Volume 2 - Issue 10

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Volume two, number ten I April 27, 1969

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"Let the jury consider their verdict," the King said, for about the twentieth time that day.

"No, no!" said the Queen. "Sentence first-evidence [sic] afterwards."

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland as quoted in the Director's Report of the Yale Summer High School

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2 I The New 1ournall April 27, 1969

Contents 3 6

Bethune serving Mao's people

by Jonathan Spence Summer high school; at last the real story

by Paul Goldberger

8

Social center at Yale

by Peter Hoyt 10 Yale basketball in Dallas

by Daniel Peters In Comment: The Yalie Daily hits new lows, a Jetter from our Harvard friends, a heroic struggle at the law school, and some thoughts on marches past.

Yalie Daily No one these days is very happy with the Yale Daily News. This goes far beyond . immature, petty jealousies between campus organizations, for many of my friends who are running the News express the same concern-that something is not working right. So busy are they printing supplements, course critiques and advertising brochures that they seem to take pride in doing everything but putting out a responsible, hard-hitting daily. And what should be the foca l point of that organization suffers at the expense of numerous temporary projects.

The Summer High School crisis is a good example. After three months of research on the subject, our Associate Editor Paul Goldberger found that the News, desperate for an issue on which to attack the administration, had come up with a story that abdicated aU responsibility for factual reporting. We have been working three months on this one story in order to present a responsible account of what really happened. The incestuous relations between a reporter of the News and the people he was writing about reached an ugly climax this past weekend. When a copy of our story was pirated to that reporter, his first action was to relay all the information to those who can only be called his clients. That the News can alJow its reporters to stoop to such depths of journalistic immorality and at the same time presume to editorialize about the rightness or wrongness of things seems somewhat paradoxical. If the News has not used the knowledge of our story for some biased coverage by the time this issue appears, it will be exercising a responsible restraint for which it has not been known in the past.

Jonathan Lear

Letter from Cambridge April 16, 1969 It rained here this afternoon-after a week of joyful spring weather-for the first time s ince the bust last Thursday morning.

Driven away along with the sun was a tension and anxiety that was relentlessly exh austing both emotionally and physically.

Gone-for the time being, at least-were the chanting pickets, angry speakers, the literature tables and TV cameras. All that remained were a few isolated groups and a warm spring rain.

The last week, of course, had been very different: milling crowds, urgent issues, expectation and excitement-"a carnival atmosphere in historic Harvard Yard"-to join two favorite phrases of the press. The press?-they are already taken for granted, and it is an isolated few that haven't been on TV or interviewed by at least one of the

four New York Times correspondents. A picture of my roommate handing a red strike armband to Nathan Pusey was on the front page of the Globe, but did you see whose picture was in Time this week?

Most of all, I guess I'm just tired: tired of the stupidity of the Administration, tired of the demagoguery of SDS, tired of the moderates' bickering, tired of points o{ order, non-negotiable demands, ultimata, colloquia, the decision-making process, ROTC, expansionism, concern, activism, people ... and spring vacation only ended last week.

It is difficult to be certain about anything except your uncertainty here anymore; emotions are continually changing and with the same inevitability as the mimeograph machine. "Follow your emotions" is the new philosophy of crisis as you fluctuate wildly between cool reason and compromise and irreconcilable hatred. Six days have passed since the bust, and only the deep ruts encircling University HaU-left by the buses which carried the State Police -serve as a reminder of how this aU started.

It's already difficult to remember the night you spent "on the steps,'' the alarm, some shouting and then the long line of babyblue police helmets moving unimpeded to break up quickly and efficiently the token resistance. And then all you could do was run and shout, surging forward against a .wall of cops until one broke and chased yoq, clubbing whoever happened to be in the way. There was no sign of the workerstudent alliance in these men's faces as they dragged the occupiers into their buses and paddy wagons and then slowly began to cordon off the Yard.

Superficially, I guess it seemed like Chicago all over again, but in a way it was something very different and far more disturbing. This wasn't the personal fiefdom of a political boss or a hostile city that claimed to be the hog butcher of the world, and it was not the climax of a long campaign: this was the college you had chosen to attend; those blood-stained steps led to the library in which you were supposed to seek knowledge. "What were you doing .there?" a cop would later ask a kid whose camera had been smashed. "I live there,'' he replied. That's what made it so much more frightening.

Later, after the cops had withdrawn, seven hundred of us drifted towards Widener steps, where a microphone had been set up. The first speaker gets up to speak-he is a leader of SDS. "Now let's go to Pusey's house-with rocks" he says, and suddenly you come down very bard and very fast. The meeting degenerates into a shoving and shouting match as the SDS leadership desperately tries to hold the crowd together and consolidate its support.

But nothing can be decided upon; SDS has seemingly lost its chance, and the meeting breaks up after agreeing to meet again at a "convocation" called by various student government organizations for 10 A.M. in Memorial Church.

The success of that four-hour meeting in forestalling an SDS takeover seemed to indicate that the usual scenario of radicalization had not really taken place. This was a hopeful sign since the inability of the socalJed "moderate" students and faculty in similar situations at Berkeley, Columbia and San Francisco State to establish a position independent from both the administration and the radicals is commonly viewed as a principal cause for the bitter division and polarization which continue to exist.

Harvard had traditionally resisted this polarization, mainly because, as Nathan

Glazer bas said, "People seem to have confidence in this place (The New York Times, April 13). Skillful in the art of cooperation and upstaging, Harvard has made such progress that Time Magazine was moved to gurgle with admiration a month ago: "As usual ... Harvard seems to be outdoing the rest-or trying awfully hard. The nation's oldest university has gone hip, and no one is yet sure where the limits m ay lie."

But the situation here has proved once again how difficult it is to organize people around a middle course. There was no existing organization with any real support since the three student government organizations are by and large out of touch with anyone except student-government types.

Perhaps the only organization that might have galvanized politically active liberals was the Young Democrats, the leader in last year's McCarthy campaign and at one point the largest campus organization. But Chicago, Nixon and a practically nonexistent leadership made the Young Dems an organization in name only, and the new, energetic slate of officers elected in February had only begun to reorganize when the University Hall occupation took place.

From the time of the Memorial Church meeting until the mass meeting in Soldiers Field four days later, an attempt was made to establish some sort of a moderate alternative. From the beginning, however, there was trouble because no provision had been made at the Church meeting for any sort of leadership. One person did emerge, however, as a de facto leader, and that was Ken Glazier, a senior and former Chairman of the Student Faculty Advisory Council, who, as chairman of the Memorial Church meeting, had done a remarkable job controlling a somewhat riotous gathering. But other than Glazier, who had not been elected by any committee or meeting, the leadership of the "Mem Church Group,'' as it soon began to be called, changed every time you went into the Weld Common Room where it was based.

In sharp contrast to the chaos in Weld was the SDS headquarters in the philosophy department offices on the third floor of Emerson Hall. Scrupulously adhering to democratic procedures, SDS held an open meeting at which 800 people chose between eighty-one candidates to elect a fifteen-man strike steering committee. All decisions made by this committee (all of whose meetings are open) are subject to the approval of the regular meetings of those who support their eight demands. From red fists silk-screened on T-shirts to the daily publishing of Old Mole strike specials to the endless "colloquia" and leaflets, their organization has shown itself to be incredibly enthusiastic, hard working and imaginative. It is hard not to be affected by their camaraderie and fervor, and it is only when they move outside of their own group that the dangerous anti-libertarianism of their moral absolutism becomes apparent.

As of today, however, SDS is clearly the only group capable of commanding widespread support. The Mem Church Group announced its dissolution at the Soldiers Field meeting on Monday after having made little attempt to mobilize the moderates. No group has made any attempt to take their place; and SDS for the most part has moved into a vacuum. The administration has been unwilling to make any real concessions and bas made the moderate position an even more difficult one. A majority of students seem to be willing to accept the proposals passed by continued on page 14

Volume two, number ten April 27, 1969 Editor: Jonathan Lear Executive Editor: Herman Hong Articles Editor: Lawrence Lasker Business Manager: Steve Thomas Art Director: Nita Kalish : Associate Editor: Paul Goldberger Advertising Manager: K. Elia Georgiades Copy Editors: Nancy Vickers Craig Slutzker Photography Editor: Robert Randolph Circulation Manager: J ohn Adams Publisher: Peter Yaeger Contributing Editors: Susan Holahan William L. Kahrl Mopsy S. Kennedy Michael Lerner Bruce Mcintosh LeoRibuffo Staff:

Tom Abell, Richard Caples, Leo Draper, Mark Fishman, James Hinson, Stuart Klawans, Manuel Perez, Michael David Rose, Deborah Rubin, Scott Simpson, Joel Skidmore, Warner Wada, Michael Waltuch THIRD CLASS NON-PROFIT PERMIT: Third Class Non-Profit postage PAID in New Haven, Conn. The New Journal is published

by The New Journal at Yale, Inc., 3342 Yale Station, New Haven, Conn. 06520, and is printed at The Carl Purington RoUins Printing-Office of the Yale University Press in New Haven. Published bi-weekly during the academic year and distributed by qualified controlled circulation to the Yale Community.

For all others, subscriptions are $7.50 per year ($4.50 for students) and newstand copies 50¢.

The New Journal © copyright 1969 by The New Journal at Yale, Inc., a non-profit corporation.

Letters welcome. Unsolicited manuscripts should be accompanied by a stamped, selfaddressed envelope. Opinions expressed in articles are not necessarily those of The New Journal.

Credits: Peter Hoyt: pages 8, 9 Robert Randolph: page 7 John Tenniel: cover, page 6 © 1963, The Macmillan Co.

31 The New Journal I April27, 1969

"Is this muscle dead? Pinch it. Yes, it's dead.

Cut it out.": Norman Bethune in Mao's China.

by Jonathan Spence

Norman Bethune, the only man from the West to be cited in Mao's little red book, is the subject of one chapter of Jonathan Spence's new book, To Change China, which will be published by Little-Brown in a couple of weeks. CopyrightŠ 1969,

by Jonathan Spence.

