Volume 25 - Issue 3

Volwne 25, Nwnber 3

The magazine about Yale and New Haven

December 4. 1992

Larry Kramer (BR '57) founded ACT UP, the confrontational AIDS awareness group that has plastered posters like these all over the country. Has his radicalism shocked people into action, or just turned them off? AIDS' Embattled Prophet, page 20.

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TheNewJournal The magazine about Yale and New Haven

Volume 25, Number 3

December 4, 1992

STANDARDS ------~-------------------------

4 5

page?

Letter to the Editor News}ournal Yale AIDS Drug Boosts Hope One Giant LEAP New Age Scribes 8 Between the Vmes: Fire Station Democracy. by Josh Civin. 34 Afterthought: The Boys of Autumn. by Elisha Cooper.

PROFILES 16 Crusader for Cambodia. by Joel Tesoro. Chanthou Boua has dedicated her lift to helping the survivors ofCambodia's bloody past. pagez6

20

AIDS' Embattled Prophet. by Charlotte Brooks. For a decade, plAywright Larry Kramer has urged a radical response to the AIDS crisis. Have people listened?

..

FEATURES--------------------------------~ 12 pageJO

The Apathy and the Ecstasy. by Josh Auerbach. As Timothy Dwight 's'Red Horde forges on to victory, Calhoun teeters on the brink ofintramural indifference.

23 Women's Studies: Fighting for Respect. by Suzanne Kim. As women's studies courses grow in popularity, students charge that frequent faculty turnover .threatens the programs -stability. 26 Legitimate Grievances. by Sonya Joo. Sexual harassment has become a

pressing social issue ofthe 90s. But at Yale, few speak out.

page 3<t

30 Who Tolls the Bells? by Stephanie Lowell. Yale's Guild ofCarillonneurs continues an elite European tradition-with a dash ofLed Zeppelin. Cover Design by Annette Kirchner-Cover Graphics from AIDS Demographics by Douglas Crimp and Adam Rolston. Used with permission.

(Volume 25. Number 3 Tk N~ }ot~m41 is published five times during <he school year by The New Journal a< Yale, Inc., Post Office Box 3432 Yale Station, New Haven, cr 06520. Copyrigln 1992 by The New Journal a< Yale, In<:. All rilthts reserved. Reproduction eilher in whole or in part wilhou< written permission of <he publisher and edi<or· in-chief is prohibi<ed. ThiS magazine is published by Yale College students, ana Yale University is no< respoiUible fOr ia contents. Eleven lhousand copies of each issue are distributed free <o members of <he Yale University community. Tk N~ }t~fn11111 is prin<ed by Turley Publicatiom of Palmer, MA. Bookkeeping and billing sevices are provided by Colman Bookkeeping of New Haven, Cf. Office address: 305 Crown Street, Office 312. Phone: (203) 432-1957. SubscripcioiU are available to chose outside <he Yale community. Ra<es: One year, $18. 'r,..., years, $30. TIN Nnu }thU'NII encourages letters <o <he edi<or and commen< on Yale and New Haven issues. Wri<e to Kalhy Reich, Edirorials, 3432 Yale Sta<ion, New Haven. 06520. All letters for publication rnus< include address and signarurc. Tk N~ }t1fn11111 reserves <he right <O edit all letters fOr publication.

cr

DEC£MBER 4· 1992

THE NEw JouRNAL 3

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The· article "Women's Clinics in Crisis" in the Sept. 4 issue is misleading in stating that "Women's Health Services and Planned Parenthood receive less in federal subsidies" than community health centers, "although treat comparable numbers of low.they . , mcome patients. While it may be true that some community health centers receive more federal grants than these women's clinics, it is unlikely that the women's clinics see as many lowincome patients or have the same overall volume of business. As providers of comprehensive preventive and primary care, community health centers see people of all ages and genders and are especially dedicated to serving lowincome populations. In 1991 , for example, Hill Health Center served nearly 15,000 people, 72 percent of whom were under the poverty level. Of the nearly 8,000 females seen by · the Center in 1991, some 3,700 were women of child-bearing age. Seventyseven percent of the 566 women wing the Center's family planning service in 1991 were at or below the poverty level. Another indicator of volume is that our OB-Gyn Department recorded 5,340 medical visits in 1991. In the fiscal year that ended June 30, 1991, about 25 percent of the Hill Health Center's income came from federal grants-not 64 percent as the article stated. It must be remembered that the range of problems addressed by community health centers is broad-AIDS , homelessness, substance abuse, teenage pregnancy, infant mortality, immunizations, chronic and episodic illness. Consequently, our opportunities (and competition) for federal and state grants to meet these needs are greaL Looking generally at federal subsidies, it should be said that another 37

percent of our revenue in 1991 came from patient fees, of which Medicaid was a sizeable chunk. Thw, it is true that community health centers are heavily subsidized by the federal government, but their mission of providing first-class care to the poor requires substantial public funding in the absence of private initiatives. Sincerely, Roben H. Kilpatrick Director of Public Relations, Hill Health Corporation

The New Journal we/cowus ktters to th~ ~ditor. Pl~au addr~ss th~m to Kathy R~ich, The New Journal, 3432 Yal~ Station, New Havm, CT 06520.

Corrections Our Oct. 16 story "The Struggle to Respond" failed to state that Yale's policy toward Response and other undergraduate peer counseling groups strictly respects the groups' confidentiality policies. At no time do university officials ask peer counselors for any kind of details about or names of their counselees. Our Oct. 16 story "The King of Chapel Street" referred to the negative impact that the proposed Hamden Cou.n Mall would have on downtown New Haven's retail district. However, Hamden's town zoning board has rejected the plans for the mall, so the concerns raised in the article are moot. Also, the article asserted that New Haven would have to raise taxes to pay for the proposed Taubmen Mall. This is not the case; the mall will be funded by state dollars. The photo of Hillary Clinton in the Oct. 16 issue was taken by Valerie Skrdja.

TIH Nnv journal regrets the errors.

~~sJouRNAL----------------------------------------------

Yale AIDS Drug Boosts Hope D4T, a new AIDS drug developed at the Yale School 'Of Medicine, may overtake AZT as the leading means of prolonging the lives of people with AIDS. Developed with the help of a patent and funding from BristolMeyers Squibb, and with a boost from a new Food and Drug Administration (FDA) program that speeds drugs' transition from laboratory to patient, the drug has successfully passed two rounds of laboratory testing. D4T has left its creators-Or. William Prushoff and researcher Tai-Shu Lin-and gone on to clinical trials at about 45 institutions in the United States and Europe. Thanks to the FDA's new Parallel Tracking Program, physicians may now prescribe D4T to patients who cannot handle other drugs, even though the new drug has not completed the thre~ phases of testing that the FDA usually requires before it officially approves a dtug. Extensive clinical trials follow two rounds of laboratory tests, a costly and"" time-consuming process. "From con? ception to counter, a drug costs $250 million and can take as long as ten years," said Prushoff. However, as the first drug approved under the FDA's new program, D4T was released on a limited basis at the beginning of clinical testing. Results of the laboratory tests indicate that D4T may often succeed where AZT and DDI, other widely-used drugs that fight AIDS, have failed. D4T has already proved more effective than DDI, and its beneficial effects last much longer than AZT's, according to a July report in The Walt Street journal More significantly, Prushoff said the first phase of testing has already shown that D4T has a lower toxicity than AZT, which can damage bone marrow. Prushoff hopes that more patients will be able to take D4T, and that they will be able to do so for a longer period than DECEMBER 4> 1992

One Giant LEAP

Prusho.lfand Lin discovered D4T.

they could with AZT. With D4T, Prushoff continues a research career that began with the first herpes drug intended to combat eye infections, which he developed in the 1950s. Since then, he has specialized in "modification structure"-synthesizing compounds that mimi<;: parts of the DNA molecule, but actually inhibit it from replicating. D4T, like AZT and the herpes drug, works at the molecular level on this principle. In anti-cancer as well as in anti-AIDS drugs, modification structure aims to prevent viral DNA from reproducing itself, cutting short the most basic process through which infection spreads. Prushoff calls modification structure "a widely-used but inefficient approach." He looks toward new technologies that may soon reduce medical guesswork, such as X-ray crystallography, which allows scientists to see molecular structure more easily. Awaiting these improved techniques, Prushoff hopes that work like his will become more precise. "Right now," he said, "it's rational serendipity." -Kate Bmuster

Almost 50 percent of New Haven's youth drop out of school and an estimated 10,000 of the city's children live in poverty, but the financially-strapped city cannot afford to pay for new youth programs. An innovative public-private collaboration called Leadership, Education and Athletics in Partnership for New Haven Youth (LEAP) has stepped in to fill the gap. With a free summer camp operated out of several New Haven housing projects, LEAP aims to expand the life opportunities of inner-city children. Community activist Anne Calabresi and several friends raised over $176,000 from local corporations, foundations, universities, and the Federal government to fund the free eight-week day camp. LEAP used the funds to pay for transportation, educational supplies, and training and salaries for 60 counselors, chosen from New Haven area colleges and high schools. Groups of eight children ranging from 7 to 13 years old, one senior counselor, and one junior counselor spent three mornings a week in a classroom. They explored skills like problem-solving and decision-making through hands-on learning projects in reading, science, and math. The groups spent the rest of the week in activities and outings around New Haven. Counselors also took children on one week-long trip to either Boston, Toronto, or Washington,

D.C. LEAP gathered resources and recruited students for the program through extensive community networking. The program obtained classroom space at the Lincoln-Bassett public school, and Yale provided campers with the use of a pool in Payne-Whitney Gymnasium for five afternoons a week. David Echols, executive director of the New Haven Housing Authority, secured vacant THE Nsw JouRNAL 5

