Volume 18 - Issue 1

It's three in the morning, and you've just got to have twenty dollars. But, no matter how much you shake him, your roommate just won't wake up. Twenty dollars at three in the morning, with an opportunity of a lifetime staring you in the face. Who do you turn to? Quick Draw 24, of course.

New Haven Savings Bank's automated teller is open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. And it's right across the green from the campus. In minutes you can have your cash and the time of your life. You don't have a Quick Draw 24 card? Pity.

They're so easy to get. just stop in and complete an application at 195 Church Street. Do it today, because opportunity rarely knocks twice.

NEW

HAVEN

SNINGS

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Life is an adventure, We help you live it.

Cover design by Patrick Santana Cover photo by Mark Fedors ••

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Vol. 18, No. 1 September 6, 1985 •

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Between the Vines

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The Self Reflected · After spending the summer in •

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Features

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Leningrad, TN] Managing Editor Anne Applebaum discovered that the West looks very different when seen through Soviet eye§.

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. Radio Silence

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On August 13, Yale)- radio station was forced ciff the air. As the story behind the decision unfolded, station members realized the complexity of th.e internal problems confronting WYBC, and the difficulty offz'nding the right solutions.

By Paul Thomas Kihn.

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Fighting for Time _Despite the national attentz'on recently focused on AIDS, much remains unknown about the illness. Experts in New · Haven give a candz'd appraisal of the AIDS threat, and three victims reveal the impact of the fatal dz'sease upon thez'r lz'ves.

By Rich Blow.

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Sports

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Behind the Facemask

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Yale)- football team entered its late August pre-season training camp favored to win the Ivy League title. Yet as the players work toward that goal, they must constantly face ·the problems of being athletes in an academic community.

By Dan _Waterman

Books

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For _Rowing's Sake In The Amateurs, David Halberstam not only provides us with the best and the brightest of Ametican rowing, but fUCCeeds in capturing the rapidly vanishing spirit ·of amateur athletics. By Rob We:ling.

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Crossing the Line Twain, Whitman, Hetningway and Dos Passos all crossed the line From Fact to Fiction, and in her. latest book, Shelley Fisher Fishkin fimzly roots much of American literature in Journalism. By Lisa Pirozzolo.

Afterthought · 46 '

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Beyond Equality Albertus Magnus College is admitting men for the first time this fall, and a recent graduate voices her Jeelin s about her ch land the. decline of single-sex education. By Lisa Can uth. ~ • '

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About this Issue

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Publisher Tony Reese Editor-in-Chief Joyce Banerjee Business Manager Lauren Rabin Executive Editor Rich Blow Managing Editor Anne Applebaum Designer Patrick Santana Production Manager Margie Smith Associate Business Managers Rob Lindeman Barrie Seidenberg Associate Photography Editor Mark Fedors Art Editor Beth Callaghan Circulation Manager Mike Sonnenblick

Staff Carter Brooks• David Hoffman • Pearl Hu* Adina Levin Tamar Lehrich

Hank Mansbach Tom M cNulty Pam Thompson Melissa Turner Dan Waterman

Mtmbers and Directors: Edward B. Bennett Ill •

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4 The New J ournal/September 6. 1985

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There is no such thing as stasis. You feel that living in any city for a summer, cities reeling with people, people on the streets day and night. Yet, while we move through noise and traffic for three months, in our memories Yale sleeps. The humidity at a constant 95 percent, the colleges empty of students, nothing must be happening. But an inertia persists, and when we return at the end of August, the campus and the lives we. left here lie .deceptively quiet . . and unchanged.

A week after arriving in New York last June, I knew this would be a summer of motion. The city had little to do with it; in fact, the tug and pull I felt came from New Haven. Having distanced myself from campus, I could see the ·whirl of events, the constant changes at the University that would make creating an issue over the summer even more difficult than I had imagined. Though our .staff was working and studying in different regions of the planet, apparently leaving the magazine dormant, The New Journal, particularly this first issue of Volume 18, contracted and expanded from May to September. It all started with a phone call one night from our production manager, who was living in New Haven this summer.

She warned me to be calm, because we had just received an eviction notice from the Engineering Department. It seemed the verbal lease on our Becton storage closet-cumoffice had just expired. The department needed the space for the overflow of engineering journals from the library.

Mild panic, strategic phone calls, productive talks with Dean ~uttle and finally, surprisingly quickly, office 312 at 305 Crown Street, upstairs from the Kosher Kitchen and the Film Studies Center.

That may have been The Event of the summer for us.

B\,lt each week some issue or person from The New Journal jarred the status quo. The state of the magazine changed every seven to ten days, and permanence became fictional. An interview subject would be arriving in New York in three days, while the vvriter of the article was living in London, unaware that questions were needed, with landlords who refused to give him urgent phone messages. At another point, more than half our small photo staff could not return early to work on this issue, and for all I knew, our associate photo editor had never received the letter I'd sent him in Beijing explaining the situation. Two stories had to be cut from our original September story list reducing our prospective major articles to three. One of which had yet to be researched when the staff arrived in New Haven on August 18, with hopes of gluing together text, photos, ads and graphics into the coherent order of magazine.

I had seen the m·otions of late summer before, but with some other man or woman responsil?le for every word of copy going into .The New Journal. Although I had already served as editor-in-chief for one previous is ue none of our sources were vacationing on the Vine ard or in the woods then. During the school year our writer could use the Connecticut Hall Macintoshes for tories that have to be on a computer disc. We carne to New Ha en the com~ puter room was locked those with the ke · s out of town.

Then, there was the staff. Everyone appeared o ten ibl •

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ready to work. Yet how do you return to immerse yourself in Yale after a summer in Leningrad or eight months in China, after researching a book or reporting from one of Time's domestic bureaus? In a few days, however, the emotional jet-lag disappears, as you witness the business manager's excitement over the sale of a fullpage ad and a writer working on the rough draft · of his story throughout the night..

Our production manager doesn't like all-nighters. Why can't we be organized, she asks wistfully, instead of frenetically piecing together the entire issue over a weekend? Because just then do you truly feel the intensity of journalism, its separation from any nine-to-five job.

People argue and create and compromise all in the effort to put words and images onto paper, print the product 11,000 times and .then deliver it to the Yale community.

This year, we feel the pressure of tradition and expecta- . tion upon us, as The New Journal celebrates its fifth year in its current format. The magazine began in tabloid form in 1969, and after several prosperous years, died slowly in the late 1970s, Xerox art on the covers and wildly arcane fiction within. In 1981, it was revived as a news and features magazine focusing on Yale and New Haven. We simply don't have the resources to cover civil · war in Nicaragua nor the latest music out of Philadelphia. Yet we realize national trends affect New Haven; sometimes they are born here. Our readers learn that AIDS, abortion rights and poverty are not remote issues but are tied intimately to their lives. While every writer and editor for .

The New Journal fears at one time or another that the story ideas will run out, somehow both city and University remain fertile, dynamic sources of articles.

The magazine itself, however, worries about the writers- and business and produc~ion staffs, photographers, designers, artists. In late May, the seniors on the magazine graduate, and the newly-elected officers leave for the summer eeing only huge gaps in the masthead.

An editor I know at Northwestern faced a similar prob-: lem. At a gathering several weeks ago, she asked the speaker what she should do when she returns this fall and has to pull a newspaper staff out of thin air. The speaker told her that she needed only two people. One should be the stickler ,' the absolute, unforgiving perfectionist never satisfied with a story or photo or ad. The kind of person who holds onto the final draft of an article until you literally tear it out of her hands. The other is the creative force, perpetually brain torming, who should be coddled, pampered anything to keep him bubbling with ideas. The New Journal has room for more than two for perfectionists and brainstormers alike, and for all the shades and combinations of drive and creativity in between.

Fi ·e more times thi academic year, we will again come out of the night replete wi(h our sticklers and bubblers, sleep writer and ner ous production people, Newsjournal and Afterthought . Each issue will give you a new view on Yale and New Haven, as they change from hour to day to month. lfthat view provoke anger satisfaction, correction boredom let us know. Challenge us, because ever month we hope to challenge ou.

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ew Journal/September 6, 1985 5

Leaving the Flock Operating in conservative times and led by such outspoken men as jerry Falwell, religious fundamentalism in America seems to have grown healthy and powerful. The auention of media and politicians alike proves that fundamentalism is now a force to be reckoned with. Yet every year individuals once deeply involved with fundamentalism quietly leave the movement and enter a society radically different from that of their churches.

Few if any groups addressed the special emotional needs of ex-fundamentalists until last April, when Yale Divinity School graduate Richard Yao, '80, himself an ex-member, created Fundamentalists Anonymous (FA). The organization's rapid expansion from its first chapter in New York City shows a need for FA in every sector of the nation, including, Yao believes, the college campus. To kick-off a cross country sweep of colleges, Yao and other representatives of FA will be in New Haven from September 16 to 18.

Through talks open to the entire community, FA members hope to reveal the problems of ex-fundamentalists and the necessity of a support system for them at Yale.

Because fundamentalist churches tend to be extremely exclusive communities, explained Grace Mellon, FA volunteer and ex-fundamentalist, those who leave encounter difficulties acclimating themselves to life outside.

According to Yao, fundamentalist churches command considerable social respectability, and rejecting the lifestyle often leaves people feeling they have failed or are inadequate. The focus of the organization is to provide support for these people through hot lines, newsletters and rap sessions with other ex-fundamentalists.

Mellon, who spent 18 months in therapy after rejecting fundamentalism, notes that psychiatric help alone is often insufficient. "Fundamentalism teaches that you're in the world but not part of the world," she said.

6 Th~ New Journal/September 6. 1985

"Unless people have been involved in this thing, they don't realize what it is for someone to get out of it."

Currently, there are approximately six million ex-fundamentalists in the country. Twenty-two FA chapters already have opened across the nation, with 130 more soon to follow.

Spokespeople for the organization have been interviewed on numerous television programs, such as Donahue and Today and in national magazines. The wide media coverage has enabled FA to reach its ever-growing audience, a fact that disturbs some fundamentalists.

Despite this distrust, the organization has no desire to lure people away from their churches. "We're not trying to recruit happy fundamentalists," Mellon said. Yet FA does try to make individuals aware that, as Yao puts it, "some people get very badly burned" by fundamentalism. "By telling our stories, fundamentalists see us as a threat," he said, "but we don't want to be an 'anti-group.' We JUSt want to say, 'Hey, there is life after this thing."'

-Ptttr Zusi

Midlife Crisis The name A. Barlett Giamatti seems to be on just about everybody's lips these days, and with good reason.

From buzzing press conferences in New H<lven to Washington cocktail parties, the future of Yale's president is a favorite topic of conversation, for he is presently considering a career change which may very well lead to national politics. According to articles published recently in Thr Nrw York Times and The Washington Post, two of Connecticut's most prominent Republicans want Giamatti to run for Senate in 1986.

Giamatti, who announced last spring his resignation as president in June 1986, has met extensively with Connecticut Senator Lowell P.'Neicker (R) and state Republican Chairman Thomas J. D'Amore. fhey hope to persuade him to challenge Democratic incumbent Christopher J. Dodd in the upcoming Senate race.

Although other names have been men-

F~ndam entalisu Anonymous founder R ichard Yao at the Brooklyn headquarters Helping those who have lived apart from the world

tioned as possible candidates, only - 'ii Assessor Steven Juda, on the other Giamatti has received any kind of en~ hand, asserted, "The property is not dorsement from Weicker and ~ exclusively used for educational purD'Amore, both of whom feel that the t poses, and we believe it functions president would make a strong and ex~ also as a social e ntity much like a citing Republican candidate.

