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Imprimis, On Line
June, 1994
IMPRIMIS (im-pri-mis), taking its name from the Latin
term, "in the first place," is the publication of
Hillsdale College. Executive Editor, Ronald L.
Trowbridge; Managing Editor, Lissa Roche; Assistant,
Patricia A. DuBois. Illustrations by Tom Curtis. The
opinions expressed in IMPRIMIS may be, but are not
necessarily, the views of Hillsdale College and its
External Programs division. Copyright 1994. Permission
to reprint in whole or part is hereby granted, provided
a version of the following credit line is used:
"Reprinted by permission from IMPRIMIS, the monthly
journal of Hillsdale College." Subscription free upon
request. ISSN 0277-8432. Circulation 530,000 worldwide,
established 1972. IMPRIMIS trademark registered in U.S.
Patent and Trade Office #1563325.
---------------------------------------------
"Education: The Second Door To Freedom"
by Clarence Thomas
Associate Justice,
Supreme Court of the United States
---------------------------------------------
Volume 23, Number 6
Hillsdale College, Hillsdale, Michigan 49242
June 1994
---------------------------------------------
Preview: In this Spring 1994 Convocation address to the
students of Hillsdale College, Justice Clarence Thomas
offers a powerful, personal testimony to the value of
traditional liberal arts education, which, he argues,
can free us not only from ignorance, but from our own
passions. He also reminds us of the vital roles faith
and family must play if such education is to have a
lasting impact.
---------------------------------------------
Recently, while speaking to a group of law students, I
was asked what the difference was between the youthful
Clarence Thomas and Clarence Thomas the judge. There is
much that is different and much that is the same. Over
time, the depth of one's faith and experience is bound
to increase. Mine certainly did. But there was a real
change of direction in life that occurred during my
college years. It is my sincere hope that my discussion
of this change will be helpful to at least one of you.
When I began at the College of the Holy Cross in
the fall of 1968, as a transfer student from Immaculate
Conception Seminary, I was confused and intimidated as
were so many of my fellow students. It was a time of
turmoil and challenge to authority and to those in
authority. In fact, it was a time of rudeness and poor
manners, no matter how conveniently history is today
revised. Although much of our conduct was for what we
considered good and noble reasons, we still conducted
ourselves in an ill-mannered and reprehensible way.
That is both regrettable and unfortunate. But more on
that later.
The College of the Holy Cross was the only true
opportunity that I had to leave Savannah for college.
And this opportunity only came about as a result of the
dedication and kindness of my high school chemistry
teacher and a classmate from parochial school, who was
a student there. But college gave me the opportunity to
take on the challenges of education during a most
critical time in my life. And, as is true for so many
in this country, education was the only available
opportunity to escape a life that seemed predetermined
for me. Having lived to see the official end of
segregation, education was now the second door of
freedom.
What Education Provides
I must first admit that I am somewhat old-fashioned
about education. I opposed the move away from the old
core requirements and traditional liberal arts
education, and I still hold tenaciously to that
position. Perhaps it is in some small measure due to my
misfortune of having been subjected to "new math" in
the ninth and tenth grades. The traditional liberal
arts education was a way of showing us that we were to
discipline, train, and expand our minds. It provided
fewer opportunities to justify intellectual laziness
and almost no opportunity to avoid some of the more
difficult and exacting courses. Certainly, there were
very few of us, who, were it left to us, would choose
to study metaphysics or classics.
Of course, it would be a fair question to ask why
anyone would want to put that kind of stress on himself
or herself. To respond to this inquiry requires that I
set out what, in retrospect, I see that education
provides. Since I am not an educator, I must rely quite
heavily on my own experiences.
My first days of school started in a rather
inauspiciously routine manner, a fun trek down Pinpoint
Road to catch the school bus for Haven Home School.
That was exciting for about a week. Then, I was quite
prepared to get back to catching minnows in the creek
and tracking down fiddler crabs in the marshes. There
seemed to be no reprieve in sight, since those in
charge seemed more interested in my going to school
than I was. But thanks to the fine mischief of my
brother and our cousin, Little Richard (no relation to
the entertainer), an opportunity presented itself. You
see, they burnt down the house in Pinpoint, forcing my
brother and me to go to Savannah to live with our
mother. As good fortune would have it, I was left
unsupervised, since my mother worked, and school for me
at Florance Street School did not start until the
afternoon. Under this arrangement, I found ample
opportunity to wander through the streets, quite often
to the exclusion of school. But it seems that all good
things must come to an end; my brother and I went to
live with my grandparents. There, the law was laid
down: school came before all else. The nuns were always
right; and any complaints about them at home would
result in nothing more than additional punishment. It
did not take a genius or legal scholar to see that this
right of appeal was nothing more than mere formality
with significant adverse consequences and no possible
benefits.