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units in housing projects for senior counselors. By living in the areas where they worked, counselors could establish closer ties not only with the children but with their parents, whose support LEAP believes is crucial to the success of the program. The 240 children who participated in LEAP had not previously experienced many of the activities the program provided . "If I wasn't doing LEAP, I wouldn't be doing nothing in the summer," said Tashema Cloud, 9. Some of the campers sold drugs before the program began. "A few kids that eventually ended up in the program we literally pulled in off the street corner," said project coordinator Matt Klein (BR '93). Counselors stuffed mailboxes with information and

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' I want to do this, I want to do that' from our applicants," said program director H enry Fernandez (LAW '93), "but rather about their interest in the kids." LEAP recruited junior counselors with similar qualifications in mind. Tara Waller, currently a senior at the High School in the Community, heard about LEAP from a teacher. "She knew I would be interested because I'd already been involved in tutoring bilingual kid s after school," Waller said. Like all LEAP juniol' counselors, Waller comes from the New H aven area, and she continues to meet with her campers six hours a week outside of school. According to Klein, most junior and senior counselors keep in contact with their students throughout the year and will return for the second summer in

LEAP aims to ~ducau innn--city youth. depended on word-of-mouth to recruit most of the LEAP participants. "I started going because all my friends were going," said Sherrea Meyers, 12. While camper recruitment may have been flexible, LEAP selected counselors through an extremely rigorous application process. The board sought as role models for the children high school and college stud ents who had made it out of the projects themselves. "We didn't want to hear about

During the rw<rweek training period, counselors organized an entire curriculum for their students that included no homework besides journal entries. Instead, counselors focused on maintaining campers' attention through participation-oriented activities. One group wrote a play about growing up in the projects, which they performed for Senators C hristopher Dodd (D-CT) and Joseph Lieberman (O-CT ). Another group designed a model city in which campers chose their own professions. Although counselors enjoyed the creative process of designing a curriculum, LEAP plans to give them more structure next year. The program will also train counselors to identifY learning disabilities and to cope with abused children. In 1993, LEAP will add one more camp site and double the number of children in volved in the program. LEAP hopes to save as many New H aven children as possible from the dangers of the streets. " If we're not aggressive with our programs and don't take some risks," said Calabresi, "we will co ntinue to lose our childre n. " -Savannah N~~ly DECEMBER 4· 1992

New Age Scribes In the Middle Ages, monastic scribes copied manuscripts by hand for six hours a day in rooms called scriptoria. They observed strict silence, but sometimes monks wrote thoughts in the margins of their work: "The parchment is hairy," or "Now, I've written the whold thing: for Christ's sake give me a drink.'' In the days before the printing press, the monks, supported by the rich and powerful Catholic Church, served as the world's primary bookmakers. Today, books are typeset on computers and most monks no longer double as scribes. Yet modern monasteries must support themselves. One monastery, the Holy Cross Abbey in Berryville, Virginia-home to 25 Benedictine Cistercian monks- has found a way to combine old traditions and new technology, as well as to pay the bills. They help the Yale Library with its number one customer request: to transfer more books into Orbis, the computerized card catalogue. __ Last January, Brother Benedict Simmonds of the Holy Cross Abbey; approached Monty Montee, head of cataloguing for Yale's libraries, and Fred Martz, head of database management, with the idea of "The Electronic Scriptorium." The monks proposed to convert drawers of 3-by-5 index cards to computer files for loading into Orbis, a process called retrospective conversion, or recon for short. The librarians planned a pilot project to convert 10,000 Cross Campus records. "We did some comparative shopping with other vendors," said Martz. "When you calculate all the costs, this is the best approach." The Electronic Scriptorium is the latest twist in the monastery's unique economic history. In 1950, when 20 monks founded the Holy Cross Abbey, they supported themselves by farming the 1,200 acres of monastery land and by baking Monastery brand bread.

During the 60s, however, the number of monks decreased and they were forced to rent out the farm. "The bakery became the center of our work and for many years bread was our product," said Brother Simmonds. "But the bread economy has changed quite radically. In 1984 we began baking fruitc;akes." The first year the monks baked 1,500 fruitcakes. Now they bake 30,000 annually, almost all of which they sell around Thanksgiving and Christmas. Their prodigious baking, however, created a logistical nightmare for the monks-how in Heaven's name to organize the distribution of 30,000 fruitcakes in three months. Like many entrepreneurs in the 1990s, they bought a computer. But then the problem arose of what to do with the computer for the other nine months ef "' ~ ~ ~

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the year. "We began to think of putting our monastic community back in the service of the humanitarian pursuits that monasteries have always served," said Brother Simmonds. It was at this point that the monks of the Holy Cross Abbey thought up the Electronic Scriptorium. One of the monks' tasks will be to check the public Orbis records against the library's Authority File, a list of names of authors in Library of Congress proper form. The monks will make sure, for example, that both Ular and P~au and Anna Karen ina will

be found under Tolstoy, rather than one under Tolstoy and the other under Tolstoi. The monks have arranged to access Orbis directly, via the national computer network Internet, to do the job more quickly and cheaply than large commercial vendors. The monks will also create 10,000 book records. For most books the monks can look up the record on a CD-ROM purchased from the Library of Congress. They will then load the record onto their computers, make any necessary changes, and save it on their hard drive. For books not on the COROM they will have to create records from scratch. Eventually they will transfer all the records to a magnetic tape, which will go to Yale to be copied into Orbis. Because the library has no money set aside for recon, after this pilot project ends it h as no definite plans to continue working with the monastery. "We have enough trouble keeping up with the new books that come in, " said Martz. But Yale does receive donations specifically for recon-such as one for a project now underway to convert 40,000 volumes of Western Americana. If more donations come in, and if the monks satisfy librarian expectations, they could get a crack at some of the 5 million volumes still waiting to be entered into Orbis. In the meantime, the monks are busy creating an information system for the Johns Hopkins Medical Library and looking for other libraries in need of their services. For the Yale librarians, working with the monks instead of a large commercial vendor has given a different feel to recon. "It has some appropriateness for the library," said Martz. "In the old days monasteries were the keepers of the books. Many of the most famous, valuable, and rare books in Beinecke Library would have been long gone if monks hadn't taken care of them through the Middle Ages. It's coming full circle." -Paa-Seib~l THÂŁ NEW JouRNAL 7

BETWEEN THE V I N E S - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Fire Station Democracy josh Civin

W;

en people calk about the Dwight-Edgewood eighborhood that extends down Whalley Avenue, they invariably mention its diverse blend of people. The neighborhood's socio-economic, ethnic, and religious mix drew me to the community's polling place on election day. I hoped to observe voting day action in a neighborhood known as a microcosm of New Haven. As dusk approached, I parked on a side. street nestled between grandiose Victorian mansions and low-income apartments. Down the road, I found an unassuming fire station with huge glass-paneled garage doors. The isolated clusters of people outside did not match the crowd contain ed in the small rectangular structure. People filled the building, forming an immense line that lumbered slowly forward towards the voting booths. Lieutenant Don Donahu, the fire staciCU1's commanding officer, described the crowd as "multi-international," carefully enunciating each syllable. Indeed, in my first few moments I saw Orthodox Jews, Latinos, -~--­ Mrican Americans, ----...!..!:~!'""" tn

business suits, lies, and Yale students. It looked like the whole community had migrated through rainy cold and conglomerated in the hazy glow of the fire station on 120 Ellsworth St. "People are droving in here to put their little vote in, n commented firefighter Leon Brown, who was on duty to help voting proceed smoothly. Outside, bundled up in a blue parka, Sally Connelly distributed Democratic literature to her neighbors. " People are really eager and committed," she commented. " I've heard

some wonderful stories of people who've just gone through fire and brimstone to vote." Inside, wisps of conversation, screams of impatient children, and the ever-present chatter of the fire-station radio filled the air. But even the poll-workers' cajpling, "Tighten up... Get close... Everyone start hugging and kissing... Move to the back of the bus," could not pierce the almost surreal hush of those in the line, a line which showed no sign of ending. As quickly as possible, the official checkers marked off each name on the huge white sheets that listed the neighborhood's residents. "I didn't think there would be this many people, to tell you the truth," remarked Omar Ursini, one of the checkers. Another checker, Katheline Faight, added, "Eighty percent turnout and still coming, will you look at this!" Ursini continued, "The crowd hasn't let up

"When I opened up the station, there were people waiting outside in the . ratn . to vote. " pourtng since 6:00 this morning. We've done almost 2,000 people." The only people who did not participate in the commotion consuming the fire station were those who worked there every day. The firefighters idled at the edge of the chaotic scene, strangely displaced from their own turf. Lieutenant Donahu stood at the doorway of his office and smoked. "When I opened up the station, there were people waiting in line outside in the pouring rain to vote," he observed in a New Haven accent. "The incumbents are in trouble, in my opinion. It's time for a change." It's tim~ for a chang~. Outside and inside, poll workers, voters, and campaign volunteers chanted this phrase like a prayer. Throughout the campaign, I had thought this slogan to be a corny sound-bite, painfully lacking supporting substance from any candidate. But obviously, in the 24th Ward, a yearning for realistic innovation was driving people to participate in the election process. "They're tired of the starus quo," said Faight. Ursini half-joked, "I hope so." Outside, in the misty drizzle chat penetrated just enough to freeze the ink of my ballpoint pen, the voters .1 stopped also believed that their vote might help fuel thts much-heralded change. David Roberts, a computer operator, said, "This is the first time I decided to vote. Because of DECEMBER 4> 1992.

