Surveillance Without Rules: Texas’ New Ombudsman Office and the Quiet Policing of Higher Education
by
Angela Valenzuela, Ph.D.
A state agency with the power to investigate universities—and potentially cut off their funding—should, at minimum, have clear rules for how it operates. In Texas, it does not.
As recently reported by The Texas Tribune, the Office of the Ombudsman housed within the Texas Higher Education Coordinating Board has been accepting complaints for months alleging violations of anti-DEI laws and new limits on faculty governance. Yet it has no written policies explaining how investigations are conducted—no standards of evidence, no clear procedures, no defined rights for those accused, and no appeals process. This is not a bureaucratic gap. It is a warning.
When an office holds power without rules, what fills the vacuum is discretion. And discretion, in a political environment like this one, is rarely neutral.
The stakes are significant. If the office determines that a university has violated state law and the institution fails to remedy the issue, it can recommend that lawmakers cut off access to state funds.
That is extraordinary authority for a body that cannot explain how it decides what constitutes a violation, what evidence matters, or how findings are reached. We do not know what triggers an investigation, how complaints are evaluated, or what recourse exists for those accused. What we are left with is governance by ambiguity.
Ambiguity, however, is not merely a flaw. It is productive. It creates an environment in which institutions cannot clearly identify the boundaries of compliance and therefore default to overcompliance.
As Liliana Garces and others have documented, universities in Texas are already responding to the broader anti-DEI policy climate by exceeding what the law requires. Faculty are being encouraged to avoid certain language in their research, even when their work is legally protected.
Administrators are consulting legal counsel preemptively, not because violations have occurred, but because the consequences of miscalculation are unclear. In such a context, the safest course of action becomes silence.
This is not simply policy implementation; it is a form of governance that operates through uncertainty. Michel Foucault described this as disciplinary power—a system that shapes behavior not primarily through punishment, but through the internalization of surveillance.
When individuals and institutions cannot predict how rules will be applied, they begin to regulate themselves. The chilling effect is not incidental; it is the mechanism through which power operates most efficiently. The Ombudsman’s office, even in its procedural absence, has already begun to reshape the terrain of higher education by signaling that scrutiny is ever-present and standards are undefined.
Supporters of the office have described it as a neutral forum for resolving disputes, a place where concerns can be addressed without escalating into public controversy. But neutrality requires more than intention. It requires transparency, consistency, and due process. None of these are currently evident.
Instead, the office has declined to release even basic information about its activities, including how many complaints it has received or the nature of those complaints. It has sought permission to withhold such data, even as it acknowledges that it has yet to develop the written procedures required by law.
At the same time, its staffing draws from ideological networks aligned with anti-DEI efforts, including individuals with ties to the Texas Public Policy Foundation. While political affiliation alone does not determine outcomes, it does shape institutional orientation. In this case, the alignment between the office’s mission and the broader political project to curtail DEI and Ethnic Studies is difficult to ignore.
The structure of the complaint system itself raises additional concerns. In the absence of clear evidentiary standards, complaints can be filed for a wide range of reasons, including those that are political or strategic in nature. Even if unsubstantiated, such complaints can generate administrative burdens, reputational damage, and institutional anxiety.
Without a formal appeals process, those accused are left navigating a system that offers limited protection and little clarity. Under these conditions, the complaint process becomes less a tool of accountability and more a mechanism of exposure.
What is perhaps most striking is that the office does not need to exercise its full authority to be effective. Its mere existence, combined with its opacity, is sufficient to produce behavioral change. Universities begin to anticipate scrutiny. Faculty adjust their research and teaching. Administrators prioritize risk management over intellectual exploration. In this way, the office functions not simply as an enforcement body, but as a signal that higher education is subject to continuous monitoring. The result is a gradual shift from open inquiry to managed knowledge.
This moment must be understood as part of a broader struggle over who gets to define knowledge in public institutions. Battles over curriculum, Ethnic Studies, and representation have long revealed that what counts as “official knowledge” is deeply contested. What is new here is the mechanism of enforcement: a state office with expansive authority operating without clear procedural constraints.
In my own work, I have described similar dynamics as part of a colonial matrix of power—a system that governs not only institutions, but the very boundaries of thought. When educators are compelled to anticipate political consequences without knowing the rules, the result is not simply compliance, but constraint.
In a democratic society, the exercise of power must be bounded by procedure. Rules are not bureaucratic formalities; they are the foundation of legitimacy. They ensure that decisions are made fairly, that evidence is evaluated consistently, and that those affected have recourse. An investigative body that operates without such rules does not strengthen accountability; it undermines it.