In December 1938 the Canadian doctor Norman Bethune was serving with elements of the Communist Chinese Army behind the Japanese lines in north China.

In the cold clear hours of early morning, after working all day and all night, be marshaled his thoughts on disease and death: Gangrene is a cunning, creeping fellow. Is this one alive? Yes, be lives. Technically speaking, he is alive. Give him saline intravenously. Perhaps the innumerable, tiny cells of his body will remember. They may remember the hot, salty sea, their ancestral home, their first food. With the memory of a million years, they may remember other tides, other oceans and life being born of the sea and sun. It may make them raise their tired little heads, drink deep and struggle back into life again. It may do that.

And this one. Will he run along the road beside his mule at another harvest, with cries of pleasure and happiness? No, that one will never run again. How can you run with one leg? What will he do? Why, he'll sit and watch other boys run. What will he think?

He'll think what you and I would think.

What's the good of pity? Don't pity him! Pity would diminish his sacrifice. He did this for the defense of China. Help him. Lift him off the table. Carry him in your arms. Why, he's light as a child! Yes, your child, my child.

At this time, Norman Bethune was fortyeight years old and intimately acquainted with death. He had served with theCanadian Army in the First World War as a stretcher-bearer and been seriously wounded. After studying medicine in Canada and Europe, and leading a flamboyant and extravagant life, he finally set up in private practice in Detroit, only to find that he had contracted virulent tuberculosis. He was not expected to live; on the walls of his sanatorium room he painted himself clasped in the arms of the Angel of Death, with the legend: "My little act is over, and the tiresome play is done." If he did nothing, he estimated, having carefully followed the track of his disease, he would be dead in 1932. "Contemplation," he wrote to his ex-wife, "becomes one's special form of action, and no one here can escape the changes, the discoveries, the greater self-knowledge that are inevitably the product of such enforced contemplation." For Bethune, self-knowledge brought desire to live. He insisted that he be used as a guinea pig in the newly developing compression treatment for tubercular patients known as "artificial pneumothorax." The treatment was successful, and on recovery Bethune joined the faculty of medicine at McGill University as a specialist in thoracic surgery.

His self-knowledge had brought him renewed life; the intellectual discoveries that be had made profoundly altered the content of that life. He began to question the ethics of the medical profession, where doctors grew rich while the myriad poor died of disease and undernourishment in the slums that the Depression had spawned. "There is a rich man's tuberculosis and poor man's tuberculosis," be reflected. "The rich man recovers and the Jonathan Spence, AssocilJte Professor of His tory aJ Yale, is currently in England doing research on the K'ang Hsi Emperor.

poor man dies. This succinctly expresses the close embrace of economics and pathology." He treated the poor free, began to examine systems of socialized medicine and to argue for them in public, learned to admire the achievements of the Russian Revolution: "Creation is not and never bas been a genteel gesture. It is rude, violent and revolutionary." In 1936 be was invited by the Committee to Aid Spanish Democracy to lead a Canadian medical unit to Madrid, to help the Loyalists in their fight with Franco. The invitation confused and excited him. "Go to Spain? Last week I had to decide whether to operate on my child. Now I have to decide whether I go to Spain. I am surprised, honored-and perplexed. Am I the right person? Am I ready? Yesterday's answers seem to prepare new questions for today. And tomorrow-what? The times impose cruel and irreversible decisions on us!"

Bethune reached Madrid in November 1936. He stayed there several months, developing mobile blood transfusion units that could operate near the front line, and establishing the necessary blood banks to back them up. He saw, once again, hundreds of men dying in action and the civilian refugees dying on the roadside.

His anger with the Western democracies that stood aside while the Fascist armies triumphed grew even stronger. In the s~­ mer of 1937 he returned to Canada on a fund-raising mission and joined the Communist Party. The newspapers were full of China. J:le could not ignore it. "I refuse to live in a world that spawns murder and corruption without raising my band against them. I refuse to condone, by passivity, or by default, the wars which greedy men make against others.... Spain and China are part of the same battle. I am going to China because I feel that is where the need is greatest; that is where I can be most useful." In January of 1938 he was in Hankow, on the YangtZe, conferring with Nationalist Chinese officials; by early March he was at Hotsin in western Shansi province, treating the demoralized troops of the warload Yen Hsi-shan: he found no serious cases, and was informed that this was because all the seriously wounded men had died. By the end of March he had crossed the Yellow.River with a small Communist supply team and arrived in Yen an.

Yenan was Mao Tse-tung's base, the center of the Chinese Communist movement. After the disasters of 1927, the Communists had either gone underground in the cities, or retreated to povertystricken areas of the countryside, where they had established provisional "Soviet" governments. In the early thirties Mao had created such a government in the southeastern province of Kiangsi, but the unremitting attacks of Chiang Kai-shek, directed by German military advisers, had finally forced the Communists to retreat on the Long March to the northwest. It was on this march, in early 1935, that Mao had gained control of the party, and it was in Yenan that Mao had regrouped the scattered and dispirited Communist forces.

As his rallying cry, Mao bad adopted the potent slogan of "Unify China to resist the Japanese." Chiang Kai-shek had found it increasingly difficult to group his followers round the anti-Communist cause while the Japanese were threatening China's very existence, and by mid-1937 he and the Communists bad once again formed a United Front. The Front was little more united than it had been in the early twenties, but at least a semblance of

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harmony was maintained. De facto recognition was given by Chiang to the Communists' Border Area government in the provinces of Shensi, Kansu and Ninghsia, and they were encouraged to conduct guerrilla operations against the J apanese in the northeastern area of Shansi, Chahar and Hopei. For their part the Communists, still shaky from their near defeat, and anxious to maintain good relations with the wealthier peasants in their base areas, had adopted a moderate program of rent reduction iostead of pushing for land redistribution, and had established the structure for a democratic government.

This was the "Yenan Communism" that so appealed to the few Western observers who were able to get through to Shensi.

They found the Communists tolerant, cheerful, courageous and pragmatic, and they reported their findings to an absorbed Western readership.

Bethune was as delighted as anyone, and noted the contrasts between the Communist and the Nationalist areas that he had seen: " In Hankow I found confusion, indecision, depressing signs of bureaucracy and inefficiency. I n Yenan there is a sense of confidence and purpose in administrative circles. In the towns and cities I passed through on my way here I became accustomed to the sights of sem i-feudalismfilthy dwellings, polluted streets, people in rags. Here, among the ancient structures, the streets are clean, teeming with people who seem to know where they'r e going."

H e had a lengthy interview with Mao, who impressed him by his knowledge of the Loyalist political and military leaders in the Spanish Civil War and was enthusiastic about Bethune's plan for setting up mobile base hospitals. He found Mao convinced of the Chinese people's will to resist, and of the inevitability of their final victory, however long that might take.

"The man is a giant!" wrote Bethune after the interview was over. "He is one of the great men of our world."

Bethune lingered only three weeks in Yenan, to assemble supplies and a small staff, before moving out to join General Nieh Jung-chen's troops who were ensconced in the mountains between Shansi and Hopei. Here be was formally named " Medical Adviser to the Chin-C ha-Chi Military District," and treated his first Communist patients: "The wounded are crawling with lice. They all have only one uniform, and that they have on. It is filthy with the accumulated dirt of nine months' fighting. Their bandages have been washed so often they are now nothing but dirty rags. Three men, one with the loss of both feet through frost-bite gangrene, have no clothes at all to wear. There is only a coverlet for them. Their food is boiled millet-that's all. All are anaemic and underfed. Most of them are slowly dying of sepsis and starvation. Many have tuberculosis." It was worse even than Spain, but Bethune felt a definite sense of exaltation, for this was his true destination. "I am in the centre of the centre of the war. Now I can truly taste the strange, exalted ftavor of this stupendous struggle."

This was guerrilla war: small groups of Communist troops, cooperating with local peasant partisans, to harass the Japanese all over north China. They filled in the defensive ditches dug by the Japanese, cut telephone and power lines, derailed trains, blew bridges. Isolated detachments of Japanese troops would be surrounded and killed, their captured weapons going to arm fresh guerrillas; occasionally a Japanese convoy or blockhouse might be

attacked by Communist forces of battalion strength or greater. Before Japanese reinforcements could be brought up, the guerrillas would retreat back to the mountains, the partisans return to their villages.

Under these villages were networks of tunnels, growing in length and complexity each year of the war, where food, weapons, and the soldiers themselves could be hidden. At first the Japanese responded sluggishly, but as the guerrilla attacks grew in intensity-in some areas the Japanese needed eighty sold iers to guard a single mile of rail line--they resorted to violent cou ntermeasures: burning whole villages, and either shooting the inhabitants or transporting them to "safer" areas. But this policy backfired; the Communists, who had always used their regular forces a lso as an educated vanguard, setting up schools and politically indoctrinating the villages, found that Japanese atrocities made the peasants more, not less, responsive to their message.

It was in this shifting, bitter violent war that Bethune had to develop some kind of a hospital system. He had a staff of five C hinese doctors, and no other skilled assistance at all, to serve several hundred square miles of mountainous country and over one hundred thousand regular and irregular troops. His solution was to attack all problems simultaneously: he cleaned up and reorganized the existing base "hospitals" (which were usually long-abandoned temples with no facilities of any kind); he taught orderlies the basic princ iples of hospital hygiene and application of field d ressings; showed villagers how to make splints, stretchers and bandages; wrote a textbook to be used in nursing and medical schools; and by patient and reiterated example persuaded the local people first to give their blood for emergency operations and then to form volunteer blood donor corps. The exaltation passed, to be replaced by a deep and simple satisfact ion: " I am tired, but I don't think I have been so happy for a long time. I am content. I am doing what I want to do.

And see what my r iches consist of! I have vital work that occupies every moment of my time. I am needed. More than thatto satisfy my bourgeois vanity-the need for me is expressed."

As soon as the base hospital was in reasonable running order Bethune was off to the battle zones, to implement his plan for mobile field-hospitals. For the last year of his life, from October 1938 until November 1939, he was to follow the ever-mobile Communist armies as they jabbed at the J apanese strong po ints and communications, then retreated before the inevitable Japanese counterattacks.

