In August 1926, John Preston Davis sent a letter to Louis Costello, a �ֲ���ý alumnus and former debater who was now a college trustee and Lewiston newspaper executive.

Davis himself had graduated that spring, leaving an impressive legacy as a debater. President of the Debating Council and editor of The �ֲ���ý Student, he competed internationally and was part of a team that defeated debaters from Oxford. After graduation, Davis moved to New York City, to put his written and oratorical talents to practice in the flourishing Harlem Renaissance.

“Delta Sigma Rho should not be allowed to continue as a �ֲ���ý organization.”

In New York, Davis decided to escalate his efforts to correct an injustice that he felt the college had not done enough to address. At the time, the highest honor a �ֲ���ý debater could achieve was induction into Delta Sigma Rho, the national debating honor society. Davis met every requirement except one: The society did not admit black members.

In 1926, recent graduate John P. Davis protested �ֲ���ý‘ membership in Delta Sigma Rho, a debating honor society that at the time excluded black debaters. Here, he is pictured, second from left, with H.H. Walker ’26, debate coach A. Craig Baird, Erwin Canham ’25, and Fred Googins ’27. (Muskie Archives and Special Collections)

In his letter to Costello — himself a Delta Sigma Rho member of the Class of 1898 — Davis said that “either Negro students should be frankly told before being mis-led into coming to �ֲ���ý that privileges which are open to other students are in their case to be abridged; or else, Delta Sigma Rho should not be allowed to continue as a �ֲ���ý organization.”

Davis’ letter was the latest to point out this stark conflict between �ֲ���ý’ ideals and the reality in which it operated. Correspondence, articles, and meeting minutes in �ֲ���ý’ Muskie Archives and Special Collections Library tell the story of the fraught and frustrating effort the college and its debaters made to get Delta Sigma Rho to admit black members.

Ultimately, it took two decades and a change in the national organization’s leadership before the society reversed its exclusion of black debaters.

Founded in 1906, Delta Sigma Rho’s central goal was to promote excellence in debating and raise the prestige of its members. The �ֲ���ý Student trumpeted the creation of a chapter at �ֲ���ý in 1915, even as it assured its readers that despite the Greek letters, it wasn’t that kind of fraternity.

“This is an honor reserved for colleges that have made their mark in intercollegiate debating contests, and is an honor that all �ֲ���ý people will prize,” said the Student.

When �ֲ���ý joined, Delta Sigma Rho did not have a formal rule excluding black debaters. But when �ֲ���ý advanced the nomination of one of its star debaters, Arthur Dyer, who was black, the team quickly found out that the national organization enforced an unwritten policy of segregation.

“This provision must be adhered to by all chapters,” wrote national secretary-treasurer Stanley B. Houck in 1916 to Harry Rowe, �ֲ���ý Class of 1912.

Rowe, the chapter’s secretary, was just beginning his long tenure as a �ֲ���ý administrator, and Houck, his correspondent, would be a fixture in the national organization for decades to come. To prevent integration Houck would, at least on paper, appeal to the cohesion of the organization.

Arthur Dyer (left), Class of 1917, was the initial African American debater from �ֲ���ý to be excluded from Delta Sigma Rho. He poses with fellow 1916–17 debaters Mervin Ames, Charles Mayoh, and Brooks Quimby. As �ֲ���ý’ director of debate, Quimby would later take up the fight to integrate Delta Sigma Rho. (Muskie Archives and Special Collections Library)

“The possible injury done to a few negroes by excluding them from membership would be offset by the good which the society could do in the South,” he wrote. “The welfare of the society required that there be no split between the Northern and Southern chapters on this issue.”

The �ֲ���ý debate council went ahead with solidifying its Delta Sigma Rho chapter and inducting members, but at its first annual meeting in 1916, Rowe was told to write again to Houck “concerning �ֲ���ý’ feeling in the matter of exclusion of negroes from membership,” according to the meeting minutes.

