@BowtiePrincipal The University of Michigan has long celebrated its motto as a home for the "Leaders and Best." The university first began using the phrase in connection with its identity through the school’s fight song, "The Victors," written in 1898 by student Louis Elbel. The specific line — “Hail! to the victors valiant, Hail! to the conqu’ring heroes, Hail! Hail! to Michigan, the leaders and best!” — cemented the phrase in the university’s culture. Over time, "Leaders and Best" evolved from lyrics into a defining slogan of the University of Michigan, representing its aspiration toward excellence in academics, athletics, leadership, and public service. It has since been used in branding, fundraising campaigns (like the “Victors for Michigan” campaign), and official communications, emphasizing Michigan’s identity as a top-tier public research institution.
To see DEI initiatives rolled back so quickly—without transparent public dialogue or institutional resistance—raises serious questions about whether that motto is still being earned. When a university steps away from programs that ensure marginalized students, faculty, and staff have access to the full measure of opportunity, it is not merely reversing a policy. It is stepping away from its moral and historic commitments.
The recent and sudden retreat from Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives—amid national challenges to affirmative action and racial justice—calls into question the integrity and substance of that claim. It is difficult to ignore the irony: a person of Asian descent ascending to one of the most prestigious roles in public higher education—an achievement made possible, at least in part, by the very movements for inclusion that DEI was designed to institutionalize—now presiding over the dismantling of that infrastructure.
The University of Michigan’s historical reluctance to lead on racial equity must be revisited. Consider Fielding H. Yost's exclusion of Black athletes from the football team, the benching of Willis Ward during the infamous 1934 Georgia Tech game at the Big House, and the slow integration of its basketball program. These moments, paired with the current disbanding of DEI efforts, reveal an institution more comfortable with the myth of leadership than with the risk and reality of standing at the front lines of justice.
Michigan’s proud declaration of being the home of the "Leaders and Best" has long been a rallying cry for its community and a cornerstone of its identity. But in light of recent decisions to retreat from DEI, that phrase increasingly feels unearned. Slogans do not define leadership; the willingness to confront adversity, push boundaries, and stand firmly in the face of injustice does. Michigan has faltered before on these fronts—and it is faltering again now.
The university did not always aspire to moral leadership on matters of racial equity. It often preferred inaction, accommodation, or outright exclusion. The period of Fielding H. Yost's dominance over Michigan athletics in the early 20th century offers a stark reminder. While Yost built a formidable football legacy, he simultaneously ensured that Black athletes were kept off his teams. Abner Howell, a star athlete from Utah, earned a spot on Michigan’s freshman team in 1902, winning freshman numbers for his stellar play. But he never played for the varsity football team, despite trying out in 1903 and again in 1904. As a result, he missed being part of Michigan’s national championship teams in 1903 and 1904 and the famed 1903 game against Minnesota that began the rivalry over the Little Brown Jug—the oldest rivalry trophy in college football. Despite being arguably the best athlete at Michigan, Howell’s talents were ignored by Yost because of his race. Yost, the son of a Confederate soldier, is still honored as the "Father of Michigan Football" despite a 25-year tenure from 1901 to 1926 defined in part by his rabid racism.
After retiring from coaching in 1926, Yost became the university’s athletic director, where he continued to bar Black players from varsity sports. Racism and discrimination derailed Howell’s athletic career and prevented him from joining the pantheon of Michigan football greats from that era. Michigan made no effort to resist or rise above Yost’s segregationist views. Instead, it enshrined him with accolades and named buildings in his honor.
Belford Lawson attempted to break Yost’s color barrier during the 1921–1923 seasons. He made the freshman football team and earned reserve letters each year. In 1923, the year Michigan went undefeated and was crowned national champion, Lawson again earned a varsity reserve letter but never played a down. Evidence suggests he was good enough to play, but Yost's racial exclusion prevailed. In 1928, Coach Elton Weiman confirmed this in response to an inquiry:
"At one time we did have a backfield man who, had he been white, would probably have been on the squad as a second or third substitute. In a case like that we decided that it was not worth the friction that would result to have him on the squad."
Yost’s color line remained unbroken because it was deemed "not worth the friction."
