Though the popular perception of higher education as an “ivory tower” implies that institutions are impregnable fortresses, physically separate from the outside world, this metaphor is often inaccurate. The same violence that was part of the regular news cycle in the past few years affects colleges and universities as much as the rest of the country. Institutions face safety and campus climate threats from campus visitors, trespassers, and their own affiliates. A brief survey of campus climate and violence incidents from 2016 and 2017 confirmed this troubling pattern. At the University of Texas at Austin in April 2016, dance student Haruka Weiser was strangled on campus property (Byknish 2017). In June 2016, Mainak Sarkar, a former doctoral student at the University of California, Los Angeles, shot and killed William Klug, his thesis advisor, and subsequently committed suicide (Wang 2016). Contemporary campus incidents included more than physical violence. At the University of Michigan in November 2016, three separate incidents of religious and ethnic discrimination occurred: one student was pushed down a hill due to her religion, another was required to remove her hijab under threat of being set on fire, and a third found a swastika on the door of his residence (Biglin 2016).

Also in November 2016, someone wrote “Trump!” in permanent marker at the Muslim Student Association prayer room in the Engineering building at New York University (Garcia 2016), seemingly in an attempt to threaten Muslim students by invoking the name of Donald Trump, the then‐President elect of the United States of America, whose rhetoric and proposed policies were, among other things, graphically anti‐Muslim. In a cross‐institutional incident, a University of Oklahoma student was suspended in November 2016 for adding Black students at the University of Pennsylvania to a GroupMe called “Mud Men”; messages in the group chat contained racial slurs and threats of lynching (Simon and Snow 2016). In August 2017, white supremacists participating in a rally called “Unite the Right” marched on to the University of Virginia campus in Charlottesville, Virginia, and, in off‐campus clashes between them and anti‐racist counter‐protestors, 32‐year‐old Heather Heyer was killed (Al Jazeera News 2017; Stripling 2017). In late September 2017, racial slurs were written on message boards on the campus residences of five Black students at the Air Force Academy Preparatory School, saying “go home nigger” (Svrluga 2017).

These events are not limited to U.S. colleges and universities. In the year following the Brexit vote, hate crimes on school and college campuses in the United Kingdom soared 62%, an unprecedented rise for a single year (Bulman 2018). A Black, female student at Nottingham Trent University was harassed by students shouting, “We hate the Blacks” and “Sign the Brexit papers” outside her campus residence hall door (Robson 2018). Anti‐Asian graffiti, including “Stop the Asian Invasion” and “No More Gooks,” was found on walls at the University of Sydney in Australia in June 2018 (Fernando 2018). At the University of Witwatersrand in South Africa, anonymous flyers were posted that combined the image of Anne Frank, a young Jewish girl famously murdered during the Holocaust, with a Palestinian keffiyeh (black and white scarf). The intent of the image was to draw a parallel between the Holocaust and Israeli Apartheid, but the impact was an impression of associating Israel’s actions with all Jewish people, as well as a coopting of Jewish pain and images (Moshe‐Algemeiner 2018). This was indicative of the recent, global resurgence in anti‐Semitic views and crimes. The United Kingdom saw a 34% rise in violent assaults against Jewish people in 2017, marking the highest number of incidents in the history of tracking (Khomami 2018). In May 2018, supporters of Nicaraguan President Ortega attacked the University of Central America for its students’ roles in anti‐Ortega protests and attempted to kill several campus guards (De Loera‐Brust 2018). In that same month, Zolile Khumalo, a female student of color, was murdered in her university residence at Mangosuthu University of Technology in South Africa (Zungu 2018).

How have campuses responded to incidents like these? Overwhelmingly, they have focused on preventing future threats (Pezza and Bellotti 1995; O'Neill et al. 2008; Sulkowski and Lazarus 2011). Much less attention has been given to comforting and supporting campus constituents in their wake, and the scholarship in this area focuses almost exclusively on the availability of counseling resources (e.g. O'Neill et al. 2008). The unsustainably small ratio of counseling staff to students – averaging 1:3000 at mid‐size U.S. universities (Association for University and College Counseling Center Directors 2014) – is two to three times smaller than the internationally recommended minimum (International Association of Counseling Services n.d.) and can result in delays of weeks or more for students in receiving care, even without a campus‐wide crisis (Thielking 2017). While this is cause for great concern, a myopic focus on counseling overlooks the many different ways that constituents are revictimized by campus responses to violence. In particular, college and university violence response plans are almost always identity‐blind, as if all members of a campus community experience trauma in a similar way or, more accurately, as if variation in the processing of trauma is random and not related to identity. For example, a recent book meant to be a comprehensive look at the topic of preparedness and response to campus shootings includes no chapter subheadings that focus on identity – not race, gender, sexuality, citizenship status, religion, ability status, or any other category (Hemphill and Labanc 2010). Despite chapters that talk at length about campus response plans and resources, the authors of this volume display no thought to how campus violence disparately affects campus constituents of varying identities.