.J

the way the economy is and the way people who've been in public office have been running it, I thought now I would be able to say something and it would count." For some the line was too overwhelming. An old man in an overcoat opened the door, took one look at the crowd, and muttered, "Don't have the attitude for this. " But sue~

reac~ions proved rare. While a few looked frustrated and tired, a neighborly, almost convivial atmosphere flowed through the fire station. "A few people have left. They have to be at work," said assistant registrar Sandy Clendenen. "But in general, people are in good temper and cheerful." Enthusiasm permeated the air of what at times felt like a reunion. "In a way, it's a chance for neighbors to see each other who may not otherwise," said voter Breina Schain. "It is a meeting place where people can greet each other in a safe area where common interests are going on." The communal spirit seemed abnormal. While all insisted that Edgewood provided a decent place to live, the neighborhood definitely did not convey a picture of urban harmony. More a neighbor than a politician, Alderwoman Liz McCormick had been busy explaining the various referendum questions to voters. She listed what she considered Edgewood's three major problems: "prostitution, absentee landlords who don't maintain property, and crime including theft, car theft, break-ins, and drugs." But she quickly qualified her remark, "Not that the whole ward is rampant with all of these." "This is a neighborhood in transition," said Schain. "I refuse to be nervous about my surroundings; however, I do feel it's dangerous to the point where it shouldn't be." Brian Pence (BK '96), who, like many Yale students, had spent several hours canvassing the neighborhood, remarked, "There's a lot of--maybe not fear-but at least nervousness. A lot of people didn't even want to open doors when we knocked." The increase in nervousness has sparked devotion to community rejuvenation efforts. In the last few years, an active blockwatch organization and the Edgewood Neighborhood Association (ENA) have contributed a great deal to stopping crime. They have also fought prostitution with the notorious, if inventive, "John-of-the-Week" campaign. Joseph Firine, the ENA presiTHE NEW JouRNAL 9

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dent and election moderator for the ward, explained, "We took the names of those men who approached policewomen decoys and put them in a hat and pulled out one John and plastered the neighborhood with his face." Though the program has generated heated controversy, Firine and the ENA have no immediate plans to dump what they see as an effective approach. In fact, many believed that the activities of the ENA and the Blockwatch were the most positive aspects of the neighborhood. "They all

I found a grim, defiant faith that at.least on this 15%0FF~~! election day, the voting 2ndLUNCH 1/2 PRICE! ITEM exp: 1130193 .J ritual grew from a spark L that not even the pouring rain could quench.

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know each other and stick together," observed Lieutenant Donahu. "Through our blockwatch, it•s a very quiet neighborhood," said Sally Topp, in between letting people in and out of the polls. A retired schoolteacher and blockwatch captain, she has lived across the street from the fire station for the last SO years. But even the neighborhood·s greatest enthusiasts agreed that the community has not benefitted from the government policies of the last decade. The checkers responded with a resounding "Of course!" when I asked if the neighborhood had deteriorated during the Bush administration. "Economically, the last four years have been abysmal. There have been vacancies up and down Whalley Avenue, .. said official checker Faight. "In general, the whole state has been hit because of cutbacks in military spending." If

Bush were to win the election, voter David Roberts commented, "I don•t think there would be too much of a change from what's going on right now. I think things would continually stay the same and I think that would be just like it getting worse." Reasoning like this had persuaded most of the people I interviewed to favor Clinton or Perot. A volunteer who had spent his day-chauffeuring citizens to the polls said, "I think the whole Democratic Party has a good shot. The Republicans are running scared." While most disliked the brutal mudslinging of the campaign, they stayed tuned to the end and generally echoed the oomment of the voter who said, "rm much excited about the possibility of a Clinton victory." Roberts remarked, "I really went with Clinton. I think he had a lot of great ideas; _he sounded sincere and like he was really going to put his ideas into action." I entered the enveloping aura of fire station democracy one more time, searching for why this election night was so different from all other nights. I found a grim, defiant faith that at least on this election day, the voting ritual grew from a spark that not even the pouring rain could quench. Before I left the station, I sat down with Alderwoman McCormick on the step of one of the fire engines, our feet dangling a few inches above the oil-stained concrete. As I looked out over the line of damp but determined voters, I struggled to crystallize the day•s observations into one succinct statement. What came out was only a sweep of my hand and the simple question: "Will this last?" "Wouldn•t that be nice if it did?" McCormick said. "rm sure it will happen sometime again in the future. The question is when." I8J

josh Civin, a fr~shp~rson in Calhoun Co/kg~. is on th~ staffofTNJ. DECEMBER 4· 1992

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THa Naw jouaNAL u

The Apathy and the Ecstasy by josh Auerbach

¡p

or the weekday warriors of Timothy Dwight and Ezra Stiles, the annual race for the Tyng Cup has become a Cold War of athletic enmity. The two intramural superpowers stare each other down from opposite sides of the Yale map, while the other ten colleges struggle in the shadow of their monumental rivalry. If fall intramural results hold true, this should be the year that TO's red-clad army finally recaptures the coveted Cup, which has spent the last three yea rs in the clutches of the enemy. Meanwhile, no college has been more quickly ousted from the Tyng fray than Calhoun, whose beleaguered intramuraletes find themselves in an increasingly familiar position--dead last. The seeds of fortune in this year's race for the Tyng were sown during last year's intramural campaign. Calhoun spent virtually the entire year deeply mired in last place, finishing too far behind the other colleges even to get mud kicked in its face. With enthusiasm at a record low, this year promised to be an uphill batcle for Calhoun intramural die hards. "It's a cyclical pattern," said Mari Willits (CC '94), captain of coed football. "People won't come out for intramurals if they think we're going to lose, and they definitely won't come out if they think we're going ro forfeit." TD, meanwhile, after struggling for the majority of the year, made a late spring charge for last year's Tyng that consumed the entire college, according to intramural secretary Chris Dodge (TD '93). TDers hung red flags and t-shins out of their windows to show their solidarity as the gap with Stiles narrowed. Eventually, TD came up just short and had to settle for a close second. Last spring's enthusiasm carried over into this year, and

12

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Naw jOURNAL

DECEMBER

4¡

1992.

the result was an overwhelmingly Red October. TD captured championships in five of the eight fall sports. With 531 Tyng Cup points, 135 more than second-place Stiles, TD is threatening to turn this year's race into a runaway. Calhoun, on the other hand, with only 181 points, could conceivably score fewer points this year than TD has tallied in the fall season alone. The stark athletic contrast between TD and Calhoun is, on the surface, difficult to explain. After all, Yale assigns freshpeople to their residential colleges at random, without regard to their athletic prowess or dedication. But when the intramural call goes out, TDers dutifully set aside books, musical instruments, and even other varsity sports to win glory for their college, while the ' Houn emits a collective yawn. "lntramurals are a huge part of the identity of this college," said Kathryn Crump (TD '94), one of TO's intramural secretaries. "Even people who don't play identify with them." The personal commitment of some TDers to intramurals rivals that of the most dedicated varsity athletes. Many often skip classes to participate. Past intramural secretaries have even scheduled all of their classes in the morning to minimize conflicts, Crump said. DÂŁCEMBI!Jl4, 1992

TD Master Robert Thompson, known affectionately to his students as "Master T," is the driving force behind TO's tradition of intramural success. Thompson values athletic competition as a unifying thread in a diverse college community. "lntramurals are such a beautiful way to bring people together," he said. "With the residential college system under bombardment, athletics bring people's interest back into the college. The playing fields enhance the dining hall and the life of the college as a whole." Thompson, a historian of New York culture, often brings celebrities to campus to celebrate Tyng Cup triumphs. Past visitors have included musician David Byrne and film director Jonathan Demme. "He knows everyone," THÂŁ NEw JouRNAL 13

Dodge said. "This year he's promised to try to bring us Madonna." "If we win," Thompson said, "I promise the party of the century." Thompson's sideline antics in support of TD teams are the stuff of lege.nd. He once showed up to a women's soccer game wearing a red TD flag as a cape. On a hot September day, while cheering for the men's soccer team, he stripped from a business suit to boxer shorts. In past years, Thompson even played on TO's coed touch football team. "I made a touchdown once," he recalled, "and it was the thrill of my life. Too bad it was disqualified." TO's torrid rivalry with Ezra Stiles provides the fuel that sustains this high level of enthusiasm. "Stiles is the college that we have so much venom for," Crump said. The two powerhouses have won 1 0 of the last 11 Tyng Cup championships, with Morse breaking the duopoly in 1987. For the last th ree years, TO has watched bitterly as irs rival captured the Tyng. "Stiles is a group that comes together as a result of the dire circumstance of living in an ugly building," Dodge said. "They are a

ccStiles is a group that comes together as a result ofliving in an ugly building. " much larger college than TO, and they have little success at other endeavors." TD is, in fact, the smallest of Yale's residential colleges. With 376 students, 70 fewer than Stiles, TO's success seems all the more remarkable. Yet Dodge admits that TO derives some advantage from the fact that freshpeople live in the college, since new students become immersed in the 14 THe New jouRNAL

'1ntramurals ar~ such a

b~autiful way to

tradition right at the start of their Yale careers. Zealous TDers flock to the intramural fields in droves. "Each ream has a core group of people, the minimum amount needed to play, who come to every game," Crump said. "Others come pretty regularly." The biggest problem that captains of TO teams face is spreading playing time around to everyone who shows up to play. "Some people do get discouraged," Crump said. "Fifteen men once showed up ro fill three spots in a volleyball game. " TO often intimidates irs opponents through sheer numbers, according to Greg Mohrman, Calhoun intramural secretary. "At their football games, there's a sea of red shirts on the sidelines," he said. In Calhoun, meanwhile, the race for the Tyng Cup is largely an exercise in apathy. Captains of Calhoun teams must scramble to find players on a day-to-day basis. " In other colleges, people tend to schedule their time around in tram urals," Mohrman said.