Rowe also sought other colleges’ support for a petition ahead of a National Council meeting in 1917, asking the University of Chicago for “your moral and active support in presenting a re-opening and re-consideration of the matter.”

“It seems to me,” Rowe wrote, “that if Phi Beta Kappa, an old and long established honor society makes no reservation as to race, color, creed, or sex, that Delta Sigma Rho might well follow this good example.”

Other Northern colleges seemed to be on the same page — Williams College asked �ֲ���ý to support its own measure at the national meeting. Their efforts failed. “I personally appeared before the National Council at New Haven and remonstrated on their ruling, and was told that Chapters were not admitting colored men,” Rowe wrote in 1920 to Arthur Dyer, who had graduated three years earlier.

In 1920, Rowe wrote to the national conference, again asking it to change the rule. That year, Benjamin E. Mays, the future civil rights leader who served as president of the Debating Council and would have been eligible for Delta Sigma Rho membership, had graduated.

As a longtime �ֲ���ý administrator, 1912 graduate Harry Rowe (left), a Delta Sigma Rho member, was the �ֲ���ý point person in efforts to change the honor society’s racist membership rules. He’s shown in 1912 with fellow debaters Wade Grindle and Gordon Cave. (Muskie Archives and Special Collections Library)

Not only were those efforts unsuccessful, but the society doubled down, officially changing its constitution to prohibit black members. Delta Sigma Rho held another national council in 1922, but since it was in Iowa, �ֲ���ý could not send a representative. The chapter did, however, submit a petition to strike the phrase “not a negro” from the national constitution’s list of membership requirements.

The petition was less about taking a moral stand against racism and more about appeasing the chapters that did want to exclude black members; it emphasized that local chapters should have as much autonomy as possible. “The policy of local autonomy is very definitely limited by inability to elect negroes to membership,” the petition said. That petition, too, failed.

Meanwhile, �ֲ���ý enjoyed the prestige and the networking opportunities that the society afforded its white members. �ֲ���ý’ debating victories and its methods were covered extensively in Delta Sigma Rho’s publication, and debate faculty contributed articles. Around Commencement each year, The �ֲ���ý Student published the names of new inductees, along with those inducted into Phi Beta Kappa.

In 1926, John P. Davis became eligible for membership in every way except his race. Meeting minutes in June of that year record that Marion J. Crosby, the chapter secretary-treasurer, was instructed to write to the national secretary, asking permission to induct Davis.

Houck, now the president of Delta Sigma Rho, replied with a firm, racist no. “Several negroes had been elected to membership with exactly the same result in each case, namely, the wrecking of the chapter and its practical non-existence as a functioning organization until the negro passed out of college and the memory of the members of the chapter,” he wrote.

(The society did not, as it happened, have a problem with women and with members of other minority groups becoming members).

“The �ֲ���ý College chapter of Delta Sigma Rho can officially bestow upon and accord Mr. John Davis any distinct and special recognition for his ability as a debater which it considers desirable or appropriate,” Houck wrote, “so long as the recognition does not take the form of membership.”

Three weeks later, Davis wrote his letter to Costello, prompting Rowe, debate coach and professor J. Murray Carroll, and �ֲ���ý professor and Delta Sigma Rho member Oliver F. Cutts to submit a statement to the college trustees.

“Some feel that �ֲ���ý should no longer retain her charter,” they wrote.

“Others believe that altho the attitude of the national organization is regrettable, it is not the fault of �ֲ���ý, but rather a part of the general disability under which negroes labor, and if �ֲ���ý takes this course it will only deny her students the advantages of affiliation with this honor society without in any degree furthering the rights of the negro.”

The question of racism “stirred us up a bit,” wrote Brooks Quimby, the 1918 graduate who would later become a college legend as director of debate.

In 1920, Benjamin Mays (standing at center, with members of the 1919 �ֲ���ý debate team) became the second �ֲ���ý debater to be excluded from Delta Sigma Rho. (Muskie Archives and Special Collections Library)

Getting the segregation rule changed, however, only became more difficult. During the 1920s, Delta Sigma Rho changed two key procedural rules: Not only did meetings now take place every five years, but any constitutional changes required the approval of four-fifths of the local chapters.