Suddenly, education was paramount. Because they
did not have the benefit of education or freedom, my
grandparents treasured them both. Freedom they felt
would come, so we had to be prepared to take advantage
of it. And, even if it didn't, they felt that we would
be better off educated. Suddenly, our lives revolved
around education. Under no circumstances were we to
miss a day of school. Thus, we were required to eat
properly, get plenty of sleep, and take regular doses
of castor and cod liver oils to avoid any illnesses
that could potentially lead to absences. Then there was
the warning that no excuses would be accepted and all
illnesses would be presumed to be feigned. Indeed, my
grandfather announced that if we died, he would take us
to school for three consecutive days to make sure that
we were not faking. Not a day passed that we did not
receive a lecture on the importance of education. And,
time not spent on our education was to be spent
working.
This attitude toward education and work was
constantly reinforced by family members and neighbors.
From my perspective, things did not look good. There
seemed to be little hope that I would be allowed to
become the next Bob Cousy or Jim Brown, since I could
only pilfer tiny morsels of time to pursue my dreams of
athletic stardom.
But education was the road to freedom and
independence. It was the promise of possibilities
beyond the cramped oppressive worlds of segregation and
ignorance. It was the way to a better life and a bigger
world.
I can still remember and reflect on the wonderful,
wonderful hours I spent at the local Negro library, the
Carnegie Library. That small library took me all around
the world, back and forth in time, around the universe.
That time raised as many questions as it answered. It
brought me in contact with heroes and villains, with
hatred and with love. (By the way, since education was
seen to be even more important than work, going to the
library allowed me to escape some small amounts of
work, and it allowed me to stay out until 9 p.m.)
The Revolt Against Learning
My grandparents' devotion to education would lead to
their tremendous financial sacrifice for me to attend
the seminary. Those most difficult days brought me in
full contact with the white world for the first time
and in contact with academic requirements that,
initially, seemed crushing. Latin was a demon to be
subdued and Latin class--well, that was a daily
confirmation hearing. But, in spite of the angst, my
love of learning grew. Both Native Son and Gone with
The Wind, among other books, were read after lights out
with the help of my trusty flashlight.
Education, with its dual role of preparation and
personal growth had become a way of life by the time I
went off to college in 1968 as a transfer student. I
boarded the train in Savannah with my lifelong friend,
Robert DeShay. Our train ride ended in New York, where
we spent a few days with his uncle, then to Worcester
on a Trailways bus. As we passed Holy Cross on our way
to the bus depot, my heart pounded with apprehension,
anticipation, and hope. Here was another challenge,
another chance to escape the narrow confining world in
which I grew up and the attendant lack of opportunity.
Little did I know that the traditions of that
institution as well as the traditions of the nation
were on a collision course with challenges to
authority. My years in the seminary had been orderly
and, with the exception of the events that led me to
leave, uninterrupted and uneventful. That would all
change.
In the seminary, my life of educational and
spiritual growth were only interrupted by sports,
corporal works of mercy, and long, private discussions,
accompanied by the heart-wrenching voice of Nina
Simone, with an older black seminarian. We would later
travel to Kansas City to participate in a march
occasioned by the death of Dr. Martin Luther King.
Though I remained in the seminary until the end of May,
the assassination of Dr. King effectively ended my
attachment to the seminary. How could I stay there when
the world seemed to be disintegrating around me? It all
seemed so pointless. My dreams of becoming a priest had
been dashed, my faith, shattered. I was consumed by
almost uncontrolled anger and frustration. All that
religion and education had seemed to promise no longer
mattered to me. It seemed irrelevant.
Just as Richard Wright's Bigger Thomas had been
consumed by the conflagration of prejudices,
stereotypes, and circumstances beyond his control and
understanding, I felt myself being similarly consumed.
I stood at the brink of the great abyss of anger,
frustration, and animosity. The summer before going to
college served to reinforce this tremendous feeling of
alienation. My grandfather asked that I leave his
house; Robert Kennedy was assassinated; racial
indignities seemed to continue unabated; and so much
had changed for the worse in my hometown. I arrived at
college with no hope in my religion, no faith in my
country, and no desire to be in a predominantly white
school again. But, in so many ways, I had no place else
to go.