Bethune's new watchword was " Doctors: Go to the wounded. Don't wait for the wounded to come to you." To accomplish this goal, he developed a miniature unit in which everything was planned to the last detail. Bethune and his orderlies traveled on horseback, and two mules carried all the necessities for handling one hundred patients at a time and equipping an oper ating room, a dressing station and a drug room: splints, bandages, surgical instruments, disinfectants and chloroform.

The operating theater was any weatherproof building near the battle zone-often within three miles of the firing line; naturally the setup was crude, but it was better than anything that had existed previously.

When anaesthetic ran out, as it frequently did, operations and amputations were carried on without it. If the Japanese approached the mobile station and could

51 The New Journal ! April27, 1969

From a Yale Law School student ...

not be stopped by local troops, Bethune and his staff were ready to move everything at ten minutes' notice and ride to safety.

The non-walking wounded had to be left hidden in the villages.

T he work was u nceasing. Bethune himself regularly put in an eighteen-hour-day, ' and drove his staff ruthlessly, insisting the wh ile on the highest technical standards conceivable in the c ircumstances. When the 359th Brigade of the E ighth Route Army attacked a Japanese column on the road from Kwangling to Lingkiu in the mountainous northeastern corner of Shansi, Bethune, who had ridden seventy-¡ five miles to the scene, performed seventyone minor and major operations in forty hours. In early March 1939, he treated 115 casu alties in a sixty-nine-hour stretch.

When he had spare moments, he wrote of his experiences in a savage, lyrical prose:

whom he had worked. His aides received a blanket each. "The last two years," he concluded, "have been the most significant, the most meaningful years of my life.

Sometimes it has been lonely, but I have found my highest fulfillment here among my beloved comrades. I have no strength now to write more.... To you and to all my comrades, a thousand thanks." On November 13, at dawn, Bethune died.

Bethune was an emotional, irascible, talented man. He had incredible selfdiscipline, but did not submit to discipline imposed by others. He had drawn strength from the comradeship of communism but it is unlikely that he would have made a good Communist, even though he bad a clear enough view of the capitalist enemy, as can be seen from the questions he asked himself in the Chinese winter, amid the smells of blood and chloroform:

Old filthy bandages stuck to the skin with blood glue. Careful. Better moisten first.

Through the thigh. Pick the leg up. Why, it's like a bag, a long, loose, red stocking. What kind of stocking? A Christmas stocking.

Where's that fine, strong rod of bone now? In a dozen pieces. Pick them out with your finhers; white as dog's teeth, sharp and jagged.

Now feel. Any more left? Yes, here. All? Yes, no, here's another piece. Is this muscle dead?

Pinch it. Yes, it's dead. Cut it out. How can that heal? How can those muscles, once so strong, now so torn, so devastated, so ruined, resume their proud tension? Pull, relax. Pull, relax. What fun it was! Now that is finished.

Now that's done. Now we are destroyed. Now what will we do with ourselves?

What do these enemies of the human race look like? Do they wear on their foreheads a sign so that they may be told, shunned and condemned as criminals? No. On the contrary, they are the respectable ones. They are honored. They call, and are called, gentlemen.

What a travesty on the name! Gentlemen!

They are the pillars of the State, of the church, of society. They support private and public charity out of the excess of their wealth. They endow institutions. In their private lives they are kind and considerate. They obey the law, their law, the law of property. But there is one sign by which these gentle gunmen can be told. Threaten a reduction on the profit of their money and the beast in them awakes with a snarl. They become as ruthless as savages, brutal as madmen, remorseless as executioners. Such men as these must perish if the human race is to continue. There can be no permanent peace in the world while they live. Such an organization of human society as permits them to exist must be abolished.

These men make the wounds.

In the course of the year 1939 Norman Bethune systematically worked himself to death. The legends around his name multiplied in the villages and mountains of northeast C hina; his name was invoked as a battle cry; as the Communist government in Yenan strengthened its organizational structure in Shensi and extended its control over the newly mobilized peasantry, Bethune received ever stronger backing and popular support, but h is work increased proportionately. At the age of forty-nine he looked seventy: white-haired, flesh sunken, teeth ruined. He had spells of dizziness. He became deaf in one ear. But if depression was there, he masked it totally. Only occasionally did he even express nostalgia for his past life, his former friends. "Are books still being written?" he asked in a letter to Canada. "Is music still being played? Do you dance, drink beer, look at pictures? What do clean sheets feel like in a soft bed? Do women still love to be loved?"

In October he was given the chance to go back to the United States and Canada on a fund-raising trip, to buy desperately needed medical supplies. He passed the opportunity by and went instead to Laiyuan in west Hopei, where the Japanese had mounted a strong new attack. In early November he slashed his finger during a hurried operation while the J apanese were moving in on his unit. His unit escaped, but in the harried days that followed he neglected to treat the finger, which grew seriously infected. He insisted on continuing to operate on Chinese troops, as his own health weakened. His arm swelled, and he drily diagnosed septicemia. "I am fatally ill. I am going to die," he told General Nieh in a brief Jetter that was also his last will and testament. He bequeathed his two cots and his English shoes to the General ; his riding boots and trousers were willed to the local divisional commander .

His surgical instruments were carefully shared between the C hinese doctors with

Bethune's experiences had given him the right to dream of a world without wounds, though he was not concerned with tb.e details of how such a world would be attained. The Chinese might have an answer and that was sufficient. In the meantime there were more than enough wounds to keep a thousand Bethunes occupied, and an endless succession of children waiting in the wings to be wounded in their turn.

Certainly he had no expectation of seeing that world himself; he wooed death tenaciously, although his work was barely begun. The patterns of his life, and the manner of his leaving it, show that Bethune d id not simply go to China to save wounded soldiers w ho would otherwise have died, nor even to be in the forefront of the world struggle against fascism or capitalism. He went to China to expiate the sins of his generation, to purge himself of the apathy and callousness and pursuit of profit he believed had rotted his civilization. His technical brilliance was the entry card into a society that would otherwise have rejected h im. No Jess than other Western advisers he used the Chinese for his own ends and was in turn used by them.

He differed from all others, however, in that he used the Chinese to attain a meaningful death.

In the same hut in Shansi, where he cried out at those who made wounds, he also wrote: " How beautiful the body is; how perfect its parts; with what precision it moves; how obedient; proud and strong.

How terrible when torn. The little flame of life sinks lower and lower, and with a flicker goes out. It goes out like a candle goes out. Quietly and gently.lt makes its protest at extinction, then submits. It has its say, then is silent." ~

MOVE OVER Students, Politics, Religion

By Francis Carling

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GHOSTS

by Henrik Ibsen

Mildred Dunnock

Mildred Dunnock returns as Mrs. Alving, the fascinating matriarch of a family haunted by a curse. How are the sins of the past resurrected in the present? Discover why Ibsen, regarded as the father of modern drama, countered the controversy about his play by retorting to the King of Sweden at a public reception, "Your Majesty, I had to write GHOSTS!"

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The Summer High School-Was it Really 'God's great green educational heaven?'

by Paul Goldberger

"We're going to call it School One," says Larry Paros, and his eyes gleam and his hands move. "It will be School One because it wiJl be the first of its kind. It will be free from the bonds of traditional education. It will be the laboratory school we've tried to get all these years. It will be followed, "-and here his voice builds up"it will be followed by School Two, and Three, and Four...."

Lawrence Paros is determined to create this. school. He wants it because he considers himself a fine and progressive educator, but also because he needs a job.

He will be out of work on June 30 when his contract as Director of the Yale Summer High School runs out.

Yale's decision not to renew that cootract set off a winter-long controversy about the University's basic educational philosophy. But the reasons Yale fired Larry Paros have little to do with the Singer Report or Yale's supposed racist inclinations. They have a lot to do with Larry Paros himself, who has spent most of his time since the November day he learned about his dismissal dreaming about School One and preparing an elaborate defense that has thus far involved personal attacks on members of the Summer High School administration, a Herculean 350-page report prepared entirely at Yale's expense, and the aid and comfort of the Yale Daily News.

It all began back last spring when Paros unveiled the new core curriculum for 1968, which was to be his second year as Director of the Summer High School. The basis for study was race, and relevant literary, philosophical and historical materials were to be used. Paros was anxious to increase the program's appeal to underprivileged students. He felt few qualms about accepting inner-city students with severe problems of emotional adjustment to Yale and college life, confident thauhe core curriculum theme would prevent any difficulties. Indeed, Paros was so concerned about the inclusion of "alienated" youth that, without authority from the Yale administration, he accepted thirty students more than the program had been designed for-thus setting the stage for a Yale Summer High School fiscal crisis that was to reach monumental proportions later in the summer.

The students arrived in late June and the core curriculum, along with courses in composition, math seminar electives, arts workshops and athletic activities, went into effect. Everything looked tine until tutors began to realize that students were not regularly attending classes. As attendance dropped, morale also began to falter, and the "relevant" core curriculum began to seem strangely out of place in a school troubled with increasingly severe disciplinary and educational problems. The emphasis on race had partially backfired: "A white man will not make a good black militant, like so many whites have tried to do at Yale this summer," said one black student.

The summer ended on an uncertain note. Many students, especially those who were returning after more traditional YSHS summers, hated it; others called it the greatest experience of their lives. Faculty, too, were divided: some staff members viewed Paros as the unsung genius of twentieth-century education, while others saw him as the direct cause of the Summer High School's downfall.

Paros admits that he was controversial.

Yet he has managed to manipulate the

facts so that the heart of the controversy has never come to light. He was in fact discharged not because the University was adopting the Singer Report's recommendation that the Summer High become a funnel of blacks into Yale, but because the 1968 session was, from the point of view of its administration, a failure. Though the University does agree with many of the Singer recommendations (for example, the altogether reasonable position that the Summer High School should not simply duplicate the Upward Bound program), Paros was fired more because of his inability to deal with "alienated" students than because he preferred them to those with "college potential."

