The Wrong Question
Shortly after Rosalind Brewer was named CEO of Sam's Club in 2012 — the first woman and the first African American to lead any division of Walmart — she attended a small roundtable event in New York City, exclusive to chief executives. During the reception, she introduced herself to a male CEO in the same manner everyone else had: "Roz Brewer of Sam's Club." The man paused, then asked what she did at the company. Marketing? Merchandising? Brewer gave him the side-eye. The invitation had made it explicit: CEO-only event. She happened to be the keynote speaker.
"I enjoyed the look on his face when my bio was read," Brewer later told an audience at Spelman College, her alma mater. "It was a good day."
The anecdote is small — a cocktail-hour misunderstanding, a sheepish correction — but it contains the essential architecture of Roz Brewer's career. The assumption that she was in the wrong room. The refusal to explain herself. The quiet confidence that the record would speak for itself. And the fact that the record, when it was finally read aloud, was staggering: a chemistry degree from a historically Black college, twenty-two years climbing through a Fortune 500 manufacturer, a decade reshaping the largest retailer on Earth, a stint as the number-two executive at the world's most ubiquitous coffee chain, and then the corner office of a $140 billion pharmacy giant — making her, at the time, one of only two Black women ever to permanently lead a Fortune 500 company. The other, Ursula Burns at Xerox, had stepped down five years earlier. There was nobody for Brewer to call who had done exactly what she was doing.
This is the paradox at the center of her story: an executive celebrated for operational precision and methodical discipline, who nonetheless spent her entire career in rooms that were not built for her. Every promotion was a first. Every boardroom demanded a recalibration of expectations — not her own, but those of everyone else in it. "If there is a place where bias doesn't exist," Brewer has said, "I have not found it." The sentence lands like a lab report: factual, measured, without self-pity. She is a chemist by training, after all. She identifies the compound, names its properties, and moves on to the next experiment.
By the Numbers
Roz Brewer's Career in Scale
22Years at Kimberly-Clark before pivoting to retail
$110BP&L responsibility as president of Walmart East
$57BAnnual sales at Sam's Club under her leadership
8,000+Starbucks stores where she implemented racial bias training
$140BApproximate revenue of Walgreens Boots Alliance at her appointment
3rdBlack woman ever to lead a Fortune 500 company
$9MSeverance upon departure from Walgreens in August 2023
Five Children, Three Jobs, and the Last Piece of Bread
Detroit in the 1960s was a company town, and the company was General Motors. Both of Roz Brewer's parents worked on the GM line — long, punishing shifts in plants that had once been the engine of American industrial supremacy and were, by the time their youngest daughter was old enough to notice, beginning to rust. Neither parent had graduated from high school. They were not unusual in this respect; in their neighborhood, on the west side of the city, education was a luxury measured in opportunity cost — every year in school was a year not earning wages.
But the Brewers operated under a different arithmetic. They insisted that all five of their children go to college. Roz's father, at one point, held three jobs simultaneously to fund the ambition. "He didn't have the choice to pursue even his high school diploma," Brewer recalled years later, "but eventually achieved a significant management role in the auto industry. He displayed so much discipline and dedication to excellence." The sentence is revealing for what it omits: no narrative of suffering, no dramatic arc of redemption, just the flat statement that her father worked himself into a management role without credentials, through sheer force of competence. The daughter would follow the same path — the same refusal to make the struggle the story.
She was the youngest of five, and the position taught her to fight for the last piece of bread on the table. In third grade, she was suspended from school. The offense: correcting her math teacher, repeatedly, about a shortcut to solving a problem. "I keep telling her until the point where the next thing I knew, long story short, my parents were at school picking me up," Brewer told a Stanford audience decades later, laughing. The anecdote crystallizes something essential — not just the precociousness, but the inability to stay silent when she saw a better way. It would be the defining trait of her professional life, and, occasionally, the source of its greatest turbulence.
She graduated from Cass Technical High School in 1980. The school, a magnet institution on Detroit's west side, was the kind of place that took working-class kids with aptitude and gave them the tools to escape the factories their parents couldn't leave. Brewer enrolled at Spelman College in Atlanta, the oldest historically Black college for women in America, convinced she wanted to be a physician. She abandoned the plan once she realized she was, in her own words, "a weenie when it comes to blood and grieving." She pivoted to chemistry instead and graduated in 1984 with a bachelor of science, the first in her family to earn a college degree.
