Presidents Speak Out About Not Speaking Out

The writers are all current presidents. 

First, when the head of our professional association speaks in their official capacity, we are speaking.

Second, we are litigating where appropriate.

Third, random op-eds aren’t resistance—they’re unstrategic and unproductive. Instead, we’re in D.C., making our case in key offices and gathering influential allies. Every president I know is exhausting themselves working our networks.

Why not shout from the rooftops? Because, based on what we know, the approach we’re taking is most likely to yield acceptable—even positive—outcomes. Some stakeholders may find direct advocacy unsatisfying, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.

The demand for public outcry is understandable, but I liken it to revealing litigation strategy—comforting to supporters but weakening our position. We are advancing our cause where decisions are made, not just in the court of public opinion.

No one I know is acting out of fear or self-interest. We are looking decision-makers in the eye and making clear: We are critical to what makes this country great, and much is at stake if we cannot continue.

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1. Part of “doing something” is ensuring and protecting institutional viability.
2. Not everything a president does can be fully shared publicly.

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Does praying count? Given that we have a significant number of international students, we live in constant worry that we will hear a horror story about some students being grabbed by government operatives. We also do not ask about the legal status of any students already living in the United States, so we know they are at risk as well. While we truly do pray that our campus will remain a safe haven, we are helpless to know or control what may happen when they are away. 

There are things I wish to say as my head explodes from the unimaginable that continues to emanate from our nation’s capital, but such behavior would not be welcomed nor seen as appropriate by people whose opinions I treasure and value. If there is any silver lining, it is that we continue to see an increase in applications from international students. So, if there are others reading this who make prayer a regular practice, I join mine with yours.

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I used to joke before faculty meetings about wearing a Target™ logo—just to make explicit how it felt. But now, as the president of an institution singled out by the federal government, that joke feels too real. Many of us are on one of those lists—or fear we’ll be next.

Walking around with an actual target is exhausting. Will this action make it bigger? Will that take us out of the spotlight? Am I prioritizing survival over mission, students, and truth? Worse, does it obscure our students’ achievements and the transformative power of education?

And if I feel this way with my position’s resources—what about our international, undocumented, and LGBTQ students? Those from unstable homes? Faculty and staff who have dedicated their lives to this work?

Then there’s the small subset of faculty intent on chaos. When the institution closes, when jobs are lost, when degrees lose value—what will they have achieved? I understand academia isn’t what many envisioned. Pay is low, public respect has eroded, and change is relentless. The pandemic’s impact lingers.

So many questions, so few answers. But if nothing else, being a target has deepened my empathy for those who live as targets every day. My job is to defend higher education—but more than that, the worth and dignity of every human being. Because human flourishing is the highest calling of higher education.

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I met with a politician, who, despite running as a conservative, was receptive to our needs and invited me back to discuss how he could help. Yet, a single photo from that meeting sparked outrage. Some claim I’ve betrayed the values of the liberal arts and our honor code by engaging with someone they oppose. But isn’t that exactly what those values teach us—to have thoughtful, critical discussions, even with those who see the world differently?

They want action? Well, this is action. Advocacy isn’t about purity tests—it’s about results. My commitment has always been to our college, not to one party or ideology. Both have helped us, and both have hurt us. When I get a rare chance to sit down with a decision-maker who can influence our future, I take it. Because real leadership isn’t about grandstanding. It’s about ensuring our students, our faculty, and our institution have a voice in the rooms where decisions are made—whether people approve of the optics or not.

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Under 45, our resistance was loud—protests, legal challenges, media campaigns. We called out every attack, knowing the system, flawed as it was, still pretended to follow the rules. But under 47, the landscape has changed. The repression is smarter, more procedural, more permanent. Now, dissent isn’t just punished in the moment—it’s weaponized retroactively. Visa delays, audits, selective enforcement—tactics designed to make opposition not just risky, but devastating. The consequences aren’t just for today’s activists; they reach back years, turning past protests into present liabilities.

So, we’ve adapted. What once roared like Public Enemy now moves like Nina Simone’s quiet defiance—deliberate, strategic, impossible to ignore. The goal isn’t to perform resistance for an audience; it’s to protect our people while still pushing back.

Silence isn’t surrender—it’s signal interference. A shift in strategy, not in conviction. We’re not avoiding the fight; we’re choosing battles that keep us in the game. Because when the playbook changes, so must the response. And right now, survival is resistance.

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So now, in addition to President Trump and his cronies vilifying higher ed leaders, we also have to contend with criticism from former presidents and chancellors who seem—without irony—to think throwing the current leaders under the bus is helpful. 

This friendly fire is especially galling when it comes from people who didn’t have to manage COVID, Floyd summer, congressional witch hunts, the Gaza/Israel protests, or Trump 2.0. Yet they feel perfectly entitled to serve as backseat drivers. And who can blame them for piling on when outlets like The Chronicle and IHE are happy to keep giving them a platform? 

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You know the story about the lady who swallowed the fly? That’s what this moment feels like—pointing fingers, demanding action, layering responses on top of each other.

As a parent, I recently attended a panel of local superintendents, scheduled before DOGE, before closing the Department of Ed, before eliminating DEI. They could have canceled, but they showed up. Parents pressed them: “What will you do to protect DEI, to keep education on track?” Their answer? They’ll serve all children, as always. But it wasn’t enough. Just days earlier, the state threatened funding cuts for anything resembling DEI. The superintendents were still processing. So were the parents, terrified and grasping for answers.

As a leader of a public institution, I thought: We’re swallowing the dog to catch the cat to catch the bird to catch the fly. These leaders were chosen by boards, elected by communities. The same communities that elected the officials who made these policies.

I don’t say this out loud because I know the cost. I don’t stop the fly—I just lose my job. My role is to serve students, to fight for funding within a system we all helped create.

My spouse, a professor, reminds me he didn’t vote for this. And I remind him: Voting isn’t the end of our civic duty. If we don’t like where we are, what could we have done differently? More importantly, what can we do now? It sounds romantic, but it’s not. It’s my reality. Every day, my job is to serve everyone who walks through my doors.

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Like many of my colleagues, I felt compelled to speak out about what’s happening—not just for my institution but for free thought itself. I reached out to other leaders to co-author a public statement. Many said they would if they could, but they can’t, so they won’t.

Without external support, I drafted something and ran it by my leadership team. I focused on historical moments when institutions responded to political pressure—sometimes for the better, sometimes stifling progress. The response was unsupportive, fearing it would draw unwanted attention or seem performative.

Other advisers urged silence for another reason: recruitment period. The idea that enrollment considerations should dictate our response to a fundamental threat felt absurd. Of course, I would be mindful of our institution’s position, but history shows that organizations like ours have shaped critical sociopolitical moments by refusing to remain silent.

Yet, I am silent. Not out of fear, but because I question the impact of speaking out right now. I’ve assured my campus I won’t stand by if our mission or curriculum is threatened. But some institutions seem to be accepting such interference. I wait. Ready to act, to take risks, and to find the moment that will matter most. I suspect I’m not alone. At least, I hope I’m not.