-g fraternal society, such as the Moose or Anne Scheer, media relations direc"i Elk Clubs." tor for D'Amore, described Giamatti as ~ While refusing to divulge specific having all the attributes of a fine politi:1 examples of social happenings at the cian. "He is articulate, has a good house, .Juda does admit that "no one in sense of humor, and is a knowlthis offke really knows for sure what edgeable and · proven administrator," goes on in there ." But he promises to said Scheer, who referred to Woodrow remedy the situation by requesting an Wilson, a former president of inspection of the premises by the Princeton, as a perfect example of judge, attorneys, defendant and plaineducator turned politician. tiff. This plan does not seem to bother If Giamatti, a registered IndepenElihu President Richard Urausky, '67, dent, were to make a bid for the who claims that Elihu is not and never Senate, it remains unclear whether he was a secret society. would run as a Republican or DemoEven if the club's lawyers convinccrat. Senator Dodd's office meanwhile ingly argue that the property is used refuses to make an official comment solely for educational purposes, Juda until Giamatti reaches a decision. In plans to take another tack by questioning Elihu's alle~ed elitist policies. "Acorder to campaign effectively. Yale's outgoing president will have to make a cess to Elihu is not made available to statement soon. the avera~e Yale student-only to Giamatti, who had not considered those select 15 juniors chosen by the politics before Weicker and D'Amore's out'{Oing senior members," Juda said. offer, has made no commitments and Elihu's Elm St. clubhouse-object of a Although the case can be seen as a is keeping all options open. "I don't feel "one-on-one" dispute with the assessor hmt to the University about its own tax under pressure of any kind to make a case is of substantial interest to not on- exempt position, Juda denies that it is decision," Giamatti said two weeks ago ly Elihu, but to Book and Snake and another sign of deteriorating townfrom his summer home on Martha's St. Anthony's, two clubs that may soon gown relations. He prefers to call it, Vineyard. "I had conversations with rather, a "one-on-one dispute between have to pay taxes as well. some people and I told them I would Under Connecticut law, an organiz- Elihu and the tax assessor." Should the think about it. It's nothing more than ation qualifies for exemption if it can court rule in favor of New Haven, that." · prove that its premises are used ex- Elihu will continue to pay its property -Dan Waterman clusively for educational purposes. tax. Mort'over, Juda will apply the Book and Snake and St. Anthony's decision as an umbrella ruling and may find their current tax exempt revoke the tax exempt status of Book status revoked depending on the out- and Snake and St. Anthony's. AlterElite but not Exempt? come of the Elihu case. Not surprising- natclv, tf the decision goes to Elihu, the ly, the conflict boils down to the ques- tax assessor's office may receive several tion: is Elihu a social or an academic more applications for exemption by While the members of Yale's Elihu other Yale societies. which like the institution? ~lub spent the last several weeks vacaUp to now, Elihu has been a modd th{'ee m quec;uon, know a good deal tioning, its lawyers were preparinl{ for citizen, paying its $15,000 in property when they see it. a coun confrontation. Come October, tax annually. Its sudden appeal for exthe club's attornevs will find them- M~lissa Tumu emption could be linked to ;-.;e.... selves facing Ia"..:vers of the ::-.:ew Haven's rising property tax rates At Haven tax assesso~'s office before an anv rate, Elihu backs up its clatms with ~rbiter, a retired Connecticut state its 'certificate of Incorporation. which JUstice. Elihu, one of Yale's coed senior describes the club as seeking to .. proSOcieties, filed suit last March a~ainst mote literary and scientific education" dthe . assessor's office • after the cit)' through discussions, lectures and ented the organization's appeal for papers. There is no mention, however, property tax exemption on its of social activities. New Haven Tax S200,000 house at 175 Elm Street. The ' J h" ;-.;..," .Jourmtl '~ptem~r 6. I 985

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Coat of Many Colors

Au~ust 22. the same day the}' began, ancl according to Caulk, the t;Kclift went without a hitch. To restore the sculpture to its original state, the two rook pains to use the same shades of paint that Calder had ust•d originally. ordering for the base alone Cadmium Reel and Japant>se lacqm·r from Calder's ~tinneapolis paint supplit·r.

Rut as Caulk and his panrwr dismantled the stabile ro strip .twa\ tht• old paint and apph the lit"\\. thev realized thm Gallou sand I.ollipop1 needs more than a cosmctic touch up. It seems that parts ol it \\ill ha' c to return to the found!'\· lor soldering in

Twenty fet•t tall with long bl.u:k arms which spin in any brt•t•zt•, tht• bizarre, multicolort•d stct•l structure in Beineckt• Plaza newr fails to draw curious stan·s from passt•rs·b\". wht"tlwr tht•Y havt• ~t·t·n it I 00 rimcs or nevt"r ar .111: Alt•xandn Calcit-r\ 1960 srabilt" Gallnu J a'ld l.olbi•ops has stood just to tht• lt•ft of thr prnidt·nt"~ oflire since 197.'l. allt•r it ''·I' donatt•d anonvmouslv to tht• Yak Uni,er~uv Art Callt·l"): (YUAe) from .1 pri' ate collectiun. U nlurtunatdv. i•1 tht• ta~t ten ,c.tr~ tht• damp :\e'' Ha' t"n climate h.t~ takc•n us wll on thl" 'culpture. n·dut·m • its bri!:hth painted surfaces w dullm•ss But nm'. thanks to rhe rcu·nt work uf two 1'\t•w York con~t'l'\"ationisrs hm·d h\ \'UAG. Gallows o'ld J.olbpop• st.mcl" in ewn ~realer cmnr.1st to lis st.1rk !l:rD) cn,·ironment.

The Caldt•r in tlw pl.11.1 pn·,·iou,Jv had brt•n n·stured 111 tlw I.Ht' 1970s b\ Lippinnlll .•1 loc.tll.m{t' sc.tlt• sculpture builder. This 1inw \ l' -\G dt·ndt•cl to hirt" Dou!l: Caulk, rnm.u{n of State Uni\'ersirv of l't•w York's :\t·wbur!O(er Must"utn rt1 Purchase .1nci Dou~~; K wartz, .t spt"nnltst m outdoor 'Culprurc prt•srr,•arion, because of their ubstnnual t"xpcnencl" '' ith consel'\·ation of outdoor art. Contracted b)· the ~~;allel'\ last sprm~. Caulk tn par· 11cular <eemed a natural choice. he had worked e:-..ten i' eh "uh Calder prior to hi• death in 19i6. and has restored H of the nrtt~t's works, all of which arc ~imilar in size to Yale"«.

Caulk enlisted the aid of K\\artz \\ith "hom he had collaborated on other projects, and \\ho recent!} submined a propo<al to YUAG to re tore a lead sculpture b} Ari~tide Maillol at the D~s tb~ Cald~r n~ more than gallery. a la'l'~r of Cadmium Red and The men finished thl"ir work on Jap~ne~e bcqucr?

8 The ="tw Journ •IJ'cplcm~r 6. JQ85

less than two years. In fact, the metal loops of the crossbar where the rotating arms are attached already have been worn thin from constant friction.

Still, the conservationists' work on the stabile, however temporal it may turn out to be, appears to have satisfied the gallery Yet YUAG currently has no other olans for restoration of other outdoor s~ulpture at Yale. How did the Calder get so lucky? Perhaps because of its influential neighbors next door in Woodbridge Hall.

-Aftlissa Tumtr

Striking Out During the second annual Pro-Life Activist$ convention last April, a sign hanging outside the convention center read: ~welcome Pro-Life Activists: Have a Blast." The welcome was fri~~;hteningly appropriate, considering that one of the speakers, Curtis Beseda, addressed the assemblv from federal pri~on. where he IS ~ow serving a 20-year sentence for the bombing of an abortion clinic in Washington. Increasingly, violence has been userl by pro·lifers in the debate over abortion The most radical ami-abortion activists often have resorted to vandalism, arson and bombings to communicatt• their ang..-r over legalized abortion. ~cw Ha,·en has not escaped the national trend Since Januarv. 1985. the New Ha,·en branch of Planned Parenthood of Connecticut (PPC) ha~ been the subject of at least fifteen incidents of harassment. and there is no si~n of a decrease in the future The chnic. which performs a variety of <el'\·iccs ran~n~ from inferulit)' <en ices to abortions. has encountered picketin~ outside the building and menacmg telephone calls to both <tafT and patients. repeated bomb threat~ and finally. a five-

person invasion of the building on July 20.

"We're furious . I mean, I'm incensed that in a democracy, this sort of thing can go on," said Dr. Joan Babbott, executive director of PPC. According to Babbott, the invasion occurred at approximately 7:30a.m., July 20, as five people entered the clinic and proceded to hand out anti-abortion literature to the patients_ Three of the antiabortionists forced their way into a back procedure room and unwrapped trays of sterilized instruments, while picketers cheered outside. After 20 minutes, the five trespassers were removed by the police, and they are now facing criminal prosecution.

Though the clinic was closed for the rest of the day, no serious damage was done.

Babbott believes that instead of inspiring fear, incidents such as these have heightened the esprit de c0rps among the staff: "When you're beseiged, you consolidate." The predominant emotion after the invasion among both staff and patients, said Kathy Irben, program director for the New Haven branch, was anger.

People were "feeling for the first time that our rights could go down the tubes." Though Babbott is disturbed by the incidents, she emphasizes that ~in no way are we going to stop offertng services."

John Grant, who has participated in the sit-in and in demonstrations at PPC , points to the non-violent nature of his methods. He has been involved in sidewalk counseling, which consists of "quietly offering alternatives" to women entering the clinic. While agteeing with PPC's account of the July 20 incident, he stresses that the maneuver was carried out "very quietly and peacefully." The pu·rpose, he explained, was not to intimidate or frighten staff and patients, but to make oneself entirely vulnerable to them, and thereby distract them from performing abortions. In spite of PPC's claim that these demonstrations ha~e strengthened morale, Grant ~amtains that only such constant action will lead to the repeal of abortion: -Peter Zusz

Student k passboo6 1985/8

Only r. lUll-tim ep Passbo e students a~ . way to see ok, the most fl e. entitled to only $3 our cornplet e)(Jble and . the yale at their ~oPassh?lders ar: sea~on of eigh;n~xpensive around nvenience S h entitled to se pays. For · c edu] · e each h tests events.

• studyin e Your the s ow The Passbo . g, meetings ~tre-going students to ok Is by all d Other fer. Do ' s~e everythi means the b at 436-1~Jo7;Jss out. Su:~.the Yale Re;~ way for or a seaso p Jes are li . as to ofn of exciti mued. Call ng theatre. us

R.

The New JoumaVSeptember 6, 1985 9

Between the Vines/Anne Applebaum

The Self Reflected .

When I.got to Vienna, I took pictures.

Not pictures of museums and monuments- I had been taking museum and monument pictures in Leningrad all summer. No, I took pictures of supermarkets, especially supermarkets with large cheese displays. There were so many different kinds it was confusing: blue, cheddar, Edam, Swiss. Even goat. Soft drink machines were another new photo opportunity. I found it extraordinary that cans of sweet fizzy liquid could come out of a machine. And in all different flavors!

After several days, I reaccustomt'd myself to billboards, neon signs and store windows arranged to encourage purchases. Carefully lettered price tags ceased to phase me, and I forgot about the ubiquitous blue stamp that had marked prices in So,·iet stores. l remembered that I had actually grown up without state cheese and state mineral water, that I had tasted all of those exotic cheeses and soft drinks before. Although my original shock upon re-encountering the material wealth of the West soon faded, it took longer for Western behavior to make sense again. One Austrian girl whom I watched in a Viennese cafe struck me as particularly remarkable during my first week away from Leningrad. She had blonde bobbed hair, wore bright pink lipstick and a short white miniskirt which matched her shiny white teeth. She was drinking brandy and delicately bending her pinkie finger when she picked up the glass. I just sat there and thought about what an extraordinary creature she was, all blonde and pink and white and loud. about how amazing it was that she apparently sa''' nothing wrong with wa,·ing her arms around when she talked in a public cafe, crossing and uncrossing her legs and laughing a lot. She probably knew how to plav teJ.Hl• I wanted to go up and ask hl'l. "1.,cuse me, how did you get to be su dif10 The:

t'W Journai/St'plt'mbcr 6. IQR~

Mayb e travelling East h ad tau ght me something about the W est , about how the West looks from the other side of E urope. ferent from my friend Anya in Leningrad " Anya doesn't know how to play tennis. She has bad teeth, because there are no Soviet orthodontists. I don't think she owns anything white, and I'm sure she doesn't own anything pink. She has never tasted brandy.

When she leaves her apartment, she lowers her eyes while speaking, and her face seems to close inward, like all the other faces of Soviet citizens on the streets.

Of course the Viennese girl would have laughed at me. I resembled her more than I resemble Anya, even if Anya and I do share the same name in Russian. But at that particular moment, newly arrived in Vienna, I was somehow seeing the West through Anya's eyes. So I envied the girl in the cafe, I marvelled at how fortunate and enjoyable her life must be. Although Anya was still back in Leningrad, she and I stared at the blonde girl for a long time.

It is tempting to moralize about the Soviet Union. Although I only spent the summer there, I have found since being home that I am expected to have formed a new set of political opinions based on my experience. My mother says she hopes it made me Realize How Luckv You Are. Realize how lucky you are that vou didn't gro~' up whispering to your friends in public places, passing hand-tvped "unoffical" manuscripts to one anmher, growing silent when an unexpected knock is heard at the door . Not to mention living ~..·ithout brightly colored clothes,

readable books, restaurants that serve more than one item from the menu, fresh fruit all year round, and, of course, cheese. One hundred kinds of cheese. Life is Better Here. Our Socie· ty Is Better. It makes a very simple way to understand East-West rela· tions.

Simplistic truisms can also originate from the other side of the political spec· trum. People Are People, They're thr Same Everywhere, I find myself want· ing to say, as the very different in· dividuals I knew fade back into the huge empty red space on my map.

They Want Peace Too. Of course they do, everyone I met there told me so.

But that's just as easy as Our Society is Better. They want peace, we want peace, we both build bombs.

I think I stayed just long enough in Leningrad to realize how lucky I am. and to understand that people are peo· pie, they're the same everywhere, but also to recognize that while both of these statements are true, they don't really explain anything about the USSR. The only thing I know forcer· tain about the Soviet Union is that after I went there, an unknown blonde girl in a cafe looked different to me than she would have several months earlier. Maybe I saw her the way Anya saw me. Maybe travelling East had taught me something about the West. about how the West looks from the other side of Europe.