The choice of Spelman would prove, in hindsight, as consequential as anything she did in a boardroom. She would eventually chair the board of trustees for seventeen years, establish nine annual scholarships for first-generation students, and in 2024, return as the college's interim president — a homecoming so improbable in its circularity that it reads like the final act of a novel she hadn't yet finished writing.
The Twenty-Two-Year Laboratory
In 1984, at the age of twenty-two, Brewer walked into a Kimberly-Clark facility and began work as a research technician in nonwoven technology and product development. The company, headquartered in the Atlanta suburbs, manufactured the invisible infrastructure of daily life — diapers, tissues, surgical drapes, the soft sheet pressed against a baby's skin. It was not glamorous. It was precise.
She would stay for twenty-two years.
The duration alone is significant. In a corporate culture that increasingly rewards job-hopping and lateral moves, Brewer's Kimberly-Clark tenure represents a vanishing approach to career building: mastery through vertical depth. She started in the lab, moved into market management, became director of skin care, then vice president of nonwovens — revitalizing an underperforming business unit and growing sales by more than 30 percent. By 2004, she was president of the Global Nonwovens
Division, responsible for manufacturing and operations worldwide.
"This role was manufacturing and operations around the world, so I ran the global facilities that brought in the base sheet engineering," she later explained. "You look at a diaper, there's a soft sheet next to the baby's bottom — those are the materials that I had responsibility for around the world for health care, infant care, child care, all of those businesses."
The description is characteristically unglamorous. She does not talk about "strategy" or "vision" in the abstract. She talks about diapers. About the material science of nonwoven fabrics. About understanding the technology so deeply that the transition to the business side felt like a natural extension rather than a leap. The twenty-two years at Kimberly-Clark gave her something that almost no amount of MBA coursework could: an intuitive understanding of how physical products move through global supply chains, how manufacturing constraints shape merchandising decisions, how the unglamorous discipline of operations creates — or destroys — value.
But there was frustration, too. "I was always in the lab," she acknowledged. "It's a very..." She left the sentence unfinished in one interview, but the implication was clear: she wanted more control, more scope, more room to shape decisions rather than execute them. The frustration drove her out of R&D and into administration. It was the first of several career pivots where dissatisfaction functioned as fuel.
At forty, she made a decision that would alter the trajectory of her career entirely. She enrolled in the Advanced Management Program at the Wharton School and later completed the Directors' College at the University of Chicago Booth School of Business and Stanford Law School. Going back to school at forty, while running a global division, required an explanation she has given only in shorthand: she wanted to reinvent her skill set in mid-career. The move was less about credential-collecting than about deliberately preparing herself for a role she hadn't yet been offered — the top job at a company far larger than Kimberly-Clark's nonwovens division.
Bentonville and the Art of the P&L
In 2006, Brewer left Kimberly-Clark and joined Walmart as a regional vice president overseeing operations in Georgia. The move was, on its surface, a step sideways — from a Fortune 500 manufacturer to a regional management role at a retailer. But at Walmart, regional vice president was not a provincial position. It was a proving ground, the place where the company assessed whether executives could manage the chaos of thousands of stores, millions of customers, and the relentless pressure of
Sam Walton's low-cost model.
She advanced quickly. Division president of the Southeast. Then president of Walmart East — a territory encompassing nearly 1,600 stores across six regions, from Maine to Puerto Rico, with profit-and-loss responsibility exceeding $100 billion. The number is worth pausing on. One hundred billion dollars in P&L responsibility is, by itself, the equivalent of running a standalone Fortune 50 company. It is, as industry recruiters will tell you, the credential that separates contenders from pretenders in the CEO pipeline.
Michael Hyter, chief diversity officer at Korn Ferry, has articulated the structural barrier with precision: "The tracks that lead to the CEO jobs are primarily P&Ls. There are a lot of people of color in support roles — accounting, marketing — lots. That's not what gets you into the CEO job." Brewer's career, by contrast, was almost entirely P&L-oriented from the moment she left the lab. The Kimberly-Clark nonwovens division had its own targets. Walmart East was a vast operational machine with its own metrics. Each role was a test, and each test was passed with results that were measurable, unambiguous, and difficult to attribute to anything other than competence.
