REVOLUTIONARY STRUCTURES: EMILE PITRE'S ART OF INSTITUTIONAL CHANGE

by Leilani Lewis

Pathways thread through the University of Washington campus like chapters in an unfinished novel. Each year, new students traverse these routes, unaware they're retracing revolutionary footsteps. In 1968, these same walkways converged at the president's office, where a group of Black students staged an occupation that would transform the institution forever. Among them stood Emile Pitre, a chemistry graduate student whose quiet determination would reshape higher education from the inside out for the next half-century.

Emile, 1968, Courtesy of Emile Pitre Collection

His memoir, Revolution to Evolution: The Story of Office of Minority Affairs and Diversity at the University of Washington, opens with raw courage, capturing the electric tension of that pivotal sit-in and reproducing the demands presented to President Charles Odegaard. Through carefully preserved letters and testimonies, Pitre introduces his fellow "soldiers" – firebrand activists like E.J. Brisker, Carl Miller, and Larry Gossett – whose connections to the national Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee transformed local grievances into part of a nationwide awakening. Between these pages, Stokely Carmichael's revolutionary vision pulses like a heartbeat, revealing how the call for Black Power found its unique Seattle expression.

Cotton Fields to Chemistry Labs

To understand Pitre's journey, you have to start in the cotton fields of Louisiana. The son of a sharecropper, his childhood was dictated by the agricultural calendar, not the academic one. "Having to miss the first two months of school up to the 8th grade because we had to work in the fields," Pitre recounts. His family lived in a leaky house without running water, enduring conditions few could imagine today. The sharecropping system itself ensured economic bondage. "We were supposed to split profits 50/50 with the landowners. But we really only got a fourth," he explains.

Emile as a young boy in Louisiana, Courtesy of Emile Pitre Collection

Yet there were glimmers. "If you had potential, you were nurtured," he says of his segregated school. One teacher recognized his scientific talent and helped him apply to a National Science Foundation Summer Institute. "The first time I ever heard the word 'calculus' was on the application," Pitre says with a chuckle. His success led to a full scholarship at Southern University. From there, he chose the University of Washington for graduate school, drawn by rumors of liberal race relations. "I didn't know it was disappointingly racist here as well," he says. "I got called the N-word in my first quarter."

Still, he found his people, first at two tables in the student union cafeteria where Black students gathered, then in the Afro-American Student Society, and finally the Black Student Union.

A Revolution Ignited

The pivotal moment came in 1968. Inspired by Stokely Carmichael, whom Pitre had first encountered during his senior year at Southern, the BSU members found their collective voice. For months, they had corresponded with President Odegaard and his administration, making their requests known repeatedly and waiting for action that came far too slowly. Frustrated by the pace of change, they finally presented formal demands centered on access, representation, curriculum, and support for minoritized students.

Their bravery cannot be understated. These students didn't just submit documents,  they occupied the president's office at Gerberding Hall, the very center of power at the University of Washington. At a time when student protesters across the country faced violent reprisals, they put their academic futures and personal safety on the line for educational justice.

Pitre was fully dedicated to the cause. "I was so into the movement eventually that to me, being a “good, well-behaved” grad student didn't mean anything anymore, he admits. The chemistry equations could wait; the urgent mathematics of inequality demanded immediate attention.

It was only after this direct confrontation that Odegaard finally took meaningful action. Faced with the organized determination of the BSU, he recognized the legitimacy of their concerns. The Office of Minority Affairs was established, starting with a focus on recruiting students and faculty, eventually bringing programs for financial aid, advising, and cultural support that endures today.

Jesus Crowder, Garry Owens, and Eddie Demmings march outside the UW administration Building. Courtesy of Steve Ludwig-II

From Activist to Architect

What makes Pitre's journey unique is his transition from protesting to program building. After briefly working in the private sector, he returned to the university when offered a position orchestrated by Dr. Millie Russell. "I had gone to work in industry for a couple of years, and I decided that what I liked best was helping students be successful," Pitre explains. "I really love helping students be successful, and it was like things just fell into place."

In his new role, Pitre developed the Instructional Center, providing comprehensive academic support for underrepresented students in challenging STEM fields. His chemistry background gave him unique insight into the obstacles these students encountered.

"We never lowered the bar," Pitre would tell his staff. "We just built better ladders."

This blend of high expectations and high support created a model program unlike any other. While similar initiatives at other universities were disbanded or decentralized, OMA&D remained intact, evolving to meet new challenges while maintaining its core mission.

Legacy of Solidarity and Success

What emerged from those early protests wasn't just a program for Black students. The BSU created a model of racial and ethnic solidarity that transformed the university. Working in coalition with American Indians and Chicano student activists, they addressed broader institutional inequities, including White students with similar barriers to success. 

"The argument wasn't affirmative action back then," Pitre explains. "The argument was, this is a public institution. Taxpayers, the entire citizenry, were taxpayers, and money was coming from them to run the institution. Some of the citizenry had no opportunity to be a part of it."

This principled stand attracted brilliant faculty who might never have considered UW otherwise. Jacob Lawrence brought his vivid paintings of the Great Migration to inspire students. Colleen McElroy broke barriers as the first Black woman to receive tenure. James Banks transformed educational theory by developing multicultural education as a field of study. Their presence opened doors for future generations, supporting notable alumni like Barbara Earl Thomas, acclaimed visual artist; Angela Rye, political commentator; and Warren Moon, Hall of Fame quarterback.

"Initially, it wasn't about graduation," Pitre notes. "It was about access. Access was more important at the time." But once access was achieved, the focus expanded to ensuring students not only entered but thrived at the university.

Truth and Narrative

It was the 40th anniversary of OMA&D in 2008 that catalyzed Pitre's efforts to document this history. During a radio interview with Eddie Rye Jr., Pitre and then-Vice President of OMA&D Sheila Edwards Lange reflected on the program's journey. The conversation reminded them how many people had contributed to the movement, and their stories deserved authentic preservation.

"People would say, 'Do they still need a program like that?'" Pitre recalls, his voice soft but firm, still touched by the cadence of rural Louisiana. That dismissive question became his call to action. "I wanted the story to be told by those who could tell it accurately," he says. "To avoid having the revisionists write the story."

Pitre sought more than mere documentation in starting the project that would become his book. He aimed to capture a revolution's essence not through rose-colored sentimentality, but by revealing the practical blueprint for sustainable change that had emerged. From the beginning of both the movement and his documentation effort, he recognized the power of measurable results. "We thought that if we couldn't show data, we would be gotten rid of," he reflects. "So data was a big deal."

Enduring Wisdom in Changing Times

In today's climate of renewed attacks on diversity initiatives, Pitre offers a clear message: "We gotta stay the course."

"We are absolutely confident that we do not discriminate," he asserts, pointing to the program's consistent focus on educational opportunity rather than racial preferences. “Even after the passage of Washington's anti-affirmative action initiative I-200, the OMA&D adapted while maintaining its mission,” Pitre stated firmly. 

His book offers both inspiration and tactical guidance for those continuing the struggle for educational equity. As Pitre's journey demonstrates, sometimes the most revolutionary act is to stay and build, to convert protest into programs, and to transform a moment of confrontation into decades of opportunity.

Emile Pitre, Courtesy of Office of Minority Affairs & Diversity