D . Peter Ciochetto, Director of Composition and a four-year YSHS veteran, recalls, "Discipline last summer was impossible. There are too many incidents to list: destruction of property, disregard of curfews and so on. Larry Paros totally abdicated his authority; he didn't like to be an administrator, so he wasn't one."

Paros could probably neither answer yes or no to the charge of being lax; his bead was all too often in the clouds last summer. He preferred to think of discipline in terms of the abstract; to him there were only vague realities of drug, sexual and theft problems in the Summer High School. In the Director's ReportParas's 350-page account of the program

-he writes in theoretical terms: " We conceived the purpose of education to be the facilitation of self control, a turning on from the inside through the mediation of sympathetic structures, ideas and persons."

Such language sounds impressive-until the cold facts of excessive drug use, an alleged rape case and ¡a tutor whose room was ransacked by students are added to the saga of the summer.

Many of the students enjoyed the free atmosphere: "This program was a wonderful experience for me and I will never forget it. Larry Paros is a real soul brother," said one girl. She was not alone in her admiration of the Director. Edgar F. Beckham, Wesleyan University professor who spent two and one half days at Yale evaluating the program for Educational Associates Incorporated, wrote in a letter toParos: The thing that struck me most about the Yale Summer High School was the thoughtfulness and depth of the theoretical design.... The intellectual implications of the core course bad been worked out in great detail, and even the behavior of students had been anticipated, interpreted and worked into a conceptual framework. In short, I thought the program was extremely well conceived.

But the feeling among more than a few faculty members, who were on campus for more than Beckham's two and a half days, was that the program seriously lacked di-

rection. Michael Frank, a staff tutor, noted, " I am unable to say whether or not YSHS '68 has been successful because I stiJl don't know what our goals are. ... There is a fundamental ambivalence."

Educationally, the 1968 session was in fact an attempt to reconcile Paros's personal preference foJ;: a laissez-faire administration with a highly demanding core curriculum-a course plan challenging enough for college-bound students, let alone for the students from less privileged backgrounds who Paros insisted were the Summer High School's raison d' etre. It is hardly surprising that there emerged a "fundamental ambivalence."

John Hildebidle, a Harvard graduate student who served as Head Tutor, observed this about the discipline problem: The question is basically: Who is running the school? The Director, the students, or no one? This year the theory claimed that the Director was in charge; the Director tried to play the coy mistress, making illusory gestures toward a "democracy"; that in fact amounted to a dictatorship by students. The practice and experience of this summer has brought me to the conclusion that no one was "running" or directing the program in any useful, productive, intelligent sense.... We seem willing to ignore the fact that a student who never goes to class, who takes five days off illegally, who shoots heroin, may just have a deleterious effect on other students....

We must realize that we are not God's great green educational heaven ....

Paros never replied directly to Hildebidle or Frank, for the tutors' comments were made in an anthology of faculty evaluations prepared at the summer's end. Traditionally, the anthology is distributed to the Administrative Board of the Summer High School and becomes an important factor in the review of the year; this time, however, Paros withheld copies of the critical report. Members of the Board and staff writers of the Yale Daily News, who thought they were getting the "full story," were never even made aware of the anthology's existence.

At the summer's end not only was the Summer High School at an educational impasse; its finances were also in crisis.

Paros claims that Joel L. Fleishman, Associate Provost for Urban Studies and Programs and YSHS's Director during J 965-66, failed to fulfill a pledge to raise $25,000 in extra funds. Fleishman did raise $19,600, thus falling only $5,400 short of his promise. But Paros insists that Fleishman's pledge was for $25,000 more than the $19,600 Fleishman raised.

Had the $25,000 been raised, it still would not have cleared the program's deficit, despite Paros's claims. Not only did Paros accept thirty students more than the program could easily accommodate; he also failed to budget for overhead, stating that he was never "told" to do so. The University Comptroller's Office, however, has sent Paros official financial statements which include overhead figures for every month since he assumed the directorship of the Summer High School-statements which, it appears, Paros never read.

Estimates of the deficit now range as high as $100,000.lt is clear that the University did commit one clerical error, but at least three-quarters of the deficit still stems from Paros's failure to estimate the summer's costs properly. The situation has become so confused that Yale bas called in outside auditors to review the books.

The combination of YSHS's financial woes and its educational crisis was the real reason for Yale's decision to discharge Paros. Unfortunately, the Yale

71 The New Journal I April27, 1969

administration decided last fall to "regularize" summer program appointments, and just before his dismissal Paros received notification of the advancement of his contract termination from September, 1969 to June, 1969. The resulting confusion, plus the concurrent issuing of the Singer Report, led Paros to charge that it was administrative politicking, rather than the Summer High School situation itself, that led to his dismissal.

Not that administrative politicking did not exist-it did at several turns in the story.

But the administration's major offense, its failure to make public the full reasons for P aros's dismissal, is hardly sufficient to shift the burden of blame from Paros. Most likely, the administration's motives for concealing its reasons ranged from dismay at Paro's management of YSHS and a desire to protect his reputation to disagree- . ment with his educational philosophy. But the administration cannot be blamed for not wanting to sh ift the issue to a debate of educational philosophy when it was faced with a simple problem of mismanagement.

Paros claims he never wanted his job back.

Perhaps not, but he has spent the bulk of his time since his dismissal preparing the Summer High School's annual Director's Report, which he has turned into a 350page apologium for himself and his educational philosophy. Along with one of his asso'ciate directors, Jonathan Hall, and with the partial help of Associate Director Isaac Miller, Paros has added ch apter after chapter to the report, promising that it will be ready "next week" at regular intervals since January. The irony of the finished document is that it is not what was called for in the first place. Officially, the Director's Report should be only a brief review of the summer for the use of the university administration; this version, however, includes quotations from Alice in W onderland, exerpts from educational journals, SHS student evaluations, the financial charges, defenses of Paros's educational methods, and his proposals for restructuring Yale and establishing School One. The salaries, secretarial costs and photocopy expenses that have gone to produce the 350-page white elephant are estimated at substantially over ten thousand dollars, all of which Paros is charging to the Yale Summer High School. For an educator so concerned that the underprivileged receive a larger share of the pie, be has been strikingly lax with education funds since his dismissal.

Paros bad actuaJly been working on the Report at the time of his dismissal; it was not until he demanded that the University reveal its "secret" motives for firing him that the controversy broke wide open.

Paros was told that he had been dismissed because of the program's need for a director from the Yale faculty, a requirement of the Office of Economic Opportunity, which heavily funds the program. The Singer Report, however, also made the recommendation of a faculty director, and again the administration's statement of fact led to confusion.

Paros knew a good thing when be saw it. He made certain that Alan Boles, then chairman of the Yale Daily News, knew of the Singer Report and the easy connection that could be made between its recommendations and his dismissal. A brief conversation ensued, and the Daily News was firmly ensconced in the Paros camp.

The first Summer High School story, "Singer Report Comes Under Fire," appeared on December 19.

After Christmas and the J anuary exam period, the 1970 editorial board took over the reins of the News, and they, too, knew a good thing when they saw it. The Daily News greeted the second semester with a lead story by Douglas Hallett, who has since taken charge of the paper's c<Werage of the controversy. The story included a statement supporting Paros, signed by 25 of the 42 members of the YSHS faculty.

But it is questionable whether the signers knew what they were signing. Peter Ciochetto, listed as a signer, states that he was never shown the document.

"Jonathan Hall telephoned me and asked if my name could be used in a statement protesting the administration's refusal to give Paros reasons for his dismissal," Ciochetto states. "I have only now found out that it was really an endorsement of the way Paros ran the school."

Paros and HaH deny charges of "conspiracy" between themselves and the News. But to state that the News's coverage has been biased is like saying that Carmen Cozza roots for the Bulldogs. "Conspiracy" or not, the Daily News and Paros have been on the same team since the controversy started. Typical of News stories have been features such as "The Singer Report: Is Experiment Dead?" which Paros reprinted in the Director's Report.

On January 30, Hallett reported in the News that President Brewster had told h im

that the report had been endorsed "in principle" by the Yale Corporation.

Brewster later denied the statement. The News printed both his denial and Hallett's charge that Brewster, by the denial, h ad called Hallett's story of January 30 a lie.

Indeed, at times the News has become more zealous than even Paros and Hall.

Richard Sewall, Professor of English and former chairman of the Administrative Board of the Summer High School, has been one of the few administration members working hard for an amicable settlement of the dispute. Yet, when Sewall expressed certain doubts about the 1968 program, Hallett wrote in his column about "an English teacher who waxes eloquently about Shakespearean tragedy and refuses to face his own tragic cowardice in his relationship to the Summer High School."

Throughout, the News has placed emphasis on the Singer Report's phrase, "Yale is an elitist institution," a somewhat siJly but fundamentally innocent statement of irrefutable fact that was unfairly interpreted as an all-encompassing prescription for Yale's future.

But try as it did-and it did-the Daily News was unable to drum up significant student support for the issue. The nebulous connection between the Singer Report and the Summer High School issue kept on looking somewhat nebulous, and Hal-

lett's personal attacks added liUle to the News's credibility. On March 11, theNews expanded its targets to include Fleishman, under whose office the Summer High School operates, and Jonathan Fanton, coordinator of special education programs, stating that the Singer Report wanted not blacks as human beings but "mini-Brewsters, mini-Fleishmans and mini-Fantons."

The warm winds of spring brought the Daily News's last b ig blitz. The April 4 special supplement OQ. the Singer Report ¡included the entire text plus several columns confirming the News's commitment to the fallacy of the direct ti~in between th e Report and Paros's dismissal.

The supplement had been written almost two months before its publication.

Paros and Hall insist that the m ain issue is not the Summer High School itself but the administration's refusal to discuss the firing at an open hearing. But Paros was invited to appear before the Administrative Board on two different occasions, both of which be refused, stating that the Board's "bad faith" made it impossible for h im to deal with matters "after the fact."

