The temperature hit 100 degrees in the heart of Texas A&M University’s campus as two crowds faced off near the iconic statue of a man who was both a university president and a Confederate general.

On one side, a multicultural group of students dressed in black called for the statue’s removal, chanting “Black lives matter!” About 100 feet away, a group of older, White Texans stood five people deep to guard the figure of Lawrence Sullivan Ross. Wearing the school colors of maroon and white, they countered, “All lives matter!”

“Why don’t you be an American life that matters?” shouted Becky Clark, 61. “How is tearing down a statue going to accomplish anything?”

“Stand by your Aggies, not a statue,” the students yelled back, using a nickname for students and alumni of the school. “There’s only White people on your side for a reason.”

The mid-July protest was one of multiple confrontations on the campus of Texas A&M University at College Station since the killing of George Floyd, a former student of the university system whose fatal encounter with Minneapolis police in May has ignited nationwide calls for racial justice. Debate over the Ross statue — viewed by some as the veneration of a violent white supremacist and by others as a unifying memorial for an inspiring educator — has waged for years. Those long-simmering racial tensions peaked this summer across parts of the Texas A&M University System.

A video that called for Black students on the Kingsville campus to be “euthanized” prompted criticism of university leaders, whose response some said was too slow and weak. A social media campaign detailing what #RacismAtTAMUFeelsLike led to an outpouring of stories about unequal treatment on the predominantly White campus in College Station, including racial slurs going unpunished and Black students’ presence being questioned.

University leaders have responded with task forces, diversity scholarships and news releases declaring that racism is at odds with its core values. Student activists have criticized those efforts as rote and out of touch, perfunctory attempts to address a systemic problem.

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Like the nation as a whole, the population at Texas A&M at College Station has been changing rapidly. In 2000, less than 15 percent of students identified as Black, Asian, Hispanic or American Indian. Collectively, those categories have more than doubled, now defining 1 in 3 students.

The university’s culture has not reflected the change, many say. Opened in 1876 as a military school for men, Texas A&M is deeply rooted in traditions, loyalty and conservatism. Members of its Corps of Cadets, who march across campus in knee-high leather boots with spurs clacking on the concrete, are known as the “Keepers of the Spirit and Guardians of Tradition.” During football games, students stand for all four quarters to demonstrate their willingness to step in if a player is injured.

Even the smallest facets of daily life are governed by tradition: People don’t walk on the lawn around the Memorial Student Center out of respect for former students who were killed at war. Freshmen are taught to greet anyone they meet with “Howdy” and a smile. Alumni wear the Aggie ring long after they graduate.

“If you interview somebody, they better have their [Aggie] ring on, or they won’t get the job down here,” said alumnus John A. Adams Jr. “We believe in mom and apple pie and the American flag.”

But as the university has developed a more diverse student body, some feel uncomfortable with certain traditions rooted in White, Southern culture or tied to the Civil War era, particularly those centered on the school’s Confederate former president. During exams, students put pennies at the feet of his bronze statue for good luck.

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Opponents note that Ross participated in massacres against native people as a leader in the Texas Rangers, created to secure the frontier for White settlers. As a Confederate general, he described slaughtering Black Union troops as they tried to escape.

Faculty from the school’s history department issued a statement in June noting the white supremacist policies and violence that characterized Texas in the years after Reconstruction, when Ross was governor.

“It is unequivocally true that Ross agreed with, supported, and defended these policies until his death, even as he carried out what might be considered isolated acts of charity towards some communities of color,” they wrote.