Similarly, the International Association of Counseling Services (n.d.) recommends a minimum ratio of mental health staff to students of 1:1000, to be used as a standard for colleges and universities of all types, sizes, nationalities, contexts, and student bodies. This identity‐blind standard implies, no doubt inadvertently, that groups of students are similar enough that they all have the same approximate distribution of counseling needs. Psychological research refutes this idea, demonstrating differences in mental health needs, usages, and disorders by race, gender, and other identities. For example, a national U.S. study found that women were more likely to suffer from mood and anxiety disorders while men were more likely to suffer from antisocial personality and substance use disorders (Eaton et al. 2011). Also, while young men are more likely to die by suicide in most countries, young women are more likely to do so in China, Cuba, Ecuador, El Salvador, and Sri Lanka (Wasserman et al. 2005). How might these findings impact the number and type of counselors needed at a traditionally single‐gender university in France versus Cuba? Similarly, Asian American college students experience suicidal thoughts at a higher rate than White college students (Hijioka & Wong n.d.), but White college students are more likely to seek mental health help (Primm 2018). Compounding this issue, students feel better served by counselors who are similar to themselves in terms of ethnicity/culture (Meyer and Zane 2013), but over 80% of mental health professionals in the United States identify as White non‐Hispanic (Cort 2018). These studies all support the idea that students are not monolithic and need identity‐centered care options. If students’ reactions to trauma and need for support are not one‐size‐fits‐all, then why are so many campus response plans?

In this chapter, we will demonstrate that an identity‐blind approach to campus safety is itself a revictimization of those who are most vulnerable. In their attempts to make campuses safer, higher education practitioners forget the concerns of those most likely to experience violence in the first place: women, Muslims, people of color, people with disabilities, and those with identities intersecting these and other minoritized categories. By ignoring identities and the sociopolitical contexts of violence in present‐day higher education, campus employees perform microaggressions against marginalized populations, which, cumulatively, serve to reinforce the message that some people are not safe on college campuses. Whether by design or through careless omission, these patterns of oppressive discourse create campus environments in which certain populations are excluded from messages of safety.

Using a discourse analysis approach, this chapter explores three common responses of campuses to threats, violent acts, and national events: town halls, safety campaigns, and safe spaces. In examining these elements of discourse, we consider questions such as:

• Who is included or excluded through messaging around physical safety?
• How does this discourse communicate who is, or who gets to be, safe?
• Are particular spaces safe or unsafe, and for whom?
• How might women, GLBTQAIP+, people of color, and people with disabilities experience these messages?
• How are ideas about gender communicated through these messages?
• What does safety mean in terms of gender?
• How do safety messages reflect gendered attitudes?
• What are the gendered messages in and effects of institutional responses to campus, community, and world incidents of violence?
• How do the answers to these questions change when gender intersects with other identities, such as sexuality, race, class, ability, and religion?

We employ personal vignettes, theoretical perspectives, and discourse analysis to show how higher education's conversations around safety consistently perform microaggressions that actively contribute to a climate steeped in misogyny, transmisogyny, misogynoir, and other oppressive attitudes. We also discuss concrete actions readers may take to continue improving college and university campuses with regard to equity through safety.

Definitions

In this chapter, we define microaggressions as “brief and commonplace daily verbal or behavioral indignities, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative” actions that deride and potentially cause harm to women, racial/ethnic minorities, and minoritized sexual and gender identities (Sue 2010, p. 164). Note that microaggressions do not have to be deliberate to be harmful, and that even benign intent can cause a hostile climate for these groups. Indeed, microaggressions can be the most painful when another party unthinkingly makes an assumption or engages in stereotyping about a particular group. Microaggressions also contribute to the perception of a negative campus climate.

