Dr. Arnold Mitchem’s Journey from Pueblo to Educational Advocacy

The civil rights leader and educational advocate reflects on his unconventional path, his “wandering” years, and what today’s students need to know about persistence.

Dr. Arnold Mitchem, 86, has spent the better part of five decades fighting for educational opportunity. As a founding force behind the Council for Opportunity in Education, he helped establish programs that have opened college doors for millions of first-generation and low-income students. But his path to becoming one of America’s most influential education advocates began in the most unlikely place: failure.

Born and raised in Pueblo, Mitchem’s academic journey was anything but straight. After graduating from Pueblo Catholic High School in 1956, he enrolled at Marquette University in Milwaukee. He promptly flunked out. What followed was what he calls his “wandering” period—seven years of false starts, dropped classes, and even a brief stint trying to make a living betting on greyhound races.

It wasn’t until 1963, when he returned to what is now Colorado State University Pueblo as a 24-year-old junior with two young children and a wife to support, that Mitchem found his academic footing. That transformation from a self-described “fool” to a straight-A student would become the foundation for a lifetime spent ensuring others don’t give up on their educational dreams.

Recently awarded an honorary doctorate from CSU Pueblo—the same institution where he finally learned to succeed—Mitchem spoke candidly about his circuitous journey, the moments that nearly broke him, and his blunt advice for today’s students who might be tempted to quit.

You’ve described the period from 1956 to 1963 as your “wandering” years. What was really happening during that time?

Well, here’s what I mean by wander—it might not be as romantic as you think. In 1956, I graduated from Pueblo Catholic and went to Marquette University, a Jesuit school in Milwaukee. My major was journalism and I flunked out. Why? Because I was undisciplined. I was swept away by the romance of being back in the Midwest, playing casino, pledging a Black fraternity. I was distracted by all these things. It was just an academic year of distraction.

The Dean sent a letter to my parents that said, “Your son is not college material.” But when I came back to Pueblo, my mother grabbed me and took me out to Pueblo Community College. She arranged the appointment, not me. She was strong, one of them hard sisters, and asked Dr. Knudsen if he would admit me. He said, “Hell, we will ignore that.” I got my associate’s degree and went to the University of Wisconsin, but the same pattern happened. I got thrown out twice for not going to class.

There’s a striking story you tell about threatening the state rehabilitation counselor to get funding for college. Can you explain what happened there?

I went to him and said I wanted to try this new college that was opening in September 1963. When he hesitated, I did some research and found out that because I was, pardon my French, ‘a cripple,’ the state had some obligation to disabled people until they became gainfully employed. I told him, “If you don’t give me tuition and subsistence, the law says you’ve got to take care of me. I promise you, Mr. Riker, I’m going to live to be 86. You do the numbers.” This was 1963, I was 24. I said, “For the next 50 plus years, the state of Colorado will have to feed me.” He relented and paid the tuition.

What changed when you arrived at CSU Pueblo in 1963?

I was deadly serious. I wasn’t going anywhere this time. I’d been screwing up, but I knew I was smart as hell and just needed to get serious. A lot of little things happened, like running into a guy at the dog track who talked about what he wanted out of life, weekends and barbecues, and how he’d rather die than not have that. I got to thinking about what I wanted too.

When I got to campus, I was “four-point Mitchell.” I had this history professor, Jim Anderson, who had a very low opinion of me based on my record. He gave these multiple-choice tests that he’d been working on for 30 years. On the first exam, 125 questions, I got 120 right and finished before time was up. He looked at me like I was dumb, but when the results came back, he said, “I want to talk to you.” It was the highest score he’d ever seen. He became a mentor. That proved to myself that I was good.

Looking back, what would you tell that young man who was “wandering”?

I’d tell him he wasted time. He was silly. He was wracked by the temptations of life and didn’t step up and grab his opportunities. “You got lost in your youth, in your supposed freedom. You were out from under your parents, out from under the stewardship of high school and the nuns and priests. You just acted a fool. You played yourself cheap, Mitch. You squandered your time.”

The advice would be to be less self-indulgent. Don’t ever play yourself cheap. Understand your own dignity and preserve your integrity. Because once you lose your integrity, you’ve lost it all.

What do you want to tell today’s students who might be facing their own challenges?

Remember that you’re not immune to the challenges that come to every generation. The world wasn’t perfect in the sixties either. Every generation has challenges. So, buckle up. Be a man. Be a woman. Don’t run around feeling sorry for yourself, staring at your little device, so distracted and self-absorbed. Look people in the eye and talk to them. Read something. Get involved. Engage as a human being, not as a robot playing with some machine.

You have to value yourself first. Be resilient. You can’t win every battle. You don’t feel your best every day. Just be persistent, believe in yourself, and learn to trust others. And remember, the early bird gets the worm. If you get up early in the morning, you’ll be surprised who else is out there, and who’s out there is serious, or they wouldn’t be there. They’re intentional people with real goals. You want to be part of that pack of intentional people.

Was there ever a moment in your advocacy work when you wanted to give up?

Just one time I can remember. This was in the seventies, before we opened our office in Washington in 1981. I was what they called a commuter lobbyist—my job and family were in Milwaukee, but I was trying to lobby Congress from hotel rooms. I remember one evening with Dr. Jerry Lewis from the University of Maryland, after a particularly frustrating day. I kind of teared up and said, “Fuck it.” Just that one night. But I got up in the morning and kept stepping.

See, I feel that we’re fighting for the good, for what’s right. We’re a coalition of the good. It’s a moral imperative. It’s not about balancing life. It’s just a moral imperative to fight for better, for everyone. That’s what propels me.

How does it feel to receive an honorary doctorate from the place where you finally found your footing?

It’s very emotional. Your whole life is in front of you when you’re young. I’m old now. You don’t expect this. But I feel that I’ve made with my life, not just a living, but a difference. I had a responsibility for four children, but I also made a difference. I feel very good about that, about the organization I helped put together, about the fact that we’ve been fighting ever since and we’ll continue to fight.

This is where I learned that I could succeed. If I hadn’t been to this college, I never would have known what I was capable of. Sometimes the most important thing is just having someone believe you’re worth the investment.