bring p~opl~ tog~ther. , " In Calhoun, it's just nor a priority." Intramural secretary Amanda Wheeland (CC '94) recalled that the hardest part of her job to dare h as been finding 10 ping-pong players for each of the season's 11 matches. W hat could possibly explain Calhoun's intramural ineptitude? Wheeland sees a correlation between the college's poor performance in the Tyng Cup race and its two-year stranglehold on the Gimbel Cup, the prize for the college whose students possess the highest overall GPA. "People in Calhoun do their work instead of play," she said. Recruiting women has been particularly difficult for Calhoun. "There are only three women in the college who consistently come out for intramurals," Mohrman said. Ellen Rothman (CC '94), a sometime Calhoun squash player, said that since so few women participate, matches frequently end in forfeit. "You never know if you're actually going to get to play," she said. Calhoun Master Tu ran Onat, DECEMBER

4, 1992.

uFour Stars ... Excellent"

-Jane Kamenski, Advocate

who as acting master of Stiles in 1990 intent on TO's part, but because of tasted the fruit ofTyng triumph, sensthe natural flow of the game. "They'll es an imminent turnaround in the forscore a few touchdowns, get excited, tunes of Calhoun intramurals. score a few more, and all of a sudden "Things are improving," he said. But the score is 49-0 and the other team is he cautions that winning is not every- pissed." thing. "As long as there is participation, my heart won't be broken," he ccThey'll score a few admitted. While Calhoun struggles to avoid touchdowns, get excited, forfeit, TD teams improve from game to game and from season to season. score a few more, and Athletes in TD tend to stay committed to their teams, not only throughall ofa sudden the score out the season, but throughout their time at Yale. "Our men's touch footis 49-0 and the other ball team is awesome," said Ryan team is pissed. n Williams (TD '95), a member of the coed squad. "They've been playing together for at least a year." TO's coed One could probably guess at the team has developed an inventory of divergent athletic fortunes of the two alignments and plays to which new colleges simply from their respective players are introduced at the beginintramural t-shirts. Calhoun's recentlyning of each season. Calhoun's coed released shirts bear the self-deprecating team, according to Willits, must vary ¡ slogan, "Nowhere to Go But Up." its strategy depending on who shows TO's t-shirts, by contrast, proudly bear up for the game, and often settles for the college's arcane rallying caJl, "Ashe!" no strategy at all. " It's our bloodcurdling battle cry," On game day, experience and Crump said. "Half the people in TO cohesion propel the TO juggernaut don't even know what it means." straight into the end zone. When If TDers maintain the intensity Calhoun and TO clashed in men's and they exhibited this fall, they could coed touch football, the red army finally make good on the promise marched to victory by twin scores of borne on the backside of their t-shirts. 32-0. Shellshocked Calhoun footIt could, indeed, be a TO Tyng. baller Tom Connally (CC '94) recogMeanwhile, this year looks to be an nized Dodge, a fellow Oklahoman, unpleasant one for intramural enthusiasts in Calhoun. "I'd love to see the from across the line of scrimmage. "He was an all-state quarterback in ' Houn emerge, phoenixJike, to chalhigh school," Connally recalled. lenge us," said Thompson, who once Crump believes TO's overwhelm- served as acting master of Calhoun. ing success has led some outside of the Mohrman, however, has slightly less college to erroneously conclude that mythical goals. ''I'd like to see us get TD has lost the sense that intramurals out of last place and get competitive," are supposed to be fun. "People think he said. In the bifurcated, Cold War that TO is all about winning," she world of intramural athletics, being said. "They think we want to score as competitive may be the best for which many points as possible. It hurts the 'Houn, or any other college standsometimes." Mohrman, who is also a ing between Stiles and TO, can hope. referee for intramural football, noted 1111 that TO football games often get out josh Au~rbach, a junior in Calhoun of hand, not because of any malicious Co/kg~. is on thnta./Jof TNJ. D ECEMBER 4â&#x20AC;˘ l991

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Crusader for Cambodia joel Tesoro hanthou Boua has spent much of her life caring for Cambodia. In her work at Khmer Health Advocates (KHA), a Hartford-based public health agency, she helps many of Connectic ut's 2,000 Khmer refugees adjust to both the strain of living in a new country and to the trauma of survtvmg Cambodia's "killing fields. " She writes passionately about Cambod ian issues , especially regarding the plight of the country's women. As the only surviving member of her family-all of whom were killed by the Khmer Rouge-Boua has dedicated her research and activism to ensuring that her family's murderers will never again control Cambodia. Boua's comfortable life in New Haven is a far cry from the shattered lives of the Cambodian families she visits as associate program director of KHA. Founded in 1982, KHA deals with the mental health and readjustment needs of Connecticut's Cambodian refugees. "All miss home terribly," said Boua. "Many refuse to learn English because they think they are going to go home soon." Nearly all refugees have lost ==== members of their family to the Khmer Rouge, and do not know Chan thou Boua tkvot~s hn- time to helping refogus from hn- Cambodian homeland. whether ocher relatives are living or dead. Aside from overcoming the shock of separation nosed nothing physically wrong with her eyes, her mind has apparently suppressed her vision in response to the suffrom their homes and their families, refugees must also deal fering and bloodshed she saw in Cambodia. "We have seen with the effects of years of terror and strife. They often relive the horrors of the Khmer Rouge years through flashmothers , too, who might as well be blind, " said Mary Scully, executive director of KHA. Although in Cambodia backs. these women may have sacrificed a great deal to protect Many Khmer immigrants turn to drugs and alcohol to deal with the mental strain. One Khmer woman in their children, some have experienced such trauma that they no longer realize when their children need medical Waterbury even lost her sight. Although doctors have diag-

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DECEMBER 4â&#x20AC;˘ 1992

attention or help in school. For five years, Boua sought news of her parents, sister, Boua has focused her social work on refugee children, and six brothers. In 1979, she traveled to the Thaimany of whom suffer from lack of concentration, poor aca- Cambodian border with he r husband of one year, Ben demic performance, and difficult home liv~. Scully claims Kiernan, then an Australian graduate student researching that because the experiences of parents and children differ Cambodian history and now a Yale history professor. While so radically, Cambodian children often feel abandoned. Kiernan studied the Khmer language among ethn ic Boua meets with educators and social workers to discuss the Cambodians living in eastern Thailand, Boua visited the challenges facing Cambodian adolescents. "We plead with refugee camps along the border. "I went around for three them to take a second look at these kids," she said. She is months," she recalled, "long enough to find out my fam ily starting a magazine in which Cambodian youth can write was not among the refugees." about their lives and problems to encourage the developA month before she and Kiernan arrived in Thailand, a ment of self-esteem. Boua also -------------Vietnamese-backed army had plans to organize a conference For Chanthou Boua:l the l:.oht to end swept into Phnom Penh and to discuss the plight of the J"o¡ ousted Pol Pot. The Khmer Rouge retreated to bases along refugees and strategies for Cambodia suffering is a helping them adapt to the Thai border. In July 1980, Boua and Kiernan got visas America. personal battle. from the new government to ough not a refugee enter Cambodia. T h ey rself, Boua has made their problems her own. became the first researchers to visit the country after the fall sent from her country during Khmer Rouge rule, of the Khmer Rouge. Boua still suffer~d from the horror they imposed on " I arrived in Phnom Penh in 1980 for the first time Cambodia. She lost her entire family in the period from after I left it in 1972," Boua wrote in one of her articles. "I 1975 to 1979, when the Khmer Rouge slaughtered an esti- saw a country in ruins." Once a crowded metropolis of 2 million people, the capital looked like a wasteland. Grass mated 1.3 million Cambodians. An academic scholarship to Australia saved Boua from grew tall in the former gardens of the city, while cows grazed in the streets of downtown. In a parody of the jungle, broa similar fate. A gifted student who had moved from her home in the Cambodian countryside to study in the capital ken telephone wires hung from poles like vines dangling from trees. The couple saw elephants wandering the streets . of Phnom Penh, she left her country in 1972 for a university in Sydney. At the time, an American-backed military dicamidst the pushcarts and oxcarts of Phnom Penh's daily tatorship ruled Cambodia, battling an insurgency that was traffic. "The city was dirty," said Boua, "like a household ravaging the country. The American war in neighboring that hadn't been looked after." She and her husband traveled through 13 of Vietnam had spilled over Cambodia's borders and led to the emergence of the enigmatic and violent Khmer Rouge revo- Cambodia's 18 provinces. They witnessed incredible devastation and economic hardship. Although the new governlutionaries, who captured Phnom Penh in 1975. Pol Pot, ment had begun to rebuild the country's crippled infrastructheir leader, renamed Cambodia "Democratic Kampuchea" ture, an economic embargo by the United States and other and sealed off the country from the rest of the world. Foreigners could not get in and Cambodians could not get countries made the job even more difficult. Vietnam had invaded Cambodia in response to Khmer Rouge incursions OUt. across its southern border. The international community At first Boua, like many Cambodians, welcomed the triumph of the Khmer Rouge and the end of the war that had protested the presence ofViemamese troops on Cambodian tom Cambodia apart. Stranded in Australia, she helped pub- soil, and denied the Vietnamese-installed government relief lish a pro-Khmer Rouge newsletter and followed broadcasts and development aid. The U.S. voted to allow the Khmer Rouge to maintain its seat in the U.N. as the legitimate from Radio Phnom Penh. When the names of respected revolutionary leaders inexplicably disappeared from the broad- Cambodian government-in-exile. " Everywhere I went," Boua said, "Cambodians asked casts, she began to suspect that somethi~ had gone wrong. me, 'Why? Why are the Western countries recognizing the Then Boua stopped receiving letters from her family.