Someplace deep inside, however, there was some
residual hope that there was hope. Perhaps, the lack of
any alternatives forced this feeling on me. Perhaps, it
was nothing more than not knowing what to say to all
those who had gone before me, who had remained hopeful
when there was no reason to hope. Perhaps, it was just
stubbornness. In any case, Holy Cross was my beacon on
the hill.
My new roommate was also a transfer student, from
Northeastern University. He had been an engineering
student there, and would now major in biology. I
decided to major in English, primarily because I
entertained visions of becoming a journalist and
because I had great difficulty with the spoken and
written word, a prerequisite to communication and
continued learning.
My new dormitory was a fabulous place to live. I
would live there for a year. I made friends quickly,
and they made every effort to make my roommate and me
feel accepted. And my roommate was simply superb. He
was a model student and an outstanding person. He would
quietly have a tremendous impact on my academic
performance.
In contrast to this rather normal transition were
the events swirling around our country that would
affect us all. There was, consistent with my own
feeling, significant emphasis on admitting and
accommodating black students. To make life better for
us, some of the older black students decided that we
should establish a Black Students' Union. Since I could
type and edit, I was asked to type the Constitution and
by-laws. This I did. I later became the correspondence
secretary of BSU, a position I retained for most of my
college years.
The challenges of a new school were as one could
expect, but the times made this transition confusing to
say the least. Unlike the safe harbor of the seminary,
we, as black students, were right in the path of the
upheavals taking place in our society. College campuses
across New England and the country in general seemed to
be fertile ground for protest and expressions of
grievances against all the wrongs in our country. As
blacks, we seemed to take the position that our
grievance should always be at the top of the list, and
we were to be the vanguard. We, after all, were the
descendants of slaves, and our race had borne the brunt
of discrimination.
All authority was questioned and challenged. So
much that had been taken for granted in the past was
now criticized and challenged--from dress codes to
values and mores. Suddenly, little if anything was
sacred, perhaps with the exception of our self-centered
notion of autonomy--which we mistook for freedom. We
were pulling away from the cultural mooring that had
previously provided stability, structure, and civility-
-even as imperfections abounded. Major portions of our
time and energy (intellectual and otherwise) were spent
supporting and reinforcing the effort to rip away the
cultural and moral structures that we felt were too
confining. It seemed that we constantly engaged in an
odd sort of narcissism and permanent temper tantrums.
Distractions flourished. There were world problems
about which to complain; governmental policies to
protest; college rules to challenge; and so much
capitalist greed and corruption to condemn. We were
without sin, so we could righteously cast stones as we
saw fit--with impunity.
At a time when we should have been quiet so that
we could learn, it seemed that we already knew
everything. And we were certainly superior to all those
over 30, who had ruined the country and the world. In a
curious way, we had reversed the teacher/ student
relationship; those with knowledge were to listen to
us, who, though without knowledge, had emotion,
passion, grievances, and innocence. Our feelings gave
legitimacy to the positions we took-- even while our
logic failed or didn't exist in the first instance. In
fact, we were somehow authentic because we lacked the
inhibitions of self-control, discipline, logic, and
yes, civility.
Captive of the "Oppressive Society"
Because I was already predisposed to anger, confusion,
and frustration, the environment which we as students
created made it doubly difficult to take full advantage
of the educational benefits of college. And I am
certain that we made it impossible for some of the
younger, more impressionable students, especially those
who were black. For some reason that I can explain no
more than I can explain having had any hope in the
first place, I continued to plow on academically.
Perhaps, initially, it was purely out of habit and a
sense of obligation. But, even as I moved on, I became
increasingly consumed by a seething anger.
During the first semester of my junior year, one
of my closest friends was among the students
disciplined for protesting the on-campus recruiting of
a corporation that did business in South Africa.
Because he was one of a number of black students in the
protest, it was our view that he and the other black
students were more easily identifiable for disciplinary
purposes while many of the white students could not be
quickly identified and thus escaped disciplinary
actions. This injustice was proof positive for me that
blacks could never be treated fairly on a predominantly
white campus--or in a white society for that matter. I
had finally had enough. Most of my fellow black
students felt the same way; so we decided to leave.