Talking to Anya often had the quali· ty of watching a mirror reflection.

When you gaze in a mirror and lift your right arm, the reflected figure's left arm moves. You might know that the left arm you see reflects your right arm, but there's no denying that the)' seem to be opposites. Just as the defin•· tions of right and left change according to vour angle of vision, so too do definitions and assumptions change ac· cording to which side of Europe you were born in. Anya, for example, was not your typical young builder of

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~ "'""'""" ....Ut!Al(\K"\Jp('" Anne Applebaum at Anya's wedding Talking to Anya often had the quality of watching a mirror reflection.

Communism. She was quite critical of her government, not at all averse to . reading illegal books and quite happy to let. a dangerous American practice speakmg Russian with her. Nevertheless, she couldn't understand why the United States was so interested in Poland. She understood some of our disagreements with her government, but didn't we realize that Poland is a separate country from the Soviet Union? We seemed to care more about Polish trade unions than about our own.

I ~ried patiently to explain how we cons1der Poland an occupied country, how there are Soviet soldiers in Poland, how the Polish government is controlled by Moscow .. Any a thought about that for a minute, said that was all probably true, but she didn't understand why I seemed to think that was any different from America's relationship to France, England or West G~rmany. Without animosity, she pomted out that America stations soldiers in those countries installs ~issiles there, had occupied ~hose nations after the war. And weren't their

economies completely dependent upon ours, just as the Polish economy depends upon the Soviet? Well-yes, but no. Now, thinking back on seeing Coca-Cola advertisements plastered in the streets of Paris, hearing "Born in the USA" in London pubs and noticing the American movies playing in the theaters of Munich, I understand even better the intense confusion I felt while trying to answer these questions.

It's not that I honestly believe that the United States has the same relationship to Western Europe that the Soviet Union has to Eastern Europe; it's just that the difference was impossible to explain to Anya. To her, covert domination was covert domination, whether it meant Coca-Cola signs or puppet dictators. Soldiers were soldiers, military bases were military bases. According to her experience and understanding of the way the world worked, they meant the same thing in any country. According to her definitions, America controls Western Europe. And although she didn't con. vince me that the two situations are actuaJly the same, I didn't convince her

that they weren't. Instead, her confusion showed me how they really could look that way. I then thought a little bit harder than I might have about the implications of the economic and cultural interdependence of the West.

We had similar problems when I tried to explain about crime. "Well, yes, the neighborhood where I live in New Haven isn't particularly safe, as a matter of fact there are crimes which take place not too far from my apartment . . . Of course I still go out at night, I'm not that terrified . . . Would someone who robbed me get caught?

Probably not. No one guarantees that they would get caught . . . No, I don't really worry about it all the time, I mean I guess I try to walk with friends at night, and even during the day some places aren't particularly good to go alone . . . It's not a constant fear, really, I have to lock my doors of course

" Anya thought it extraordinary that we had bars on our windows. Is it true that private citizens are allowed to ¡ carry guns? She imagined constant terror, which I conceded some people probably feel, shooting on the streets, which I had to admit happens, thousands of murders and rapes every year, which statistically do occur. She found this the single most terrifying aspect of life in America. She shivered, said she would find it unbearable not to be able to leave her house alone at night, to be afraid to walk in the streets. In no way could I convey to her how one adapts to the idea of violent crime, how one has to adapt in order not to become obsessed. Yet even as I spoke, I began to wonder about that attitude. We live in an extremely violent society, so violent that gun manufacturers are powerful enough to prevent a ban on handguns whose only purpose is to kill people. I just don't usually th~nk ~bout it that way. Nor does Anya thmk It odd that the stores in her country sell only one kind of cheese. Both of The New Journal/September 6, 1985 11

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us have adapted to our particular set of cultural assumptions. It's only when you look at the situation through a mirror that the peculiarities begin to emerge.

The list went on. They take American Express at Beriozlca stores in the Soviet Union, stores where only foreigners are allowed to shop and must pay with foreign currency. Soviet citizens can be arrested for shopping there. Anya didn't find Bm'ozki at all odd, but she found American Express completely incomprehensible. As I tried to explain, I discovered that I too didn't completely understand how it was possible to walk into a store, hand the salesperson a piece of plastic and walk away with an object. It just didn't make sense. "And then there are gold o nes too, people want them mostly for status, I think . . . Yes, you have to pay more money, well actually you have to have a better credit rating ...

Credit rating? That depends on lots of things: where you went to college, what neighborhood your house is in, how stable your income is . . ."

There is no such thing as unstable income in the Soviet Union. Nobody gets fired, except, of course, for political reasons. Nobody is ever unemployed, except for political reasons. Nor is income a particularly good gauge of someone's status. One can have a high income but no access to foreign products , and hence a low standard of living. Or a low income and a high standard of living. Figure that one out. Either way, nobody thinks it's illogical. Anya laughed a lot more about American Express Gold Cards. She never did see the point of it, and come to think of it, neither did I. When Anya and I said goodbye, I was almost shocked at her formality. I hadn't expected a Russian bear hug and weeping, but she didn't smile or cry at all. Instead she wished me long life and good fortune, health and happiness, and her iace took on the closed. wooden expression I had only seen her

wear in public places. I said that I hoped we would see each other again.

"Maybe," she said. One of her friends once told me that she and her fiance had considered applying for emigra· tion permits. I had seen her almost every day for two months, and she had never told me.

M y train crossed the Soviet border at about four o'clock in the morning.

We were delayed for five hours while teenage soldiers with rosy red cheeks ran on top of the train and others opened our luggage inside. It was raining outside. It had been raining when we left Leningrad and it rained when we stopped in Lvov. It was still raining when the Hungarian soldiers woke us up again to stamp our passports. I finally fell back to sleep on my sooty train cot thinking about darkness, cold, and especially rain.

When I first opened my eyes and looked outside, I saw sunflowers. The rain had slOpped, and through m y window I saw miles and miles of yellow sunflowers, Hungarian sunflowers.

My head felt very light, probably from not sleeping well. I thought about how one time Anya and I had been lucky enough to find imported sunflower seeds in a kolkhoz marketplace, where a few farmers are allowed to sell private goods. I thought about how the sunflower seeds had been small and grey and a little bit rotten, and how big and yellow sunflowers are themselves, especially when seen passing in row after row outside your train window. I watched as the sunflowers gave way to wheat and then tiny neat houses, and tried to reconcile their yellow existence with the marketplace where I had tasted their grey seeds, tried to under· stand why I could no longer look at the yellowness without thinking about the grey.

•

Anne Applebaum, a smior in Pitrson is managrng editor ojTNJ. She spent the s~m­ ~tr in Ltningrad on a Bates Fellowship domg reuarch for htr senior essay.

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Radio Silence Paul Thomas Kihn "Just about everything in WYBC should be ripped out and replaced."

14 Th<' Nt•" .Journal/ eptt·mbc-r 6. 1985

On the evening of August 19, a single meter on the transmission console in WYBC's FM studio still twitched.

Four red lights surrounding the meter still glowed dully in the semi-darkness, and a low, monotonous hum was still audible. Yet the flourescent ceiling lights were unlit and the deejays' chair lay empty. Neither of the two motionless turntables held records, and both tone-arms rested silently in their brackets. WYBC, the Yale Broadcasting Company, was off the air.

Less than a week earlier on August 13, Gerald Etkind, WYBC's program director, had occupied the old swivel chair in front of the microphone. He had relieved the regularly scheduled deejay and sat purposefully before the controls. Apologizing to his listeners, Etkind explained that WYBC was forced to discontinue broadcasting for technical reasons. Promising "we shall return," Etkind ceased transmission and logged the station off the air at 1:16 p.m. Later, deejays arrived for their scheduled air play and could not enter the studios. A contest winner was unable to collect his free album. And station members rapidly discovered that their keys no longer fit the locks; Lloyd Suttle, dean of administrative and student affairs, had ordered them changed when the station closed.

The shutdown marked the end of a phase in WYBC's long and colorful historv. Founded in 1941. the station initialiv broadcast onl" to Yale's reside~tial colleges via a 'closed-circuit AJ\1 channel. Seven years later, the station was incorporated into the state of Connecticut as a non-profit, taxexempt corporation. The organization expanded in the 1950s to include a record-producing venture and a television branch that broadcast to Yale's colleges from 1953 to1954 . In 1958 the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) granted WYBC a license to transmit beyond Yale, and it became the first college radio station in the

country to broadcast 24 hours a day.

This growth led the way for WYBC to begin FM transmission in 1959.

As no music and no words left the station, however, history mattered lit· tie .. Many questions arose concerning the shutdown. Station members wanted to know why Richard "Thor" Moser, SY '86, WYBC's general manager, had not given them any ad· vance warning. Why had Moser not told Etkind, a WYBC Executive Board (£-board) member, until 90 minutes before the scheduled closing? And why was Moser's only explanation a letter taped to the station's locked blue doors on the second floor of Hendrie Hall: "Due to technical problems with our transmitter, the WYBC Board of Governors has directed me to close the station . . . The station will be closed and secured until the problem is solved."

As the story behind the closing began to unfold, station members realized a single reason for the decision would not be found. Instead , the shut· down was the culmination of a confus· ing array of circumstances. '~WYBC is like a pressure cooker that keeps cook· ing and cooking," said Station Manager Drew Cooper, DC '87 · "You're surprised when it explodes, but you knew it would. You just weren't sure when and why."

On August 19, Suttle met with about 15 station members in WYBC's £-board office to discuss the "wh y." In the hot and crowded office, Suttle ex· plained that the decision had been made by himself, Moser and WYBC's Board of Governors, an advisory body set up through the· station's by-laws to insure that WYBC operates in com· pliance with public law, Yale regula· tions and its own by-laws. Moser was present, but spoke infrequently, chos· ing to remain in the background. The members of the Board of Governors were absent, their true position and in· fluence remaining ambiguous.

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While clarifying who the decisionmakers were, Suttle gave only a partial expfanation fo r the decision to shut down WYBC. Although Moser's initial expl~nati on for the turn-off was "technical problems," Suttle demanded a fin a ncial plan before the doors could be re-opene d . Lawyer J ames H. DeGraffenre idt , '74, a member of the Board of Governors, cited both issues.

But underlyin g every statement, every accusation, lay perhaps the most serious cause of WYBC's ailments: a rift between community , "associate" members of the station and the contingent of YaJe students. The split provoked suspicions that the Yale administration is a ttempting to oust New Haven members from the ir joint operation of WYBC .

Walking through the station drives home a startling picture of WYBC's most tangible problems. "The physical plant and equipment are disgraceful," Suttle said . His words echoed truthfulJ"y down each g rimy hallway and in each ill-equipped room.

Bare floors and torn, black matting show where carpeting once lay, although new rugs partially cover old scars. Inside the E-board office, battered steel desks sit next to a n o ld armchair, stuffing protruding from its shredded arms. Cigarette butts have been kicked into a corner in the hallway outside the door. On the floor of the music office an oval green rug, m oldy a nd filled with holes, poorly disguises the debris beneath. Only cabinets pl astered with colorful bumper stickers and walls hidden under record jackets attempt to alleviate some of the o ppressive shoddiness.

Station members work to keep the offices and studios clean, but there are numerous instances of abuse. R ecords have been stolen , door locks have been broken , and Michael Shoenbaum, ES '88, WYBC's treasurer, once cam e across a cup of urine in the FM studio.

"One time , the knobs were twisted off the console and I repaired them," explained Thomas Duffy, a broadcast consulting service engineer who has 16 Tht Ntw Journai/St<pttmbt-r 6. 1985

Dean Lloyd S~ttle counts on the studentl to solve the station's problema.

worked at WYBC for three years. "I went back a week later, and it had happened again, so I repaired them a second time. The third time I started to get a little disgusted."

Old problems more than new o nes are responsible for WYBC's state of technical disrepair. An antiquated, black and unplugged Associated Press newswire standing squatty next to ·a wall serves as a stark reminder of the constant battle the station must wage against the corros ive e ffects of time.

"Just about every thing should be ripped out and replaced," Duffy said .

"I submitted a quarter-of-a-milliondollar budget proposal two years ago, breaking down the needed repairs room by room. Nothing came of it."

Nonetheless, the equipme nt works well enough for Duffy to compliment v\'YBC's sound quality. More serious technical troubles lie on top of PayneWhitney Gymnasium where the station's 15-year-old, 1200 watt transmitter sits. Affectionately termed "Helen" by station members, the dilapidated transmitter has forced the station off the air several tim es in the past year, once for a day a nd a half. Duffy, who gives technical assistance to a number of Connecticut radio stations, believes that Helen will n ot survive another winter because of metal fatigue. Duffy

a lso believes that her latest problem, discovered six months ago, is not at aU severe. "YBC's signal may be flue· tuating from its assigned 94.3 megahertz," he said. "Give me five hundred dollars and five minutes to replace a module, and I'd have that transmitter within FCC requirements.'