Though no commonly accepted definition of campus climate is used in the literature, for the purposes of this chapter we will conceptualize it as “behaviors within a workplace or learning environment, ranging from subtle to cumulative to dramatic that can influence whether an individual feels personally safe, listened to, valued, and treated fairly and with respect” (Campus Climate Network Group 2002, as cited in Henry et al. 2011, p. 690). A positive and supportive campus climate is one in which students – as well as faculty and staff – are welcomed and feel secure, and are confident in their sense of belonging. It incorporates and extends beyond personal physical safety to also include emotional and intellectual well‐being. Under the Obama administration, the U.S. Department of Education issued a report in November 2016 urging institutions of higher education to increase (specifically racial and ethnic) diversity in their student populations and to foster an “inclusive campus climate” and utilize “cultural competency training” for students, faculty, and staff (Office of Planning, Evaluation and Policy Development 2016, p. 3). The previously mentioned events of violence over the past few years have altered many students' perceptions of their campus climate and of their personal safety.

Theoretical Framework and Methodology

We employ discourse analysis in order to examine the theoretical and practical implications of institutional responses. Discourse, for the purposes of this discussion, is productive. As Jackson (2010) states, “discourses are regulated and regulating” (p. 74). In particular, we are interested in the relationship between discourse and power. Thinking with the work of Foucault (1980) and his concept of power/knowledge, we draw attention to the perpetuating relationship between knowledge and power. Discourse is a productive force to create knowledge about the campus climate and oneself. Discourse analysis helps us to consider the relational nature of “power relations that are unstable, unequal, and produce knowledge about the self” (Jackson and Mazzei 2012). By using discourse analysis in this chapter, our goal is to make visible the practices of individuals and institutions that perpetuate notions of safety for members of the campus varying by gender.

To facilitate this discourse analysis, we have chosen to frame the discussion through the theoretical underpinnings of Foucault (1980) and his notion of a genealogy. Foucault (1977) describes a genealogy as a “history of the present” (p. 31). Thinking with Foucault, the purpose of doing a historical analysis in this chapter is to examine campus climate in the present and how discourse shapes the concept of safety for all genders on campus. Kendall and Wickham (1999) helpfully expand Foucault's concept of power/knowledge and discourse through specific questions for methodology. Using Kendall and Wickham's framework, we have crafted three guiding questions for our analysis of the institutional and individual responses to these crises:

1. What conditions form and deploy this discourse and environment?
2. What strategies and practices of discourse perpetuate particular definitions of safety?
3. How do these strategies and practices of discourse intersect with different identities?

These three questions serve as the underlying basis for the analysis of the events discussed within this chapter. Additionally, we used the work of Atkinson and Coffey (2004), who detail historical document analysis processes, to help structure the genealogical analysis. Atkinson and Coffey (2004) implore researchers not just to look at documents or artifacts as standalone pieces, but to investigate “the extent of relationships and intertextualities” (p. 67). We chose to examine multiple crises of safety and to point to a variety of responses in order to better understand the data as a whole and provide a more complete analysis. In the analysis, we will rely on transcripts from meetings and activities, articles from the time and retrospectively, public proclamations from university officials, and any other primary and secondary sources that enlighten the discourses across this topic.

The final piece of theoretical framework and methodology is our decision to employ the use of personal vignettes. We are part of this story and are inescapably linked into discourses of campus safety, gender, and crisis. To not include ourselves would be to overlook a critical point of discourse. Stemming from the scholarship of Clark/Keefe (2010) and others, this work falls within the realm of “ourstory,” where we embrace analysis “that blends academic, personal, biographical, and popular culture discourse” (p. 1180). Because crises within higher education span into public space and discourse, it is critical that we approach this chapter holistically.

In his text, Qualitative Research Design, Maxwell (2005) outlines the importance of self‐notes as a validity strategy for qualitative work. In addition to our discourses being intertwined with the crises, the use of personal vignettes also creates a check against hidden biases in the text and helps to make visible how our personal stories are intertwined into the analysis – for both us and our readers. This self‐reflexivity is an important part of feminist post‐structuralist discourse analysis, another methodology of similar positioning and aims, which notes that continued questioning about values and assumptions is critical to deconstructing discourse with regard to power (Weedon 1996; Baxter 2003).The combination of historical discourse analysis, examination of power relations, and self‐examination provides a robust avenue for discussing the concept of safety and gender on college campuses.

