A lot of paper leaves the third floor of 881 Commonwealth Ave., but you’ll never see a single sheet.
The most confidential of university records are filed through Information Systems, the central cortex and data depository of Boston University. Few, however, leave intact. Every discarded sheet touched by so much as a drop of ink is sent away for shredding, never to be seen again.
Each week, a third-floor secretary has to take the recycling pick-up men through the security system and into each department, which are locked down so tight that only upper administrators are given full access. The secretary watches over them as the men drag those weighty papers down the hall and away from campus. What they drive away, they destroy.
This is how information dies at Boston University.
BU guards its secrets like almost no other non-profit organization. For journalists, it’s the mystery that makes this place sexy. For most students, however, the administration is the Big Unknown. Its elusiveness doesn’t help. A surprising number of students, I’ve found, wouldn’t know it if John Silber passed them on the street. Probably, though, he never has.
You likely never saw Jon Westling buying gum at CampCo, either. Of course, he wouldn’t have time for that kind of thing now anyway, seeing as he’s feverishly burying his nose in history books for that upcoming return to the classroom.
Right. That was the lie first fed to us when Westling, BU’s president since 1996, resigned this summer. Like a hero in his autumn, Westling was said to have come to a crossroads, opting to leave behind the power and pressure of the presidency for the simpler life of a teacher. It was all very romantic. And, of course, it was an absolute lie.
Jon Westling, we know, was forced to step down. And no one would ever have known, except the cover-up failed.
BU lied to protect its image. Filthiest of all was the press statement of Richard DeWolfe, the BU trustees chairman who ousted Westling for his lack of leadership and vision, as well as for drilling a hole in the endowment $200 million deep. In the university’s official press release, DeWolfe said, ‘We have accepted Jon’s resignation with regret. On behalf of the Board of Trustees, I would like to express our gratitude for Jon’s extraordinary service to Boston University.’
Within a month, DeWolfe would contradict every one of those words. The chairman told The Boston Globe he wanted Westling gone, and he gave the president little choice but to make his heartfelt return to academia.
While the Globe and The Daily Free Press spread DeWolfe’s admission to the public, the university continued to push the Westling fib. Well after DeWolfe went public, the BU Bridge, the university-funded weekly newspaper, covered the resignation of BU’s six-year president in two sentences. Neither mentioned DeWolfe’s admission. Even after everyone knew the truth, the paper insisted Westling’s resignation was a personal choice.
The same piece featured an interview with Silber, in which he was asked only one question about Westling: What will the former president’s legacy be? That right there was as probing as the Bridge could muster. It was Little League journalism, and the chancellor smacked it for yard without breaking a sweat.
This is the kind of distortion and suppression you’d expect from WorldCom, not a place of education. But BU has long handled itself more like a corporation than a college. The administration protects its image and its egos above all else; leave the truth to the professors.
This is the university where resident assistants are banned from speaking to the media. RAs get free housing, but BU can take it away if one has the audacity to criticize the university in the Free Press. It’s happened before. RAs learn real fast not to bite the hand that gives free housing, even if it means the First Amendment no longer applies to them.
Silber showed his disdain for free speech last semester, too, when he punished students who spoke out in the Free Press about all those missing forks and spoons in the BU dining halls. Without proof that the students had stolen anything, Silber sent disparaging letters to not only the students, but their parents and various administrators. The message, along with ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ was a scornful ‘Thou shalt not speak to The Daily Free Press.’ Never forget, the Lord is vengeful.
Right now, with the university in transition, BU’s fight to squelch information could be more dangerous than ever. With good reason, suspicions are high.
The semester opened with Westling’s resignation, and, maybe not so coincidentally, it closed with DeWolfe’s. Once again, it all came down to personal reasons, the university told us. DeWolfe recently sold the real estate company that bore his name, and, at only 58 years old, he’s looking to birth a new business.
There’s no reason not to believe this. We haven’t been given one. But the facts are strange.
DeWolfe has not uttered a word to any media whatsoever since submitting his resignation. His resignation letter, too, has remained under complete security, deemed ‘not for general circulation.’ The Trustees Office maintains he has been traveling extensively and is largely unavailable for comment, even to other trustees who have called for a word with the outgoing chairman.
In a call to the DeWolfe house last night, a female voice answered, but she hung up when told I was with the Free Press. It was straight to voicemail after that.
High-profile men who leave a position to pursue loftier ambitions have no reason to keep so quiet. In particular, men starting a new business might enjoy a little buzz.
But not so at BU. Buzz is the enemy. It always is when you have something to hide.
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