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Khmer Rouge? Don't they believe what we say?'" Cambodia n peasants told her how the Khmer Rouge emptied the cities, evacuating people into the countrysid e and killing m any in the process. Intellectuals and ethn ic minorities were summarily execu ted. The Khmer Rouge took children away and taught them to spy on their parents. Pol Pot also imposed a system of communal eating that all but shattered traditional family structure. Aside from those killed by the government, hundreds of thousands died from disease and starvation. The residents of the villages Boua visited inevitably cook her to see the local mass grave. My husband is there, they told her. My children are there. Boua discovered a nation of widows and mothers, of orphaned daugh-

ters and abandoned wives-the group that would become the fo cus of her research and activism. The Khmer Rouge had killed mostly men , she learned, leaving women to fend for themselves in the new Cambodia. Women now make up close to 65 percent of the adult population. Like survivors of a blast, they are physically unharmed but mentally shaken . "Many women will not get over the trauma of the moment when their husbands-and sometimes sonswere taken away, o r were shot, or clubbed to death," Boua wrote in a 1982 article for the N~w Lift Rroi~. These women still had to work in the fields, care for the children, and eke out a liv~ng in the devastated country. " It is primarily women who have

borne the brunt of more than a d ecade of international economic sanctions," she wrote in Ms. magazine.

((Why haven't the Khmer Rouge been tried for their crimes?n . In her travels through Cambodia, Boua returned to the town where she was born: Thlok Chrou, a small fishing and farming village by the Mekong River. For ten years Boua had lived in this tightly-knit, familial community, in a big wooden house with stilts and a tiled roo( There she found distant relatives living in the ruins of the town. They told her the Khmer Rouge had taken her family away two at a time to be killed. H er father and uncle had died trying to escape. Nothing remained in Thlok Chrou, except the shattered foundations of her family's former home. ince returning to Australia from Cambodia at the e nd of 1980, Boua has logged countless hours telling the world about the horrors of the Khmer Rouge, the troubles and hopes of the Cambodian people, and the shortcomings of the international com munity's attitude to Cambodia. "Why haven't the Khmer Rouge been tried for their c rimes?" sh e said. "Why are they still walking tall?" As a Cambodia scholar, Boua has helped translate confidential leadership documents from the Pol Pot period and has co-edited with Kiernan a collection of articles on peasants and politics in Cambodia. As a relief worker, she has advised and assisted various aid organizations in their operations in the country. As an activist, she has written articles, appeared on radio shows, and given speeches about

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Gmnrttion, admires her for versatility determination ... "There are so few Cambodian intellectuals left," h e said , ~~~=====~~ "that they have lto do a lot o things." Boua battles intern atio nal policies that she feels continue to ..-.-_....,.. hurt Cambodia. A 1991 United Nations Peace Plan established L....:::....:....__:___;;;;;;___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ : a system of Boua has alr~ady told h~r daughta Mialia about Pol Pot. shared power between the Vietnamese-installed people is something she's extremely government in Phnom Penh, two passionate about." rebel factions, and the Khmer Rouge. Boua cares for Cambodia on Boua was horrified by the news. "My both global and local levels. But she God, " she remembered thinking, reserves her greatest energies to help "they're coming back to power." To individuals: the women and children, preven t this possibility, she had the grandmothers, aunts, mothers, helped establish a lobby group to daughters, and sons of Cambodia. pressure the U.S. government to For Boua, the fight to end withdraw its support from the Khmer Cambodia's suffering is a personal Rouge. The Campaign to Oppose the battle. She will allow neither individReturn of the Khmer Rouge uals nor world powers to forget what (CORKR), an advocacy g roup suphas happened to her country. And she ported by over 40 relief organizations, has begun educating her two chilset up shop in Washington, D.C. in dren, ages eight and five , about 1989. Boua is a membe r of the Khmer culture and the horrors of the CORKR Board of Advisors, a body Khmer Rouge. "They already know," that includes dignitaries like Haing S. she said, "about Pol Pot." ..:J Ngor and Elie Wiesel. "Chanthou is an adviser, an activist, a fundraiser, and a cheerleader," said CORKR Jo~l Tesoro, a junior in Jonathan executive director Craig Etcherson. Edwards Coll~g~, is associau ~ditor of "The well-being of the Cambodian TN].

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19

PROFILE--------------------------------------------------------

AIDS' Embattled Prophet Charlotte Brooks \

ven before Or. Louis Sullivan, Secretary of Health and Cathedral to staging "die-ins" -at the San Francisco Gay Human Services, finished the opening remarks of his Pride March, ACT UP's tactics attracted the public's atten1990 Tetelmen Lecture, whistles and shouts from tion to government inattention to people with AIDS. proteSters in the Bartell Chapel crowd drowned out his words. Those same tactics also exposed Kramer and the group to scathing criticism from both the gay co;nmunity and Sullivan pushed on with his speech despite the demonstrators, many of whom were members of the AIDS Coalition to government officials. "A lot of ACT UP's demonstrations have been destructive," said John Gibbons, a spokesperson Unleash Power (ACT UP). "This protest will not change my for Sullivan. "They turn off people who ordinarily would be position on AIDS one iota," Sullivan yelled back. "We are compassionate and interested in their point of view." spending more on AIDS than on any other disease." Among the demonstrators stood outspoken gay rights Still, many former critics now express grudging respect and AIDS activist Larry for ACT UP and its founder. Kramer (BR '57), in New " I think Larry Kramer has Haven that day to deliver a performed extraordinarily lecture on AIDS policy. When well in alerting the governYale officials accused protester ment and the private sector to and ACT UP member Patrick the dangers of AIDS," said Ed Greany (BR '93) of violating Koch, the former mayor of university speech codes and New York Ciry. Kramer and brought him up before the ACT UP have accused Koch of being secretly gay and of Executive Committee, Kramer stepped in. He wrote a stingdistancing himself from AIDS activists to stay in the closet. ing and accusatory open letter to Ben no Schmidt and the "My private life is my own," Yale Corporation, whose said Koch, "but if attacking it members included some of his gives Kramer the sense that friends and classmates. he's doing something to proKramer's actions should teet the people for whom he have surprised no one. The fights, that's okay by me." noted novelist and playwright Some government officials quietly echo Koch's sentihas often criticized friends and ments, admitting that the provoked debate in his decadelong fight against government AIDS crisis might not have -;; neglect of AIDS. Kramer has gained the attention it needed ~ also created controversy within without the loud voices of -. the gay community and the Kramer and ACT UP. The organizations that he helped group's tactics have helped ~ create. "Over the years I have change the definition of AIDS ~ tried every possible idea in the and have forced speedier test-~ hope that others might pick it Admirn-s call Larry Kramn- th~ proph~t ofAIDS. ing and approval of experi~ upandrunwithit,"hesaid. "I mental drugs. "ACT UP, have tried coercion, I have tried jollity, I have tried despair, I because it was perceived as a threatening organization, has .t have tried anger. You name it, I've tried it." been able to accomplish some miraculous things," said ~ ACT UP, which Kramer founded in 1987, quickly Kramer. " But the fac t that it took ACT UP to do these ยง became famous for playing out his loud and provocative things was ridiculous. " ~ tactics on a large scale. ACT UP members used controversy In Kramer's opinion, one of the groups that failed to ..2 to secure the rapid release of experimental drugs for AIDS provide leadership in the fight against AIDS was Gay Men's j patients. From disrupting mass at New York's St. Patrick's Health Crisis (GMHC), the world's first AIDS service orga-

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THB NBW jOURNAL

0ECEMBE1l ~. 1992.

nization. Kramer himself helped create the group in 1981. At the time, he was already infamous within the gay community for his 1978 novel Faggots, which criticized the shallow sex-oriented gay life of the late 70s and enraged many who had fought so long for sexual freedom. When Kramer wrote to the N~w York Nativ~, a gay newspaper, to express his worry about the deaths of some friends from what would later be called AlDS, many gays scoffed at the man who had urged them to change before they "fucked themselves to death." "I think the concealed meaning in Kramer's emotionalism is the triumph of guilt: that gay men deserve to die from their promiscuity," responded Robert Chesley in a letter to the Nativ~. "With Kaposi's sarcoma attacking gay men, Kramer assumes he knows the cause." Although many would later dub Kramer the prophet of AlDS, much of the gay community at the time felt, as Chesley did, that Kramer had overestimated the danger of the new and strange disease and was using it to reinforce a prudish anti-sex message. Kramer's controversial personality soon landed him in hot water with the very organization he had helped found. "GMHC thinks that it can't do anything that confronts the system," he said. "They just go out and raise money and very quietly tend to their own. It's cowardice on their part, and it used to drive me insane." Kramer's insistence that GMHC sp~ out against the government caused other board members to fear that he would alienate crucial officials. When the group finally secured a long-sought meeting with Mayor Koch in 1983, fear of a Kramer diatribe led GMHC leaders to exclude him from the session. They subsequently voted him off the board of the organization. "You need to be able to work within the system. That's how we've always approached it," said David Eng, a spokesperson for GMHC. "We feel that it's important to be in Washington, Albany, and New York City making sure that fair and effective AlDS legislation is passed." But in the early 80s, organizations like GMHC fought an uphill battle. Many officials on the state and local levels took their cue from Washington, where Ronald Reagan avoided the subject of AlDS. While the National Institutes of Health (NIH) sat on the $8 million designated for research on the disease, Reagan's Secretary of Health and Human Services Margaret Heckler claimed that AlDS was not underfunded. "I'd call the Reagan policy the passive extermination of gay men and IV drug users," said biology professor Alvin Novick. Even Surgeon General C. Everett Koop blasted the president for his unwillingness to address the problem. Kramer vented his anger at GMHC and the government through Th~ Normal H~art, an autobiographical play that debuted in April 1985. Chronicling the first years of DECEMBER 4, 1992.