On February 1, 2012, Walmart named Brewer president and CEO of Sam's Club, its membership-only warehouse channel. She was forty-nine years old. She was replacing Brian Cornell — a well-regarded executive who would go on to run Target — and inheriting a business with $50 billion in annual revenue, more than 110,000 employees, and a persistent competitive gap against its larger rival, Costco.
Sam Walton made history by changing retail over the past 50 years. But now it's our turn for the next 50 years.
The line was bold. The execution was methodical. At Sam's Club, Brewer focused on three levers: growing membership, transforming merchandise, and injecting digital technology into a shopping experience that had grown stale. She doubled the number of organic products offered in stores — a deliberate play for a more affluent, health-conscious shopper who might otherwise drift toward Costco. She oversaw the development of "Scan and Go," a mobile checkout tool that allowed members to scan items with their smartphones, effectively eliminating the most painful friction point in warehouse shopping: the line. She invested in curbside pickup and e-commerce infrastructure, dragging a fundamentally analog operation into the digital era.
Under her leadership, Sam's Club posted seven consecutive quarters of sales increases; the first quarter of her tenure was the strongest in eight years. But the Costco gap proved stubborn. Sam's Club had roughly 650 locations to Costco's 800-plus, and Costco's membership renewal rates — consistently above 90 percent — represented a moat that no amount of digital innovation could easily breach.
"Roz is a tough cookie,"
Indra Nooyi, the former CEO of PepsiCo, told Fortune. Nooyi — who was born in Madras, educated at Yale, and ran PepsiCo for twelve years before stepping down in 2018 — had done business with Brewer during the Walmart years and served alongside her on the Amazon board. "She's into the details. She's not a fluffy person. She gets things done."
The Hailstorm
In 2015, Brewer gave an interview to CNN's Poppy Harlow in which she discussed her commitment to enforcing diversity at Sam's Club. She described a meeting with a supplier in which "the entire other side of the table was all Caucasian male." She called it "interesting" and said that while she chose not to address it in the room, she would be placing a call afterward. The comment was clinical, almost offhanded — a description of an observable pattern, followed by a statement of intended action.
The backlash was volcanic. Critics accused her of advocating for race-based hiring preferences. She received death threats. Her children's lives were threatened. The fury was disproportionate to the remark — a discrepancy that Brewer herself would later describe, with characteristic understatement, as a "hailstorm."
Doug McMillon, Walmart's president and CEO, issued a statement in her defense: "For years, we've asked our suppliers to prioritize the talent and diversity of their sales teams calling on our company. Roz was simply trying to reiterate that we believe diverse and inclusive teams make for a stronger business. That's all there is to it and I support that important ideal."
McMillon — a lifer who had started as a Walmart summer associate loading trucks in a distribution center and risen to the top job in 2014 — was not the type to issue performative statements. His defense of Brewer was measured, direct, and immediate. But it also exposed the raw nerve that Brewer's very existence in the CEO suite seemed to touch. She was not proposing quotas or mandates. She was noting the composition of a room and suggesting it could be improved. The response suggested that for some observers, the mere act of a Black woman in power commenting on whiteness in a boardroom was itself an act of aggression.
Brewer addressed the episode in her 2018 commencement address at Spelman, years after the initial fury had subsided. "I said: 'Diversity makes good business sense,'" she told the graduates. "I received death threats. My children's lives were threatened. And here's what I'd said that triggered such strong emotions." She paused. The audience sat in silence. The point landed without elaboration: the words themselves were banal. The reaction was pathological.
The experience shaped her but did not silence her. If anything, it clarified a strategic principle she would carry through the rest of her career: speak plainly, absorb the cost, and let the results make the argument.
The Coffee Detour
In early 2017, after five years running Sam's Club, Brewer stepped down. She was fifty-four. The departure was framed as a retirement, but it was clear to anyone paying attention that Brewer had more to do. Howard Schultz, Starbucks' founder and chairman emeritus, had met her the previous year when he visited Sam's Club headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas, for a panel discussion with Doug McMillon. McMillon had to cancel at the last minute and asked Brewer to stand in. The improvised pairing ignited a relationship. Brewer and her team later visited Starbucks' flagship Reserve Roastery in Seattle, and Schultz invited her to join the board.