Response 1: Town Halls

The town hall meeting is popular at colleges and universities across the United States as a response mechanism to campus violence or student unrest. In response to issues of campus climate and posters containing racist hate speech that had been appearing on campus, the University of Texas at Austin held a town hall with top administrators on February 22, 2017. The town hall was situated in a context of student unrest regarding the university’s response to a number of concerns raised by marginalized identities on campus. These included whether the racist posters were taken down in response to the hate speech or improper posting regulations, a perceived lack of response to reports made to the Campus Climate Response Team, and slow‐developing policy implementation, particularly around hate speech regulations. The town hall followed from a series of public announcements and emails sent by President Gregory Fenves regarding the need for dialog, understanding, and “setting the tone” and “showing respect for one another” (Fenves 2016c). Hosted by leaders of the campus administration – including President Fenves, the Provost, the Vice President of Student Affairs, and the Vice President for Diversity and Community Engagement – the town hall was presented as an opportunity for the campus community to have a discussion regarding campus climate, and potential steps forward that the university administration could take.

While, as Jackson and Mazzei (2012) remind us, “we can never know people's intentions” (p. 57), the stated goals of the town hall were to provide an opportunity for students to be heard and for the administration to listen. The town hall itself turned from being a formal, structured event to one that involved heated questioning, pleas against inaction, and shouting from the audience (Meyertons 2017). As many of the questions did not lead to specific responses and commitments to concrete action from the administrators present, the audience became angry, with one student stating bluntly, “Your institutions are bullshit” (University of Texas at Austin 2017). The sentiment was cheered loudly, representing a common emotional feeling that the actions of the university were not sufficiently thorough or active.

In thinking with the guiding questions for discourse, the relationship between crises on campus and the actions of hate speech perpetuates an unsafe environment. Less obvious is how the action and inaction of administrators also perpetuate this unsafe environment. Foucault's work reminds us to study, as Jackson and Mazzei (2012) put it, “the functions and effects of power, not its origins” (p. 56, emphasis in original). The function of the administrators' inaction and their inability to offer cogent responses at the town hall normalizes listening events such as the town hall as the sole responsive action that the administration will take, regardless of whether that is intended or true. Furthermore, the timing of the town hall occurred chronologically following and in close proximity to instances of students feeling unsafe. This positions it as a spectacle and as a strategy of prominence. It appears that action is happening, but the function of the town hall prioritizes and emphasizes listening as action. For students who have already been expressing their displeasure at the institution's response and those who have already been speaking up or having meetings with administrators who listen, it reinforces this administrative action as the prominent one. The town hall itself served as the administrators’ sole response to student concerns.

From a power standpoint, this perpetuates the concept that notions of safety are wrapped up in conversation and listening. It privileges and powers those who can participate in such conversations and those who feel they have a voice, while deemphasizing and othering those who do not. In the case of the University of Texas at Austin, while town halls on campus have been open to all students, many individuals from marginalized identities expressed their frustration with this dissonance of response and lack of action from administrators. Additionally, the use of a town hall by top administrators as a response to violent rhetoric and acts perpetuates the idea that discussion and conversation are actions of safety, when many students may not see them that way. As one Black student wrote in a follow‐up article on the town hall, “the administration waits until their students are openly threatened to take action, and even then it never seems to create significant change” (Campbell 2017).

The administration also voiced a commitment to free speech and having an open dialog. This action around celebrating free speech and providing a response within the town hall that details a commitment to free speech further complicates the differing discursive expectations. As one student put it, the institution “woefully characterizes the issue at hand as one of free speech instead of safety” (University of Texas at Austin 2017). The function of support of free speech in the wake of hate speech and an already chilly climate is that it elevates such speech to the same level as the speech of those students presenting and engaging in the town hall. Kendall and Wickham (1999), channeling Foucault, note that the perpetuation of particular discursive ideas both produces certain statements and actions and also “delimit[s] the sayable” (p. 42). In other words, the choice by President Fenves and his cabinet to privilege discourse surrounding free speech over actionable items produces an environment where the conversation around free speech is normalized as mainstream and other action steps or items are set to the margins. As Kendall and Wickham (1999) find, discourses produce the possibilities for individuals; in this case, the support for a narrative of free speech over action perpetuates the notion among marginalized students that conversation outside the context of free speech is not highly prioritized at the university. This rhetoric further serves to reduce the contributions of those who are striving for action by equating them to those who are engaging in speech or actions that create a feeling of unsafety and pushes those individuals further into the margins by marginalizing their discourse. The chilly climate on campus is then perpetuated by a discourse that justifies violent or oppressive language and positions it as the equal, opposite ideology of those who feel targeted (Harriot 2017; Klein 2018).