In 1932, Willis Ward, a scholar-athlete from Detroit’s Northwestern High School, finally broke Yost’s 40-year color line. With support from alumni and donors, Coach Harry Kipke recruited Ward, who received criticism from the university community. Critics pointed to Michigan’s history of championships without Black players as justification for exclusion. Yost, serving as the athletic director at the time, allegedly exchanged blows with Kipke over Ward’s recruitment.
Ward helped lead Michigan to two undefeated seasons and national championships in 1932 and 1933. But in 1934, Michigan benched Ward in a game against Georgia Tech to accommodate the visiting team’s refusal to play against a Black athlete. Georgia Tech explicitly requested assurance from Yost that Ward would not play. When Kipke folded to the pressure, he told Ward, "If you quit now, it’s not worth the struggle. And I won’t play a Black athlete again."
Ward was benched not due to injury or performance but because of racism. His teammate and friend, Gerald Ford, nearly refused to play in protest. The episode revealed an institutional culture that prioritized conformity over courage. Yost supported racism, Kipke capitulated to it, and university leadership ignored it entirely.
Even in the post-war years, Michigan lagged as Black athletes began to integrate collegiate programs. In 1934, the same year Ward was benched, the university dismissed Franklin Lett from the basketball team because of his race. Coach Franklin Cappon justified it by saying:
"There has never been a colored boy to play basketball in the Big Ten... I do not want to break the ice. That would put me on the spot."
The NAACP condemned Cappon’s decision and pressured university leadership to reinstate Lett. Although reinstated, Lett never played varsity basketball and left Michigan in 1935, later describing himself as "a heartbroken and much-disgusted boy."
These are not mere historical footnotes. They are foundational truths that challenge Michigan’s mythology. Today, in disbanding its DEI programs, Michigan again chooses retreat over resolve. The current president—whose leadership would likely not have been possible without the very DEI commitments now being dismantled—oversees their elimination.
True leadership is measured by what institutions do when it is hard. If Michigan is to reclaim its motto as the home of the "Leaders and Best," it must reckon with its past, recommit to justice, and reject neutrality. Anything less is not leadership—it is capitulation.
To honor the memory of Abner Howell, Belford Lawson, Willis Ward, Franklin Lett, and countless unnamed Black students who demanded dignity, Michigan must do more than recall its history. It must write a better one. And at a moment when it could prove its commitment to inclusion, university leadership chose instead to capitulate to social, political, and economic pressure, erasing decades of work. The slogan "Leaders and Best" rings hollow at this critical historical moment.
Dr. Rashid Faisal @BowtiePrincipal
Lecturer and Principal Internship Supervisor
College of Education, Health, and Human Services, University of Michigan-Dearborn
To see DEI initiatives rolled back so quickly—without transparent public dialogue or institutional resistance—raises serious questions about whether that motto is still being earned. When a university steps away from programs that ensure marginalized students, faculty, and staff have access to the full measure of opportunity, it is not merely reversing a policy. It is stepping away from its moral and historic commitments.
The recent and sudden retreat from Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives—amid national challenges to affirmative action and racial justice—calls into question the integrity and substance of that claim. It is difficult to ignore the irony: a person of Asian descent ascending to one of the most prestigious roles in public higher education—an achievement made possible, at least in part, by the very movements for inclusion that DEI was designed to institutionalize—now presiding over the dismantling of that infrastructure.
The University of Michigan’s historical reluctance to lead on racial equity must be revisited. Consider Fielding H. Yost's exclusion of Black athletes from the football team, the benching of Willis Ward during the infamous 1934 Georgia Tech game at the Big House, and the slow integration of its basketball program. These moments, paired with the current disbanding of DEI efforts, reveal an institution more comfortable with the myth of leadership than with the risk and reality of standing at the front lines of justice.
Michigan’s proud declaration of being the home of the "Leaders and Best" has long been a rallying cry for its community and a cornerstone of its identity. But in light of recent decisions to retreat from DEI, that phrase increasingly feels unearned. Slogans do not define leadership; the willingness to confront adversity, push boundaries, and stand firmly in the face of injustice does. Michigan has faltered before on these fronts—and it is faltering again now.