Only an open hearing would do, Paros said, adding that he sees no other way to deal with issues in a free university. Paros's interest in free dialogue, however, seems largely restricted to his own side of the story. While not criticizing the News's coverage except to state it relied too much on the "personal," he reacted to news that The New Journal was planning a less favorable view of the Summer High School by demanding that he have complete editing rights.

The chances of Yale accepting Larry Paros's School One proposal, which makes up the core of the conclusion of his report, are virtually nonexistent. Law School faculty member Larry Simon, next year's Director, is well into planning for this summer, and soon Larry Paros, Jonathan H all and "Ike" Miller-who has done most of last year's follow-up work while Hall and Paros have prepared the report-will all be on their way.

What can be learned from the controversy? The story of Larry Paros's tenure at Yale is a sad one. He came in 1967 with an outstanding reputation as a creative educator in the New Haven school system. He planned an exciting program for the summer of 1968. But it was impossible to reconcile his academically challenging curriculum with the sort of students and the pseudo-democratic community he insisted on having. Many students profited.

But many did not. And Paros' financial mismanagement cast a further pall on the Summer High School's reputation.

The Yale Summer High School 1968 represented the failure of a fundamentally good idea. But almost as unfortunate is the failure of Larry Paros to admit how he erred. Driven by a moral self-righteousness, he pieced together a defense that resulted in irresponsible acts on the part of the university newspaper, injured reputations, and the whittling away of thousands of dollars of potentially constructive money for a massive report that totally evaded the issue at hand.

It is clearly'Jess exciting to see a story end with the administration in the right.

A dashing radical defeating establishment bigotry and backwardness and triumphantly leading the forces of progress onwardthat is always much more fun to read about. But that's not the way it happened here. ~

AFilm By

FRANCOIS TRUFFAUT

"STOLEN KISSES" LINCOLN

CROWN ACADEMY AWARDi WINNER CLIFF ROBERTSON BEST ACTOR OF THE YEAR

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byPeterHoyt The proposition is this: turn Commons and Woolsey Hall into a university community center, a new Commons for all of Yale.

Such a center should be a place that cuts across the academic, residential and social barriers that fragment this community; it should be a place that welcomes students, faculty, staff and people from New Haven into its halls.

Woolsey Hall and Commons already have many advantages and uses. Sited at the heart of the University, providing the critical link between the older campus and the newer science centers and future residential campus along Prospect Street, they are already the New Haven community's principal connection with the University.

Commons is used for banquets on an average of once a week, and many of these are held by non-Yale groups. Woolsey Hall is used three time a week for symphony concerts, rock concerts and high school graduations. They face out upon one of the best places for a demonstration anywhere, the Beinecke Plaza, which with some minor surgery could become a very pleasant urban space filled with activity and people.

The buildings themselves are basically simple structures, suited to remodeling and possessing a vast amount of unused and wasted space.

The facilities in the new center would encourage the informal meetings and social activities that the more restricted academic and residential centers now deny.

The heart of the center should be a new Yale Station. It is a facility that draws almost everyone to it daily. Along with serving as a center for the distribution of mail, it is the communication hub of the University with its bulletin boards, posters, notices, salesmen and recruiters appealing to all who enter. The present Yale Station was created in 1900 and moved to Wright Hall after Berkeley College was built. Its location there was supposed to be temporary. There are now 1800 student boxes, and the overcrowding is so severe that the Post Office is threatening to close down unless a new arrangement can be planned very soon. The new station should be located on the main floor of Commons and be visually and spacially related to th~ ~\t~-f"'l" l__un,Q,_\_\('wn.\n(L ~-.a.-~- ; ......t.Ao... '-~"' 'f'â&#x20AC;˘dâ&#x20AC;˘ ..tw-\'!.~

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home of Yale's three film societies which now use the uncomfortable, inadequate and unventilated facilities in Linsly-Chlttenden Hall. Space could be leased to commercial establishments such as a new university bookstore offering a good variety of magazines and underground newspapers-and, if we're lucky, a place to sit and read.

There is also enough room to provide ample new office space for student organizations. WYBC, the Banner, the Lit, the Record, APO and the Associated Student Agencies are looking for space because of the planned destruction of Hendrie Hall in December, 1970. In the rotunda would be located the new Information and Tour Bureau, providing assistance to thousands of visitors who come to the campus annually.

Woolsey Hall needs remodeling also.

Although the acoustics in the hall leave something to be desired and are essentially impossible to improve, the seating could be replaced and a new entrance lobby could be built along the Beinecke Plaza side of the hall to accommodate crowds at intermissions. Master Beekman Cannon of Jonathan Edwards College, President of the New Haven Symphony, stated that Woolsey Hall is essential to the community and that no new facility was forseen even in the distant future. There is a desperate need, he says, to accommodate crowds of people at intermission, to provide better exits, new seating and a place for refreshments.

A super snack bar open 24 hours every day would be included in the scheme. With easy access to the libraries and classrooms it would become a welcome, reliable oasis for weary students and professors. During the warmer months an outdoor cafe on the plaza would be set up offering an excellent place to meet and to indulge in people watching. Dorothy Kalins's analysis of outdoor cafes in New York Magazine gives an indication of Beinecke Plaza's desirability as a cafe site.

Outdoor cafes in New York have never really made it as successful looking-places.

The main problem is distance. Sidewalks simply are not wide So the . enough. . . cafe turns

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given by the architects ... are imposing ones, and when carried out we shall have one of the noblest examples of college architecture in the whole civilized world. ... On this two hundredth anniversary of the founding of the College, the structures we raise shall last a thousand years."

The idea of a new university community center is not hopelessly unrealistic. The space for all these activities exists already.

The dining room is 208 feet long, 60 feet high and 68 feet wide; it can seat about 1200 people. The roof trusses are made of beam~ 18 inches square, carved from huge Jogs towed by ship from Seattle around Cape Horn to New Haven in 1899.

Woolsey Hall, named after the tenth President of Yale, seats 3000 people and is connected to Commons by Memorial Hall, honoring the Yale men killed in the nation's wars. Above the Rotunda is the President's Room, with dining space for 144 people, and above that a huge domed room with an oculus, now used to store a collection of musical instruments. These buildings could be remodeled without destroying their beauty. The facilities suggested are just a few of many that might be included in the center. However, this community is in for a rude shock if it expects Mother Yale to provide the necessary funds to make the center a reality. The reasons are many. Why should Yale worry about the social life of its junior faculty or graduate students? They're old enough to fend for themselves. Why should a social center have greater priority than libraries, laboratories, dormitories or contributions to Mayor Lee? A new Commons would rank low on a list of priorities. The reasons go on; but the picture is clear, and students and faculty continue to press for a solution to the problem.

There is currently a valid desire being expressed by students and faculty to be included in the decision-making processes of this institution. In the realm of the the social life of the University, the right of the community to decide on its own social patterns and facilities is clearly evident. Here is one way this could be accomplished: l'r._~~~c;j~~uHm:'~rsity were to tur~-

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constructed at the level of the existing balconies and window sills would be the new banquet hall. It would retain the sense of spaciousness of the old Commons yet provide its patrons with views of the Plaza and the cemetery and a more pleasant and cheerful environment in which to eat and relax. Its serving lines would be open to everyone for lunch, catering specifically to the graduate students, faculty and staff with restricted transfers to undergraduates.

A number of private dining rooms would be provided to serve the great demand for a suitable spot for departmental and staff lunches as well as student-organization lunches.

In the basement there is room for a fivehundred seat auditorium-cinema where lectures and classes could be held during the day. At night it would become the new

Peter Hoyt is a third-year architecture student.

and railings, somehow removing the voyeuristic mystique that Parisian cafes have so long nurtured .... The only outdoor cafe that works in the city is the Park Cafe at Bethesda ¡ Fountain. Tables are far enough apart ... and dining areas line aisles especially geared for prime entrance-and-exit-watching....

The quality of distance is vital to voyeuristic experience, particularly in public spaces.

Actually, Beinecke Plaza is not Beinecke Plaza at all; it is the Hewitt Quadrangle.

The Beineckes are said to be very touchy about this distinction, especially when a demonstration occurs there and it is later reported in the Times as Beinecke Plaza.

Looks bad for the family and all that.

Woolsey Hall and Commons, designed by the New York firm of Carrere and Hastings, were erected in 1900 as the Bicentennial Buildings. They were built in just over a year at a cost of $750,000.

President Hadley, speaking to the New York Yale Ch,1b, declared: ''The plans

The corporation board would oeefected by all the members of the Yale community and would be composed of faculty, students and staff. Suppose further that renovation of these buildings were to cost two million dollars and that a mortgage was arranged by Yale out of its investment funds. Each member of the community might be taxed a small amount to cover the payment of the mortgage and operating expenses, although it is assumed that the dining hall and auditoriums would continue to be self supporting. This scheme would permit the community to make its own decisions and would skirt the problem of competing for the University's financial resources.

For a community center to be successful the community must decide what it wants and then act. If it waits for Yale, then it must accept the delays, the compromises and the continuing dullness as a reward for its own inaction. ~

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10 I The New Journal I April27, 1969

You can charge anything at Neiman-Marcus, except, maybe, masculinity; some Maileresque thoughts on why we are in Vietnam.

by Daniel Peters

Daniel Peters, an English major and a guard on the Yale basketball team, wrote this piece as a ·paper for Charles Reich's American Studies course. It found its way to us and we are printing it so that one person may share some interesting and honest ideas with the rest of the community.

Daniel Peters glanced around the Dallas airport, not taking much of it in, feeling glad just to be on the ground once more.

The trip from West Virginia had been a long one, and though the sky was cloudless, the jet had encountered turbulence as it approached Dallas. It was as if the placid blue had been a front for the treacherous winds that raged below it.

Most of the team had survived the buffeting with few ill effects; after the Allegheny flight to West Virginia, only a hurricane could have appeared horrible in contiTast.

Of course Bill Kosturko, the third-string center, was sick again. He was beginning to be known as "Biap-bag·Bill," and his fame was spreading from airline to airline.