In addition to the free speech discussion, the perception of the administration's motivations for action further deepens the fissure between the expected response from students and the appropriate response from the administration. As one student at the town hall noted, “I am concerned that the reasons [the racist posters] were taken down is not because of the content, but because they were posted by an external group” (University of Texas at Austin 2017). The function of a response based in policies is one that struck students as a convenient way out of the problem. At the town hall, the administrators gave unclear responses as to whether or not posters of hate speech would be removed. This furthers the discourse that a student's individual perception of their own safety is not a determining factor in whether administrators will take action to protect them. Again, the purpose of this analysis is not to point at whether that is what the town hall and the administration were attempting to do, but to look at the impact of power and discourse at the extremities. The analysis looks at the impact of the power that students perceived from the actions of the president and his cabinet and how it impacts individual members of the community. It is also important to note that while individual actions may have been taken by different members or offices within the administration, the student perception at the town hall was in response to the actions of the university as a whole. While we acknowledge that the administration of a university is not a monolithic entity, its parts function to create and perpetuate a systematic approach to incidents on campus and therefore invite a response as a singular unit.

Students at the town hall repeatedly discussed their disappointment in the inaction from the university and administrators on campus: “There’s no point in reporting. There’s no point in filing incidents. What we want is prevention” (University of Texas at Austin 2017). Students expressed an understanding that they were being devalued. They saw the university response as listening, conversation, and words, not an attempt to move action forward. Without attempting to ascribe an intent to the town hall by the administration, as long as its actions differ from the expectations of students of varying identities, the discursive effect is one of increased marginalization for communities. As Foucault (1980) states, “truth isn't outside power” (p. 131), and the administration's ability to emphasize talk over action functions to create a truth that talk is the appropriate action and that other concerns that cannot be resolved through dialog do not deserve discursive space. In other words, by prioritizing discussion, the administration defines for the campus community that all problems in the campus climate can be resolved through discussion. From a discursive standpoint, this prioritization of speech emphasizes the rules about what actions are possible and articulates an underlying message that dialog and town halls are the primary acceptable mainstream mode of response to actions regarding campus climate.

Because action beyond that of the town hall is deemphasized and discourses surrounding it are sent to the margins, it is marginalized along with the identities that emphasize those discursive nodes. Because voices and “being heard” are presented as a goal, any other goals are seen as unrealistic or outside the scope of the dominant discursive environment. The discursive environment in any situation is reinforced by all members of that environment. In this circumstance, the actions of the top administrators at the university in holding the town hall and emphasizing discussion and free speech function as large‐scale discursive strategies that perpetuate the “being heard” goal as the primary one for the university environment. The continued approach of solving problems through listening also functions to inform those who have been talking that their voices are not valued or are not worthy of being heard. For these students, additional anger and expressed frustration seem like a natural response. Thinking back to Jackson and Mazzei's (2012) discussion on how speech and actions are both conditioning and conditioned, the discursive impact of emphasizing dialogue and “being heard” is a reinforcement of an environment in which certain types of speech, actions, and identities are not invited. As these forms of discourse are increasingly in the margins, the lack of their prioritization, combined with the prioritization of speech such as that at the town hall, creates an endless feedback loop that perpetuates a chilly climate for many student identities.

Response 2: “Safety” Campaigns

On the night of April 3, 2016, a student at the University of Texas at Austin left the Theatre and Dance building after practice with the intention of walking to her on‐campus dormitory, less than a few blocks away. Her roommates waited all night for her return. A few days later, Haruka Weiser's body was found in Waller Creek, a brushy area located near the Theatre and Dance building and alumni center. Her autopsy revealed that Haruka had been sexually assaulted and strangled. Security footage showed a grainy figure with a bicycle loitering near an adjacent building. A 17‐year‐old homeless person became the primary suspect and was later convicted of her murder (McCausland 2018). This was the first murder on the University of Texas at Austin campus in over 50 years (Farrell 2016).