So the �ֲ���ý chapter began, again, to gather support for a rule change ahead of the 1931 national council. Case Western Reserve University mounted its own campaign on behalf of one of its debaters, and the Wisconsin Legislature even passed a resolution urging Delta Sigma Rho to integrate so that a star University of Wisconsin debater could join.

“I see no credit in such logicians in a society like ours.”

Before the conference, Quimby wrote to Houck to let him know that �ֲ���ý’ delegate would again try to get the chapters to vote to change the rule. Houck replied that he himself would put the matter to a vote — but he didn’t do so.

“Our delegate felt that both Houck and [vice president Gilbert] Hall did all they could to prevent the vote,” Quimby later wrote. “Mrs. Hall made the most remarkable argument to our delegate; that the reason that negroes wanted to get into D.S.R. was so that they could marry white women!”

�ֲ���ý had not asked for full integration of Delta Sigma Rho, but that each chapter be allowed to make its own decision. “We shall be sorry if this causes any chapters to leave,” Quimby continued, “but, personally, I see no credit in such logicians in a society like ours.”

In the end, the 1931 national council did vote on whether to admit black members, and a strong majority voted yes — but not the four-fifths required for the measure to pass.

Delta Sigma Rho therefore remained segregated, but the damage to its leadership was done. Houck was re-elected president but, sensing a loss of support, resigned a couple months later. The new president was H.L. Ewbank of the University of Wisconsin, with Quimby joining the national leadership as vice president.

The groundswell of support for integration and the leadership shakeup did not translate into a sense of urgency — or perhaps procedural rules prohibited swift action. It was another four years before the prohibition against black members was finally lifted. Dyer, Mays, and Davis became eligible for Delta Sigma Rho membership.

By then, Davis had earned a law degree and was deep into a fight to ensure that African Americans were included in New Deal programs. In 1935, he helped found the National Negro Congress, an important civil rights organization, and became its executive director.

It seems Davis did not join Delta Sigma Rho. Over the next several decades, the organization would merge with a rival debating society. �ֲ���ý is no longer a member.

Likely taken in Washington, D.C., in April 1940, this photo shows �ֲ���ý alumnus John P. Davis (left), then executive secretary of the National Negro Congress, with Max Yergan (center) and U. Simpson Tate, congress president and treasurer, respectively. (Photo by Scurlock Studios/ Smithsonian Institution, National Museum of American History Archives Center)

Mays sent Brooks Quimby $17 for his membership dues. Soon to become the president of Morehouse College and earn the title “schoolmaster of the Civil Rights Movement,” he would be featured prominently as a distinguished Delta Sigma Rho member.

“It was my impression when I was in college that �ֲ���ý had tried to make it possible for Negroes to become members of the National Forensic society of Delta Sigma Rho,” Mays wrote. “It is gratifying to know that �ֲ���ý has kept on the job, and that after many years of effort she has won.”

Sources

For his senior honors thesis, Tom Connolly ’79 chronicled the history of �ֲ���ý debate, including an entire chapter on the Delta Sigma Rho controversy. The thesis includes materials and personal conversations that are not available elsewhere, and is an invaluable source for future histories. It is available in the �ֲ���ý archives.

The late Professor of Rhetoric and Director of Debate Robert Branham contributed a chapter about Benjamin Mays’ experience with debate, including the Delta Sigma Rho controversy, to Walking Integrity, a Mays biography. Branham, who died in 1999, also produced several documentaries, including one on John Davis ().

The Delta Sigma Rho issue is also addressed in the college history �ֲ���ý Through the Years, by the late Charles Clark ’51.

A new genre of presidential letters, memos, columns, and blogs has sprung up on most college campuses in response to the ongoing global financial turmoil.