The university did not always aspire to moral leadership on matters of racial equity. It often preferred inaction, accommodation, or outright exclusion. The period of Fielding H. Yost's dominance over Michigan athletics in the early 20th century offers a stark reminder. While Yost built a formidable football legacy, he simultaneously ensured that Black athletes were kept off his teams. Abner Howell, a star athlete from Utah, earned a spot on Michigan’s freshman team in 1902, winning freshman numbers for his stellar play. But he never played for the varsity football team, despite trying out in 1903 and again in 1904. As a result, he missed being part of Michigan’s national championship teams in 1903 and 1904 and the famed 1903 game against Minnesota that began the rivalry over the Little Brown Jug—the oldest rivalry trophy in college football. Despite being arguably the best athlete at Michigan, Howell’s talents were ignored by Yost because of his race. Yost, the son of a Confederate soldier, is still honored as the "Father of Michigan Football" despite a 25-year tenure from 1901 to 1926 defined in part by his rabid racism.
After retiring from coaching in 1926, Yost became the university’s athletic director, where he continued to bar Black players from varsity sports. Racism and discrimination derailed Howell’s athletic career and prevented him from joining the pantheon of Michigan football greats from that era. Michigan made no effort to resist or rise above Yost’s segregationist views. Instead, it enshrined him with accolades and named buildings in his honor.
Belford Lawson attempted to break Yost’s color barrier during the 1921–1923 seasons. He made the freshman football team and earned reserve letters each year. In 1923, the year Michigan went undefeated and was crowned national champion, Lawson again earned a varsity reserve letter but never played a down. Evidence suggests he was good enough to play, but Yost's racial exclusion prevailed. In 1928, Coach Elton Weiman confirmed this in response to an inquiry:
"At one time we did have a backfield man who, had he been white, would probably have been on the squad as a second or third substitute. In a case like that we decided that it was not worth the friction that would result to have him on the squad."
Yost’s color line remained unbroken because it was deemed "not worth the friction."
In 1932, Willis Ward, a scholar-athlete from Detroit’s Northwestern High School, finally broke Yost’s 40-year color line. With support from alumni and donors, Coach Harry Kipke recruited Ward, who received criticism from the university community. Critics pointed to Michigan’s history of championships without Black players as justification for exclusion. Yost, serving as the athletic director at the time, allegedly exchanged blows with Kipke over Ward’s recruitment.
Ward helped lead Michigan to two undefeated seasons and national championships in 1932 and 1933. But in 1934, Michigan benched Ward in a game against Georgia Tech to accommodate the visiting team’s refusal to play against a Black athlete. Georgia Tech explicitly requested assurance from Yost that Ward would not play. When Kipke folded to the pressure, he told Ward, "If you quit now, it’s not worth the struggle. And I won’t play a Black athlete again."
Ward was benched not due to injury or performance but because of racism. His teammate and friend, Gerald Ford, nearly refused to play in protest. The episode revealed an institutional culture that prioritized conformity over courage. Yost supported racism, Kipke capitulated to it, and university leadership ignored it entirely.
Even in the post-war years, Michigan lagged as Black athletes began to integrate collegiate programs. In 1934, the same year Ward was benched, the university dismissed Franklin Lett from the basketball team because of his race. Coach Franklin Cappon justified it by saying:
"There has never been a colored boy to play basketball in the Big Ten... I do not want to break the ice. That would put me on the spot."
The NAACP condemned Cappon’s decision and pressured university leadership to reinstate Lett. Although reinstated, Lett never played varsity basketball and left Michigan in 1935, later describing himself as "a heartbroken and much-disgusted boy."
These are not mere historical footnotes. They are foundational truths that challenge Michigan’s mythology. Today, in disbanding its DEI programs, Michigan again chooses retreat over resolve. The current president—whose leadership would likely not have been possible without the very DEI commitments now being dismantled—oversees their elimination.
True leadership is measured by what institutions do when it is hard. If Michigan is to reclaim its motto as the home of the "Leaders and Best," it must reckon with its past, recommit to justice, and reject neutrality. Anything less is not leadership—it is capitulation.
To honor the memory of Abner Howell, Belford Lawson, Willis Ward, Franklin Lett, and countless unnamed Black students who demanded dignity, Michigan must do more than recall its history. It must write a better one. And at a moment when it could prove its commitment to inclusion, university leadership chose instead to capitulate to social, political, and economic pressure, erasing decades of work. The slogan "Leaders and Best" rings hollow at this critical historical moment.
Dr. Rashid Faisal @BowtiePrincipal
Lecturer and Principal Internship Supervisor
College of Education, Health, and Human Services, University of Michigan-Dearborn