Ironically, the trouble with Helen didn't warrant such a long-term station closing. Furthermore, an engineer who examined the transmitter two days be· fot·e the shutdown found nothing wrong. H e felt the problem lies with the meter that has supposedly detected the transmission deviation, and not the transmitter itself. Countered DeGraf· fenreidt, "Even if we're wrong, and its only the meter that's broken, that's a problem in itself. It's kind of like driv· ing a car without a speedometer."

The deterioration of the physical plant is aggravated by WYBC's inabili· ty to pay for repairs; for years the sta· tion has been spending more money than it earns. Because most of its bill· ing is chanelled through a Yale charge account, major expenditures such as phone lines and necessary physical im· provements are funded by Yale , and charged to WYBC . Due to laxity o_n both sides, the "Yale bill ," as the debt tS called, had reached $26,000 in July with monthly increases averaging

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"If I start poking my nose into WYBC, then it's my duty to take action." $1000. "With a debt of that size," Suttle said, "WYBC is a unique case among undergraduate organizations."

In May of this year Suttle said of the debt, "Sooner or later someone is going to take action. When I start poking my nose into it, then it's my duty to take it.

I want to give them every opportunity.

I'm counting on the students to solve their problems. Eventually this one may need my resolution." After the station closing Suttle said, "I made it clear to David Baron, last year's general manager, that the Yale bill has got to stop growing, and it hasn't done that."

Schoenbaum explained why WYBC can't pay its Yale bill. "Ten years ago YBC used to gross $75,000 in ads alone. Last year it grossed $25,000 in total income ." As a commercial station, WYBC generates its greatest income through advertisements, and Shoenbaum believes part of the station's problem is that it has no real sales staff. Chip Triest, a member of the Board of Governors, agreed. "Any way you look at it, what it comes back to is money. If people had been out making sales, YBC would not have been in such an acute crisis."

Last spring Schoenbaum estimated that WYBC could "really get back on our feet" in two years, but only with more active students and a better sales depanment to pay off the station's expenses: its equipment and repairs, the A.P. newswire and smaller costs like record royalties. More revenue could al~ be generated with increased ratmgs since higher listenership leads to better ad sales. Some people believe WY~C could increase its ratings by altermg its current formal. "They've g~t to rethink their product," Suttle s~ud .."They do not have enough of a hstenmg audience to be supportive."

DeGraffenreidt agreed: "We will be

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concerned with making the air product more saleable with an improvement in technical quality and an improvement in content.~ Apparently not everyone agrees.

Tenaj Enrieb, director ofWYBC'sjazz department, claims she has seen growing interest in her area. "You figure things out by your turn-out at concerts and by your contests," added Bridget Gardner, music director of WYBC's Spectrum, a black mus~c pro-

two" of its monthly bills from Yale.

The cash raised during the drive now sits in WYBC's Yale account, but Suttle will not release the funds until he receives a budget from the station showing how WYBC will operate debtfree and begin repaying Yale. "I expect to see a request for short-term financial assistance to help build long-term financial stability,'' he said. U ntil the budget is submitted the doors will remain locked. "YBC needs our help,"

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~ram . ~our ratings are not as low as some Board members who work for other stations sa" the are.~ Whether WYBC's listening audience is large or small. the E:board has been well aware of the debt and the station's inabilitv to make mone,·.

Oa,·id Baron and the 1983-I9S4 £-board worked on one solution: a \\'YBC alumni fund-raising drive, includin~ a gathering at the 1985 Yale reunions. Initiatin~ the drive in the fall of 1983. Baron hoped to rai'e enough money to purchase the much-needed new transmitter. to start re-equipping the station and to begin paying off the Yale bill . According to ~loser, the be\t \\'YBC could do was to pay "one or

Suttle concluded. "but I've got to have some indication that thev are not throwing money away." · Alumni fundraising was never the answer anyv.ay. :\1oser professed. ~The alumni dnve went poorly because the alumni asked what the station was doinl{, and what about this community business. A lot have heard negati"e things about YBC. Thev don't want to donate to a station set up the way YBC i~. l{iving moner to people who aren't Yale ~tudents." \\'ith those words Moser revealed the subtlest, most troublesome difficulty confronting the station, the question of whether WYBC belongs to Yale or to ~ew Haven. "\\'hen people see

There were glossed sticky dates, cold rich jigs, cramped belly to belly in small boxes . . .

- Thom as Wolfe, 1927 YBC," one community member said, "they see it as a community station."

"When the community had more input, it was a better station," another said. A third added , "It hasn't been working with just students in control."

D avid Schwartz, who a irs W YBC's H eritage folk music program, explained that back in the 1960s and 1970s, when WYBC was a major force in radio, Yale and community members ran the operational side together. "But in the last two years there has been a growing paranoia on Yale's part," he explained. "Now decisions are made behind locked doors a nd it's none of the community mem bers' business. It's necessary to work together, but the pressure from Yale has been polarizing the station."

Etkind spoke angrily of the summer mo n ths, saying, "Our elected officers aren't here representing us , and we're left to care for the station."

"A lot of the community people are down on Yalies," Moser explained.

"They complain that Yalies can't run the station, because they don't know what they're doing. But you can Jearn a hell of a lot in four years." Yet M oser sees truth in what the community members say. "I've been around the station for a long time," he said . "This sum mer I took a cold look at it. We're not- an undergraduate organization.

T he community members care more ~bout the station and put more effort mto it, while Yale students are by nature a transitory group."

The division shows at meetings of the General Board, where all station members are present: community members sit on one side of the room, Yale students on the other. Only a few b reak the strict separation. WYBC's call letters stand for the Yale Broadcasting Company; members of predominantly commun.ity-staffed formats refer to the station as "Your Best Cho ice."

C ommunity involvement in WYBC dates back to the 1961 , when WYBC ~dded a new purpose to its by-laws: To serve as a communications link between the Yale community and surrounding area, bringing the resources of the university to its ne ighbors, and

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"The radio station was just part of an fostering closer contact between the two groups for the benefit of both ." overall cultural development," he conStill, several years passed before cluded. "The climate was right."

As the station became more accessitownspeople were really accepted into ble to community members, the prothe running of the station.

According to Muhammad Abdul- gramming shifted from primarily lah, '70, assistant director of admis- classical to include progressive rock, sions, director of minority relations at jazz and soul programming. During Yale and a WYBC alumnus, WYBC the 1970s, jazz and soul programming was following a nation-wide trend. earned increasing popularity. Today, "New H aven was the most exciting they are the most prominent formats at place in the country in the sixties," he WYBC, which also offers a variety of said. "It was a model community then, classical, new rock, folk-music, 1950s and the civil rights movement was in rock and public affairs programming. full swing. Yale had a liberal adIn 1983, another important step for ministration which was interested in WYBC came when Dean David Hendoing something in New Haven, and son, Dean Suttle's predecessor, WYBC gained terr ific rapport with the changed Yale undergraduate regulacommunity. Here was a vehicle for tions, stipulating that students had to groups to reach masses and masses of have control of all official people. undergraduate organizations. WYBC .-~... ~ â&#x20AC;˘ cE

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20 Thl! N~!w Journal/~ptember 6. JQ85

was forced to alter its by-laws, and maintain a 60/40 balance between students and community people. Only one position on the E-board, that of program director, remains open to members of the community.

Though it appears the station does not conform to that ratio, both Moser and Suttle denied that the shutdown was part of any "scheme" for Yale to regain control of WYBC. Still , Moser didn't 'tell anyone the station was closing, and Suttle had the locks changed.

The dean even asked the Yale Police Department to close Hendrie Hall. "I realized as I was doing it that changing those locks could be seen as a symbolic act," Suttle said, "but it is by no means out of the ordinary. Compare it to chaining shut the gates of the residential colleges during the summer: I a m the landlord, and I am making the statement that those rooms a re Yale space."

While discussing the station's prob!ems this spring, Suttle foreshadowed the events of August 13. "If it came down to it," he said, "We'cl change the locks on the doors. The L:niversity is not at all powerless, and it is prepared." Suttle then stressed that these statements were not threats, and neither, he said recently, a re his current actions. He insisted, "I'm not going to tell YBC how to run itself. The link with the community is written into their by-laws. However, student control is also part of the by-laws, and my responsibility is to back the undergraduates."

Still, some community members doubt Suttle's sincerity. " I had suspected something like this would happen all year long and fought against it," Enrieb said. "It's quite clear to everyone that it's not the FCC, and it's not the money. The real reaspn we're off the air is so that the community can be ousted and the format changed:" Because of this internal disarray of technical, financial and personal ingredients Moser asked Dean Suttle for help in late July. "I'd done all that I possibly could as a human being," he

said. "Our big problems were not coming to a close. I approached Dean Suttle and told him that I could not go on like this."

At the time, Moser was not planning a station shutdown. He talked, in the first meeting as well as subsequently, of the station's problems and of how answers escaped him. "Everybody lets everything slide," Moser said. "There might be a temporary solution, but then it just slides again."

Suttle's response was to call the Board of Governors, and after the three parties had consulted with each other, the decision to close the station was made. "As we consulted with Thor Moser," DeGraffenreidt said, "and with the dean's office, we recognized that the best solution was the one Thor had presented, to go off the air temporarily." Utilizing a regulation cited

by DeGraffenreidt, Moser informed the FCC that WYBC would be leaving the airwaves for 30 days.

AU the confusion made the days after the closing particularly tense.

Etkind called an emergency meeting for the station's members, and about 20 gathered in semi-darkness in the hall outside of WYBC's locked doors.

Only one was a Yale student. Etkind also alerted local media and distributed a par tially written press release which stated, ". . . there is a very good possibility that the Yale administration has been orchestrating this shutdown."

The height of the collective anger came during the meeting with Suttle.

"We kill ourselves and don't get any thanks," Gardnt"r said. "People will fall away from us," said Andro Genius, the only undergraduate present apart from Moser. "We won't be able to build our listenership back up. YBC's reputation as a viable music outlet has been tarnished."

The seriousness of WYBC's financial situation seemed to shock the general membership. '"The fact that we needed sales so desperately was not clear to the members," Enrieb said.

M_ore ads could have been sold, fundl'lllaers could still be planned, complained other members. Moser responded by saying he had informed

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the Gen eral Board at every monthly meeting. "Don't you remember?" he queried harshly. "I remember being told th at the station was better than ever financially," Schwartz shouted .

The room resounded with applause and cheers.

The best way to solve WYBC's conglomeration of problems was an equally emotional issue. Yale could oust the comm,~nity members, and the Yale Broadcasting Company could rebuild itself from scratch. Or WYBC could sever its ties with Yale. "No one's forcing you to be a student organization," Suttle said to the members, "but that entitles you to substantial, critical resources." He was referring, of course, to the building, the phone lines and the transmitter location.

"The community members are fooling themselves that this was done to them," Moser said. "They have this big underd og attitude. But the station's problems are just as much their fault as they are Yale students'."

The "underdogs" championed not only their own cause, but also what they believe to be the station's best interests. Advertisements that had been sold could not run when the station was closed. I n some cases advertisers could not even be notified. The air silence would be detrimental to ratings. A live jazz show could not be aired. Negative feelings between Yale and New Haven would be substantially elevated. Moser, however, remained adamant. "I have no regrets about turning the station off," he stated. "We're in a bad situation with the station closed, but we were worse off with it open."

Between August 13 and August 31, the day the Board of Governors met with the WYBC E-board, members and decision-makers had time to reflect. The situation , ·Moser believed, had to be considered from a perspective outside the station, so the doors remained locked. On August 23 some community members beg:m circulating a petition to demonstrate WYBC's high listenership and rally community support , aiming for some 5000 signatures. Othe r · community

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Bazaar The Gift Shop for the Discriminating Gourmet members and two undergraduates wrote a comprehensive financial and administrative proposal for the station's future operation. Moser spent a lot of time in theE-board office mulling over possible solutions, and contacted similar college radio stations to discuss workable systems. And Suttle just waited. Because no con crete plans came out of the meeting on August 31, the Board of Governors and the d ean's office participated in a General Board meeting on September 5 .

Etkind, for one, believed the whole experience was benefic ial. " I think that the situation has brought u s closer ~ogether," he said. "W e obviou sly h ave Internal disagreements on how to run the station, but this situation has shown us that we are all for the same thing: th e continued operation of WYBC." His statement certainly reflects more optimism than many other station members posses!.. "I'm scared th at the station will open again the same way as it was when it closed," Moser admitted before the meeting with the Board of Governors. "There ~re various sides all the way down the hne," he continued. "The task will be trying to piece them together to realize our potential." . Bringing together the various d1chotomies is only part of the immense reo r ganization confronting WYBC. The station must be technically revamped. A solid budget must stabilize and dec rease the Yale bill while balancing WYBC's finances.

And in ternal relations must improve.

Words written in official by-laws merely create the framework fo r cooperation; only actions can create an en· ·vironment of respect . WYBC is, after all, o ne station . As it enters a new phase the members need to break away f~om, b u t not forget, a past of destructive management , little · insight and finally, costly divisiveness .

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Only the very sick are allowed into the Dana-3 clinic at Yale-New Haven Hospital, but somehow this woman had managed to get in, and she certainly did not look sick.