Demonstrating a greater sense of accountability and transparency than ever before, higher education leaders offer different details but all try to balance two messages. On one hand, we speak with both urgency and candor about budget cuts, sacrifices, and contingency plans. On the other hand, we reassure our stakeholders that we will not only survive this crisis but use it to grow stronger, with core values intact.

I have thus far contributed three letters to this outpouring. Each letter emphasizes how our response to rough economic seas is rooted in the character of the College. �ֲ���ý is prepared by longstanding habits of heart and mind to economize and to be entrepreneurial, and our efforts are as always collective and sustained.

In the most immediate term, it’s all hands on deck to control costs, maintain revenues, and balance our fiscal 2009–10 budget in the face of diminished endowment performance.

This is not new or unwelcome work here; sound fiscal management has earned �ֲ���ý a reputation for academic excellence that far outstrips our financial resources. Every department is pursuing greater frugality on the operations side, for example, through a Cost-Saving Initiative piloted by our Department of Human Resources.

We still plan to invest now in faculty excellence and financial aid. Planning for the next phase of the Campus Facilities Master Plan is getting under way, as we look to future improvements that will be critical to our educational excellence, including space for residential life, for research and teaching in the sciences, and for athletics and wellness.

On the revenue side, we have seen an enormous growth in the culture of philanthropy at �ֲ���ý. We have a robustly emerging habit of asking for and receiving your support to keep �ֲ���ý strong for future generations. In the short term, we are focusing fundraising efforts on the �ֲ���ý Fund, whose revenue makes up about 5 percent of the annual operating budget. New and better ways for those who care about �ֲ���ý to give of their time are also in the offing.

For the longer term, thinking and acting strategically have never been more critical, and we know the ropes here, too. Through multiyear budget planning we have a tool for considering multiple scenarios and giving serious thought to an array of options. Following up on the institutional planning work that began last year, three faculty/staff teams are now developing strategic initiatives focused on:

• the innovative learning agenda at �ֲ���ý, enhancing the student experience as well as faculty teaching and scholarship;
• the natural sciences and mathematics, strengthening both curricular and physical infrastructure;
• the arts at �ֲ���ý and in the community, extending the reach and visibility of our creative campus.

Around each initiative we will implement short- and middle-term projects by redeploying existing resources and by fundraising. Looking out further, our planning process will help us monitor what is changing in the environment and how we can respond now to be ready for the future.

Lasting change grows organically from the strengths of a culture, as its champions embrace the possibilities always inherent in the challenges. This college has never grown accustomed to plain sailing. The first president mortgaged his house to meet debts related to the institution, which in its infancy could easily have succumbed without the financial support of both Sunday school children and philanthropists like Benjamin E. �ֲ���ý.

As Professor Emeritus of History Jim Leamon ’55 notes, early �ֲ���ý students “found moral advantage in their hardscrabble reputation.” At the same time, President Cheney believed in and worked for nothing less than a grand concept. Raising money to build Hathorn and Parker, he reminded the leading citizens of Lewiston that smaller facilities would suffice for an ordinary school but not for an institution intended “for coming time.”

During the Great Depression, �ֲ���ý never cut faculty or staff, nor ran deficits. Reacting to increased competition for students and their greater needs, �ֲ���ý doubled its financial aid over a six-year period early in the decade and increased its spending on recruitment later in the decade. In 1936, Harry Rowe ’12, the longtime lieutenant to �ֲ���ý presidents, summed up the �ֲ���ý philosophy: “A holding-our-own policy will not do.”

In 2009 we will draw on these inspirational ancestors even as we look forward, not backward, and we will call on our entire community of talented faculty, dedicated staff, ambitious students, and generous supporters.

By Elaine Tuttle Hansen

Director of Muskie Archives and Special Collection Library Kat Stefko; �ֲ���ý' Muskie Oral History Project recently won the Elizabeth B. Mason Major Project Award, from the Oral History Association, for excellence in an oral history project. The Muskie project comprises some 400 interviews.

Asked to describe her job as an archivist, Katherine Stefko’s stock reply is, “I’m paid to read other people’s mail.” The joke is revealing. Director of archives and special collections at �ֲ���ý, Stefko oversees the delicate work of gathering documentary materials that reveal the details — sometimes very personal — of history.