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JouRNAL

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the AIDS epidemic and Kramer's own battles with GMHC, it quickly became both a critical and popular success. While the play enhanced Kramer's credibility, his outspoken:'less created controversy once again. Although ACT UP's radical tactics included an infamous protest at St. Patrick's Cathedral, where members chained themselves to pews, threw condoms in the air, and brought high mass to a quick halt, Kramer wanted the group to go even further. "Larry's power decreased at the time of the 1990 San Francisco AIDS Conference, when he called for riots and violence," recalled Novick. "The activist community sharply rejected the idea. It was a kind of repeat of the rejection he had experienced from GMHC." After the conference, Kramer kept a lower profile, but he never retracted his provocative call for action. ''I'm not by nature a terrorist, but I'm amazed that there hasn't been violence," he said. "I'm amazed that, with all these people dying of AIDS, somebody with nothing to lose hasn't taken a pot shot at Jesse Helms or Pat Buchanan." While the activist community drew back from Kramer, he watched helplessly as ACT UP lost its energy. The very success of ACT UP had taken its toll. When the Bush administration began to respond to some of the group's demands, ACT UP decided to tackle additional issues like abortion and gay and lesbian rights. Disagreements over the direction of ACT UP prompted some members to quit the group. "Vanguard organizations never have long lives," explained Jason Heffner, a former member of ACT UP and a policy analyst for the National AIDS Commission. "Many of us moved into ACT UP very early, dropping everything else we were doing in our lives to work on it. Finally we had to come back to what we had left." By 1991, Kramer himself suffered from the emotional fatigue of his decade-long fight, especially since doc22 THE NEw JouRNAL

tors had diagnosed him as HIV-positive the year before. In addition, the second organization that he had helped create slipped steadily out of his control. "At ACT UP, we bent over backwards not to start another awful bureaucracy like GMHC," he sajd. "We went too far, creating something

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amazed that with all these people dying, somebody hasn't taken a pot shot at jesse Helms or Pat Buchanan. " that's democratic to a flaw, where every crazy in the wodd can come and obstruct progress." The radical, often hateful rhetoric of ACT UP disappeared from much of Kramer's writing. Th~ D~stiny ofM~, his critically-acclaimed sequel to Th~ Normal H~art that recently premiered off-Broadway, deals as much with his troubled family life as with his AIDS activism. In the new play, the unfeeling bureaucrats of Th~ Normal H~art have become more sympathetic doctors and nurses, reflecting Kramer's own experience with the medical establishment since his HIV diagnosis. Kramer worries that his personal acquaintance with the people he criticizes has compromised his effectiveness as an activist. But his most frequent targets disagree. "Even though he's a personal friend, it makes news when he attacks me," said Dr. Anthony Fauci, director of AIDS research for NIH. "He can blast me in the press one day, and we'll discuss it over dinner the next." Kramer has in the past labeled the doctor an incompetent idiot and a monster, but Fauci brushes aside such insults as merely Kramer's way of baiting the media. Not all of his friends find Kramer's stinging words so easy to ignore. "I credit Larry Kramer with saving my life

and millions of other gay men's live~. He's a hero to me, and I don't have many heroes anymore," said Heffner. "But I haven't escaped his wrath or criticism now that I work in the government, so my admiration is not without a certain amount of pain." The Sullivan incident once again demonstrated Kramer's willingness to alienate friends in the name of his cause. While then-'(ale president Benno Schmidt and the Corporation maintained that Greany and the other protesters denied Sullivan freedom of speech, Kramer claimed that the whole incident had been blown out of proportion. "Twenty-five people screaming in Batt~ll Chapel was hardly the earth-shattering event that Benno was determined to make it appear," he said. The Executive Committee eventually dropped the charges against Greany, but not before Kramer had angered his friends on the Corporation. Kramer's concern for today's gay Yalies may reflect his own college years, which were none too bright. As a freshperson, academic difficulties and loneliness drove him to attempt suicide. "I think I truly felt as if I were the only gay person at Yale," he recalled. "I didn't make any contacts with anyone in my own age group in a gay way for my entire four years." In addition to his intervention on Greany's behalf, Kramer has also spoken at a few of Yale's gay events and given lectures about AIDS for various courses. H e sometimes talks about moving back to New Haven to work with students. "I just hope that gay kids are proud of being gay, and that Yale accepts and recognizes them," he said. "I guess of all the places in the world, New Haven represents to me the depths of despair that I once was in, and how far I've come from that despair. And how far the world has ._.. come, too. " .-u

Charlotu Brooks, a unior in Pi~rson College, is managing ~ditor ofTNJ

Women's Studies: Fighting for Respect Suzanne Kim

ast spring, Yale made an unprecedented tenure offer. The university offered a senior position to associate professor Emily Honig, breaking with tradition by creating a joint appointment for her in the women's studies program and the history department. Many students and faculty saw the appointment as a response to long-standing demands for tenured faculty in women's studies. "This is significant because we didn't have a senior faculty in

L

""we get reports that people are made to justifY their choice ofa womens studies class, much less a major. " women's studies," said women's studies major Carissa Aoki (ES '93). Only by hiring its own senior faculty, women's studies supporters argued, could the program attain the level of continuity that most departments and large programs at Yale enjoy. Yet Honig passed up the university's offer for a tenured position at the prestigious women's studies department of the University of California at Santa Cruz, and Yale has no plans to replace her either this year or next. Until the university acts, the women's studies program is back to the small-program status of two assistant professorships, much to the chagrin of its students. Some students believe that the lack of university support and the negative attitude toward women's studies that they have encountered at Yale comes from a general disrespect towards interdisciplinary programs. "There's a basic attitude about all alternative disciplines that they are not as rigorous as traditional ones," said women's studies major Chani Waterhouse (SM '93). According to Laura Wexler, the director of undergraduate studies (DUS) of women's studies, students say they have been criticized for their involvement in the program. "We get reports that people DECEMBER 4â&#x20AC;˘ 1992

THE NEW jOURNAL 23

are made to justify theY. choice of a women's studies clasa, much less a major," she said. Women's studies faculty claim that the youth of the prograaf'Uts pressure on it to prove itself in die established realm of academia. "Like American studies in the 1940s, women's studies is still emerging," said Parricia Pierce,

'Zike American studies in the 1940s, women studies is still en,trging. "

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former associate dean otrale College. Most importantly, the kminist focus of women's studies has Black the program one of the mosc ~troversial disciplines at Yale. As women's studies e:ajors grapple with the bias against theirchosen field, they also must navigate through the pitfalls of their program. Students express discontent with ~ral aspects of their major, indudins cuurse offerings, advising, and the suuccure of the program. At the root of these problems lies the high rate of faculty turnover. As they strugp to make the program work for them, ~&Udents must piece together prograJllS til study from a list of courses not under meir major's control. As a result, they C{uestion the level of university support for the major. ince its inceptiOII in 1979, women's studies 1aas grown steadily in terms of ~urse offerings and student invol-.ment. The program incorporates courses from many different deparunenu, drawing faculty from a range o( disciplines. The total number of CCRttSes focusing on women, including wre women's studies classes, classes in -.her departments, and college semO.., rose from 15 in 1976 to 52 last ,.a In the same 15-year span, the nu of students

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taking courses on women increased from 366 to 1216. The enrollment explosion in women's studies classes reflects growing student interest in the field. "Feminist scholarship is the cutti ng edge right now in a lot of different disciplines like history, anthropology, and literature, " said major Waterhouse. "Doing the major means taking classes with some of the smartest and best thinkers at Yale and being exposed to a way of looking at issues that's complex and inclusive. It's an incredibly vital area of study." Yet expansion has come with drawbacks. In the past several years, some majors have voiced concern about the structure of the curriculum. Because of the high rate of faculty turnover, course offerings in the major change from year to year. The specific nature of the major's requirementsfive core courses, seven courses in the student's area of concentration, one course outside that concentration, and the senior essay-makes it difficult to build a curriculum that can withstand the frequent shifts. "It turns into a crap shoot whether or not you have enough courses to fill the requirements," said major Tracy Turner (ES '93). And because they must concentrate in a particular area of study, some majors find it difficult to choose classes that apply to both women's studies and their area of interest. According to history professor Nancy Con, a founder of the women's studies program and its current chair, consistency in course offerings is not the program's most important concern. She sees the constant change as a positive influence on the program. "I think in a new area like women's studies that is multi-disciplinary," s.he said, "this kind of differentiation from year to year can actually add a lot of vitality to the subject and to the teaching of the subject." But some students disagree. "There are times when it's awkward in

class because we are all coming from different backgrounds," said Turner. She believes that the major should be restructured to focus more on the history of feminist thought. "There should be more theory after the introductory course so that all the women's studies majors work from a basic core knowledge," she said. Cott believes that exposing students to several perspectives on women's studies rakes precedence over creating a common background. "We hope to provide students with what we see as necessary or minimal exposure to different kinds of approaches within women's studies," she said.