She initially declined. Then reconsidered. She joined the Starbucks board in January 2017, and within months, Kevin Johnson — who had succeeded Schultz as CEO that April — recruited her into the executive suite as chief operating officer and group president, effective October 2, 2017.
Johnson — a career technologist who had spent twenty-six years at Microsoft and five years as CEO of Juniper Networks before being recruited to Starbucks' board and then its top job — called Brewer "a world class operator and executive who embodies the values of Starbucks" and noted she had been "a trusted strategic counselor" to him from the moment she joined the board. Mellody Hobson, co-CEO of Ariel Investments and later Starbucks' board chair, was more direct: "She's an operator. She's not just a person with a point of view and vision. She can execute."
Hobson — a Chicago-born Black woman who had built Ariel into the largest minority-owned mutual fund firm in the United States, married
George Lucas, and become one of the most powerful figures in American corporate governance — knew something about being underestimated. Her endorsement of Brewer was a peer recognition, one operator vouching for another.
At Starbucks, Brewer led the company's businesses across the Americas — the United States, Canada, and Latin America — as well as global functions including supply chain, product innovation, marketing, technology, and store development. It was an enormous portfolio, and she brought the same operational intensity she had applied at Sam's Club. She further integrated artificial intelligence into store operations, using data analytics to optimize labor allocation so that baristas could spend more time with customers. She helped reverse a troubling trend of declining transaction growth that the company had attributed to overcrowding caused by its own mobile ordering platform.
Then, in April 2018, a Starbucks manager in Philadelphia called the police on two Black men who were sitting in the store waiting for a friend. The men were arrested. The incident went viral. Starbucks faced its worst reputational crisis in memory.
Brewer was instrumental in the company's response. She championed the decision to close 8,000 company-operated stores for an afternoon of racial bias training — an unprecedented move that cost the company tens of millions of dollars in lost revenue but sent an unambiguous signal about the seriousness of the problem. She helped establish racial bias training for 175,000 employees. In October 2020, Starbucks announced it would tie executive pay to diversity targets — a structural change that moved the conversation from aspiration to accountability.
"Don't be silent in the room," Brewer told Stanford GSB students, reflecting on the lesson. "Even if you think you're gonna make a mistake, that's better than sitting there quiet because you begin to suffocate. So just get it out there and feel like you have value."
The advice carried the weight of a woman who had been in rooms where silence was the safest option and had chosen, deliberately and repeatedly, to speak anyway.
The stress was so high of me trying to be two different people. I could not bear it anymore. I was not myself. And so I just reconciled that I've got to bring my whole self to work. And the more that I was like who I am in my day, in my personal life, at work, actually work took off.
The Pandemic's Operator
In January 2021, Walgreens Boots Alliance announced the appointment of Rosalind Brewer as its next CEO, effective March 15. Shares rose nearly 8 percent in after-hours trading. The market's enthusiasm was a straightforward bet on execution: Walgreens was struggling, Brewer was a proven operator, and the company was in the middle of administering COVID-19 vaccines as a federal partner — a logistics challenge that demanded precisely the kind of supply chain expertise and operational rigor that Brewer had spent her career accumulating.
She was being offered something unprecedented for a Black woman: the top job at a nearly $140 billion company ranked nineteenth on the Fortune 500. Only two Black women had held such a position before — Ursula Burns at Xerox, from 2009 to 2016, and Mary Winston, briefly, as interim CEO of Bed Bath & Beyond in 2019. When Brewer took the Walgreens job, she became the third, and the only one currently serving. "This is 2021," she said. "This should not be that big of a deal. And it's unfortunate that it is."
She had been offered the CEO position at a private equity firm after leaving Sam's Club — a role she said "would have been easy." She turned it down. She chose Starbucks instead, accepting the number-two role because the learning opportunity was richer than the title was prestigious. Now, three years later, she was choosing Walgreens over the comfort of Starbucks for a different reason: purpose.
"As things were happening around me, there was that growing activist in me — and it wasn't enough," she explained at the Fortune Most Powerful Women Summit in October 2022. "When things happened and this moment came, the opportunity led the moment. I sort of snapped in a good way." She described a "little, tiny thing in me that feels like change is always gonna happen. And if it's not happening, I'm going to push it and make it happen. You can't do that from the back room. You've got to be up there."