Young and pretty, wearing a colorful striped skirt and a flattering blouse, she approached Dr. Askenase and handed him her business card. "Doctor," she said, "you have to tell me if John Derek is a patient here."

"I'm sorry ," he said, "but you know I can't tell you that. " "But you have to," she replied, somewhat testily. "This guy was seeing me for a while, and now he's seeing someone else. And I just think someone ought to give hitn a call or something that's all."

"I'm afraid that's none of my business ," Doctor Askenase said. He walked away. I followed behind him.

"That's a difficult situation," I said.

The doctor looked at me dryly. "That young woman," he said, "is a prostitute. She's worried. She spends a lot of time here at the AIDS clinic."

24 The 1\:e" Journ.ti /Scptember 6. 1985

"We're all HaitiLow." -The New RlfJublic, May 13, 1985 Perhaps in a century historians will argue that the breakthrough came when an aging actor shocked the United States by announcing that he was ill- dying, really- from acquired immune deficiency syndrome, better known as AIDS. Rock Hudson's declaration made it impossible for Americans not to have at least heard of the disease, as countless magazines plastered Hudson's gaunt, tired face on their covers. The pictures showed a man who looked like he was dying. For the majority of Americans, it was the lint time they were touched by a disease that could no longer be ignored.

For the victims who have known for yean about the grim realities of AIDS, the tremendous amount of media coverage Rock Hudson attracted for the disease was indeed a breakthrough.

There have been over 12,000 cases of AIDS since the epidemic was first identified in 1981, and over 6,000 of those patients are dead. The great majority of them are gay men , and for years the gay community has desperately tried to win the attention of straight America. All of a sudden, they had it.

Gay men are not the only ones encouraged by the media blitz.

Awareness is a critical problem for doctors and scientists all over the coun try struggling to prevent the spread of an incredibly complex, inevitably fatal disease. One such person is Dr. John Rankin, Assistant Professor of Medicine at Yale-New Haven Hospital. As a physician, Rankin cares for man y of the AIDS patients who come to the hospital. Though he can not save their lives, he can prolong them by treating the secondary diseases that attack the constitutions of AIDS patients. A pulmonary specialist, Rankin also studies the AIDS virus' devastating ability to shut down the immune systems of the human lung.

A young man who looks no older

than 35, dressed casually, with long brown hair falling from his forehead and tucked behind his ears, Rankin doesn't exactly fit th~ Marcus. Welby stereotype. Only the s1x pens cl1pped to his shirt pocket provide evidence of Rankin's profession. That, and his habit of furiously, constantly scribbling notes while he talks, scrawls full of medical jargon, incomprehensible to the layman. But Rankin's words reveal a highly intelligent, highly compassionate man, willing to share his time so people will hear his warnings about AIDS. "An AIDS vaccine is not six or eight or ten months away, but longer than that," Rankin said. "It'll probably be years- and that's not even for a cure.

That's only prevention. In the meantime, the disease is going to keep spreading in numbers so high it's difficult to imagine. The gay population in particular is going to be very, very hard hit.

"The rough estimate is that ten percent of the adult males in the United States are gay, depending on exactly how you define gay, meaning purely homosexual, bisexual, whatever. Now, there are about 200 million people in the country, about half of those people are male- that makes for some ten million gay men."

He paused , tapping one finger cautiously on the table. "We believe . . . there is a good chance that within the next ten years every gay man in this country will test positive for the HTL V-III antibody, which is developed by the body after it has been exposed to the AIDS virus. Of those men, about ten percent will come down with AIDS. That is about a million deaths in the next ten years- and that's in the gay population alone. That's leaving out all the heterosexual contacts with prostitutes, the hemophiliacs, the blood transfusions, the wives of bisexual men."

Unless, of course, scientists can develop a vaccine for AIDS, but no one in the medical community seems optimistic about the chances for a vaccine in the near future. The reason: AIDS cripples the body's defenses in a

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Pulmonary specialist and AIDS researcher Rankin at work in his Yale-New Haven lab No optimism In the medical community about a vaccine in the near future

way doctors have never before en· countered. Caused by a virus known as HTLV-III , AIDS attacks the immune system, leaving the victim open to weakening , frequently gruesome secondary illnesses. The most common of these are Kaposi's sarcoma, a type of cancer usually limited to elderly men of Mediterranean origin, and Pneumo· cystis carinii, a form of pneumonia.

How the HTLV-III virus spreads, how it breaks down the body's defenses and how to fight the virus are mysteries which have frustrated the efforts of scientists both here and in Europe.

AIDS, said one doctor, is a disease "someone envisioned in his wildest nightmares.~ Rankin pointed out that the soaring number of AIDS cases will impose a financial burden on all Americans, regardless of whether or not they ha,·e the disease. Though estimates , ·ary widely, one projection puts the medical cost of treating a single AIDS patient from the time of diagnosis until death at about $145,000. Add inflation, multiply by the potential million cases among the gay populace alone, and 26 The New J ournai/Sept<-mber 6. 19R5

you'll understand why Rankin is wor· ried.

Yet so little is certain about AIDS that estimating how many the disease will strike is a near-impossible task.

The problem lies with the deceptive nature of the AIDS virus, which can be present in the body for as long as two years before symptoms show. Explained Rankin. "People's reactions to any virus vary, for ~enetic reasons or whatever. Say there's a flu ~oing around in winter. Some people wtll be put out for a week b" this ,·iru.., and be practically dead. People like vou and me, we'll get mavbe a sniffle. That's what happens with AIDS." On the sheet of paper in front of him, Rankin drew a series of circles. each inside the other. "There are going to be a lot of people up here. in the largest circle. '' ho have been expoc;cd to the virus and ha\'e de' eloped antibodies. And there will be some peo· pie, a smaller group, who ha,·e been exposed to the virus and show some minor abnormalities in their tmmune system. Next there will be an e,·cn

smaller group that will become somewhat sicker. They'll have what's caJlcd AIDS-related complex. And finally, there's the smallest group which will come down with that full· blown syndrome. These people are the o nly ones who are clinically defined as having AIDS." Since there is no way of predicting how many members of the outer groups will descend into the final cir· cle, R ankin feels it would be foolish for anvone in a risk group to rely on vague rumors of a cure or vaccine. Instead, the only realistic way of "stopping AJDS in its tracks" is to educate people about the disease, to convince them that to stav alive they will have to have to change their lifestyles. The burden of change will fall most ·heavily on gay men. ".:\l ost heterosexuals really have no need to worry right now," Rankin said. "I don't think we're at the point where a heterosexual man or woman has to ask their partner to filJ out a questionnaire before they have sex.

But among the homosexual communi· ty, there is only one piece of advice

•

• •

AIDS, said one doctor, ·is a disease "someone envisioned in his wildest nightmares." that is really going to make a difference: everyone who is gay should not be involved in · the transmission of bodily fluids." . Such advice would mean a drastically altered sex life for gay men, who would have to avoid any exchange of saliva while kissing and be forced to wear condoms during both anal and oral sex.

Rankin continued, "We certainly tell men that affection between couples is possible: hugging and kissing and mutual masturbation are encouraged so that emotional gratification can be attained. There's no question that would involve a tremendous change in lifestyle for a lot of people. Still, that has to be the way to stop this, because once someone comes down with AIDS there's nothing we can do." Rankin drew a large zero on the paper.

"Tragically, you have to write those people off."

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I met Laurie Help-f in at Yale-New Haven about a half hour before she was to take a blood test that she hoped would tell her, after a year and a half of uncertainty, whether she had AIDS. In her late twenties, with freckles and short brown hair, Helprin appeared healthy. Nonetheless, she had no sure explanation for the illness that has plagued the last 18 months of her life.

When did you first start feeling sick?

About a year and a half ago, I got really, really sick. I lost about 30 pounds-vomiting, diarrhea, everything. I was running high fevers every night and was in a lot of pain. I Went to a hospital, and they tried to do an appendectomy on me. Well, that Wasn't the problem.

When did you first think you might have AIDS? See, I was an intravenous drug user before. I never thought I had it, they just told me that. I think I got labeled because I was a drug user, I had hepatitis-B, I had an immunity problem. And when my tests came in everything wa~ pointing that way.

But now . . . I'm too healthy to have AIDS. That's what I feel.

How did someone from a small town in rural Connecticut get involved in using intravenous drugs?

It's easy, they're all over the place.

I'm not too far from a town called Norwich, and there's a lot of drugs on the street there. Misery loves company, you know, 'cause that's what happened.

This girl was doing it, and I just ended up doing it with her. And at first I wanted no part of it. It made me sick when I saw her getting off. But that's where I got the hepatitis from.

Had you heard anything about AIDS then?

No. Nothing at all. Feels like an awful long time ago, now. Feels like a million years.

So you became addicted to heroin? How often did you have to shoot?

God, as many times a day as I could.

Minimum once a day if the money was tight. We were going to New York to buy because it was cheaper there, and it's just too much when you got two people doing it. Me and my husband.

And when you were in the city for drugs you weren't concerned about what needles you used?

Nope, There was a big box of them and when you needed a works somebody just gave you one. Even if they were clean, the places weren't: one room and maybe 30 people.

around the house a lot. I never yelled or anything like that in my life before.

How has your life changed?

Everything. My home life; you gotta look out for the children. I don't taste the food when I'm making dinner anymore. My parents, my friends treat me different. They could see I was ill.

My husband, he's really scared. I mean, he hasn't shown any symptoms or anything, but it's like a time bomb waiting to go off. My son, he's 14, he's protective, he's bright, "Don't do this, don't go near that, you're gonna get sick." But my husband . . . it's funny. I can't explain it. He hovers.

Have you had arry problems getting medical care? · I can't get a doctor where I live to treat me. I had one, but he transferred to W-----, and I can't go there. His associates won't take me. They said they had full case loads- after looking at 1ny records, I'm sure.

I got refused by three or four doctors about two weeks ago. I was really sick, and I couldn't get anyone to help ine.

Each one came up with a different excuse. I got in to see one, and he almost fell out of his chair when I told him what was happening. He said, "I can't handle this, I'm too old, I'm about to retire." That's just what he said to me.

How do you feel now?

I feel a lot better now. Everything's kind of up in the air. I just got some really good news from my regular blood tests: they're normal, so I might not have AIDS. That's great. They're not really sure what's going on now, because I'm getting better whatever was wrong with me I'm getting better. \

•

How do you feelTtow about that time ofyour life?

I resent it a lot. I can't believe some of the things I did. I've changed. I'm on the verge of snapping most of the time, because I let it get to me. I sleep a lot but it doesn't do me any good because I'm . always tired. I'm edgy. I yell •

•

Scientists Find AIDS Virus in the Teardrops of a Victim - The ew York Times 811 7/85

Contrary to what many Americans once thought. the HTLV-III virus isn't limited to any social, ethnic or exual The . "ew Journal' 'eptember 6. 1985 27

group and it never has been. For the disease to make its methodical way out of minority risk groups and into the general poP,ulation was simply a function of time. Now the virus is in an intermediate stage where the number of risk groups has grown but the majority of Americans are still not threatened.

The new potential victims? They are prostitutes, patrons of prostitutes, wives or lovers of bisexual men, and perhaps most tragically, young children and infants. It is too late to help many of these new victims, but for Dr. George Miller, saving the lives of children is how the battle against AIDS may be won or lost for the next generation.

A pediatrician, Miller has a five-year grant from the federal government to study how AIDS is passed from an infected mother to her child and what can be done to halt the process. As more and more women are exposed to the HTLV-111 virus, that problem will become an increasingly significant and emotional element of the AIDS crisis.

"We went backwards," explained Miller, who speaks in so few words that ht' seems almost self-conscious about his work. "Instead of starting with the mothers, we found the infants first, and then looked to find the mothers." A lab technician separates blood cells to determine the presence of AIDS virus.

Next to Miller sat Kelsey Martin, "Once someone comes down with AIDS, there's nothing we can do."

Miller's research assistant. A Harvard graduate about to enter Yale disease. To do that they had to create a be infected for very long periods of Medical School, Martin explained that new blood test, one more accurate and time and that they can transmit the infection for a very long time. The although the babies were referred to specific than that used by blood banks. them through the hospital, finding the It took them about a year, but even- chances are that once a woman is inmothers was more difficult than they tually the pair created a test which fected, she will be capable of transmithad expected. For many of the would identify specific proteins within ting it to her infant indefinitely."

But Miller doesn't know how the inchildren, there were no mothers to be the HTLV-III virus. Though their test found; most of the women were poor, is too complex to be used on a large fants actually get their exposure to the and several were prostitutes. All had scale, it did prove that the infants had virus. It could be from the shared given up their children. "To find the HTLV-111 in their blood. The next blood within the mother's womb, or mothers," Martin said, "I went through question became: Where did they get during the post-natal stage through the any contact I could find , whether it was it? The two then tested the mothers mother's milk, or even as the baby a physician, a drug detox worker, a they had located, finding what they had passes down the birth . canal during social worker, a policeman, any type of expected. The women also tested posi- labor. Miller does believe that "the infants are especially susceptible to the contact." One of the mothers, a pros- tive for the AIDS antigen.