In the cab on the way to the hotel, Daniel's mind bad reasserted its dominance over his stomach, and he examined the passing scenery with the curiosity he usually invested in towns he saw for the first time. He noted the large variety of shrubbery that crowded the yards of the homes they passed. "And what kinds t>f beasts and reptiles inhabit these }lomegrown jungles?" he thought. Probably spiting cobras and big old Dallas mountain lions. It was startling to see the many Lincolns and Cadillacs standing like pagan idols in the midst of the slick magnolia jungles. The notion of Texas wealth impressed itself on his mind with the dim remembrance of some youthful incredulity.

The Hilton Inn was a huge, vertical edifice surrounded by the ubiquitous foliage, and it appeared ~o Dan as a modern recreation of the Alamo. The hallways were spacious and high, and the doors were huge bronze slabs. Our friend could almost · see a handful of Texans stomping Santa Anna's ass right there in the vestibule.

There was time to work out in the gym before dinner, and Dan liked the feel of the floor. H~ was looking forward to the next day's game mostly because the whole affair -an Ivy League team playing basketball in Texas-seemed quite strange. It was something he bad never pictured as happening to him, and he had no clear idea what the area and its people were like.

He ate dinner and went back to his room, not feeling energetic enough to go flicking with some of the others. He decided to read some more Henry James.

He had already read Daisy Miller and The Ambassadors, and they had made him reevaluate his ideas on tradition and civilization. He had decided that perhaps there was something worthwhile in standards of taste and conduct. For too long, he had been caught up in the type of American cultural hubris epitomized by Daisy Miller: no ethics except those that suited the moment. But that was a moral cop-out, for his innocence was not really profound enough for him to deserve such absolute freedom , and he was not so far beyond making judgments of good and evil as he would have liked to believe.

But he soon abandoned his reading to go watch the tube. Somehow the big, sterile hotel room was not conducive to the kind of concentration and reflection needed for James. His mind kept turning to the sexual escapades that he so intimately connected with the idea of a hotel

room. Sleep and all manner of animal sport, he thought, that's what hotels are good for.

As he sat before the TV set, Dan heard the team captain, Thatcher Shellaby, return to his room next door. Dan and his roommate, John Gahan, greeted Thatcher with the usual profanities and animal cries that pass with jocks as friendly greetings, and he answered in kind. The noise attracted some kids down the hall who were having a party. Obviously bored with their own fun, they ventured over to see what they were missing.

At first, there were only three guys, all neat and sandy-haired, with beers in their bands. Thatcher explained that they had no party going in their rooms, and politely declined an invitation to their party. The visitors said that they were from Southern Methodist University. The atmosphere seemed to change sul?tly when Dan told them that he and his friends were from Yale. The Texans responded with the "oh" which the name of Yale elicits from so many and which is ordinarily followed by either genuine interest or a little game of "Do you know ... ?" But the Texans' response was different, probably because their girls had arrived. Vague threats were being murmured, and the air was full of blossoming hostility. Thatcher chose to cool it and announced that be was going to bed.

"You'd better get in that room, faggot ," one of the Texans muttered. Dan stared at the speaker, who was wearing a pressed white shirt, tie, flannels, short neatly combed hair; he was leaning against the wall, obviously drunk. He had uttered the threat quietly and coldly.

In a manner quite unbecoming to jocks, Dan and John retreated into their own room and ignored the subsequent knock, presumably a last attempt to draw the Northerners into a .fight.

Dan went to bed puzzling over this and dreamed strange dreams of smiling Texans bombing the Eiffel Tower.

2 The confrontation of the previous evening seemed no more than a dream when John and Dan went to breakfast the next morning. Dan picked up a copy of the Dallas Morning News to read while they waited for their food.

He glanced at the shortest editorial first from force of habit. This one was concerned with Texas fruitcake, calling it the best in the world. That honor you can have, thought Dan magnanimously. The editorial then continued to say that, as a matter of fact, all Texas food was better than that produced elsewhere. It ended by saying that all kinds of goods were better if Texan, and it urged one to buy Texan, for "what Texas makes, makes Texas."

With this in mind, Dan paid his bill and returned to the hotel, where an expedition was forming to explore Dallas.

He joined Thatcher, Bill Kosturko, Jack Langer and Larry Swartz in the cab.

On the way into town he noticed a sign advertising Lifeline, H. L. Hunt's conservative newspaper. Rob Jackson bad told him a little about Hunt's reactionary politics: that be reportedly had had veto power over George Wallace's running mate and had vetoed Happy Chandler because of his leniency on the racial question. (Jackie Robinson had entered the Major Leagues while Chandler was Commissioner of Baseball.)

They unloaded themselves from the

Ill The New Journal I Apri127, 1969

cab in front of Nieman-Marcus, the Texas department store. Dan vaguely recalled a statistic he had beard that a credit rating of something in the neighborhood of fifty thousand doJlars was mandatory for a Nieman-Marcus charge account. He was not long in discovering why.

Nothing appeared out of line with the department stores of his past acquaintance until Dan began to check the price tags.

On the third floor he discovered the gift gaJiery, which was a collection of decorative items for the home. He examined a three foot high statue-price $1750.It was an antique from Hong Kong. A small vase went fer the same price, and the silverware department carried gold table-settings of which one candlestick alone cost $600. The fifteen-dollar ties and sixty-dollar slacks finally got to Dan and drove him downstairs and out the front door, where as he left be caught sight of Pearl Baily's personal Christmas tree, $35,000 in pearls.

The idea of a department store for millionaires struck him as the most extreme excess that be had ever seen. Did being able to support the expense of such exhibition make a man or a community feel that it was somehow "better than others"? He was reminded of a boy he had o~ce known who always had more toy soldiers and guns than anyone else; who, in fact was alway dragging out more toys than he could ever use himself. All the other kids thought this habit rather pathetic, but no one was willing to call him on it - he did have the biggest arsenal in the neighborhood.

Returning to his room to wait for the pregame training meal, Dan tried to make some further headway in James. He was beginning to doze off when he heard a knock on the door.lt was Thatcher with Kathy O'Boyle, a Sarah Lawrence girl he knew from Yale, whom be bad run into in Nieman-Marcus. She was home for Christm as and was trying to find some entertainment for them in Dallas. Rob ! ackson and Glenn DeChabert popped 10 and asked her where they could find some action.

She began to call nightclubs, explaining that the best entertainment was to be had in "Africa". Although rather incredulous at the title, they figured "Africa" must be D allas's black district. Glenn, a black himself, said, "Damn. In Los Angeles they call it Watts; in New York they call it :riarlem ; but in DaiJas they call it Africa.

Shit."

Products of adolescent-repressive America, they asked the question that has haunted the dreams of so many teenagers, namely: "Will they card us at the clubs in Africa?'' Kathy replied quite calmly that the only thing they ever checked for was a gun. They couldn't be quite sure how much her calm demeanor was calculated to add to the shock value of her statement.

Dan remembered from the news that there had been eighteen shooting deaths in the state over the weekend. He, for'one, was ready to believe her.

After Kathy had left, and they were waiting for the training meal, Thatch told them that he had seen two maids, a Rolls Royce, a Porsche and a Lincoln at her house that afternoon. Dan again found himself searching for some connection between this affluence and her calm acceptance of violence. Did that much money give one a grand indifference to injury or was it the power-masculinity thing again?

He wondered if someone could blatantly 'llUCder or steal in this town if he had

enough money and influence. He didn't doubt it. But his speculations were cut short by the coach explaining the two-onetwo zone, and he decided it was time to start thinking about basketball.

3 The pregame warmup held nothing unusual. There were a few catcalls concerning Jackson's and Whiston's hair and Peters' sideburns, but they had become inured to such remarks. The Dallas papers had prepared the fans for the Yale players' appearance and the Yalies for the verbal abuse by remarking that "Morgan led Yale in scoring and Whiston led in haircuts."

The SMU band struck up "Old-Time Religion" as their team took the court to warm up. This was one of the favorites they alternated with "Dixie" and ''The Eyes of Texas." The "Star-Spangled Banner" had not been played, but Dan figured that the substitutes would do well enough for those present. It was the feeling that counted.

Yale opened in a zone and promptly ran into defensive problems. SMU was able to penetrate far enough inside to suck the Yale guards in, and then they were pitching out for the open jump shot. SMU was hitting well enough from the outside to take a ten point lead by half time. The first half was a ragged one for Yale, with too many errors and not enough defense. It was also a rough half, for SMU was crashing the boards hard, and the referees were unusually lenient on body contact.

The second half promised to be even rougher. Yale was going out in a man-toman with pressure at half court, determined to bit the boards harder. The coach reminded them that SMU considered this game a breeze, a warmup for the games coming up. They didn't expect a real contest from an Ivy League team; it was taken for granted that intellectuals from the East couldn't compete physically with Texas athletes. Why intellectualism should be equated to physical ineptitude was a mystery to Dan, but, referring to memory, he could confirm it as an attitude dominating all his childhood athletic ventures.

As a kid, you were a pansy if you preferred books to baseball and a sissy if you weren't prepared to play rough or dirty, or to lie in order to win. Sportsmanship was a shake of the hand after the melee was over.

In the second half Yale's defense tightened and their fast break began to operate effectively. The refs let the game become rougher than the first half. John Whiston, the Yale center, went in for a Jay-up on the fast break and was laid out fiat on his back by an SMU player. No foul was called. The mayhem under the boards was even more flagrant, but the Yale players seemed to give as well as they received.

The tide was turning; Yale was slowly narrowing SMU's lead. Resting on the bench, Dan noticed that the fans became more frantic as Ynle edged closer. He also noticed for the first time that all the blacks were sitting together in one section behind one of the baskets. They were mostly black girls and they were cheering for Yale. Dan guessed that their favoritism was chiefly due to Glenn's presence on the team, for he was a very handsome fellow and seemed to attract black girls wherever he went.

The referees' decisions became more dubious as Yale pulled within four points of SMU. Every time Yale threatened to tie or pull ahead, the refs charged them with

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s.ome infraction that nullified their effort.

It was what is known in the sports vernacular as a "home job."

