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By Root 844 0

significant than the changes is the reflection that the hearing prompted. When my world appeared to collapse in very significant ways, I was forced to consider what was important to me. In an effort to rebuild what was disrupted and destroyed, I contemplated my life as I had never before done. In addition to reconstructing my relationship with various communities of which I had been a part because of my race, gender, and profession, I gained a greater appreciation for my family and friends and my spirituality. “Would you do it again?” I am often asked, and my answer is the same. I would again answer truthfully when asked. I would pursue the matter once I filed my statement. I would testify as frankly and clearly as possible when questioned. I would do it again, but I could only do it because of the great tangible and intangible support I had throughout.

One of my mother’s most impressive domestic skills is her quilting. I marvel at how she takes the scraps of materials left over from sewing or worn-out clothing, cuts them into odd geometric shapes, and pieces them together in a collage of color and patterns. Then in and out her needle goes thousands of times as the top, lining, and backing come together for the completed quilt. A quilt is often my mother’s winter project—her way of passing the time on the long nights she dreads. She is careful never to mix gingham with denim or organdy with wool. The browns are joined with the yellows and greens while blues, pinks, and reds are separately joined. Yet nothing goes to waste. Everything is used—bound for a life destined to continue long after each individual skirt, blouse, pants, or shirt has outworn its own usefulness.

I never learned to quilt. But as I began to patch together my life after the hearing, to pull together all of my experiences and include the one that had most recently imperiled my existence, I thought often of my mother and her quilting. And as my physical mending concluded, I was left with the task of reconciling my place in various communities of which I was a member because of physical traits or experiences—the African American community, the community of women, and the academic community. In some instances the relationships had expanded. In others they had been badly damaged—all but severed. All of the fragments and pieces had to be put together again to make up my life. In the spring of 1992 I began in earnest to learn to quilt. I decided that I would discard none of my old life—that I was better off embracing it and the changes of my life. As the autumn turned to winter, I hoped, somehow, that I had learned something from observing her.

OPEN LETTER TO THE

1991 SENATE JUDICIARY COMMITTEE

Since 1991, responsive public reaction to the problem of sexual harassment has far exceeded what the Senate Judiciary Committee displayed at the Thomas confirmation hearing. As awareness of the prevalence and severity of the problem has increased, so has intolerance of harassing behavior. How might the Senate Judiciary Committee have responded to my complaint in a way that would have contributed to their own awareness of the problem as well as public awareness is a lingering question. To say that “they just didn’t get it” is not enough, for it fails to address how they might have behaved had they understood the complexity of the issue. Nor is it enough that they should simply have believed me rather than Thomas, because this fails to establish a process for fairly hearing information about the character and fitness of a nominee. How could the committee (or future such committees) confronted with the issue have been responsive to both the issue of sexual harassment and the nomination process? What the hearing lacked and what I and others found missing was balance in terms of credibility—mine certainly equaled Thomas’ in the matter—and balance in terms of process—the weight of the Senate and the Executive should not have been used against an individual citizen called upon to participate in a public process. Neither the issue of harassment nor the nomination