Miller's findings show that a woman virus, and a very high percentage of titute, had died, probably from AIDS. Since 1984, Miller and Martin have who has been exposed to HTLV-III those who are exposed will come down located 12 children who appeared to be has a disturbingly high chance of giv- with the full-blown syndrome, probinfected; three of them have since died. ing birth to a baby with AIDS. He ex- ably somewhere between 20 and 50 The researchers' first step was to deter- plained, "We think that this virus per- percent." Though it hasn't happened mine if the children did indeed have the sists in a carrier, that individuals can yet, Miller may soon find himself 28 The New Journal/September 6, 1985

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maintain the social status quo. But awareness isn't hard to come by for a gay man; in major cities like New York and Los Angeles, it is rare to find a homosexual male who has not seen a friend or acquaintance die from AIDS. "I n the summer ofl981, when the first reports came out, of course I thought the federal government would turn its entire armamentarium on it," recalled Dr. Alvin Novick, Yale Professor of Biology'. ' "By the spring of 1982, it was obvious to me that almost nothing was being done. And then in the middle of that summer, a very close and dear friend of mine, a Yale alumnus, came to me and said, 'I have AIDS.' After that, it didn't take long for me to realize that I had to get involved."

For Dr. Fred Gager, who practices general medicine at his office on Edwards Street in New H aven, awareness came in the same painful way. "I first heard about AIDS from another physician, a friend of mine, about four and a half years ago," Gager said. "We both -considered it a remote, far-off thing, a disease that we would probably never see. About four months after that, I heard that my friend was in the hospital. The doctors weren't sure what he had, but it appeared to be terminaL I said, 'That's crazy, I just saw him a few months ago, he looked great.' And two months after that, my friend was dead.''

The experiences of both men compelled them to fight AIDS in any way they could. Gager took out an ad in a gay magazine and began to treat AIDS patients with personal care that can be hard for such people to find. Novick began writing urgent letters to doctors, politicians and health officials, while giving lectures across the country and helping to found the counseling and educational center, AIDS Project New H aven.

Though just as concerned as Novick, Gager admits that his freedom to speak out about AIDS is limited. As a private physician, Gager can't afford to risk losing business from straight patients who might not want to patronize an "AI DS doctor." Nonetheless, he has advertised his services in The Advocate, a national gay magazine, for several

"Homophobia is the only widespread , socially acceptable form of bigotry in America today." years. "A la rge percentage of my practice consists of gay individuals who come here either with a very specific problem, or who just want to come and be checked out and learn about AIDS," Gager explained. There is certainly ample cause for such concern; as of August 21, there were 144 cases of AIDS in Connecticut, making this state 13th in AIDS cases in the nation- a high ranking considering that Connecticut is one of the smallest states in the country . Eighty-six of those victims are gay or bisexual men, 78 are dead and 43 are from New Haven County. It is no wonder that gay men come to a doctor whom they know is sympathetic.

Indeed, Gager acts as a reliable source o f information in an apprehensive gay community which eagerly consumes new rumors about AIDS research . Gager finds the hardest part of such a role is dispelling the terror and myths which surround the disease.

To do that, he has to talk bluntly about the specifics of AIDS, how you can get the disease and how you can't. "My feel~ng is that you will get the virus if dunng sexual contact there is some kind of open abrasion on the body," Gager said. "I can't be sure, but I think the transmission of the virus is via the blood more than anything else. I really don't harp on the theory of the exchange of bodily fluids like semen and saliva. I think that theory leads to the false conception that if during sex you go almost to the point of orgasm, but don't actually have orgasm, you won't spread the disease. This is just not so."

Despite Gager's dedication, his frequent contact with AIDS patients can be a tremendous strain. "It's very ~isenchantin g to see someone usually In the prime of their life, in their tv."enries or thirties, come down "'-ith a disease that you

can't cur e," Gager said. "You get frustrated. You'd like to have a day ofT when you're able not to think about it.

But no matter what you feel inside, you have to give people hope. Without that, they have nothing to live for.

Whether that helps them make it three months longer, six months longer, I don't know, but you have to try."

For Novick, giving hope to an AIDS patient means being able to tell him that he won't lose his job, or be evicted from his apartment, or go broke paying hospital bills. Novi& admits that the day when AIDS patients are free of such worries is far ofT, in part because AIDS victims have so few spokespeople, in part because of unpleasant but omnipresent human traits like selfishness and b igotry. "What we are seeing in the social and medical responses to this disease is the direct conflict between a tradition of prejudice and the health care needs of a large group of American society," Novick charged. "People who have AIDS o r who are in a risk g roup can suffer severe social punishment if their lifestyle o r illness is know n . I am lucky; I am in an academic setting where I'm allowed to speak out. But I am also a gay man, a physician and a scientist. I have a responsibility."

In 1982 Novick began to study the ethical issues raised by this new disease but which the federal and state governments were ignoring.

What he found was that, as if having the disease were not enough of a burden, an AIDS victim has virtually none of the civil rights largely taken for granted in this country. Novick, an older man with graying hair and a white beard, almost grandfatherly in manner, speaks angrily of such discrimination. "The situation is bad enough in Connecticut for gay people.

We have no rights. If you're gay, you can be fired, evicted, denied public accomodations and transportation. Now, I don't know how often these things happen to gays, but they do happen to gays who have AIDS. And I don't think it's fear so much as hostility.

Because homophobia is the only widespread, socially acceptable form of btgotry in America today. You see it in

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"There is a good chance that within the next ten years virtually every gay man in America will test positive for HTLV-111."

C linical immunology supe rvisor Rick Bla1er t ests blood a t Ya le-New Haven .

the movies, 111 the media-everywhere."

To fight such prejudice, Novick concentrates his <'f'fons on five issues: risk reduction, to reach the public about prevention: education for health care professionals. to limit the kind of problem Laurie Helprin encountered while trying to gt•t treatment; access to health care. '"hether it be in a hospital, home or hospice: ethical concerns. such as whether to allow a child with AIDS to attend school; and public advocacy. speaking up anv ..,•here to anyone who ~ill listen.

So far, it hasn't been easy. Most doctors are reluctant to listen to Novick. who explained, "I'm trying to educate people who feel they already are the ultimate in compassion and sensitivity.

But having a license to practice doesn't make you compassionate. So there are a lot of doctors 1 can't reach. I can reach medical students, social workers, nurses, home aids, emergency medical personnel and morticians."

But to be most effective, Novick has to reach those people one by one, expending time he feels AIDS victims can scarcely afford. H e doesn't expect any kind of AIDS vaccine until at least five years from now and maybe not until the beginning of the next century.

Until then, despite the efforts of individuals like Gager, Miller and Rankin, Novick warns that the social divisions caused by AIDS will continue to worsen As they do, the critical question .... ill become whether the 32 The :-lew Journal Sep1ember 6. 198!>

American public will respond to AIDS with reason and caring or .., ith fear and hatred. For gav'>, who can sull be sent to prison in 23 states for having sex in their own homes, the prospect of an angry nation torn apart by AIDS can only hurt their chances for acceptance in American society.

Epilogu~

If you passed the \Valkers on the street, from a distance, you might never know: Peter, a handsome man with a dark tan. Margaret. young and attractive, cheeks flushed with color. But if you looked closer. it's clear that the couple is no t as peaceful as two recently-married. loving adults have the right to be. Peter, well over six feet tall, weighs only 135 pounds; this August marked the one vear "anniversan:" that he has had AIDS. "In the winter of 1984, I was in the hospital in Flonda for back surgery."

Walker remembered. It seems to tire him to talk, and when he does, the weakness of his voice makes him sound on the ,·erge of tears. "And thev did a blood test on me . Found I had a low platelet count . The blood specialist didn't know what it was, he just gave me pills, and it seemed to get better.

But I know I had it then."

Shortly after he left the ho pita! from the back operation. \\'alker came down

:Vith a case of pneumonia wh ich his doctors p redicted would keep h im in bed for about five days. But the illness d id n't go away a nd Walker's condition deteriorated. H e ended u p spending 50 days in the hosp ital while his doctors tried to discover what was wrong with him. In the meantime Walker, too iU to work, was fi red from h is job at an aircraft factory. H e also exh austed most of his savings. W hen P eter cou ld finally leave the h ospital, he moved to Connecticut with Margaret, his fiancee, at the request of his mother-and also because Connecticut h as better h ealth insurance th an Florid a. Then last August Walker h ad a seizure in the shower an d passed out. A scared Margaret rushed him to the hospital, where tests revealed the H TLV-111 in his blood.

"I told the doctor, 'H ow could I h ave AIDS, I'm not gay,"' Walker recalled, sh aking h is head. "I did n't know much about it then." Once an occasional user of intravenous cocaine, Walker added, "I wasn't educated abou t the fact that intravenous drugs could give it to you.

I am now."

Nonetheless, last November ll.1argaret and Peter were married.

Margaret explained, "We h ad already decided, a lread)l set a date, when we found out th at he was sick . I j u st felt that wasn't a n y reason to back out. H e needed someone more th an anyth ing.

He didn't need someone to ru n out on him." Though the two abstain from sex, the l<Jve between them isn't threatened by P eter's condition . If anything, his illness h as brough t them closer because it makes communication so important.

After their marriage, neither of

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Now, Margaret can drain the fluid herself at their home. It means no more spinal taps and much less pain.

Perhaps the hardest adjustment for Walker has been the realization that he is no longer well enough to act his young age. Constantly tired, Walker does little besides watch television and read. Except for tentative ventures on a bike, physical exercise is an impossibility.

Both of the Walkers admit that they're scared about what will happen to Peter in the months ahead, but they look to each other for strength and support. Peter doesn't like to talk about the future, but Margaret explained earnestly, "We look forward a lot to someone finding a cure for it. We've heard a lot about the studies that they're doing now and it seems to us that they're really close . All we can do is hope." Peter quietly repeated, "All we can do is hope ."

•

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JoumaJ,Septem~r

6. 1985 33

The difficulty of bringing together 120 men, hundreds of plays and tons of equipment to produce a winning team.

ports/Dan Waterman ----------------~----------------------------------~

Behind the Facemask

"Nobody is h ere just to play footb a ll.

We're here b ecau se this is Yale . W e're all scholars first, and we play football because we like it."

Clad in a shiny ~' hite helmet and ~rey sweats still damp from morning calisthenics on the dewy playing field, Steve Skwara runs down the sidelines surrounded by his fellow linemen.

Thirty yards down the field Skwara, PC '86, and the others end their sprint and jog to the sideline, only to begin another drill. They do a frantic shuffie, keeping themselves low to the ground and criss-crossing their legs, until they have sidestepped back to their original starting point. "Come on!" the offensive line coach yelled from the sidelines. "Keep those butts down! You guys oughta look like the Rockeues!"

The players continue their awkward dance down the field one after the other, like a twtsted ~arne of folio.,.. the leader. Skwara finishes and stands up straight, gazing across the field at the other players while waiting to run the drill once agam. Perhaps he sees Kelly Rvan hunched over. hands spread bet\,:een the center's legs. glancing to both side-; at the other quarterbacks around him. H e pauses, waiting for Coach Carm Cozza to call the play. "forty-two . . . 39 . . . hike!" the coach screamed. Rvan drop<; back and raises his arm to th.row. but suddenly swmgs around. handmg the ball off to an imaginary running back Tucking the ball under his arm. Rvan meanders

back to the ltne of scrimmage to do it all over again Across the field the defense runs backwards, and at the 50-yard line, receivers run their patterns over and over.

Three weeks ago the practice field was empty, no watchtowers and no baseball-capped coaches. Now the sounds of football reverberate through the air: the crack of shoulder pad against hip pad, the panting of men sprinting from end zone to end zone.

As happens every year, the Yale football team has returned for its preseason training camp. With hopes of producing a winning squad, the coaches have brought together 120 young men, hundreds of plays and formations, and several tons of equipment for ten days. The practice 9ay begins at six-thirty a.m. and ends at 10:30 p.m., two field sessions, team meals , practice films and talks with coaches falling in between.

After training camp. however, something changes. The desire to push through the last set of sprints or to perfect coverage on the receiver means very little to other students sitting in a history lecture. This isn't the team any more. The athlete's height and bulk separate him from other Yalies. One look places him in the category "football player," the dumb jock- hardTh~ :-.;~,..

JournAl Scpt~m!M-r 6. 1985 35

After 90 minutes of p r a ctice, players line up for the morning water break.

The desire to push through the last set of sprints means very little to other students.

drinking, clannish, violent. Yale does not cushion a player's life with athletic scholarships or bonuses; most professors do not give passing grades to men simply because of their sport.

Unlike those in the P ac-10, the majority of football players here realize they will never play in the pros, or even gain recognition outside Yale. There are no obvious reasons for playing football at Yale. Even the players have their doubts sometimes. But they do have their reasons for playing, even if most students fail to understand them.

Going into the pre-season training camp, the team was under the added pressure of being widely favored to win the Ivy League title this fall. According to Sports Illustrated, "Yale has returned to form and should be the best of the Ivies. The Elis won six of their last seven games behind a slew of sophomores." Included in those six victories was an exciting, come-from-behind win over a strong Harvard team.

