored a report urging the Legislature to âdirect the university to eliminate courses that are infused with social justice ideology.â In a speech last fall, Yenor mocked feminists as âmedicated, meddlesome and quarrelsomeâ and universities as âthe citadels of our gynecocracy.â
Boise Stateâs donors also span the political spectrum. Timber and cattle ranching magnate Larry Williams served for 20 years on the Boise State Foundation board and has donated millions of dollars for athletics and business programs. He has also given six figures to the Idaho Freedom Foundation. In this yearâs Republican primary campaign, he gave about $125,000 to more than 30 conservative candidates, including $1,000 to Crane.
Larry and Marianne Williams are pictured on a display at a Boise State sports training facility named after them.
(Angie Smith, special to ProPublica)
Throughout 2020, Williams pressed Boise State to scuttle the programs identified by the 28 Republican legislators, to no avail. Although he found Tromp to be open and engaging, he told legislators in February 2021 that he would no longer donate to Boise State, with the exception of its football program, âuntil this is turned around.â
âIt appears BSU no longer shares our Idaho values,â Williams wrote. âStudents are taught ... that our honest, hardworking rural farmers, ranchers, miners and loggers are âwhite privilegedâ with âimplicit biasâ toward minorities and Native Americans.â
The Idaho Freedom Foundationâs Hoffman acknowledged that Boise State has fewer diversity initiatives than some big universities in other states. âWe recognize that itâs a small but growing dedication of resources to this enterprise,â he said. âI donât care how big it is. I care if any taxpayer dollars are wasted on these efforts. We want to catch it now before it becomes an even bigger problem.â
Like white students from rural Idaho who are exposed for the first time to concepts like white privilege and systemic racism, some students of color, especially from other states, endure culture shock on campus. After Kennyetta Coulter, a biology major from Long Beach, California, arrived at Boise State last year, accompanied by her mother, they hardly saw another Black person for two weeks. âIf you donât like Boise, donât be afraid to tell me,â her mother said on leaving.
Kennyetta Coulter
(Angie Smith, special to ProPublica)
In a âDifficult Conversationsâ class, Coulter, who describes herself as a political moderate, found that she was the only student in her discussion group who favored background checks for gun buyers or was open to letting transgender athletes participate in sports based on their gender identity. Her three roommates, all of whom had blue eyes and blond hair, were nice to her. But sometimes she felt peer pressure to suppress her views. At Boise State football games, she squirmed in the student section while âbig, buff white boys with cowboy bootsâ chanted, âFuck Joe Biden.â
Coulter became so depressed that she sought counseling. âSometimes I just feel Iâm all alone,â she said, âand Iâm the only one who understands what Iâm going through.â She didnât have the energy to go to class and stayed in bed and watched television.
The administrationâs reluctance to challenge legislators dispirited her. âWhy isnât the university saying anything?â Coulter wondered.
In some red states, public universities have fought back. The University of Nebraska has been especially effective in warding off political pressure. Itâs the only public university in Nebraska, and about half of the stateâs legislators earned degrees from institutions within the University of Nebraska system. So did all eight regents. And as a retired vice admiral and former superintendent of the U.S. Naval Academy, Nebraska president Ted Carter has the kind of military credentials that make it hard to call him a communist.
University regent Jim Pillen, a veterinarian and former Nebraska football star who is running for governor, proposed a resolution last year that critical race theory âseeks to silence opposing views and disparage important American idealsâ and should not be âimposed in curriculum, training and programming.â
Aided by the ACLU of Nebraska and other advocacy groups, the universityâs administration, faculty and student government mobilized against the resolution. At a hearing last August before the regents, almost 40 people testified against it, while only a handful supported it. Defenders of critical race theory noted that the Declaration of Independence refers to âmerciless Indian Savages.â A retired English professor pleaded with the board: âIf you pass this, you repudiate my whole career.â
The four nonvoting student regents also voiced their opposition, including Batool Ibrahim, the first Black student government president of Nebraskaâs flagship Lincoln campus. Ibrahim considers herself a native Nebraskan, although technically she isnât. Her Sudanese parents were flying to the U.S. in 1999, hoping she would be born on American soil so she could become president someday, when her mother went into labor on the plane. The pilot hurriedly landed in Dubai, where Ibrahim was born. The family soon moved to Lincoln, where she grew up.