Stefano Pessina — the Italian billionaire who had orchestrated the merger between Walgreens and Alliance Boots in December 2014 and served as CEO of the combined entity for six years — was transitioning to executive chairman. He described Brewer as an "exceptional leader" with "relentless focus on the customer, talent development, operational rigor and strong expertise in digital and technological transformation." The words were corporate boilerplate. The subtext was more interesting: Pessina, who was Walgreens' largest individual shareholder, was handing the keys to a transformational figure while retaining the chairman's seat — a configuration that, in corporate governance, almost always produces friction.
Brewer arrived at Walgreens in the middle of the vaccine rollout. She couldn't tour stores the way she normally would. The pandemic had rewritten the operating model of every pharmacy in America, and she was trying to assess the company's strengths and weaknesses through video calls with direct reports — a format she described as entirely against her natural style. "I never would recommend starting a new job during a pandemic," she said.
She did something unusual with the time: she visited competitors. "I went to the competition to see how the new operating models compare," she told Fortune. It was a tell — the instinct of a benchmarker, someone who locates herself on a map not by looking at where she stands but by measuring the distance to everyone else.
The Healthcare Pivot and Its Discontents
Six months into her tenure, Brewer announced the strategic pivot that would define — and eventually complicate — her Walgreens leadership: a transformation from retail pharmacy into full-service healthcare provider. The ambition was enormous. Like CVS, which under
Karen Lynch had been aggressively acquiring clinical assets, Walgreens under Brewer began buying up primary-care clinics and investing in healthcare infrastructure.
The centerpiece was VillageMD. Walgreens invested $5.2 billion to raise its stake in the primary-care company to 63 percent, installing physician-led clinics adjacent to or inside Walgreens locations. The bet was that the corner drugstore — already America's most accessible healthcare touchpoint, with 9,000-plus locations — could become something more: a place where patients didn't just pick up prescriptions but received diagnoses, managed chronic conditions, and accessed preventive care.
"Health care has always been ripe for disruption," Brewer said. "I saw it as a problem ready to burst. It was time for me to take everything I had learned and put it against one of the greatest problems we have ever faced."
The logic was sound in theory. In practice, the transformation required a kind of patience that Wall Street rarely extends to public company CEOs, especially those running businesses with thin margins and declining foot traffic. Walgreens' core pharmacy business was under pressure from reimbursement cuts, mail-order competition, and the secular shift toward digital health. The VillageMD investment was capital-intensive and slow to generate returns. By June 2023, Walgreens executives publicly acknowledged they were "disappointed with the pace of our path to profitability" in the healthcare business. The company cut its full-year earnings guidance.
Behind the scenes, the tension with Pessina was reportedly sharpening. The Wall Street Journal reported in January 2023 that Pessina — who still wielded enormous influence as executive chairman and largest shareholder — envisioned a slower expansion into healthcare, one "best achieved through partnerships and minority stakes." He believed that "buying up companies outside of the core pharmacy industry unnecessarily exposed Walgreens to risk." The philosophical gulf was fundamental: Brewer wanted to transform the company; Pessina wanted to optimize it.
The structural problem was older than either of them. Walgreens Boots Alliance was, at its core, a federation of legacy assets — American drugstores, British chemists, European distributors — held together by Pessina's dealmaking genius and his conviction that scale would win in pharmacy retail. Brewer was trying to layer a healthcare platform on top of that federation, and the foundation was creaking.
The Departure
On the Friday before Labor Day weekend, 2023, Walgreens abruptly announced that Roz Brewer had stepped down as CEO and left the board, effective the previous day — August 31. The decision was described as "mutually agreed" upon by Brewer and the board, language that in corporate communications almost always signals a departure that was neither fully voluntary nor fully involuntary.
"This is perhaps one of the most difficult notes I have ever written over the course of my career," Brewer wrote in a LinkedIn post and an internal email to Walgreens employees. She had been in the job for less than three years.
The severance terms told part of the story: $9 million, plus $2.25 million in consulting fees for a six-month advisory period at $375,000 per month. She would help the board search for her replacement. Ginger Graham, a pharma industry veteran and Walgreens independent director, was named acting CEO.
In her farewell, Brewer stood by her healthcare strategy. "Perhaps what I'm most proud of is our work to develop a strategic pivot towards the growth of WBA into health care," she wrote. It was, in its way, an act of defiance — a departing CEO insisting, publicly, that the vision was correct even as the board appeared to be pulling back from it.