The houses nationally significant holdings relating to the late Ed Muskie ’36. You’ve called him the hero of the 1968 presidential campaign, running with Hubert Humphrey.

It was the first time a presidential candidate advertised himself as having chosen a VP who could step up and be president. There was this fabulous political ad that Humphrey put out with the image and sound of an electrocardiogram and the line, “Who is your choice to be a heartbeat away from the presidency?”

We have film showing Muskie inviting a heckler to the stage. Muskie basically said to him, “I’ll give you 10 minutes to tell people your ideas, but in exchange your group has to be quiet and listen to my ideas.” He was extraordinarily genuine in wanting to understand everyone’s opinions before formulating a policy.

By extending that respect, he really gained a lot of ground with the antiwar protesters. Many political observers speculate that had the election been even a week or two later, Humphrey and Muskie would have come from behind to win.

You recently had vice-presidential scholar Joel Goldstein at the archives researching a book.

By necessity, archivists have to be generalists, so having somebody there with dedicated time to read through and make connections within the Muskie Papers has been incredible.

He has become a huge fan of Muskie, and wrote a lot of op-eds during this election year drawing parallels between the ’68 and 2008 campaigns. Goldstein has been particularly impressed by Muskie’s ability to inspire and sustain civil discourse.

You have a broad collecting mandate, between representing Muskie and other �ֲ���ý people, and then officially documenting the College’s history.

We collect externally and internally — that’s important to realize. External to �ֲ���ý, that’s usually me. I spend quite a bit of time working with alumni, their families, and other donors.

It’s always better if you talk to a person about their papers, because nobody can tell a story like the person who lived it. Also, giving one’s papers to an archives is not necessarily an easy thing to do — “Here’s my mail, make it publicly available.”

I talk to people about the historical importance of their materials. And I try to foster confidence so they understand that as an archivist, I’m ethically motivated to do the right thing, balancing the privacy needs of our donors with the research interest of our patrons.

What’s the on-campus process?

Internally, Pat Webber, the College archivist, works with people on campus to make sure that their records of historical value are preserved in the archives. We are authorized to collect from College offices, but there are other records being created at �ֲ���ý with permanent value. So he goes to student-organization meetings in the evening to talk about the importance of their records.

The Outing Club, for instance, is celebrating its 90th anniversary in 2010, so they and their adviser, Judy Marden, have been thoughtful, with Pat’s encouragement, about their records. Last summer we received all their historic records.

How else do you interact with alums?

We get quite a few casual visits during Reunion and Homecoming Weekend. We’ve offered a historic film festival where we’ve shown old films from the collection, and those have been quite popular.

Whenever possible we try to instill in alumni that we really want material that tells the personal side, the unofficial version of �ֲ���ý’ history — scrapbooks, letters home to Mom and Dad expressing what it was like to adjust to college in Lewiston. These are the types of materials that support cultural and social history, and they can make the past seem real to today’s students.

Who laid the groundwork for the collections of College records?

Harry Rowe ’12, who worked at the College for about half a century, was the unofficial College historian. Bursar Norm Ross ’22 was a diligent record keeper. And he passed the baton to Bernie Carpenter as treasurer. They did a great deal to make sure that early records survived. We’re extraordinarily lucky to have as extensive a historical record as we do.

How is technology changing what you do?

The speed of obsolescence creates monetary challenges. Where a piece of paper, even a black and white photograph, can live happily on a shelf for 500 years, an 8-inch floppy drive is already obsolete.

We’re constantly thinking about getting things into a stable format — by today’s standards — and then developing a strategy to deal with it when that format becomes obsolete.

And something I’ve been thinking about is that kids don’t keep diaries anymore — they keep blogs. How can we thoughtfully collect and preserve blogs? I don’t have an answer yet, but I know it’s something that we need to do.

Interview by Doug Hubley, photograph by Phyllis Graber Jensen