Critical race theory âis the history of people of color in this nation,â Ibrahim said. âIt is my history. So when we talk about whether critical race theory should be taught or it should not be taught, youâre telling me that my history does not belong in the classroom.â
Pillen defended his resolution, saying that it did not violate academic freedom and that âNebraskans deserve the confidence of knowing their hard-earned tax dollars cannot be used to force critical race theory on anyone.â
The board upheld teaching critical race theory by a 5-3 vote. But the battle was just starting. One regent in the majority warned that 400 of 550 constituents who contacted him supported the resolution â a promising sign for Pillen, who would go on to win the Republican gubernatorial nomination.
In November 2021, the chancellor of the University of Nebraskaâs Lincoln campus, saying he had been âshakenâ by the Minneapolis police killing of George Floyd, announced a plan to ârecruit, retain and support the success of students, faculty and staff who are people of color.â Nebraska Gov. Pete Ricketts, who canât seek reelection because of term limits and has endorsed Pillen, called the plan âideological indoctrinationâ that would âinject critical race theory into every corner of campus.â
Then a Nebraska legislator proposed withholding funds from colleges or public schools that engaged in ârace or sex scapegoating.â In a rerun of the regentsâ hearing, 40 people testified against the bill in February, while three supported it. Speaking for the university, Richard Moberly, dean of the law school, warned that the bill could be interpreted to prohibit legitimate discussion of systemic racism and unconscious bias. It died in committee.
Pillen isnât giving up. âAs governor, Iâll fight CRT and other un-American, far-left ideologies in our classrooms,â he told ProPublica.
Despite Trompâs conciliatory approach, a controversy in October 2020 further roiled the universityâs critics. It pitted a popular downtown establishment, Big City Coffee, which had just opened a branch in Boise Stateâs library, against student activists galvanized by Floydâs killing five months before.
Big City Coffeeâs name appears to be ironic. Agricultural signs hang from the walls and rafters: âDuroc Hog,â âStrawberries for Sale,â âCattle Crossing.â But it was another aspect of the downtown locationâs decor that prompted student complaints, even though it wasnât replicated in the library shop: a âthin blue lineâ flag. The students argued that such flags can signify support for white supremacists and hostility to the Black Lives Matter movement, and that a business with those sentiments should not have a campus outlet.
The coffee shop owner, who describes herself as a political moderate, explained that she was engaged to a former police officer who had been shot and disabled in the line of duty, and that she only meant to support law enforcement. Student government President Angel Cantu agreed that the shop should not be kicked off campus simply for being sympathetic to first responders.
The protesters werenât mollified. They were already upset with Cantu because they wanted the university to cancel its security contract with Boise police. He felt Boise State shouldnât do so without first knowing how to replace the departmentâs services.
The wrangle escalated as Big City Coffee shut down the campus branch, and other student government leaders impeached Cantu. The coffee shop owner sued Boise State, Tromp and three other university officials, accusing them of forcing her off campus. Charges against the university and Tromp were dismissed, while the case is proceeding against the other defendants, who have denied wrongdoing.
The branchâs demise and Cantuâs impeachment galvanized conservative students. Jacinta Rigi, a sophomore who had opposed the impeachment, posted a video accusing the student government of ignoring her and others on campus. âFreedom of speech is being abused and stolen from many students at the university and our voices are being silenced,â she said. The video drew almost 8,300 views, and Rigi ran for student government president in 2021.
Although Rigi lost â she now works at Fox News in New York while completing her Boise State degree online â the political momentum on campus had shifted. This past March, Adam Jones, a former intern in the Republican Partyâs Boise office who urged Boise State to reconcile with the Legislature, was elected student government president. âToo often it is looked at that the state is being the bad guy,â Jones told ProPublica.