As I packed all my belongings that night, I
teetered precariously over the abyss. No one really
cared. We were doomed. College didn't matter. Indeed,
life itself didn't matter. I wanted to go home. But
what would I tell my grandparents who had suffered far
more indignities than I had? What would I tell my
neighbors? What would I say to my friends who had
always said that the "man" wasn't going to let me do
anything? What, some day, would I say to my own son or
daughter? What would I say to myself? I knew I could
not stay; but I also knew I couldn't go home. After we
had left campus, to my surprise and ultimately to my
relief, wiser heads prevailed, and we returned.
My own personal anger continued to ferment well
into the spring semester of my junior year. It was
then, after a number of confrontational protests, that
I finally began to question openly what had happened to
me. It should have been obvious. I had become drunk
with anger. I had become addicted to being a victim of
oppression; and I was angry that whites controlled the
fate of blacks. I was out of control with hostility. I
was going to destroy either myself or someone else.
Something had to change and change soon. I could not
continue to let my passions rage out of control. I was
consumed by animosity even though little had happened
to me personally and even though I got along fine with
all of the other students with whom I came in contact
and even though I was doing just fine academically. I
was angry for all oppression and injustice not mine
personally.
Unfortunately, this anger was not helped by my
living on a dormitory floor reserved for black
students, which, though not totally segregated until my
senior year, further isolated those black students who
lived there from the rest of the student body. As a
result, there were few if any forces to counter my own
bitter feelings. Being up there was a mistake under any
circumstances; it was disastrous at that time for me.
The environment itself seemed to encourage me to
continue in a direction that was dangerously negative.
This seemed to be the abyss I had feared. I was
addicted to the status of an oppressed person. I was a
captive of the "oppressive society." All could be
explained in terms of oppression. All facts and
reasoning that disproved my feelings were rejected as
lies and deception; all half-truths that supported my
feelings were gospel. All individuals who agreed with
me were good. All who disagreed were Uncle Toms or
racists. All who partially agreed were half-steppers. I
had become passionately obsessed with matters of race.
Today, I sometimes hear of those who criticize me now,
and I chuckle: If they only knew that I had thought
that their reasonable efforts within the "system"
suggested that they were "co-opted by the man" and that
they were "sell-outs."
Some months ago I saw the movie "Menace II
Society." It is a discouraging movie. But the reality
that it portrays is far more discouraging and tragic.
In one scene, an adult is trying to convince a young
man to discontinue a life of violence and drug dealing
and leave south central Los Angeles for a better life.
In doing so, he said something that caught my attention
because I had repeated a similar observation to myself
so many times. He said, and I am paraphrasing, "You can
hold on to anger inside and let it eat you, or you can
control it and make a difference." But this is easier
said than done.
It has been unfortunate over the years to see
anger such as mine accommodated. It is said that we are
an emotional people; we are expressive; we feel deeply;
we have rage. Often, it seems as though the cultural
elite think that we are inherently unqualified to do
much more than feel bad about what has happened to us
in this country and, of course, follow their lead.
Culturally, we are supposedly not attuned to precise or
exacting analysis. I have found it curious how this
could be complimentary. It always has seemed like a
different way of reiterating the old stereotype that we
made good singers and dancers. But, then, life is full
of odd twists and turns.
Freedom from Our Own Passions
For reasons even they could not have fully understood,
my grandparents were right that education was the door
to freedom--freedom from the confining world of
segregation and freedom from the destructive forces of
our own passions.
Education is more than books, computers, and
catalogues of facts. It should appeal to and enhance
calm, sober judgment. It should encourage deep
reflection about complicated, difficult problems. In
the end, education, together with maturity and
experience, should help us along the road to gaining
wisdom. Education should also assist us in acquiring
virtuous habits and ridding ourselves of non-virtuous
ones.
During those confusing times, as the events of the
1960s and my maelstrom of swirling emotions pulled me
toward the abyss of permanent animus, any number of my
professors pulled me back or at least kept me from
going over the brink. They refused to accommodate my
feelings; they demanded that I think rather than feel.
Though I could name a number of professors and
courses, I will be content to use one course as an
illustration: Readings in Renaissance Prose. I can
still remember being scared beyond comprehension when I
first entered that class more than 25 years ago. I was
clearly in over my head. But, for 25 years, I have been
unable to shake Cavendish's "The Life and Death of
Cardinal Wolsey" or Roper's "The Life of Sir Thomas
More."
From the former:
Who list to read and consider with an indifferent
eye this history may behold the wondrous mutability of
vain honors, the brittle assurance of abundance, the
uncertainty of dignities, the flattering of feigned
friends, and the fickle trust to worldly princes.
