Administrators claimed that police force was the only alternative--the students had gotten into the building's records and were distributing material "about the personal affairs of faculty members," according to Dean of Students Archie C. Epps III. "The administration had lost all control over the building and could not have persuaded students to come out," the dean recalls.
"A lot of people had an illogical, medieval notion of a university--that secular authority should not be allowed in no matter what," says Martin H. Peretz, a Social Studies lecturer who considered himself part of the "middle left faction" of the Faculty in 1969.
The use of force to evict the student protesters did more than unify the student body--it "crystallized the polarization in the faculty that had begun earlier," recalls Maier. The Faculty had been split from the beginning between support of student demands and alliance with the administration; although most viewed the University Hall take-over as inappropriate, many were even more horrified by the sudden police action.
In the wake of the bust, the Faculty split into two organized factions, a liberal caucus and a conservative caucus, which Maier calls "embryonic political parties." Meetings became more frequent, larger, and more heated; "It was really tense," recalls History Department Chairman John Womack Jr. '59.
In the absence of any other generally accepted authority--students were reluctant to meet with administrators during the strike--Faculty members became more and more involved in trying to defuse the crisis. Emergency Faculty meetings took place twice a week; committees--including, for the first time, student representatives--were set up to look into all aspects of both student and administration complaints.
After a heated debate, the Faculty voted in mid-April to press the Governing Boards to strip ROTC of all privileges not accorded to other extra-curricular activities--for example, free use of University rooms, and scholarships--and to grant amnesty to students arrested for participation in the take-over. Students seemed responsive to the Faculty's willingness to listen to demands; on April 18, when 5000 students voted to suspend the strike after nine days, they cited the "Faculty's commitment to continuing progress" as their chief reason for agreeing to return to class.
The personal toll of the crisis was great: in late April, then-Dean of the Faculty Franklin L. Ford suffered a stroke, and later resigned; Fred L. Glimp '50, then-dean of the College, left Harvard for 10 years. On the student side, 13 were eventually asked to withdraw from the University, 20 were given "suspended suspensions," 99 were placed on warning. Many of those who participated in the strike, such as G. Garrett Epps '72, would say years later that the event remained "the most important experience of our lives."
But what was the long-term effect on Harvard of a crisis which changed the lives of an entire generation of students? Administrators are quick to say that the University today is a very different place than it was in 1969. "The crisis is never far from the minds of administrators and faculty today," says Epps, adding, "For better or worse, it's part of our professional mindset."
The management of Harvard as an institution has changed dramatically, Epps says; the number of vice-presidents has multiplied from one to five to "bring in more manpower to look at issues," he says, and the administration is "held accountable in new ways in how they deal with widely felt needs for change."
The Resolution on Rights and Responsibilities, created in the aftermath of the student strike, was Harvard's first attempt to lay out a written policy for responding to various forms of protest; Epps calls it a "treaty negotiated through rounds of meetings with faculty and students."
That dialogue itself seems to be the greatest change in University policy since 1969; though some students today argue that they still have insufficient input into major University decisions, the administration is at least required to consult faculty and some student leaders.
The Faculty now elects a Faculty Council to voice their concerns, and student-faculty committees, however effective, have multiplied enormously from the days when many students said they felt powerless in the face of Harvard's "governing board of a few rich people," according to Jay Epstein '69.
But perhaps the greatest change at Harvard in a decade and a half has been the style of its executive leader, President Bok was chosen as Pusey's successor in 1971 largely because administrators felt he might show a new responsiveness to student concerns and might be what Dunlop calls a more flexible "crisis manager," "Even when Bok rejects student demands, he gives the impression that he has thought them through," says Maier, adding, "By 1969, Pusey had lost that capacity."
Some students today exasperated by the University's continued involvement in countries that do business in South Africa, say they doubt Bok's actual commitment to negotiation--but his manner of dealing with student protest is still a far cry from Pusey's stance. "Rather than most as issue head-on, Bok has the knack of avoiding direct confrontation through postponement," wrote one student in 1972. "He doesn't say 'no' directly," commented another. "He says 'let's set up a committee."
Despite these changes, could the turbulence of 1969 happen again on campus, should a new galvanizing issue arise? Some, like Peretz, say the chances of a reprise are slim: "Students today are interested in action about issues, like nuclear proliferation or Central America," he says, "but they're not interested in using the University as a vehicle for their protests."
Others are not so sure, "I would not be so glib as to think it couldn't happen again," says Epps. 'That was our problem in 1969--we were too smug, not adequately prepared. We thought we were different from Columbia and Berkeley."