P layers and coaches, however, remain . wary. They remember that the same prediction was made in 1983, the year Yale had a humiliating 1-9 record.

For now, the team and coaches put the predictions and the memory of bad luck away, focusing instead on the three months ahead. The work for the upcoming season began almost as soon as the last one ended, players weight36 The New Journal/September 6. 1985

lifting and running through the oilseason into the summer. Following a rigorous weight-training program devised by the coaches, players spent much of the summer in their old high school gyms, their garages, their basements. More than¡ most of his teammates, Yves Labissiere knows the importance of summer training. A highly touted defensive lineman, Labissiere, DC '87, dislocated his shoulder during last year's football camp. He missed most of the season, playing only in the last five games.

This year, Labissiere arrived at camp showing no signs of last season's physical struggle. Sporting a tank-top that covered a massive upper torso, Labissiere stunned his teammates. For many players, Labissiere's comeback exemplifies the substantial difference summer lifting can make. Labissiere's progress stems partly from the pleasure he takes in summer training. "I really like seeing how much you can push yourself, how much can be dished out to you. It sounds sadistic, but it's enjoyable," Labissiere said.

Labissiere performed the workouts faithfully not only for . the personal satisfaction but because he trusts the advice of his coaches. A native of Haiti, Labissiere grew up in a strict household where he learned the benefits of self-discipline. As a child, he

played soccer, but when his family moved to this country Labissiere got his first introduction to football. During his fre shman year at Holy Cross H igh School in Queens, New York, Labissiere was approached by the foot.ball coach. Although he initially thought football was "wild, crazy and stupid," he grew to enjoy the training, and it became an important part of his life. By his senior year, Labisierre had become captain of the team and an AllLeague player, a great prospect for colleges with large football programs.

Labisierre signed a letter of intent with Syracuse University, but his mother, who felt education was more important than football, convinced him to apply to schools with more stringent academic requirements. Having already signed with Syracuse, Labissiere had to consider schools in a lower athletic division, and narrowed his choices down to Holy Cross or Yale. He has no doubt that he made the best choice.

Many players at Yale were in Labissiere's p osition, with impressive high school stats and the chance to enter major college football programs.

Yet they chose Yale. Most wanted to continue playing the game, but realized they would be cut from Division I teams. At smaller, Division I-A Yale, they could still play while receiving a better education than at the football powers. "Nobody is h e re just to play football," J ohn Duryea, Yale's top placekicker, said. "We're here because this is Yale. We're all scholars first, and we play football because we like it, that's all." Duryea, a mere 170 pounds, speaks modestly, although he holds Florida'!' longest .field goal record for a high school player. With that much talent, Duryea could have easily gone to a better football school than Yale.

"You could always go to a football factory like Texas, but what good would it do you?" Duryea asked.

If you've ever seen a . film of a fight be-

Stretching before the day's workout: few will play for the pros or even pin recognition outside Yale.

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Trying to build a squad that can win the Ivy League title this fall

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Three weeks ago the practice field was empty, no _watchtowers and no baseball-capped coaches. Now the sounds of football reverberate through the air: the crack of shoulder pad against hip pad, the panting of men sprinting from end zone to end zone.

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tween two male rams, their horns interlocked, thrusting with their sinewy legs, pounding each other relentlessly for dominance of a territory, then you ~now what two football players look hke during the "hamburger" drill. An offensive man and a defensive man face off, arms braced in front of them, heads bent forward and feet planted in the damp turf, each determined to stop the other. Wearing pads for the first time this season, partially caked in mud from this morning's brisk rain, they stand in line, nervously watching their fellow linemen hitting each other and awaiting their turn. The players don't enjoy the drill. It is one thing to batter a player from another team, but something else entirely to batter your friends. Waiting in line, the players fidget, trying to forget what's in front of them. \1\'hen it's over, they might slap each other forgivingly, but they still have to get back in line to do it all over again. \1\'ith such clashes occuring time after time, dav after day, the tension between pla}¡ers is inevitable, especially with the competition for starting positions. :'-Jonetheless, the camaraderie of the players prevents

those tensions from pulling the team apart.

Kelly R yan, a sophomore quarterback from Springfield, Illinois, maintains that his best friends both at home and at Yale are his teammates.

"You spend a lot of time together, all striving for the same goal, working with them,constantly trying to improve and become better," Ryan said.

Because the players spend as much time together off the field as on, many students view them as an insular and unhealthy clique. Organizations such as Delta Kappa Epsilon (DKE), whose members are mostly football players and other athletes, have in the past contributed to an image of dumb and drunken jocks. Most students do not want football players at their parties for fear of fights and vandalism. Few people feel comfortable enough to sit at a table full of players in a dining hall.

"I've gone to quite a few parties where someone will introduce me to another as a football play~r and I'll immediately get a cold shoulder," R yan said.

The players are aware of and sensitive to their reputation on campus.

Said Skwara, "Being a football player

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Offensive linemen working to perfect their blocking techniques "You could always go to a football factory like Texas, but what good would It do you?"

at Yale, you carry a burden, because as soon as one of us slips up the fault is attributed to the entire team. You must carry yourself better, because it's always a football player's fault."

Most players feel that reputation promotes the insularity for which they are criticized. "You get fed up with the prejudices after a while and you tend to bond together," Duryea explained.

"Then you begin to act the way people stereotype you. People preconceive the jock and the a"thlete develops a "jock" aura. One feeds the other. It's not good, but it happens." To Duryea, the football team seems to Yale as Yale seems to New Haven , a closed and intimidating community.

Perhaps the only time the entire Yale communitv backs the football team is for The 'came, more often an excuse for a party than an athletic event. But the players don't resent having such erratic support. "If we are being used, it really doesn't matter," R yan said. "In a selfish way, we can't do it for anyone else but ourselves. We have to function as though we have no W The New Journal/ Seprember 6, 1985

support at all, so if no one were around we could still do it on our own. It's what I'd like to think, but I hope I never have to find out."

Players like Skwara, an offensive tackle, can't rely on fan support for inspiration. Unlike a quarterback or receiver, Skwara plays a game of anonymity, trying to contain the defense while opening holes for running backs. "You don't get much recognition outside of the offensive team," Skwara said. "I get a deeper satisfaction out of my own work, even if it's a few plays in scrimmage that I did well. No statistics can tell vou how well you did." Lately Skwara has found a new way to help his game, a process of mental training. and visualization, picturing the perfect· block or the perfect play over and over again.

Rarely, if ever, does Skwara actually make the ultimate block, but he still believes that visualization improves his performance. Occasionally the fantasizing gets out of hand, such as the time Skwara went running and daydreamed about the perfect game.

)~:r~KAYE'S I

Most players feel that reputation promotes the insularity for which they are criticized. "You get fed up with the prejudices after a while and you tend to bond together," Duryea explained. "Then you begin to act the way people stereotype you.

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SALE: 1f2 Price H e saw the ball fumbled during a play, saw himself picking it up, running down the field past the confused defense and into the end-zone. Whe n Skwara snapped out of his dream , h e found himself two miles further down the road.

On Old Campus, a group of lar ge young men returns from Ray Tompkins House after another_long evening with the coaches and staff. Dressed in clean shorts and t-shirts , showered , relaxed and exhausted, they lumbe r through the Vanderbilt archway and slowly begin to separate, mov ing toward their entryways and their beds.

Except for the sound of an o ccasional ·::~dio , Vanderbilt grows quiet. Lights are turned off. The players lie in their beds . In the back of their minds they know what tomorrow holds for them: another hit, another drill , done for n o one's satisfaction but their own .

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Books

For Rowing's Sake Rob Werling

I '

"A good crew meant shoehorning some eighteen hundred pounds of meat and ambition and ego into a thin shell that weighed about 180 pounds and then making it work."

42 The '"" luurr1.1l Sepl<'miM-r 6. 1985

The Amateurs David H alberstam 1985 W illiam Morrow and Company, Inc. After three years of frustration with newspaper and magazine articles about rowing, I concluded that it is difficult to write about crew and impossible to do it well. The sportswriter assigned to a race must negotiate the mercilessly nar row gap between crew's twin dangers: the sport is, on one side, thoroughly saturated with terms alien to the general public; yet on the other side, crew is amazingly simple. What could be more basic, what could be (I'm almost afraid to ask) more boring than two boats going down a river to see which is faster? Surely, any reporter could describe a boat race without bringing in any of those cryptic terms: "the catch" or "power-ten" or "up-two" or "three-seats-up" or "a-bowdeck-down" or "weigh-enough." But jargon always manages to slip into the articles. We rowers cringe, knowing that most readers are nodding their heads politely without really understanding just what happened out on that river.

While the premise of David Halberstam's The Amateurs intrigued me, I remained skeptical of yet another journalist's attempt at wrestling with the experience and language of rowing. But a lew awkward exceptions aside, The Amateurs proved more successful at taming the terminology of crew than I

imagined possible. Moreover, Halberstam effectively communicates to both rowers and laymen the rarefied spirit of amateur athletics.

In an entertatntng, if often overdramatic account of the endeavors of four world-class oarsmen, the author reveals what makes amateurs special and quite separate from professionals.

Halberstam's is not so much a continuous narrative as a series of vignettes concer ning driven, independent athletes. The characters, Yale graduates John Biglow, '79, and Joe Bouscaren, '80, TifT Wood o f Harvard and Brad Lewis o f University of California-Irvine, all strive to become the top single sculler in the nation , and so, represent the U.S. at the 1984 Summer Olympics.

Halberstam devotes individual chapters to his oarsmen, hoping to explain the lives and ambitions of each: the older, graceless Wood; the insecure Westerner Lewis; the tenacious Bouscaren and the strangely volatile Biglow, the ultimate winner of the title.

Although the men come together for the U.S. single-sculling championship, the chapters seldo_m overlap. Rather, the book frequently reads like a string of exciting yet loosely related sports pages. If Halberstam meant to write a biographical novel or even a simple story, his disjointed approach seriously undermines his efforts.

Therefore, the power of the work lies neither with the plot nor structur:e,

i J

f

I1

j

but with that all-consuming desire of tach oarsman to be the best. The athletes row for the sake of rowing.

They know that excellence in the spon does not lead to multi-million dollar, DO-cut contracts with professional franchises, nor well-paid endorsements of cereals and sportswear. Indeed, their rowing fame will probably never reach beyond their hometowns. Nonethelesa, these men are driven to suffer, to laerifice, to work and push themselves beyond their limits.

Such drive surely exists outside of rowing. Yet Halberstam sees that rowing and amateurism are tightly bound together, and their bond is especially PI'Onounced because of the anonymity of' crew, its great distance from television cameras and the viewing public.

The total devotion of each man to the lpon fascinates the author, and Halberstam often writes as if mesmerized by both the mechanics of lOWing as well as the beauty of llnateur athletics.

A good crew mt-ant shoehomin'l' some eighteen hundred pounds of meat and ambition and e'I'O into a thin shell that -eighed about 180 pounds and then !baking it "'ork. But in the case of a ~at ere". there was something more glorious . .. Here were eight oar'lmen, having Y.Orked so hard and sacrificed so lhuch, catching ~omethtng magrcal and doing it race after race, each oarsman lhaking the others better. The feeling lhade them not JUSt confident but also ¡

Bd:au.e of t beil: si rigle goal and unadulterated love of rowing, the four atbletet often come across u strikingly selfish people, blind to the needs and cares of others. The selfiShness leads each rower away from the team boats -eights, fours, pairs-and into single scull competition. Collegiate rowing. however, emphasizes competition in eights, and oarsmen must cooperate in order to succeed. A certain understanding prevails in rowing a good team boat, but Halberstam's competitors often disregard this code. In races and practices, no one speaks but the coxswain. Yet during one race, Tiff Wood screams, "Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!"

Halberstam does not realize that he has given an example of deplorable teamwork. He notices only the exceptional drive and determination of Wood Biglo"' and th,. other have the ~ ... me probkr ¡ach trusting just himself in., '>port thar relies upon the wutual trust among all nine members of a boat.

Along with this lack of team conciousness, the four oarsmen demonstrate an inability to deal with other individuals. The rowers in the book are outcasts, each a shy man who uses

rowing to bring him confidence. Excellence in crew does give them strength, out it takes the shape of disdain and lack of respect for others. The characters themselves often make for unpleasant reaCling. But a crucial part of the book's message i'l that this selfishness is integral to he insane drive of the pure amateur. :Each of the oarsmen is consumed b~ his own yearning to succeed in the sport. Yet success can be measured only by the competitor himself, not by the ch~r of crowds or by a friend'!! congratula--:--...¡'311tions. Pcrha~ the <~elf-imposed t'l<>lation, the unrelenting ~lf-critici!'im somehow absolve the oanman. Then again, perhaps not.

This ambiguity lends Th~ Amal~urs much of its drama. And based on my three years of experience with Yale c rew, I kno~~ this predicament is very real to people at all levels of collegiate rowing. Rowers at Yale share an affiiction with Halberstam's oarsmen , driving themselves through painful workouts, then often fanng the same social crises.

