Head of the Class

Most people can't believe I became an Ivy League president after growing up in the Fifth Ward—but no one's more surprised than my own family.

WHEN YOU ARE A CHILD, the experience of moving to a new place leaves an indelible memory. My family moved to Houston from a Grapeland sharecropper farm in 1952. Keep in mind, that was the period of the Great Migration, and when the mechanical harvester came into use, a lot of people—blacks, particularly—migrated north looking for employment. Well, my family was too large to go north, so we went to the city.

We moved onto Lee Street, which was just next to a railroad yard in Houston’s Fifth Ward. I was the youngest of twelve children, and my family members—parents, brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews—all lived in the same little complex, a neighborhood composed of small wooden-frame houses. That made the transition easier, but it was traumatic to go off to a new school as a seven-year-old. I was very conscious of being different in that environment. Naturally, people made fun of us because we were country bumpkins.

My father got a job as a janitor at the Bama factory; that was a jelly-making company. My older sisters took care of me because my mother was busy cooking, cleaning, and doing so many things. She was at home when we were still young, but families dropped off huge bundles of clothing, and she ironed at home. On occasion, she would do what was called “day’s work,” which meant she didn’t have a full-time job with one family. She would do a day here, a day there for different families, cleaning houses. I followed her around on a couple of those trips. My mother was quiet. Very dignified. Someone whom people greatly loved and admired because she was such a kind person. But she was serious. You couldn’t mess with her: When she told you to do something, you had to do it. I think she helped me understand how important it was to do whatever one does very well.

My family also had a strong and dominant father and seven brothers. The girls in my family were brought up to believe that men came first and that we were secondary in every respect. That was just the way that it was. It didn’t mean that we accepted it: My sisters, in fact, wouldn’t willingly take a back seat to the boys in the family. But still, it was always understood that men would be served by the women, and only after they were finished eating did the women eat. If I were at home today, in Houston, where all my brothers and sisters still live, it wouldn’t surprise me if men were still served first. That’s just one of those traditional things that really hasn’t gone away yet. But I was always independent-minded. And because I was the youngest child, my family tolerated my abhorrent behavior. I went my own way, and I didn’t think my wishes should be subservient to boys.

I was always encouraged to work hard, to study very hard, and to develop my own personal skills and my own humanity. Growing up, I always felt I was being fairly aggressive in pursuing my interests, and I was unwilling to accept a second-class status. But

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