With Yale pressing, Rob Jackson was called for a highly questionable blocking foul, which prompted Yale's Jim Morgan to remark to the ref, "That was a ridiculous call." The ref immediately called a technical foul on Morgan. SMU got three free throws and the ball, and their lead increased. ¡ The initial skirmish took place as time was running out. SMU's Voight exchanged words with Shellaby and then with Morgan. A small pushing match was quickly quelled, but the crowd was yelling for Yale blood.

With two seconds left in the game, SMU had put the game out of reach; but the animosity latent in the SMU team and the crowd had not been vented. Sheila by was . shooting a free throw, and Morgan went back in a safety position, along with SMU's Gene Phillips. Phillips decided he wanted the spot on which Morgan was standing, so he began to push Morgan out of the way. Morgan, in pushing back, grabbed Phillips' shorts, and the two star ted to grapple.

At this point, Glenn DeChabert stepped out onto the court and warned Phillips to lay off Morgan. It remains a moot point whether or not a white ballplayer would have had the same effect on the situation.

But it was a black man who was out on the court challenging Phillips, and no self-respecting Texan could back down from a black. Voight got to DeChabert before Phillips and gave him a tremendous shove. The battle was on.

Dan was at midcourt as the entire SMU bench emptied and rushed at Morgan.

They were hitting Yale with every man they had; even their coach got in a few licks. Dan had been in fights at games before, and they ha~ usually ended with both teams holding the combatants apart until tempers cooled. Following this theory, he grabbed the nearest SMU player and pulled him clear of the fray. Pinioning his arms, he said to him, "Okay, man, let's stay out of this; let's cool it down."

But the SMU player made no reply; he continued to struggle. H e displayed no rage, only an eagerness to join the fight.

Dan was reminded of attempts he had witnessed to restrain fighting dogs. The savagery that he felt in his grasp made him suddenly doubt the wisdom of the normal restraints he had trusted. ¡ He looked over at the bench and saw Larry Swartz, a Yale substitute, swinging at three SMU fans. The situation was out of control. The SMU players and fans seemed to be fighting from some emotion greater than anger. They couldn't pull out of this battle because it would be admitting defeat at the bands of longhairs and blacks who were probably Communists and faggots too and who were certainly part of the degeneracy that threatened the greatness of America. No white American had ever lost a fight to a colored man, and the SMU people were not going to break with that tradition. With their greater physical prowess and numbers, the SMU players and supporters should have easily mopped up the Yalies, whose staunch resistance only increased SMU's a nger and determination.

D an suddenly realized the precariousness of his own situation. Here he was, standing at midcourt holding a struggling SMU player, surrounded by angry SMU fans. The fans were not only students, but also men in their thirties and older, pos-

sibly men with families, surely men who would consider themselves adults. The chances were looking good that he'd get his head beaten in if the scene didn't change rapidly. He realized the inefficacy of trying to be court policeman. It clearly wasn't a job for any one man, and it was a very d ifficult position to maintain. He released the player.

By this time the Texas Rangers were breaking up the melee, though where they had hidden themselves for so long still remains a mystery. Players shook hands and the fans were escorted back to their seats.

Shella by resumed his place at the free throw line. The foul shot was taken, and the game ended without further violence.

Walking off the court, Dan glanced up at the balcony. A balding, bespectacled man was standing, shaking his fist angrily, shouting at him. He listened. "You come from Yale? You look like you come from Yale!" Dan wasn't q'uite sure he knew what that m eant, buUt certainly had a vitriolic ring. He was amazed that a man his father's age should become so vituperative over a game. Then again, be thought, it was not so different from the unreasoning anger his father bad revealed in their arguments on Vietnam this past summer. With a filial feeling, be smiled at the man and walked up the stairs to the locker room.

The locker room was a cacophony of excited voices. The tone was a mixture of indignation, bewilderment and hurt feelings. Glen n sat with his bead bent, tears in his eyes. Dan hadn't fully realized the deep racial overtones until he saw how Glenn was taking it. Gahan told him that the three men who bad attacked Larry Swartz had been sitting about three feet away from the Yale bench. Paul Oliver, another black Yale player, had been sitting within earshot on the end of the bench and said the men had been loudly calling Glenn a "nigger." Dan saw that G lenn, who was of the mental habit of exaggerating insults into vendettas, a habit Dan thought characteristic of the black militant movement, viewed the entire episode as a r acial attack.

To an extent, he was right, for Dan had often sensed in American society a deepseated attitude that the colored races were inferior a nd needed guidance. It was sometimes a covert factor in his own consciousness, a fact that he recognized and fought against. There had always been in America a certain elementary disdain for the Indian, Negro and Asiatic peoples, a disdain which makes a loss or concession to these people a disgraceful blow to honor and prestige. Yet, Dan thought, there might be more to this senseless struggle than mere racism.

He wondered if there might not have been some moral complications present in the game situation which the SMU players were trying to resolve with the fight. The help given them by the referees and by their own rough play tainted the victory, and the point spread was not impressive.

It was necessary to settle the contest physically, and the resulting free-for-all was the final attempt to establish superiority.

A reporter gave Dan another hint about the reason and peculiar nature of the fight . He was questioning Morgan on the cause of the fight, and he said that Phillips claimed, "Morgan grabbed me by the balls." This conjured up immediate visions of the near fight in the hotel the night before. H e figured that, to a Texan, being grabbed by the balls was the ultimate insult (or threat) and was justification for any retribution up to and including mur-

• 131 The New Journal I April27, 1969

der. Jesus, he thought, when are these people going to give up their hold on the Old West? Will they always be proving themselves men with their fists and guns?

Would America's hero ideal never surpass J ohn Wayne? All his mind's eye could see was the vision of SMU's Voight with his nostrils distended and his little pig eyes blinking and glaring, sightless with bestial rage. He'd probably make a great soldier, Dan thought; at least his hair was short.

He talked with Paul Oliver as the team walked from the gym to the hotel. Paul was a q u iet Negro from Alabama, and D an decided that, this night at least, he · was the bravest man in Dallas. He had stayed out of the fight even when Glenn was attacked, and he explained why.

"I've been in fights like that before.

Wher e I come from in Alabama, people don't go out to push and shove; they go out to h urt and kill. Every fight I've ever been in was a racial one; if I had gone into that fight tonight, I would have really hurt someone.

He hadn't joined the battle because he p referred to do violence to his self-esteem r ather than to another man. It took a lot of courage to do that, and a lot of pride and assurance in his own masculinity. Dan felt the admiration and frustration he always felt when he met a peaceful man.

It was the desire to just do what's human.

H e knew acid made this the biggest desire in the world, and he didn't wonder that he had not seen any hippies in Dallas. He left P a ul with a help less sigh and went lookin g for some marijuana.

4 His lungs tingled from the smoke and his head felt very light. Grass was such a pleasant, relaxing high after exerting oneself. It might not be good before a game, but afterwards it sure beat salt tablets.

U nfortunately, he didn't think he could ever get the NCAA to sanction it.

P aul Harvey was on the TV, about to deliver a commentary. He had just done the live commercial before, so Dan assumed that he operated out of Dallas. It made sense. Harvey's commentary was in honor of the American Legion, whose memorial day or week was imminent. He spoke of the men who had fought in a "better war"; of men who had fought in trenches without gas masks, morphine, the USO, or proper equipment; and of men who h ad come back to face a depression after exerting themselves on the battlefield.

These were the men who thought America valuable enough to fight and die for. We owe them all the honor they deserve.

H arvey's voice broke at this point and he was open ly in tears. At a loss for words, he ended with a wave of the hand.

D an was on the verge of nausea. Such maudlin sentimentality was almost unbelievable. The past efforts of these men did not change the situation today.

H e found it to be one of the greatest of sins to use past heroics as an excuse for p resent crimes. World War I just didn't make it as a justification for a war that affected D an, not all the senile old soldiers d rooling o n their yellowing battle ribbons.

But again, he remembered he was in D allas, where such things did go on. This made H arvey's absurdity painful rather · than laughable.

The sports n ews followed and contained a brief account of the brawl. It made no comment o n the contest other than that Yale had lost, and Gene Phillips had been set upon by two Yale players. Dan brooded

over the reports of Viet Cong losses given earlier. There was a connection, he thought, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He gave up and returned his at- · tention to the news.

The sports announcer was defaming the character of Don Meredith, Dallas Cowboys' quarterback. He was interviewing a · team-mate of Meredith's and was feeding him rather damaging leading questions such as: "Do you think Don will ever recover from such apublic humiliation as the Cleveland game? Do you expect any major personnel changes in the near future?" The teammate fended the queries off as well as he could, but it was clear at the end of the interview where Meredith stood in the eyes of the community. In closing, the announcer quoted a New York reporter who had said of Meredith, "It must be hard on a guy when he realizes he's one of life's losers."

Meredith had not only had a poor football game; his team had not only lost the Eastern Division title; he had totally disgraced himself as a man, as a human being. One could not afford to lose in Dallas. Losers did not belong there. Real men had to win every game, fight and war or else die trying. It was the American Way. Dan suddenly felt very claustrophobic; he was glad they were leaving the town the next day. Right now a drugged sleep was the best refuge from the reactionaries that haunted his waking hours.

Yal e U o-op

5 The Dallas papers the next morning referred to the Yale players as the "longhairs from Yale" and carried much the same story of the game as the newscast of the previous evening. Dan read the accounts as they waited for the cabs to the airport. One even credited Yale with winning the fight, though not the game.

He thought about H. L. Hunt, the game and Dallas in general as the cab sped toward Dallas International Airport. Dallas was the town in which Kennedy bad been assassinated; it was Lyndon Johnson territory; it was the only major city to go for Richard Nixon. Dan knew th at Dallas country was one place where he could never live. They wouldn't tolerate his kind here. It was an America to which he couldn't belong and one which he couldn't allow himself to join. The attitudes it embraced, the battles it fought and the way it fought them, he could not support. He knew that the only way of life for him was one of resistance to the Dallas consciousness which he knew existed everywhere in America, usually in more subtle forms.