The reactions in the business press oscillated between admiration for what Brewer had attempted and frank assessment of what had gone wrong. The healthcare transformation was underfunded or over-ambitious, depending on whom you asked. The Pessina tension was real but unknowable in its precise contours. The macroeconomic headwinds — reimbursement pressure, labor shortages, the post-pandemic hangover in retail pharmacy — were punishing and not of her making.
What was undeniable was the symbolism. Brewer's departure meant that the Fortune 500's most powerful Black female CEO was out of a job. The pipeline she had spent her career trying to expand — through mentorship, through advocacy, through the sheer force of her example — had not yet produced a successor to the position she had just vacated.
"I'm more disappointed than I am surprised," she had told the Economic Club of Washington D.C. earlier, speaking about the scarcity of Black women in the CEO ranks. "I'm not surprised because I know what it took for me to get here, and I know the trials and tribulations that I've been through, and I'm not quite sure a lot of people would want to withstand that. But the disappointing part is that this is just totally ridiculous that there's only two of us."
Coming Home
In 2024, Brewer returned to Spelman College as interim president, stepping in after Helene Gayle — who had held the presidency since 2022 — took a leave of absence and then announced she would not return. The appointment was, in one sense, entirely predictable: Brewer had chaired the board of trustees for seventeen years, established scholarships, delivered commencement addresses, and been the college's most visible corporate ambassador. In another sense, it was surprising — a Fortune 500 CEO, one of the most powerful executives in American business, choosing to run a small liberal arts college with an enrollment of roughly 2,300 students.
But the choice was legible if you understood what Spelman represented to Brewer — not just an alma mater, but the origin point of every subsequent achievement. The college had given her the chemistry degree that led to Kimberly-Clark. The network that connected her to Howard Schultz, to Mellody Hobson, to every Black professional woman who had passed through its gates since 1881. The confidence to stand in rooms where she was the only one and refuse to shrink.
On May 18, 2025, Brewer presided over Spelman's 138th commencement ceremony, honoring the largest graduating class in the college's history — nearly 700 graduates, including 446 Bachelor of Arts degrees, 248 Bachelor of Science degrees, and four valedictorians.
"It was only a few short years ago that these intelligent, driven, enthusiastic women logged in for virtual New Student Orientation and started their first classes as Spelmanites," Brewer told the audience. "Throughout your matriculation at Spelman, you found community among your sisters." She noted that the Class of 2025 had entered during the pandemic, in 2021 — the same year Brewer herself had taken the Walgreens job, the same year the world had cracked open and revealed the fragility beneath its surfaces.
"Class of 2025, you have persevered through unprecedented times," she said. "Carry with you the lessons and the memories that have been instilled in you and continue to pursue excellence in all your endeavors. We send you out into the world, confident that you have been cultivated with the ideals, the education, the persistence, and the passion to be the innovators and the global change agents that the world needs."
The woman who had spent forty years navigating Fortune 500 boardrooms was now sending college seniors into the world with the same instruction her parents had given her: go, don't fail, come back and lift someone else.
The Operator's Inventory
What Brewer leaves behind is not a single company transformed but something more diffuse and harder to measure: a template for how a certain kind of leader — methodical, unglamorous, operationally obsessed, and unapologetically present — can navigate institutions that were not designed for her.
She sits on the board of United Airlines. She is a limited partner and part-owner of the Atlanta Falcons, one of only three Black women with an ownership stake in an NFL team. She serves on the board of the Smithsonian's National Museum of African American History and Culture and the KIPP Foundation for Public Chartered Schools.
The portfolio is characteristically diverse — transportation, professional sports, cultural preservation, education — and characteristically grounded in operations. She is not an advisor. She is a board member, a fiduciary, someone with a seat and a vote and the standing to ask uncomfortable questions.
David Burritt, CEO of U.S. Steel, once said of her: "Roz has mastered the art of being a servant-leader — she has humility, but at the same time, she's in charge. When I grow up, I want to be just like her."
At Spelman, on a Saturday in May 2025, Brewer stood on a stage next to a graduating senior, handing over a diploma — the same credential her parents had worked three jobs to fund, the same piece of paper that had cracked open every door she'd walked through since. The camera captured her smiling. The graduate was smiling too. Behind them both, the ceremony program listed the name of the interim president and her graduating class: 1984.