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vising, like course offerings, uffers from discontinuity. In he past five or six years, the women's studies DUS has changed every year. The OUS's responsibilities include teaching the introductory course, advising, and performing administrative tasks. "We only have two junior positions in women's studies, and sometimes one of those people is on leave," Con said. "Also, no one wants to be DUS all the time." The program has attempted to bring in faculty members from other departments to act as DUS. But out-

Course offerings in the major change from year to year. of-program professors have no incentive to take on the extra work load and rotate into the position only briefly. "When we borrow a faculty member from a department to be DUS, it's just about inevitable that that person will only be able to do it for one year," said Cott. The turnover in the position of DUS and other faculty has hurt the advising available to some undergradDECEMBER 4â&#x20AC;˘ 1992.

uates when they try to organize their curricula. "The faculty turnover affects advising because there is no final authority," said major Stephanie #loll. .,r1> Brenowitz (TO '95). "Some professors -rtlf.. ~,.._.,,.. are so new that there always seems to f..~"{S of -.,:.'c>o.rP''~ .p<-'~':.1· · · ·tnrormatton. c · " f..~ -~..If' _.li,....s. o< b e a gap o f mtssmg niJ\11.....,-..ff' .,.....~,1'~(?'-~ ..~.... '""1 . h 11-f..'>" .~ :o.• c#~ ~·(\ 0 Th e h tg turnover rate among - 5, ..<»....,..-' " c."·"..~o< ..,,1 , 1 '~<.0"' ' stud'1es proressors c '"' <\) r-S' "'";,# <$>"<".~ ~ womens stems firom ~,...... ~<"~' ~.~' . .~~ ~~..~''" . 6 <P"~ (\\_(.., · ~ o<CP"'~.s' ~--- <<-v; s~' ~ ~t> ' · b"l' t h e programs Ina 1 tty to tenure tts i:fLC :.o<_~~~~o\·· ' · --~· """'~' '0) t>'"' . d' . ,..~~'<:P"':~' Qvs '""'~ ,-:.,.~, .. oe s-{\1 own members. As a smaJl toter tSCI- .pt.<- ,v:JC>. -,pc._o< ~·· \""'~ ~--~,_..S'"' o>Jo..~t. .....,.,.:. 'CP" <Jfo<" ~''~' •\: _.. ~-to~ <""~ o< p I.mary program, womens' stud'tes d oes"~<.\'f.V~~ '''"~;;_(\o . <P" ~~oe._,..,.. . .; ... ,~...oor<~. 0 _,. '<"~>"'-- -.,:1' • ·p u-· S<-~'' \)'-' • . <"'" ~u· """. n ot have the same status as a depart- Q\•~c.~'d~,<:~..(\._.. \,~.."~-''<· " '~~'....,.-.<'! ~:,.,.-. "'!•6.""' ~'.p•'· t:'. • c ..9'>)• \),.. \\\l.o ,c.S<'Y- ~· • ..~ :,.,_,,:.~ ment. "The d euntng reature o f most 0 {'"~""'""-'P".,... 1.1>9_.. v ~f , "'~ ..,o~....._~,~ ..,-..:r.• . h k $6' .li6 ...., \)O"'~<J(C. 6 O'" 1'1.' ~i.·"'· , .._. programs IS t at they can only rna e "'"s~-t"o ..o . ~-~ ~¢'~.n-"\)~v..' G9't>., • . . . h "1/tfl' \~\! CY... _,\',(o ~..,1' .,-9V'"" -.l~ ~ o' appotntments 10 connecuon wtt ~~>Jo'~~''·'.:r.c."~ ,oc.1':9or-~~..c.-»" ,ovfo another department," said Deputy ~\)·f ~""~~~.:.,rt>c <fl'.-9'<\ ,.-t.,,~ 0 ~9ll ,,,o ._o<i· ~ -y.\'0. P·' t>s-t P rovost C h ar Ies Long. Th e d epart,~'..'~~...,~ ~'''<~'~<S\'<,6· _...to~'L , _n ~o~ c... ~ <t<''' <J-1'"""r (\G•··•~~~\'<.,_.c;,_..t>.,..,V '-'""' ment of the faculty member up for '-~' ~·..,.. ·,~'o.:r.'' . ,o'ol~~,._v9' ~<"---~' . . th <-~'" ftl.,cs ~.\\ \.-:.-~ ~ ,~ o)• so."' .,._~1' -..u·· · ~<. tenure m akes th e final dectston, ra er ' "'"s-oto~· ~o>Jo~ 00 1..~ "~~rJt·...&.c:'""h~'.u. • di '"'c,~ s~ ..;P>• .~:;.:,~·v· •..ltll1'~ \\\....,) \I'" '' . o<l"'~~\to 1!/..st h an th e women s sru es program. ,:r.c.•'~ll.."~..s- \d'> \ Until Emi ly Honig's appoint....~... l.i's~~'!-o~~~"-o6"'~~~~;~~~u~ . f1 >sSftl 't-"" -t~o< '!....''""- · C)t'• «-~' ..'~">'·-....,~, ment, the program had no m uence " .,to>c.~>· .,..,.o , .:r.' ,.. ~~ ,_,:r.~.-.p~· :.1'1\ y. '' ,o-. O' 9'...(\ t.s'" t<-<'' • c><"'' on the tenure process. Th1s procet ..:,l'..~::<i-~to~s·~o~~:C.~' ..-_,.,, · ...-;.. ....~~··0 ..,c.'>ll(\<.••~ll).l\ cJ. d ure h as Ied to ch arges t hat sch oarI ship in women's studies has not been into, women's studies fa c ulty leave said. "Micaela di Leonardo's deparaccorded enough legitimacy. Yale after six or seven years, the usual ture, the delay in replacing her, and Many women's studies support- amount of time for assistant profesEmily Honig's departure have made ers point to the case of Professor • sors unless they get promoted. Their continuity appear more difficult in Micaela di Leonardo as an example of departures create a sense of instability. the past few years." how this arrangement hurts the pro- "What makes the overall faculty affiliWomen's studies majors balgram. Di Leonardo left Yale two ated with women's studies seem more ance their frustrations against their years ago after the anthropology volatile is that it's not really under the enjoyment of their courses. " My department did not grant her tenure. control of the program," said Cott. women's studies classes have been Although acclaimed by feminist According to Long, however, the absolutely the most exciting classes I've taken at Yale," said Waterhouse, scholars, her work did not seem sig- university has supported the pronificant enough to merit tenure in the gram. He points to the joint promo- "the classes in which I've been on the eyes of senior faculty in the anthro- tion of Honig, which would have cost edge of my seat. " Honig's tenure would have pology department. the university more money because In protest, students formed an ad one senior professorship equals two brought new hope for stability as well hoc committee and drew up a list of junior positions in cost. "The admin- as vitality in the program. Her depardemands. "We wanted a review of the istration has agreed to thJ: creation of ture, and the university's failure to flU process," said Aoki. "We wanted it to the senior position, which immedithe postion, have left students doubtbe more flexible so that there would ately changes the nu~ber of junior ful of improvement in the near future. "You take what you can get," be more input from others who rec- faculty equ ivalents from two to said Brenowitz, "when you're a ognized work in women's studies as three," he said. 1&1) work." Committee members requestLong admits that in the past 13 women's studies major." ed that money be allocated for a joint years the constant change that has tenure position to be shared by plagued the women's studies program Suzann~ Kim, a fruhpason in women's stud ies, and a general rehas primarily burdened stude nts. evaluation of the tenure procedure. "The current undergraduates have Saybrook Co/L~g~. is on th~ staff of Without senior positions to move had a hard time with continuity," he TN]. 6 \ ..

..

THE NEw JouRNAL 25

Legitimate Grievances Sonya]oo

legations of sexual harassment recently have shaken the foundations of Yale's ivory tower. Kate Joost, a raduate student at the University of Oregon, accused School of Forestry professor Stephen Kellert of forcibly kissing and touching her when she visited the university as a prospective graduate student in June 1988. Asserting that Yale officials ignored her complaints at that time, Joost renewed her charges this fall. Also, history and American studies professor Mario Garcia left Yale this summer after a graduate school grievance board found that he had harassed one of his graduate students. In a recent Yale Daily News article, ten of 30 female graduate students interviewed said they knew of other incidents of either physical or verbal sexual harassment in the graduate school. National numbers back up their claims. According to the Association of American Colleges, 20 to

When the teaching assistant started to talk ofpersonal matters, Sarah became uncomfortable. 30 percent of undergraduates and even more graduate students experience harassment from instructors. The number of Yale students who report such incidents falls far short of national statistics and word-of-mouth reports, however. According to physics professor Peter Parker, who convenes the Yale College Grievance Board for Student Complaints of Sexual Harassment, the number of complaints received by the board has ranged from 12 ro 24 a year. Last year the board received almost no complaints. "There's a great deal of frustration," said Parker, "knowing and hearing about so many more cases out there that never come to the board." At the beginning of each academic year, the grievance board places pamphlets that explain its functions and proce26

THE NEw JouRNAL

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DECEMBER 4, 1992

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it distributes table tents, brochures, and posters. But the effectiveness of such publicity efforts remains questionable. Board member Eve Tetzlaff (SY '93) admits she did not notice the pamphlet or learn of the board's existence until her junior year. Students who suffer harassment may choose not to take action through the university for a wide range of personal reasons. Also, Yale's failure to publicize adequately its sexual harassment grievance procedures and the university's dearth of educational programs may help foster the confusion that causes many cases to go unreponed. ·

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ale's grievance procedure calls sexual harassment "antithetical to academic values,~ and defines it as nonconsensual sexual advances, requests for sexual favors, or other verbal or physical conduct that becomes a condition for employment or academic standing or disrupts work or academic performance. Sexual harassment may be found in a single incident as well as persistent behavior. Yale offers several options for victims of sexual harassment. Each school has its own sexual harassment grievance board. The Yale College board, first convened in 1978, handles informal undergraduate complaints of sexual harassment that involve Yale College faculty and staff. The seven board members, who include faculty, administrators, and students, also answer questions about the grievance procedure and give advice about sexual harassment. "The board wants to be there to help," said Parker. One student, Sarah*, received quick attention when she turned to the board after a teaching assistant made unwanted advances towards her. One evening on her way to work, Sarah bumped into her teaching assistant, who offered to meet her later to help her with her studies over a bite to eat. "I don't mind being friends with my TA.s," Sarah said, "so I went with him." But when the teaching assistant started to talk of personal matters, Sarah became uncomfortable. "I sensed the boundaries between student and teacher melting," she said . "He told me that he loved me. I said pretty