Waves of sadness and shock rippled through the campus. The immediate response turned into well‐meaning advice to keep safe and stay in well‐lit areas (Fenves 2016a). Increased resources were directed toward services designed to reduce the incidence of students traveling alone (Fenves 2016b), with the Theatre and Dance department offering its students accompanied walks or rides home. The university developed a large‐scale plan for remodeling the landscape near Waller Creek, including clearing foliage and increasing the amount of lightning and video surveillance (McGaughy 2016). It increased patrols on campus, and various buildings posted signs urging students to call the police if they felt unsafe (Mason 2016). One of the authors of this chapter remembers that time vividly:

Throughout the remainder of the spring semester, an air of mourning and anxiety could be felt on campus. The bus depot facing the Theatre and Dance building, a high‐traffic area during the day, felt forever changed. Walking from buses along Waller Creek and into campus buildings, the loss of vegetation in the creek was another stark reminder of the recent loss at the university.

In the wake of a violent tragedy like this, campus community members feel a sense of loss both from the event and from the perception that a formerly secure space has been taken away from them (Carrico 2016; University Health Services n.d.). Higher education campuses use messaging intended to communicate a sense of safety and security, such as “Be safe,” “Don't walk alone,” “Walk with a buddy,” and “Carry pepper spray” (Best Colleges n.d.; Jones n.d.). These messages, though likely unintentionally, indicate that safety is the responsibility of the individual. Further, they paint safety with a broad brush, as a singular issue that can and should be attended to always in the same ways. They conceal disparate impacts and reveal that campuses are not attuned to them. We will interrogate three of these messages around safety: “Call the police,” “Be aware of suspicious people,” and “Go out with friends.”

Response 3: “Safe” Spaces

What is a “safe space,” for whom is a space “safe,” and who gets to determine which spaces are “safe?” When are ideas harmful? Is intellectual safety drastically different from physical safety? The idea of safe spaces first appeared in feminist initiatives in the 1960s and 1970s that created female‐only spaces where women could discuss issues impacting women; this idea of a separate space for a marginalized population later expanded to incorporate other identities beyond gender (Byron 2017). Literature on safe spaces in educational environments contains two different perspectives. Some scholars suggest implementing a poststructuralist approach, encouraging people to think through the power relations inherent in determining safety (Byron 2017; Stengel 2010; The Roestone Collective 2014). Others argue against safe spaces, as represented most recently by the dean and faculty of the University of Chicago, discussed below, suggesting that confronting ideas and assumptions that are uncomfortable is a crucial part of the educational experience (Boost Rom 1998; Holley and Steiner 2005; Jennings et al. 2007).

The First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution declares that Congress cannot make laws infringing upon the freedom of speech. In educational settings, this traditionally has been interpreted to mean that U.S. institutions of higher education must balance competing interests: preserving individuals' freedom of speech while simultaneously ensuring that students are safe on campus. Langford (2006) wrote that higher education institutions “need to balance the [First Amendment] rights of the students to free speech with the need to educate students,” presumably in a safe context (p. 95). How much responsibility do public institutions have to create safe spaces for students while allowing controversial individuals to speak on campus?

The question of free speech at higher education institutions took center stage at the beginning of the 2017–2018 academic year, particularly with regard to free speech versus hate speech, as a result of the Charlottesville violence in August. Nationwide conversations took place about the role campus leadership should play in protecting students from hate speech and white supremacist speakers. Texas A&M University canceled an event entitled “White Lives Matter” scheduled for September 11, 2017, stating that “linking the tragedy of Charlottesville with the Texas A&M event creates a major security risk on our campus. Additionally, the daylong event would provide disruption to our class schedules and to student, faculty and staff movement” (Jaschik 2017). The university's decision inspired praise from campus safety groups, but censure from free speech activists (Haurwitz 2017). The University of California, Berkeley, by contrast, allowed a student group to host right‐wing provocateurs on campus for the (later canceled) “Free Speech Week” events in September 2017, despite student and community protests (Gray 2017; Deruy et al. 2017). In 2016, the conversation concerning safe spaces and campus communities rose to national attention due to events at the University of Chicago.

In September 2016, the Dean of Students, John Ellison, wrote a letter to all new students that praised free speech and included the following statement:

Our commitment to academic freedom means that we do not support so‐called “trigger warnings,” we do not cancel invited speakers because their topics might prove controversial, and we do not condone the creation of intellectual “safe spaces” where individuals can retreat from ideas and perspectives at odds with their own.