Adam Jones
(Angie Smith, special to ProPublica)
Jones is a Boise native. His father, a lawyer, and his mother, a banker, both graduated from Boise State. He campaigned in a 1993 white Ford pickup truck he rebuilt himself, with âBlue Lives Matterâ and âGod Bless Americaâ stickers on its rear windshield, a mounted American flag and a âUSA4EVAâ license plate. Asked about public safety at a candidatesâ debate, he said, âEvery time I see a Boise police officer go by, I feel safe.â
In March 2021, about 1,300 Boise State students were taking University Foundations 200, âFoundations of Ethics and Diversity.â The course, which predated Tromp, was split into more than 50 sections. Each tackled the topic through a different lens, from the âStar Warsâ saga to how lack of access to technology affects rural Americans and other groups.
Sociology professor Dora RamĂrez was teaching a section on censorship. She was about to start a unit about a bill, under consideration in the Idaho Legislature, attacking critical race theory. Then, RamĂrez said, she and the other UF 200 instructors got a lesson in censorship from their own university.
Boise State had received a complaint from a legislator, who has never been publicly identified. The legislator said he had seen a video of a UF 200 class in which an instructor had demeaned a female studentâs intelligence and forced her to apologize in front of the class for being white. She was supposedly taunted by other students and left the class in tears.
Dora RamĂrez
(Angie Smith, special to ProPublica)
Without seeing the video, Tromp suspended all UF 200 sections for a week and hired a law firm to investigate. âIsnât it ironic?â to suspend a censorship class, RamĂrez recalled thinking. âWhat a way to undermine the authority of all those instructors. You work so hard to build a rapport with all those students. Then theyâre thinking, âWhat did she do wrong?ââ
Some faculty members were appalled. âA lot of us were quickly pointing out, âWe have students of color made to feel bad every day of the week,ââ said sociologist Martin Orr, a former president of the faculty senate. âOne white student feels bad, all hell breaks loose.â
When the course resumed, Kreiter used the suspension as fodder for his UF 200 section on inequality in higher education. âThe university is robbing you of your education because of politics,â he told students. âYouâre still out the same tuition bill, but youâre getting less education.â
The law firmâs report, which came out in May, concluded that no student was mistreated and no instructor acted improperly. The complaint apparently mischaracterized a class discussion about universal health care in which a student had called an instructorâs logic âstupidâ â not the other way around. âThere were no reports of anyone being forced to apologize for being white.â The legislator told investigators that he didnât have the video, which has never surfaced publicly.
Tromp told the Inlander, a community newspaper in Spokane, Washington, that since she hadnât known in which class section the alleged incident took place, she had been forced to suspend the entire course. Other university presidents whom she consulted agreed with her decision, she said. âItâs a little bit like being told thereâs a gas leak in the building, but you donât know where it is,â Tromp said. âIt always feels dramatic to clear the building to find the gas leak.â
For one UF 200 instructor, who was teaching a section on misinformation, the incident was âvery muchâ what his class was about. Legislators were âtrying to craft a completely unwarranted narrative for political reasons in order to shut something down.â
Nevertheless, Tromp redoubled catering to them. She established an âInstitute for Advancing American Valuesâ to inspire âus to talk and listen to each other respectfully.â Its first speaker was conservative pundit Jason Riley.
Boise State also scaled back an annual tradition, âDay at the Capitol.â In the past, a dozen student government members would set up a booth in the Capitol rotunda and chat with legislators. Other students were invited to watch from the gallery.
Mostly, Democratic lawmakers dropped by. Republicans sent aides to say they were busy. âWe got used to being avoided by them,â Cantu said. âWe still went out of our way to invite them.â
This year, there was no booth. âThe universityâs concern was that the students would protest or do something inappropriate,â Jones said. Two student leaders met briefly with the governor as he declared it âBoise State University Day.â Three other students delivered gifts â 105 jars of honey, courtesy of Boise Stateâs beekeeping team â to the offices of each of the 70 representatives and 35 senators.
While reining in students, Boise State invited Crane, the alumnus who had opposed hiring a vice provost for equity and inclusion, to introduce its leadership team on that special day to the House chambers. Crane was delighted to help.
Do You Have a Tip for ProPublica? Help Us Do Journalism.