If Texas is serious about restoring public confidence in higher education, it must begin by ensuring that its own oversight mechanisms are transparent, accountable, and grounded in due process. Until then, the Office of the Ombudsman stands as a troubling development: a system in which uncertainty governs, surveillance shapes behavior, and the future of higher education is being quietly but profoundly remade.
Office of the Ombudsman has no written policies on how to investigate allegations that education laws are being broken, even though it’s been accepting complaints for three months.
by Jessica Priest April 3, 2026, 5:00 a.m. Central | Texas Tribune
Illustrated posters reading “We Belong Here” sit on the Capitol’s rotunda floor during Texas Students for Diversity, Equity and Inclusion’s protest of anti-DEI initiatives for public universities, on Mar. 23, 2023. One responsibility of the new Office of the Ombudsman is to investigate allegations that anti-DEI laws have been broken. Leila Saidane/The Texas Tribune
A new state office with the power to investigate whether public universities in Texas are violating laws on diversity, curriculum and campus decision-making has no written policies explaining how those investigations work, even after accepting complaints for nearly three months.
The Office of the Ombudsman, housed within the Texas Higher Education Coordinating Board and led by a gubernatorial appointee, was created last year to address GOP concerns that universities had become too focused on promoting liberal viewpoints instead of preparing students for the workforce.
The ombudsman accepts complaints from students, faculty and staff alleging violations of two state laws:A 2017 ban on diversity, equity and inclusion offices, programs and training at public colleges and universities.
A 2025 law limiting faculty’s role in some curriculum, grievance and discipline decisions.
The stakes are high: If the office finds a university violated a law and the school does not fix the problem within a set time, the ombudsman can recommend that lawmakers cut access to state funds until the school complies.
State law requires the office to provide complainants and subjects of complaints with a copy of its policies and procedures for complaint investigation and resolution. But when The Texas Tribune asked for those documents, Ombudsman Brandon Simmons pointed to a page on the office’s website that describes how complaints are filed and sets deadlines for when universities must be notified and respond and when the office must issue reports. It is unclear whether that satisfies the law’s requirements.
The webpage does not explain how the office decides an investigation is warranted, what standard of proof it applies in reaching findings or what recourse universities or employees have if they believe the ombudsman’s findings are wrong.
Clear, written policies can ensure investigations are conducted fairly and consistently, higher education experts say.
Neal Hutchens, a professor at the University of Kentucky’s College of Education who studies higher education law and policy, said people also need to understand how the system works to have faith in it. Without that clarity, the office’s authority could feel open-ended and intimidating to institutions and faculty members alike.
“It just has a big question mark for everyone,” he said.
The ombudsman office also asked the Texas attorney general for permission to withhold from the Tribune basic complaint data, including how many complaints it has received, when they were filed, the laws allegedly violated and the status of investigations.
Gov. Greg Abbott appointed Simmons as the office’s first ombudsman in October. Records obtained by the Tribune show he was the only person considered for the job. Simmons, a former technology executive, venture capitalist and corporate attorney, stepped down as chair of the Texas Southern University System Board of Regents to take the position. He had served on the board since 2023, part of a period later examined by a state audit that found significant weaknesses in Texas Southern’s financial controls, contracting and reporting processes.
His office began accepting complaints through an online portal Jan. 9.
That same month, Simmons agreed to an interview with the Tribune but canceled and instead responded to questions in writing.
Asked how the office planned to investigate complaints, he did not provide specifics. Asked how Texans should judge whether the office is working as intended, Simmons offered no concrete benchmarks, saying: “This office seeks to increase public confidence in higher education and to support the continuing ascent of Texas universities’ student success and research and development.”
Later, in response to a public records request, the office said it did not possess written policies or procedures for conducting investigations. The Tribune followed with 10 emails — the majority sent over the past two weeks — asking how the office was handling complaints but did not get an answer until two days before publication, when Simmons pointed to the office’s web page detailing how to file a complaint and listing deadlines.
“Additional policies and procedures will continue to be developed as outlined by Texas law,” Simmons added.
The law does not define when an investigation is necessary, but it says if the office determines one to be necessary, it can request information from a university, which has 30 days to respond. Afterward, it must submit a report to the institution’s board of regents determining whether a violation occurred and recommending corrective action if needed.