By this time, the plane was ready for boarding. He headed up the hallway toward the plane, stopping for his last look at the Dallas airport. He raised his finger defiantly in salute, and as he headed into the plane, he could be heard to mutter under his breath, "Hot damn, Vietnam."~

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141 The New Journal I April27, 1969

Cambridge continued from page 2 the faculty, but SDS finds them totally unacceptable. No one really has any idea of what is going to happen, and there continues to exist the Corporation's threat to close down the university.

The situation, then, is a difficult one to analyze, for it has become evident that Harvard is not following the standard script of disruption, polarization and bitterness-at least not yet. There is still a remarkably good atmosphere in the Yard; there really is some dialogue going on, and SDS passed a motion tonight wishlng Dean Ford a speedy recovery from his "circulatory disorder." These factors suggest that there really is a chance of unifying the Harvard community. But the responsib ility for this lies with the ruling structure -the Corporation and the Board of Overseers. If they ignore the legitimate grievances among students and faculty, they may well destroy a great university; if they act wisely, something unprecedented might well occur and H arvard could emerge a far better place.

Meanwhile, I only wish it would rain a little more often.

Bill H amilton

Heroic struggle When Massachusetts state troopers clubbed Harvard SDS two weeks ago, the "Heroic Struggle of Yale Law Students," as one sign described recent events here, was upstaged and expired. Lagging student interest killed whatever chance there had been for an effective boycott of classes, and the issue of student representation at meetings of the law faculty was remanded to the respective negotiating committees.

The quieting influence of "the Yale tradition," or whatever else is used to explain the absence of physical tactics here, wanes every year, as Yale is seen by more and more students as merely one university among many. This isn't necessarily good or bad; it happens. Garry Trudeau's cartoon strip in the Aprilll News is brilliant in seeing this: as a shirt-sleeved Kingman Brewster strolls the campus seeing himself as John Lindsay in summer Harlem, Georges May bursts his thought baJioon with the news that SDS has moved into the presidential home. To the law students, more than three-quarters of whom did not attend Yale College, "the Yale tradition" means even Jess than it does to the undergraduates.

This is not to sound the alarm for old Mother Yale nor to suggest that the Law School will spearhead anything like a revolution here. Student-power protests, anyway, are less revolutions than consumers' battles for a say in corporate policy. Several things about the events at the Law School do, however, deserve comment as close-to-home examples of characteristics which seem common to most recent protests.

Fireworks began when the Student Negotiating Committee (SNC), which was e lected last fall to deal with its faculty counterpart, ended negotiations and scheduled an open meeting for April 7 to discuss the latest faculty proposals. These called for the institutionalization of what had developed on an ad hoc basis during the year: non-voting student representation on most faculty committees and at the faculty plenary meetings which entertain proposals drafted by those com-

mittees. The SNC demanded voting representation at a ll faculty meetings a nd on committees except for those dealing confidentially with individuals; the student-faculty ratio would be about 1 to 3.

Also provided for was a faculty veto of decisions reached in this "Law School Council," a veto which the students hoped would soon atrophy through disuse.

The open meeting, with a record turnout of over 300 students, quickly turned into a circus-rhetoric instead of reason, mocking laughter punctuated with angry exchanges, gratuitous insults and a proposal to burn down the school, which was withdrawn shortly before it was put to a vote. Commendations are in order.

Firstly, to whoever selected Dean Pollak and Eugene Rostow to represent the faculty on the podium: whatever one may think of Rostow personally, he was without doubt the worst possible choice for such a task. The idea that Jaw students here will trust their interests to the good faith of a hawkish J ohnson adviser is too much to swallow, When Rostow spoke of decisions which only the faculty , in its professional competence, could make, whatever credibility he may have possessed evaporated. Dean Pollak was little better; he was noticeably nervous and angry, and his main presentation consisted of 15-minutes' rapid reading of a prepared statement. One student compared him to a prep school headmaster reading the Riot Act. Thomas Emerson, who spoke calmly from the ftoor of his sympathy with certain of the student demands and who headed the faculty negotiators anyway, would have been a better choice than either Rostow or Pollak. The same is true of Boris Bittker and Clyde Summers.

The SNC's chairman, Michael Egger, also lowered the level of the proceedings with several condescending and unfunny remarks directed at the Dean. He repeatedly reminded Pollak that he attended the ¡ meeting in the Jaw school auditorium at the students' sufferance; he also asked the students to time and hold the Dean's speech to a carefully measured five minutes, remarking at its close that, "Dean Pollak's idea of five minutes is obviously not the same as mine." When I told Egger afterwards how much the tone of the meeting had disturbed me and others of his "constituents," he said that Dean Pollak had treated him no better at arecent faculty meeting.

It was my impression that most students walked into the meeting expecting to be informed and consulted. We found instead that the Jines of argument had hardened; the many charges and distortions which crossed the auditorium set a tone reminiscent of the late NYC transit strike. We were treated to a prepared statement that denounced the Law School as a "paternalistic a nd oligarchic society,'' while another termed the faculty proposals a "cooptive and supplicative scheme." These drew laughter and applause for their "wit" which I found hard to reconcile with the quiet and even eloquent statements of Gus Speth and Walt Waggoner, who with Egger represented the SNC on the podium.

In the end the students endorsed a proposal by D a n Lewis that they devote class time to discussion of the issues with their professors and then hold a refere ndum.

Many classes did this. Typically, the students likened the Jaw school to a body politic, while the professors insisted it was not a political institution and spoke of the faculty's need to yell at one another in private, where they could not be mis-

understood. There appeared the Students to H elp Increase The Faculty's Authority and Control over Everything (yes, it's an acr onym), which bought a keg for the courtyard and scheduled a croquet-gamecum-PBK-keys.

The referendum, which polled over 86% of the students, resulted in a very close division, the SNC proposal trailing only slightly behind a compromise proposal which did away with student voting but went beyond the faculty proposal in asking for more regular student presence at faculty meetings. At a second and more subdued open meeting a week later, about 150 students voted to send the whole matter back for more negotiations. It seems likely th at the committees will agree to something like the compromise proposal and that a second referendum will ratify it.

The whole thing seemed to be summed up by one student who, on hearing Rostow's remark to the first meeting that "the klink of Phi Beta Kappa keys here can be heard all the way to Yale Station,'' said, "We are a lways told how clever we are at the very meetings which disprove it."

Peter Yaeger

Deja Vu There is a demoralizing sense of deja vu after three or four years of peace marching. It is all rather like being caught up in a cocktail party syndrome, where the faces blur one into another, where the conversations seem strangely familiar, where the host is too much a frustrated showman and where the whole point of the evening is too quickly obscured.

As the passing weeks relegate the April 5 inter-city mobilization to the jumble of peace-march memories, it seems more and more that it should have been different.

Certainly, the anti-war movement has been remarkably hospitable to our new President: while he fiddled with administrative stalls and tne bodies burned, we took up other tangentially related causes, largely centering on the conditions and implications of military service, out of respect for the Nixon Administration's avowed efforts to end the war. With four months evaporated, however, the American death toll surpassed 33,000, the figures took a deep sigh and leapt above the death toll of the entire Korean War, and Secretary Rodgers spoke of the absolute necessity for maintaining totally secret negotiations. Such carnage and secrecy, anathema to the peace movement, served as catalysts for the spring protests. The movement had to firmly restate its conviction to bring the war to a halt. That Good Friday, April4, marked the first anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King's assassination as well, could not have gone unnoticed by the planners of the march.

So fifty thousand marchers assembled in New York's Bryant Park (near the Public Library), placed a traditional wreath and walked quietly north through CentraJ Park. It began to rain. By the time the multitude had passed the Zoo, the Sheep Meadow and the Tavern-on-theG reen, they were soaked. Led by a surprisingly large contingent of off-duty servicemen, the crowd gathered at the Bandshell, where scores of young cops and a police helicopter greeted them. A s the rain and speakers poured on, some of the more bedraggled marchers drifted away to take refuge in the Frick Collection museum.

Dave Dellinger commended the service-

men on their willingness to lead such a march and noted that the anti-war movement had happily reached into the ranks of the armed forces. Howard Zion criticized, "Something is very wrong with the political system of this country, something is wrong with the economic system ....

The rich have always run this country, making millions off poor people's children." The typically small numbers of black and Puerto Rican marchers ap¡ plauded this but were somewhat less moved by Abbie Hoffman's call for revolution. A great many Cuban flags were in evidence, and chants to free the Panther 21 emerged, spontaneously, at several points.

The planned entertainment stretched on into the early evening, and the crowd quietly, soggily, dispersed.

Perhaps the event Jacked excitement: much as the war has droned on, year after year, so too has the peace movement. The Pentagon confrontation took place over 15 months ago, and it has been years since the first protests began. Some of the early protesters have since fled to Canada or been killed in Vietnam, and while the crowd age seems to remain about the same, for many of us, this type of action has gone increasingly tedious. Perhaps, as Jerry Rubin recently wrote, "America proved deaf, and our dreams proved innocent. Scores of our brothers have become inactive a nd cynical. ... Our search for adventure and heroism takes us outside America, to a life of self-creation andrebellion. In response, America is ready to destroy us. . . . " While the physical destruction takes place abroad, attrition has taken a heavy psychological toll at home. This march lacked the enthusiasm of earlier protests not entirely because of the rain (fifty thousand did show up in spite of the bad weather) but more because of an incredible sense of impotence and desperation that has overcome the marchers. We saw the moment of our greatness flicker when LBJ chose not to run again; now, strangely, the body seems willing, almost as a reflex, but the spirit protests.

More important, however, is the fact that this Administration has become numb to some forms of protest. Crime in the streets applies to colJege campuses, but peace marchers will, by and large, be ignored. If the administration is, in fact, to be put on notice, it must first become aware of its petitioners, and we will have to seek a new set of tactics to produce this awareness.

Meanwhile, the war drags on. Last week's Times stated , "The Nixon Administration has set in motion an essentially secret program of diplomatic and military measures designed to extricate the United States from Vietnam." Sometimes there is an appealing sense of deja vu . ...

Theodore A. Burrell

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