Free Speaking Truth to Power by Anita Hill Page A

myself. When I started teaching, I was able to fully explore the analysis rather than simply learn to identify and respond to it. It was then that I realized that what had been proposed as objective was in fact fraught with perspective—the perspective of those who made up the analysis—one that I did not often share. But in law school, rather than question the analysis, I questioned myself. I felt some insecurity, not because of my race or gender, but because my closest friends at the law school all had undergraduate degrees from Princeton, Brown, or Stanford while I had a degree from Oklahoma State University, an “aggie college.” And many had had the benefit of travel and culture that were well beyond my means. None of my friends at Yale ever encouraged these insecurities or pointed out the differences, but when it came to hiring for summer jobs, I knew that I was at a distinct disadvantage.
    The famous New England fall foliage came early in my first semester. And just as quickly and unexpectedly followed my first bout of severe homesickness. Once again and far earlier than I was accustomed, it was bitter cold. I missed my family, and with the change in the weather, I even began to long for Oklahoma. I had cried when I said good-bye to my sister JoAnn, heaving sobs that lasted well into Kansas, driving north from Tulsa. I consoled myself by calling JoAnn or my mother. Of course I cried again when I got my telephone bill. My family in Oklahoma was experiencing severe stress. Shortly after I began the fall semester, two of my aunts, my mother’s sisters, died within hours of each other, one in Arkansas and one in Missouri. I could not afford to travel home to be with my family and attend the funerals. But I wrote to my motherregularly, and she faithfully wrote to me, sometimes twice a week. By the end of the spring semester, I had endured rigorous academic challenges, inevitable second-guessing about my career choice, trying personal circumstances, and one of the harshest winters in the history of Connecticut.
    My academic experiences during the second and third years of law school were much more enjoyable. I began to develop a greater sense of what the study of law was about. By the third year I even began to regard the law school environment as intellectually nurturing, not simply challenging. I adjusted to being away from my home and family. I grew socially and personally, becoming less bashful and reserved.
    By the end of my last semester at Yale, I had decided to work in Washington, D.C. Though I had an interest in civil rights, I chose to go into a law firm that represented corporate interests, a decision based mostly on financial considerations. I had accumulated considerable debt from college and law school. Moreover, I looked forward to being financially secure myself and being able to offer my parents some of the things they otherwise could not afford. With school behind me, only the bar examination stood between me and the dream of practicing law. Like most of my classmates, I became obsessed with passing. I spent mornings in a review course, afternoons outlining that day’s lecture, and evenings studying the next day’s material. The sixth week of the course seemed like an eternity. And as the date of the exam approached, I grew more and more anxious and so filled with information and mnemonic devices for recalling it that I thought I might burst.
    I moved to Washington in July 1980 just a few days before the two-day examination. Tuesday, July 29, could not come quickly enough. The fact that the following day was my birthday was of little importance. The only important thing about July 30, 1980, was that it would be the last day of the bar examination. On the morning before the examination I was too excited to eat, managing only a few bites. As I sat through the timed segments of the examination, years’ worth of information poured onto the pages and out of my head, forever. By the afternoon of the first