(Miltimore 2016, para. 8)

In response, faculty members published a letter to the editor in the campus newspaper applauding the dean's commitment to free speech (Letter to the Editor 2017). However, they suggested that the dean's letter conflated physical safe spaces, which they supported, with intellectual safe spaces, with which they disagreed on principle. They stated that they “deplore any atmosphere of harassment and threat” and that freedom of speech was a core value of academic freedom, so students should be open to ideas that may be “contentious, difficult, perhaps even painful” (Letter to the Editor 2017, paras. 6 and 3). In this exchange, the faculty and the dean both valued the primacy of intellectual conversation in the classroom, whether it be beneficial or harmful, as key to the academic experience. They indicated that being exposed to uncomfortable ideas was a crucial aspect of intellectual development and that students did not need to be protected from this key educational process. Students had the right to be safe on campus but not inside the classroom. Most U.S. governmental policies, like the Crime Awareness and Campus Security Act of 1990 (the Clery Act), reflect this notion of campus safety, measuring it statistically and numerically (Fisher 1995).

At Texas institutions of higher education in 2016, campus conversations around safety focused on physical security. In 2016, a new law was passed that allowed students, faculty, staff, and visitors to carry concealed firearms into campus buildings. Campus officials, bound by the law, had limited authority to carve out exceptions in the form of gun‐free zones. Many faculty and staff expressed feeling unsafe and reluctant to address certain controversial topics in their work for fear of being shot (Somers et al. 2017). In addition to being spaces of intellectual discourse, classrooms and offices became zones of uncertainty about who might have a gun and what they might do with it.

Next Steps

We have demonstrated that institutional responses to safety issues are both important and woefully inadequate to protect and support diverse campus constituencies. Some may say that the discursive offenses mentioned in this chapter are small, but consider the cumulative effect of seeing these same messages every day. Greene (2017) points out that everyday racism commits violence on marginalized peoples:

Students, staff, and faculty of color feel this racist climate cutting away at everything they do, sometimes slowly, sometimes quite suddenly. These same students and staff have demonstrated, organized, and petitioned administrators for years to change the way the university is run so that they can feel safe, so they can go to work or school without feeling hated or threatened. If they are not ignored outright, they are placated with roundtables, working groups, and ever more calls for “dialogue.” This does not heal the rot or cut it out, it merely presents the rot as one possible path for growth in the marketplace of ideas  –  and surely we wouldn't want to offend the rot, or those who embrace it. So the rot sits, deep within our institutions, left to fester, slowly cutting away at the staff and students of color who walk through it. (para. 3)

Perhaps it is unsurprising that campus responses to violence do not attend to marginalized perspectives, since the authors of these plans are overwhelmingly White, male faculty of means. However, the solution is not simply to bring marginalized people to “the table,” to ask that we/they help author response plans. Though centering of marginalized perspectives is critical, this cannot be accomplished by relying on the already taxed academic and emotional labor of oppressed peoples. One of this chapter's authors wrote the following about the experience of trying to do such work while facing another challenge every day, another tweet, another poster, another committee meeting, another assault on her identities:

I am exhausted. And so are my colleagues.

People of Color, LGBTQ+ folks, Women, and People with Disabilities are always asked to join committees. They are always asked to justify diversity, or be the face of diversity, or be the spokesperson for a diversity issue. And it is exhausting, especially if you share one or more of these identities.

Creating a safer space for students who share our identities is important, and our job, and is emotionally taxing. It is intellectual labor and emotional labor, and we need allies in doing this labor. We need our colleagues with privileged identities to step in and advocate for students/staff/faculty of marginalized identities.

As someone who carries more than 10 years of institutional memory, I've seen the cycle of events. Something traumatic happens on campus, and there is a collective shock, and then promises to improve. The leadership of the institution offer to host discussions or a listening tour, and then does anything happen?

It is with a heavy heart that I listen to these discussions. It's the weight of knowing that I've seen this before. That life is easier for some than it will ever be for others. It is heart‐breaking to the point where I become emotionally exhausted.

This feeling is exacerbated by the political climate, current events, national disasters, and mass shootings of the moment. I feel guilty that there is no way I can truly keep my students safe. I feel hollow when I explain to my students a one‐size‐fits‐all policy that does not protect the real victims. I feel terrible that when I get home, I have no energy to spend meaningful time with my partner, or to go to an activist event to help build community or support for important issues.