Although rowing frequently begins as a vague. non-commital interest, it becomes all-consuming, as the rower grows infatuated with everything crewrelated, talks incessantlv about the sport, and in winter. ;pcnds three hours a day in torture at the gym.

People try to quit sometimes. for whatever reason, but most can't; they always come back. Anyone who has The

~c"'

JournaiJS<:-pt('mbcr 6, 1985 43

Crossing the Line Lisa Pirozzolo

seen such mania has seen a true amateur, a person who loves a sport as sport, who burns to succeed just to succeed.

Halberstam has isolated this wonderful amateur's virus and translated it onto paper. He has overcome the double-edged challenge of crew's lingo, generally avoiding both confusion and boredom for rowers and non-rowers alike. Better still, he has used crew to a id him in praising a purity of spirit and the drive that accompanies it. The author proves that in its highest form, such a quality can only be seen in amateur athletes. In the final chapter of the book, Halberstam describes the amateur's hard-won inner satisfaction as experienced by an oarsman soon after the Olympics: Rr:1d

Lt>wi~

(~old

mt'dalist in doublt'

~rull-<) c-njovt>d immi-nst>ly tht' !(t"ilnd

tOur of the Unitt'd Stall'~ \\uh the other Am~ric:an Olympic: medalists. e,¡en though being a gold medalist in a sport as eccentric as rowing did not increase his fame very much. The other rowers knew that he had won a gold. and some local papers paid attention.

Other than that. the feeling of pleasure came entirely from within. What \\as it. he asked a friend. that Andy Warhol had said about famt' in America? That it lasted for fifteen minutes? That was probably right.

â&#x20AC;˘ Rob Wnling, a stnior in Timoth_y Dwight, has rowtd on tht Yalt varsity hratywright tight for two years.

H

The Nr" .Journal/September 6. 1985

From Fact to Fiction

by Shelley Fisher Fishkin 1985 Johns Hopkins University Press Newspaper reporters, whether chasing firetrucks or sneaking around city halls, are the hands-on chroniclers of life in America. Though seldom praised for their eloquence or creativity, most reporters are driven by a sincere desire to expose the truth about things monumental and insignificant.

But the daily grind of journalism limits a reportn from becoming a writn, making it difficult to express truths more complex than who, what, where, when and why. Frustrated by the incessant demands of deadlines, cynical editors and uncommitted audiences, many reporters dream of writing fiction.

Only a few do, however, and even they bring with them the values and techniques of their experiences in journalism.

In her new book From Fact to Fiction, Shelley Fisher Fishkin, former director of Yale's Poynter Fellowship in journalism, argues that "an astonishing proportion of major American writers since Whitman learned their craft as reporters of fact." Fishkin makes her case by documenting the careers and writings of five major reporters who turned to fiction: Walt Whitman, Theodore Dreiser, Ernest Hemingway, John Dos Passos and Mark Twain . All spent years working for magazines and newspapers before taking up fiction, and the experience in city streets, warfare and social injustice they gained as reporters figured prominently in their fiction. Mark Twain, for example, wrote stories about the racism he witnessed as a reporter, while Dreiser wrote of the poverty and

,The tendency towards "immersion in experience" fostered by these former journalists is crucial to defining the American aesthetic, helping to answer the longdebated question of what is American about American literature. the wealth he saw in New York. According to Fishkin, the tendency towards "immersion in experience" fostered by th ese former journalists is crucial to defining the American aesthetic, helping to answer the longdebated question of what is American about American literature .

After a short introduction, Fishkin devotes one chapter to each author, including autobiographical details of the writers' newspaper careers, analysis and excerpts of their newspaper articles, and most importantly, a d iscussion of how their early articles influen ced their later fiction. The W hitman chapter opens with 12-year-old Walt taking his first journalism job at the Long Island Patriot, then focuses on his experiences in the streets of New Yorkthe people and scenes that became the stuff of his poetry. Fishkin reprints "Life in a New York Market," an article Whitman wrote when editor of the Aurora, then a major New York daily.

While other papers covered the market by reporting the day's prices and products, Whitman described the market's lellers, buyers and wares in colorful , evocative language. Fishkin points out that the market characters and the style of Whitman's article are virtually duplicated in "Song of M yself," his best-known work.

From addressing how on-the-job experiences influenced the writing of these five men, Fishkin then explores bow their work influenced American fiction. Twain, Fishkin asserts, developed his characteristic technique 0(juxtaposing varied moods and styles 'While writing letters as a traveling correspondent. While on a sea voyage in 1867, Twain provided a variety of episodes in his letters, ranging from lbe tragic death of a child to the amusIng downfall of a con man to a standard landscape description . The same technique plays- ·prominently in the Picaresque style of Huclckberry Finn .

Similarly, Fishkin traces Hemingway's style back to his first reporting job at the Kansas City Star. The Star's style sheet reads like a Hemingway guide to better writing: "Use short paragraphs. Use vigorous English. Be positive, not negative.

Avoid use of adjectives, especially such extravagant ones as splendid, gorgeous, magnificent, etc." The brevity and simplicity acquired at the Star became Hemingway's trademark as a writer.

Although these writers brought their experience as reporters to their fiction, they all found journalism an madequate means of expression. "\:Vhile a journalist could hope, at best, to shape the reader's view of a specific phenomenon or e'·ent, the imaginative writer aspired to nothing less than transforming the reader's way of seeing," Fishkin writes. Aside from the constraints of journalistic language, all these writers experienced some form of

censorship. While reporting in San Francisco, Twain was sympathetic to the_ d iscrimination practiced against Chmese merchants, but his articles on the subject were harshly cut by newspapers reluctant to endanger their subscription rates. T wain turned to tongue-in-cheek fiction to express his views. In one satire, "Disgraceful Persecution of a Boy," a young lad mak es the ironic statement, "God w ill not love me if I do not stone (the Chinaman)." The line clearly anticipates Huck Finn's words when he decides not to turn in Jim, the runaway slave: "All right, then, I'll go to hell."

The only disappointing ·aspect of From Fact to Fiction is Fish kin's epilogue, a cocktail party discussion of recent attempts to pass off fiction as fact. After mentionin g Norm a n Mailer's Executioner's Song, Janet Cooke's Pulitzer-Prize-winning hoax and Alistair Reid's use of composites in The New Yorker, Fishkin draws the simplistic conclusion that journalists are quite welcome to turn to fiction, but they should avoid writing fictitious facts. An apparent attempt to fit the rest of the book in a present day context, the message fal.ls flat in comparison with the interesting material in the preceding pages.

Overall, however, From Fact to Fiction is a readable, well-researched con tribution to the study of American literature, articulating thoroughly and per~uasively . the i~ fluence of journalism and JOUrnalists on American letters.

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Lisa Pirozzolo, a senior in Branford, is news editor of the Yale Dai.ly News.

Th~ N~w Journal/September 6, 198~ 4~

Afterthought/Lisa Carruth

Beyond Equality

In the spring of 1985, the Board o f Trustees of Albertus Magnus College (AMC) a nnounced that the number of men in the class of 1989 would be greater than in any previous class. On most campuses, such an announcement would merit no more than obligatory remarks from the student body. Albertus students, however, had a special reason for responding passionately: the class of 1989 will be the first class at AMC to have any men at all. Understandably, this type of institutional change could not pass unnoticed.

Whether people agreed or disagreed with the decision, everyone wanted the answer to one question- why?

Albertus Magnus College was founded in 1926 by the Sisters of St. Mary of the Springs based in Columbus, Ohio.

Like many women's colleges, AMC was created simply to provide women access to higher education . Women's colleges shook the barriers of sexism and educated young women in an environment where they were "protected" from the dangers of the world outside the home. As these colleges became more established, their simple mission evolved into som ething stronger, more central to the lives of women: to help women cultivate in themselves a sense of selfacceptance, confidence and esteem. Given a world of sexism and prejudice, this proved a task of g reat importance to the status of women.

As the nation has become more progressive, single-sex institutions, both male and female, have found themselves vulnerable to the pressures of a society seeking equality between the genders. Coeducational colleges provide men and women with the chance to share thoughts and feelings, to interact socially in an educational setting that is still somewhat "protective." As confidence has grown in coeducation, single-sex institutions have come to be viewed as antiquated and out of touch with reality. Ideally, one hopes that the number of women's colleges has decreased because today men and women may be educated in a "sexless" environment, an environment where people learn as human beings, beyond the long-imposed restrictions of gender. It is naive to believe that such a society presently exists.

I chose a women's college because I felt that I would find there opportunities for leadership and self-expression. At a women's college these opportunities are readily accessible to those who take advantage of them. As a young woman who often retreated from positions of leadership and chances to voice an opinion, I felt that Albertus would allow me to face some of my own insecurities. In a single-sex classroom I learned that I could trust my own mind; I developed the confidence to share ffi)' thoughts and insights. Gradually I found myself involved in projects which made me confident that I could handle leadership. What Albertus gave me was a 46 The Ne"

J(\urn.tll~prember

6. 1985

four-year opportunity to begin growing up-confidently, proudly.

While many people might assert that a women's college provides a false sense of security, I believe that it gives young women the freedom to forget that some people think less of them simply because they are women. In such a setting it becomes easier to develop one's potential as a person fortunate enough to be female . Now, instead of feeling that I have to prove myself as a woman, I feel a responsibility to prove myself as a human being.

When I learned that AMC was going to admit men, my initial reaction was a sense of loss. I began to wonder whether the education I had come to value so highly had been worth anything at all. In one swoop I had been told that Albertus could offer more to its students as a coed college than it could offer as a women's college. I had been foolish to believe that a women's college could help me to develop in ways that a coed college could not. I felt that my accomplishments at Albertus had been a farce, earned in an environment which was, I was now told, without credibility.

As president of the Albert us Magnus student government association this past year, I was forced beyond my private reactions. Like any savvy business management, the Albertus administration realized that the college-bound market is simply not interested in higher education divided by sex. The challenge for the college is to make this move be more than simply a prudent financial decision. Albertus has to embrace a new mission, and that is education of mutuality. Albertus h~s to move beyond equality between the sexes to provide an educational atmosphere which acknowledges differences between the sexes and encourages people to develop these differences to a personal best.

Last spring, I had very little time to weigh my own feelings as I came to realize that this change was inevitable and had to be accepted. To fight it would violate the education I valued so much. I still believe that women's colleges have an important place in the educational system of our country, but realities must be faced. Coeducation will allow Albert us Magnus College to grow, and for that reason I had to support the change. It is a difficult move to accept, however; coeducation is a risk which threatens the heritage of AMC students and alumnae. But there is a positive outcome in taking this risk. Ultimately, any college education of real value will teach students to learn from themselves.

When Albertus Magnus is able to cultivate this ability in its students, both men and women, it will truly have succeeded in replacing single-sex education with education of mutuality.

â&#x20AC;˘

Lisa Carruth

graduat~dfrom

Alb"tus Magnus Colltgt m 1985.

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Which is why, at CBT, we put a lot of effort into making our 24-hour automatic teller machines live up to their 24-hour promise.

By putting more into them than just money For one, we have a round-the-clock staff whose only job is to make sure e\·ery Barrie~ is working properly. If they notice a problem (if a machine is running lm\· on cash, for example l, they'll alert our repair ere\\; \\·ho'll ha\·e it up and running in no time.

But no matter how reliable a cash machine is, it does you no good if it's not nearby. So we've put Barneys all oYer the state.

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160, in totaL That's more teller machines than any other bank in Connecticut . .What's more, you can find out everything you need toknow about Barney in the comfort of your own home. Just pick up the phone and dial 1-8001 BAR EY- 3. An time of day, any day of the week.

Ko\.\; if you don't consider that proof of a better cash machine, consider.this: more people use Barnev than anv other automatic teller machine in Connecticut.

So if vour cash machine seems to come in late, take long lunches and punch out earh; ma\·be it's about time \'OU fire it. And hire Barne~: •

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en yot1're to dettJa•td more frottl a ba•tk.

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Visit Barney at the follmving locations: CBT Chapel Square Office, 900 Chapel St: Yale Co-op, 77 Broadway

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lheNew]CJurna1 stands out

The New Journal stands out. While the media hypes the evolution from hippies to yuppies as the 1960s yield to the 1980s, everyone talks about protest giving way to preprofessionalism on college campuses. It seems everyone is trying to become a professional.

At The New Journal, professionalism means something different. It's an attitude towards our work which means conducting ourselves as professional journalists and publishers. Professionalism is a commitment to fulfilling our responsibilities to our advertisers and readers. It means striving to balance serious magazine work with serious fun.

Professionalism also means knowing we can't face the constant challenges of publishing a newsmagazine simply by following the same old rules. It means realizing It's as important to learn from new people as it is to teach them what we already know.

To find out more about The New Journal, join us at our Organizational Meeting in the Branford Common Room on September 9 at 7:30pm. If you can't make it, call Publisher Tony Reese at 436-6475 or Editor Joyce Banerjee at 436-6421.

Organizational Meeting Branford Common Room â&#x20AC;˘ September 9 â&#x20AC;˘ 7:30 p.m. \ ;_ aren't pre-pro.essionai.-We are professional.