Whereof this Lord Cardinal hath felt both of the sweet
and the sour in each degrees--as fleeting from honors,
losing of riches, deposed from dignities, forsaken of
friends, and the inconstantness of princes' favor. Of
all which things he hath had in this world the full
felicity as long as that Fortune smiled upon him; but
when she began to frown, how soon was he deprived of
all these dreaming joyous and vain pleasures! The which
in twenty years with great travail, study, and pains
obtained, were in one year and less, with heaviness,
care, and sorrow, lost and consumed. O madness, O
foolish desire, O fond hope, O greedy desire of vain
honors, dignities, and riches, O what inconstant trust
and assurance is in rolling Fortune!
And from Roper's biography of Thomas More: On his way
to die,
Sir Thomas More, as one that had been invited to
some solemn feast, changed himself into his best
apparel. Which Master Lieutenant spying, advised
him to put it off, saying that he that should have
it was but a javel [low fellow].
"What, Master Lieutenant," quoth he, "shall I
accompt him a javel that shall do me this day so
singular a benefit? Nay, I assure you, were it
cloth-of-gold, I would accompt it well bestowed
upon him, as Saint Cyprian did, who gave his
executioner thirty pieces of gold." And albeit at
length, through Master Lieutenant's importunate
persuasion, he altered his apparel, yet after the
example of that holy martyr, Saint Cyprian, did he
of that little money that was left him send one
angel of gold to his executioner.
And so was he by Master Lieutenant brought out of
the Tower and from thence led towards the place of
execution. Where, going up the scaffold, which was
so weak that it was ready to fall, he said merrily
to Master Lieutenant: "I pray you, Master
Lieutenant, see me safe up and, for my coming
down, let me shift for myself."
Then desired he all the people thereabout to pray
for him, and to bear witness with him that he
should now there suffer death in and for the faith
of the Holy Catholic Church. Which done, he
kneeled down and after his prayers said, turned to
the executioner and with a cheerful countenance
spake thus to him:
"Pluck up thy spirits, man, and be not afraid to
do thine office. My neck is very short. Take heed
therefore thou strike not awry, for saving of
thine honesty."
So passed Sir Thomas More out of this world to God upon
the very same day in which himself had most desired.
My preference, of course, was and is to emulate
Sir Thomas More. The wonderful rewards of that course,
for which I received a modest grade of "C+", were a
hero and a model--a chance to compare fleeting success
with principled dignity--even at the moment of death.
In this era when dead white men have fallen into
disrepute, I look back on the character and stature of
Thomas More as a model. And in the 25 years that have
drifted by since sitting submerged in that class, I
have seen or learned about many more Cardinal Wolseys,
rising as the wheel rises, but then being tragically
crushed or splattered with mud as it descends.
Learning How to Live
Education occurs both in and outside the classroom.
There are certain bumps and bruises that befall us all
during life. The manner in which we deal with them will
have a lot to say about how we deal with future
difficulties and what kind of people we become.
Education most certainly gives us the means by which to
earn a living, but it also provides the means to learn
how to live.
The penchant today for claiming victim status of
one sort or another is a poor substitute for real
education. Learning to grow beyond one's present
condition has been replaced by simply shoveling the
responsibility on others. This accomplishes no good and
certainly leads to no growth. And it leads to the chain
reaction of more anger on the part of the putative
victims; resentment on the part of the alleged
oppressor; suspicion on the part of both; and horror
and incredulity on the part of those who watch this
spectacle.
I know there are those who hear me with a smug
arrogance that only untarnished youth or insulated
cynicism can generate. But I am unimpressed with this
uninformed and misguided arrogance; I have seen it and
I have been there. My grandfather used to say, "Hard
times make monkey eat Cayenne pepper." Hard times have
a way of teaching us lessons that we refuse to learn in
good times. That is the one university we all get to
attend--tuition free. And learning the lessons that we
must learn cannot forever be avoided by sweeping our
difficulties under the rug of societal blame.
As the years have passed, I have thought deeply
about the era in which I attended college. In that
regard, I am probably not much different from so many
others who reach mid-life and become more introspective
and retrospective. We sort through the good times and
the bad--we grow melancholy over the regrets. To my
humble way of thinking, we threw the baby out with the
bath water. Our attitude that the students are the
intellectual equals of the professors makes no sense.