Many faculty, staff, and students I know are struggling with depression and anxiety. There is nothing more exhausting than being witness to lip service and inaction. Staff members are doubly burdened with the lack of inclusion. Administrators direct most conversations toward faculty and forget the value of feedback from the staff members who are working every day on the ground. Staff members lack representation and autonomy. Our state jobs are not protected by tenure, so we sometimes cannot risk being overly critical of the institution, our employer.

As Greene (2017) says, colleges and universities must cut out the rot that creates toxic messaging. Educators must attend to their own privileges, and to the needs and pains of individuals and groups. Good intentions cannot excuse the oppressive communications of flyers and hashtags. Discourse conveys and makes manifest power on campus. With every response, the institution choose either to center those most vulnerable or to reify structures that victimize. By attending to words and actions, administrators have a chance to make campuses truly safer places – for everyone.

Activity

As you read through this chapter, you probably thought of events and issues at your own campus or on a campus you are familiar with. We offer this activity as a way to organize and process your thoughts. However, a more powerful option would be to complete this activity as part of a team or with your whole department. Responses should be gathered anonymously and presented back to the group in aggregate. While this activity can generate helpful ideas for practice, the content of the responses must not be shared beyond the group, in order to value, respect, and protect individuals. Any formal recommendations or sharing of feedback outside that context should be drafted separately and only with consent of those whose ideas are incorporated.

Consider your own institutional context, and answer the following questions:

• How do institutional leaders respond to violence or safety concerns?
  • Who responds, when, to whom, and in what manner(s)?
  • How do you feel about these responses?
  • Which individuals/groups are excluded or marginalized by the language, media, or timing of these responses?
  • What would you recommend to improve institutional responses to violence?
• Does your institution ask campus constituents to share feedback/reactions/recommendations regarding campus violence/safety issues?
  • If so, how is this solicited?
  • Is feedback acted upon? In what manner and how long after it is received?
  • How do you feel about feedback opportunities related to campus violence/safety?
  • Which individuals/groups are excluded or marginalized by the language, media, or timing of these opportunities?
  • What would you recommend to improve institutionally‐solicited feedback/reactions/recommendations regarding campus violence/safety issues?
• What messages do you see regarding safety?
  • Are these messages connected to campus resources? Which? How?
  • How are campus police involved in or connected to these messages?
  • How do you feel about these messages?
  • Which individuals/groups are excluded or marginalized by the language, media, or timing of these messages?
  • What would you recommend to improve institutional messaging about safety?
• What does “safe space” mean on your campus?
  • If there are multiple meanings, how does your campus distinguish the different uses/issues?
  • How is information about safe spaces communicated?
  • How do you feel about safe spaces on your campus?
  • Which individuals/groups are excluded or marginalized by the definition or implementation of safe spaces on your campus?
  • What would you recommend to improve institutional practices regarding safe spaces?
• How does your campus respond to “free speech” issues with a violence/safety component?
  • Which campus events spark(ed) conflicts or disagreements between safety/violence/hate speech and free speech?
  • Who decides what speech is permitted, and how do they decide it?
  • How do you feel about campus policies and procedures related to these conflicts?
  • Which individuals/groups are excluded or marginalized by the language, media, or timing of these policies and procedures?
  • What would you recommend to improve institutional handling of conflicts between free speech and safety/violence?

These topics and their associated questions can be completed all at once or one at a time, as appropriate for the group and setting. Because these are big issues, we recommend only tackling all sections of the activity if there is extended time for discussion, such as during a half‐day retreat or longer gathering. It is important to allow enough time and accessible methods for individuals to process their thoughts and contribute their responses. Consider the time and resources available for thorough discussion and follow‐up action before inviting individuals to participate in the activity. After responses are compiled and shared anonymously with the group, allow ample time for everyone to digest all the responses to a particular item/section prior to opening up any discussion. Some good questions for discussion include:

• What was it like to answer these questions yourself?
• How do you think the responses might be different if we asked other campus constituents to answer these questions?
• What is something you learned from seeing the group's responses together?
• What role(s) does this team play in relation to this topic?
• What would you, as an individual or team, like to do differently based on this experience?

As demonstrated in this chapter, the issues of safety and violence have serious, tangible, and sometimes permanent effects on the lives of campus constituents, so it is critical to always return to practice. How will you do your job differently tomorrow based on what you learned today? Which elements of discourse around safety are problematic on your campus? What actions can you take to change any problematic discourse? More importantly, what actions are you willing to take?

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