Like many alumni, Sen. Ron Tupa esteems his alma mater, the University of Colorado. But with regard to CU, he's no clear leader. He's a cheerleader. And a censor.

The university should be proud.

Tupa's attempt to make government even less accountable is Senate Bill 144, which would require that CU censor all nominations for honorary degrees. It would also censor documents and close meetings concerning the renaming of campus buildings.

Tupa said public disclosure — a mom-and-apple-pie precept if there ever were one — could discourage prospective donors who didn't receive honorary degrees. "Some of these people are big supporters of the CU system," and full disclosure might generate "ill will or a lack of support if an individual were rejected."

Has such a thing ever happened? No, Tupa admits. Is there any indication that it ever would? Nope. Would it matter if there were? No. Tupa's bill stoops to censorship on the basis of dumb speculation, bad logic and hot air.

Each year, a committee of regents and professors reviews nominations and recommends winners, who are approved by the Board of Regents. CU says honorary degrees are its highest awards, recognizing "outstanding intellectual contributions, university service, and/or public service."

Honorees have been heart-warming (a doctor of humane letters for columnist Gene Amole) and eye-rolling (the same degree for billionaire oilman Philip Anschutz).

Maureen Ediger, who chairs the Board of Regents, said censorship could prevent "a terribly embarrassing situation for someone in the future." Translation: CU's poor little rich friends can't handle the truth.

Because of Tupa's bill, the Camera filed a Public Records Act request for this year's nominees. Some famous people were nominated but did not win. Is this an embarrassment? Not in the least. A nomination is itself an honor.

If such records were secret, the public could never scrutinize nominations and awards to determine, for instance, how many honorary degrees are really glorified receipts for big donations. Although it's seldom explored, this is a genuine public-policy question.

Here's another concern: In 1961, CU named one of its dormitories after David Nichols, who founded the university but who also helped slaughter peaceful Native Americans.

"Nichols Hall" offended people. In the '80s, a CU history professor wrote a long paper on the appropriateness of naming the hall after Nichols. In 1989, the regents renamed it Cheyenne Arapaho Hall, in honor of the tribes who lived here.

The debate over the renaming raged in public for months, as it should have. This was our business. But if Tupa's bill had been law, the process and the prospective new names would have been secret.

Even some CU leaders see the folly of this. Regent Jim Martin says it's wrong to keep the renaming of buildings secret, and he has reservations about the honorary-degree censorship.

Appropriately, the university's official symbol is a lamp in the hands of youth. Fatuous legislation like Tupa's, which promises to proliferate, will gradually make it dim.

Reach Clint Talbott at (303) 473-1367 or talbottc@thedailycamera.com.

February 7, 2002

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