And, to the extent that it is true, it certainly
obviates the need to attend college at such great
expense. And I believe we threw out civility. When I
was young, my grandparents would insist that we conduct
ourselves as gentlemen: mind our manners and watch our
"P"s and "Q"s. Though I never understood what the "P"
or the "Q" stood for, I knew what they meant. Good
manners and civility allow us to move on to tackle the
real problems, not fight constantly about the rules of
engagement. Poor substitutes such as campus codes and
political correctness are doomed to disrupting failure.
They are artificial and arbitrary. Indeed, they are
destined to promote conflict that is silly, dangerous,
and distracting.
Everyone will be offended by something or someone;
and an inordinate amount of time will be consumed
arguing about who is offended and who has the more
legitimate claim of victim status.
The study of the liberal arts, the education that
pulled me back from the abyss of self-destruction,
teaches us to confront and debate difficult ideas in a
calm, civil way. It encourages analysis rather than
fomenting passions, for the latter impedes the former,
thus displacing the calm control that promotes further
education.
Former Secretary of Education William Bennett has
put it most eloquently:
The case for the study of the liberal arts is not,
then, a case for ideology: it is a case for philosophy
and for thoughtfulness. Those who take such studies
seriously live very different lives and come to very
different conclusions about particulars. The tenets of
Western civilization are not etched in stone; the West
is the most self-critical of cultures. Reason is
exalted, and reason leads to a look, a second look, and
where necessary, readjustment, redefinition, and
change.
I have often had occasion to think, with the
benefit of hindsight and two decades of reality checks,
how I would have pursued my college education were I
given another chance.
I would steadfastly avoid activities that tend to
inflame the passions rather than ignite the desire to
learn, concentrating on a curriculum that closely
approximated the old core requirements and traditional
liberal arts education. I would surround myself with
friends who were interested in and excited by ideas,
not causes. (And I would play football--at least until
I was hit hard enough to suggest conclusively that it
was a bad idea to do so.) I deeply regret that I did
not take advantage of all that college had to offer.
And I am grateful that in spite of my obstinacy and
resistance, so many wiser heads still found a way to
expose me to a fine education. But I am convinced that
I received far less than was made available to me. For
this, I have no one to blame but myself.
A Common Culture
What I mean quite simply is that by focusing so
passionately on the differences among us, I overlooked
so much of what we have in common. Like it or not, we
do have a common culture that informs our institutions
and our conduct. We have a culture and a country that
has borrowed much from other cultures, including those
from which our respective ancestors came. I would
celebrate and learn more about what we have in common
as a starting point to understanding other cultures and
to appreciating our differences. This approach, I
believe, would encourage greater participation in all
that higher education has to offer rather than
reinforcing our differences to the point of intramural
and cultural segregation.
I believe that education is, indeed, the second
door to freedom. It can take us beyond the emotional
confines of our passions, beyond the security of our
preferences and to the boundless vistas of intellectual
growth that only come from the calm, patient inquiry of
our rational capacities--to think rather than just
feel, to act methodically rather than react
predictably.
Finally, it would be my hope that my education
would provide me with the humility to know that there
is much more to learn as life progresses and with the
courage not to be intimidated by disagreements or
vocal, faddish criticism. I would hope that I would not
be afraid to ask myself at graduation: Have I taken
full advantage of all that has been offered? Have I
merely gone along with the crowd, or did I arrive at my
own carefully reasoned conclusions? Am I prepared to
think through problems and assume my responsibilities
as a citizen, or am I content to agitate? Do I know
more about the culture in which I live and its
underlying principles and philosophy, or am I content
to cast stones at its imperfections? Am I prepared to
lead if called upon, or am I content to complain and
brawl?
Each of us here will have that one moment in time
when all that we have learned and all that we are will
be called upon and required. None of us knows exactly
what that challenge is or when it will occur. But
taking advantage of all Hillsdale College has to offer
will allow each student here to assert, with
conviction, as Abraham Lincoln did: "I will prepare
myself, and when the time comes, I will be ready."
---------------------------------------------
Clarence Thomas serves as an associate justice of the
United States Supreme Court, a position to which
President Bush nominated him in 1991. His appointment
to the High Court follows a distinguished public career
that has included duties as a judge of the United
States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia
Circuit, chairman of the U.S. Equal Employment
Opportunity Commission, and assistant secretary for
Civil Rights in the U.S. Department of Education.
Justice Thomas graduated cum laude from the College of
the Holy Cross and earned a J.D. from Yale Law School
before entering legal practice as assistant attorney
general of Missouri and, later, as an attorney with the
Monsanto Company.
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