Merritt To the Rescue
You live in the Southwest; injustice has robbed you of what little you have; you’re losing the will
to keep fighting, and along comes . . .
The Lone Ranger?
No: The LeRoy C. Merritt Humanitarian Fund.
This is a story about a librarian, and about a few thousand dollars that meant the difference to her
between giving up and going on--under immense difficulty, and in spite of intense opposition
from the biggest law firm in Dallas.
The librarian’s name is Mimi Davis. I had the opportunity to talk with her the other day from her
home in Waco, Texas; she also shared her correspondence from that pivotal time in her life. Her
voice is clear, warm, and distinctly Texan.
 Melora (L): Can you tell me a little bit about yourself--where you grew up, who you
are?
 Mimi (M): I grew up in Houston. It was humid and hot--wasn't a big town when I grew
up in it. Spent a lot of time at the beach. Was married and had four children, divorced
after 29 years.
 L: That must have been hard.
 M: It was pretty traumatic. Had been married to a corporate executive and hadn't had to
work, except I had a Bachelor's degree in Psychology. I had always had an interest in
theology, and then I was divorced, and a job brought me to Arlington Texas--took a job
as a governess. The agreement was that I could continue [graduate studies], got the
Master's degree in Theology.
 From there, I was looking at applying to do a doctorate combining psychiatry and
theology. And that was kind of iffy, because at my age, the chance of somebody being
accepted to graduate school--they would probably have had a hard time doing that.
At this point, in June of 1986, the interim director of Bridwell Theological Library at Southern
Methodist University offered her a job. He said that he needed her background in theology at the
library and asked her to set up a reference department.
The trouble started in January 1988, a few months after a new director came on board.
At first, things seemed to be going well; then, slowly, the director reportedly starting having
differences with faculty, students, and others at the library—including Mimi, who wrote in 1995:
“He began to harass me for no apparent reason.”
He transferred her to jobs she was unprepared and unsuited for; he tried to demote her. She
wrote: “He removed me from committees and faculty luncheon lists and insulted me openly in
public places.”
Looking back, Mimi says “I didn't even know what discrimination was--all of a sudden I thought,
‘this is not right’ . . . every day I would wake up and that's what was on my mind: somebody's
got to do it, put a stop to people treating people the way he did. People started writing articles to
the paper and he would turn up the heat.”
She consulted with the personnel department and received verbal support but no action. Then,
advised and encouraged by friends and colleagues, Mimi saw an attorney, who filed an EEOC
charge--and the showdown began. After four charges and a letter of dismissal, Mimi and her
attorney filed suit in March 1989 against the director and SMU alleging age and sex
discrimination.
Mimi struggled to find enough part-time jobs just to make ends meet. Then, she heard of the
Merritt Fund. In October of 1989, after a call to Judith Krug at ALA, she wrote:
“Judith—No way to express my thanks—for returning my call on a busy day—for your
sympathetic ear—for sending the papers so quickly—etc. . . . This has been a long, lonely battle
& I’ve wanted to throw in the towel about a hundred times—then, a ray of hope, like my learning
about you & the fund, comes through & I resume.”
 M: I had literally run through all my funds, and along came the Merritt Fund. The first
check was $3,000, and that was like a million dollars to me. The day I got it, I had been
in an eight hour deposition and I left there feeling like I couldn't possibly go on another
minute. My rent was five days overdue, and when I got home there was the check. I'll
never forget it: it was yellow. By this time, my attorney's fees were $14,000--my total
fees were $29,000. The case was eventually settled out of court in June 1992--it started
in January 1988. Four years of my life miserable.

Two of my children died during this process--my second son died of AIDS, and my
youngest son committed suicide. Then their father died--so there was a whole lot of stuff
going on at the time. I mean, when you have to pay for airline tickets, funerals and
things . . . those years are kind of a blur.
Still, this was something she felt she had to do:
 M: . . . it was my feeling that this was going on, this is my church, my seminary. If I
don't do something about cleaning it up from the inside, it's not going to get cleaned up.”
 L: Yes, if we just say “let somebody else do it” it doesn't happen.
 M: I never considered myself a feminist. Of course it made the news. One of my
friends saw me on TV, punched her husband in the arm, and said “Look, Al. Mimi's
become an activist.”

Somebody else might not be able to do it--by that time I was divorced, had no
responsibilities other than me. I could risk putting out every dime of retirement that I
had--but a lot of people can't do that.
 L: You have an amazing spirit.
 M: Well, as a friend of mine says, what's the alternative?
Ultimately, the case was settled out of court. The director was relieved of his duties a week later.
And Mimi’s proudest moment was repaying the Merritt Fund every penny it had granted her—a
total of $7,000. In July of 1992, Judith Krug wrote:
“I am overwhelmed. Your $7,000 check to reimburse the LeRoy C. Merritt Humanitarian Fund
was awaiting my return from the ALA Annual Conference . . . I am of course, informing the
Trustees about your repayment. From them, and from current and future librarians who will be
helped immeasurably by your reimbursement, I send our heartfelt and grateful thanks.”
After several years working in the library field, Mimi’s passion for people and justice has found
yet another outlet: for the past two years, she has been teaching basic supervisory skills at a local
community college. She says “it's a real service,” pointing out that many people “didn’t get the
education they needed--and that's where community colleges step in.”
 L: What would you like people to know about the Merritt Fund?
 M: The neatest thing about that fund is that it's given with no strings. There's no
pressure to pay it back--it's not another debt.
 L: What would you say made you the person who could take this on?
 M: Well, I have a pretty strong faith. And sometimes that means that whatever comes
along . . . Deepak Chopra says that every moment is as it should be. Life is made up of
good and bad, and it is what we make it. Problems are there to be solved, mean people
are going to come along. They're not at fault--it's the fault of those who won't stand up
and say “no, no more.” They are not the perpetrators of moral evil--we are if we don't
take action to put a stop to it. Somebody lies down in front the of train and gets run over,
and then somebody lies down in front of the train and gets run over, and sooner or later
somebody has to stop the train.
The LeRoy C. Merritt Humanitarian Fund was established as a special trust in memory of Dr.
LeRoy C. Merritt, one of the library profession’s staunchest opponents of censorship and one of
its most vigorous defenders of intellectual freedom. It is devoted to the support, maintenance,
medical care and welfare of librarians who are discriminated against; who are denied
employment rights; or who are threatened with loss of employment or discharged because of
their stand for the cause of intellectual freedom. For application, information, or to make a
donation, contact: The Trustees, LeRoy C. Merritt Humanitarian Fund, 50 East Huron Street,
Chicago, IL 60611 (800) 545-2433 x4226, merrittfund@ala.org. You can also visit our Web site
at www.merrittfund.org.
Melora Ranney