If a university does not resolve a violation within 180 days, the office can refer the matter to the state auditor and recommend that lawmakers block the institution from spending state funds until it complies.
The law also requires the office to keep a file on each complaint and submit annual reports to state officials, including the governor and legislative leaders, summarizing how many complaints it received, how many investigations it conducted and what it found.
Unable to get information from the ombudsman, the Tribune asked the state’s public university systems whether the office had sent them any notices of complaint and for related records. Six systems said they had not been notified of any complaints, one had not answered by publication, and the University of Texas System indicated it had responsive records but asked the attorney general if it could withhold them.
The lawmakers who helped shape the office offered different views on how it should function and how much it should disclose.
State Sen. Paul Bettencourt, the new chair of the Senate Higher Education Committee, told the Tribune the office will need to develop “some type of complaint procedure” and said Simmons should come prepared to talk about it at a Higher Education Committee hearing this summer. He said the office should disclose the number of complaints filed, adding he had already asked for those counts.
Asked what protections should exist for universities or employees accused in complaints, including what standard of proof should apply and whether there should be an appeals process, Bettencourt said, “I’m going to leave that one open.”
He said he saw the ombudsman as more than an enforcement arm — a “neutral place” where people could bring problems for resolution that also could keep disputes from being “adjudicated on social media,” pointing to last year’s Texas A&M controversy, which began after a state representative shared a student’s secret recording of a classroom discussion about gender identity.
In a separate interview, state Rep. Matt Shaheen, House sponsor of the bill that created the office, said he was “very satisfied” with the process described on the office’s website, which restates the law’s complaint timeline and reporting requirements but does not explain key investigative standards or procedures. He cautioned against disclosing information about pending complaints, saying they could be false or “malicious in nature,” though he said he would be comfortable with releasing complaint data after the process played out.
Asked about a lack of appeals, Shaheen said those who believed the ombudsman’s findings were unfair could raise their concerns with lawmakers and would have “the opportunity to have their side of the story heard.”
Before the ombudsman office was created, the Texas Higher Education Coordinating Board handled a narrower set of student complaints, typically reviewing whether universities followed state rules on issues like tuition and financial aid, consumer protections and certain academic requirements. Students generally had to first exhaust a university’s internal grievance process before the board would review a complaint, and the agency did not have the authority to direct universities to change policies or recommend they be blocked from spending state funds.
So far, Simmons has drawn from conservative legal and policy circles to staff the ombudsman office. On April 1, Simmons announced that Ryan D. Walters, a former deputy attorney general for legal strategy and former attorney at the Texas Public Policy Foundation, a conservative think tank, had joined as deputy director and general counsel. Simmons also hired Edgardo Mondolfi, also a former Texas Public Policy Foundation employee, as his assistant.
Other Texas agencies are more transparent about how they investigate complaints. The Texas Department of Licensing and Regulation says investigators typically interview the complainant, the respondent and pertinent witnesses, gather relevant documents and can visit a business or site tied to the complaint before submitting a report to a prosecutor. If the agency seeks penalties, it weighs factors such as the seriousness of the violation, whether it was intentional, whether the respondent tried to address the violation after it was discoveredfix it and whether stronger punishment was needed to deter future misconduct. Respondents can then request a hearing before an administrative law judge and later seek rehearing or judicial review.
Critics fear what an office with broad authority and unclear procedures could mean for teaching, research and open inquiry at public universities.
Liliana Garces, a professor at UT-Austin’s College of Education, said such fear is not theoretical.
In a study of how the state’s anti-DEI law was implemented at UT-Austin, she and her research team interviewed nearly 100 administrators, faculty and students over more than a year and found that the flagship went beyond what the law required. For example, university officials encouraged faculty to have their research proposals reviewed by a university lawyer and to avoid using certain language, even though research was exempt.
Garces said the overcorrection was driven in part by undercover videos that appeared to show university employees discussing ways to continue DEI initiatives, followed by pressure from Republican state leaders suggesting universities were not complying. She said that created an environment in which universities felt they were being watched and became more likely to go beyond the law’s requirements.
“Compliance became this moving target where just any kind of visibility created liability for the institution,” she said.
The Texas Tribune partners with Open Campus on higher education coverage.
Disclosure: Texas Public Policy Foundation, University of Texas System and University of Texas at Austin have been financial supporters of The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit, nonpartisan news organization that is funded in part by donations from members, foundations and corporate sponsors. Financial supporters play no role in the Tribune’s journalism. Find a complete list of them here.
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