Y

DECEMBER

+• 1991

THE NEW JOURNAL

much everything to stop this. But still he kept calling me." The teaching assistant's pursuit of Sarah affected her academics. S h e could not concentrate in section because she wondered if he directed his comments to the class or to her alone. "An obsessive male is hard enough to deal with in the social realm," Sarah said. "But now the obsessive male is a lso giving you a grade during the week. Your academic and social lives collapse into each other." After learning of the board from her college dean, Sarah spoke ro a board member and filed an informal complaint. The board contacted her teaching assistant, informed him of Sarah's identity, and listened to his side

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THÂŁ NEw JouRNAL

'1 did everything to stop this. But still he kept calling me. " The co mmittee then submits a report to the dean, who decides on a final resolution. Action by the dean can include oral warnings, reprimands, or review of disputed grades. If the dean believes that a harassment incident merits more serious punishment, he or she can refer it to higher authori-

ings are more rigid and impersonal, and the student relinquishes control to the administration. Board members believe that they provide a viable alternative to these more formal proced ures. "No aggrieved student has ever come to me whose problems have been overlooked by the board or not taken seriously," said Betty Trachtenberg, Dean of Student Affairs of Yale College. Board members regret that students who do not know much, if anything, about the board can have misperceptions about its level of formality. "The use of the word ' board' really misrepresents how informal and concerned this group is," said Tetzlaff. Confusion about the murky boundaries of sexual harassment con-

SPEAK OUT

of the story. The board keeps all proceedings confidential, but identifies the complainant to the alleged harasser for the sake of fairness to all parties. The board aims to resolve matters as quickly as possible, bur can rake no action without the student's permission. "We do not want the srudent to lose control of the situation," said Parker. The board may arrange for a student to change sections, or require offenders to write letters of apology. In Sarah's case, she switched sections, and her teaching assistant received a warning from his department. If the board fails to resolve a problem, or if a student files a formal complaint, the Dean of Yale College handles the case. Once the dean steps in, the student no longer controls the handling of the com plaine. The dean's 28

procedure usually entails a hearing at which both parties state their cases before a committee appointed by the dean.

ties. The ultimate power to dismiss an instructor lies with the University Tribunal, a body whose action must be authorized by the president and which has never met in its 23 year history. Cases that involve student complaints against other students come before the Executive Committee, which handles all infractions of the Undergraduate Regulations. The Executive Committee may authorize removal from campus housing or put a student on probation. But few students initiate formal complaints, although they allow for severe punitive action. According to Valerie Stanley, Assistant Director of Yale's Office for Equal Opportunity Programs, the lengthy process and the publicity of a formal procdure intimidates people. In addition, the proceed-

uibutes to student reluctance to lodge any kind of complaint with the university. Another student, Mike*, who was harassed by his teaching assistant, did not consider the situation serious enough to turn to the administration. Mike's instructor repeatedly urged him to come in during office hours, and then came to Mike's room one night to return a lab. "I worked so hard on these labs bur he graded me so harshly. I kept wondering what was going on," Mike said. Unable to ignore the situation, Mike dropped the course. But about a month later his teaching assistant showed up at his door, dressed up and holding a flower. After a nervous exchange the teaching assistant left. Mike found the incident awkward and unwelcome, yet doubts that the teaching assistant's actions fall DECEMBER 4 , 1992

:J{g.pfes Pizza ~estaurant under the definition of sexual harassment M ike's reluctance reflects the difficulty in determining the point at which an instructor's behavior becomes a violation of a student's academic and personal life. Even Sarah did not immediately label her experience as sexual harassment. "I thought that sexual harassment was only a case involving an ultimatum, like, ' If you don't sleep with me, I'll fail you or fire you,'" she said. Some students believe that university policy and awareness efforts have failed to clear up the confusion for both students and instructors. Becky Young (ES '94), co-coordinator of women breaking the silence, a group formed to raise awareness about sexual

new teaching assistants provides little opportunity to deal with the issue in depth. In response to the need for more thorough training, a group of grad uate students established a series of workshops called Working at Teach ing. One workshop addressed "crushes" of students on teachers and vice versa, and the problems of favo ritism and harassment that arise. According to Matt Dowling (GRD '94), these workshops fill a gap in the p resent train ing system . H owever, no t all teaching assistants attend t his p rogram. The efforts of groups like Working at Teaching signal a positive step in the battle against sexual harassment. As this national issue hits cam-

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assault and harassment, claimed that few students actually read Yale's sexual harassment pamphlet and that even fewer freshpeople attend the optional discussion during orientation. "We call on the administration to take a more aggressive approach to this issue," said Young. Faculty and staff do not receive much guidance about Yale's sexual harassment policy either. In accordance with state law, the Office of Equal Opportunity Programs periodically runs workshops for super~isors, some of whom are faculty members. But the administration does not sponsor workshops for all teachers. Every teaching assistant receives a handbook that i n cludes a section on sexual harassment and states that they should not date students. But orientation for DECEMBER 4• 1992

pus, Yale shows signs of increased respons iveness. Deputy Provost Charles Long plans to revise sexual harassment grievance procedures to clarify policies and the steps to file a complaint. And Tetzlaff claims that despite campus confusion over the university's policy and grievance procedures, Yale considers sexual harassment a very serious matter. "From what I have seen, people are very committed to the board, " she said. "There's a commitment in the university that students should not have to deal with sexual harassment." 1811

Sonya ]oo, a sophomor~ in Davmport Co/kg~. is Circulation Dir~ctor of TN] . Sarah and Mik~ ar~ psnulonyms.

Thanks Robin Appleberry Joanna Astor • Sara Bakker Daniel Clarke • Elisha Cooper Douglas Crimp • English 454a Erik Fischer-Velez Frinzi Studio • Andrew Furber Regina Gelin • Jackie Goldberg Patrick Greany • Ben Kiernan Stephanie Lieberman Stephanie Lowell Kris Mooseker • Alvin Novick Ben Pesner • Pierson College Adam Rolston • Peter Seibel Paul Sinegal • M 'B Singley Valerie Skrelja • Adam Spivack Fred Strebeigh Yak Daily N~s • The Yak Herald • YIRA • Jon Zucker THE Nrw j ouRNAL 29

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Cari/Jonn~r Bm

Wtoarn (MC '93) survtys his domain from lofty Harkness Tower.

Who Tolls the Bells? Stephanie Lowell ineteen Yale students have a very special set of keys. The first key unlocks the entryway door of Harkness Tower, and the second opens the door to a '"harrow spiral staircase. The students use the third in the middle of the dark and damp stairwell. Then they climb and climb, past the tower clock and the pigeons, and use the fourth and final key to unlock a grate that leads to the open air and the bells of the tower. Higher than the bells, 286 steps from the ground, they reach the top of Harkness. Far from sections, papers, and exams, they can see all of New Haven and, in the right weather, as far as Long Island. These 19 students make up the Yale Guild of Carillonneurs, who climb Harkness daily to chime the hour and enjoy the height, the view, and the power to make the entire campus listen to their music. The carillon tradition began in 17th century Holland. When the central town clock rang the hour, townspeople often missed the first few beats, so the bell-ringers began to chime a little tune to capture the town's attention before they rang out the time. Carillon playing declined during the 18th century, when many a town's bells were melted down to make armaments for the French Revolution. But a 20th century surge of interest, largely in the United States, led to the rearrangement of many classical pieces for the carillon as

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well as the composition of new runes. The bells in Yale's beloved Harkness played a large role in the carillon revival. Builders completed the tower at the end of World War I, and in 1921 a steamer brought 14 newly-cast bells from England to New Haven. In 1964 Elenor Crofut gave Yale the additional upper 40 bells needed to make a full carillon. The Yale carillon, a keyboard instrument like the organ, spans four and a half octaves and has 54 hand keys and 28 foot pedals. The keys attach to clappers hung in the tower via thin steel rods. The clappers increase in weight as the notes get lower- the clapper bells attached to the high notes weigh about 200 pounds, while the lowest bell weighs almost seven tons. One plays the instrument by hitting the keys with loosely clenched fists or by pressing on the foot pedals. Since the pedals play the same notes as the lower half of the hand notes, two players can perform together using only the hand keys. Though an official college organist played the original bells, during the 1940s Yale College students took over the job and played the chimes five times a day for 15 minutes per ring. When Yale acquired a full carillon, the Yale Guild of Carillonneurs was officially founded. Endowments from the Harkness family, who also paid DECEMBER

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YOU NEED US IN Y.O UR LIFE The New Journal is currently looking for writers, artists, photographers, and businesspeople to work on our next issue. You, too, can get in on the action. Come to the Writer's Meeting Monday, December 7 at 7:30 in the Berkeley Seminar Room. 32 THE NEW jOURNAL

Yale's bel/ringers bang out tunes like for the construction of the _rower, and from Crofut, support Yale's carillon activities. The Harkness funds maintain the tower and bells, w hile the Crofut money provides the guild with an operating budget. Membership in the guild comes with the appealing perk of access to the top of Harkness Tower. "It's a great escape from Yale to sit up in the tower all by yourself," said Molly Scoville (DC '93), co-chair of the guild. "It's one of the few places you can really be alone." Despite their possessive feel ings about the tower, members often agree to share access to it. "At times I get phone calls from people I hardly know because they find out that I have a key to the tower," said Mira Bernstein (BK '94). "But I almost always take them up there because I think it's a really worthwhile experience." Carillonneurs' sense of privilege also extends to the act-of bell-ringing itsel£ "One of our applicants called it 'a mix of power and anonymity,' and it totally is," said co-chair Ben Wearn (MC '93). Bell-ringing offers its d evotees a rare opportunity fo r total con- · trol. "Playing my first ring was terrifying," said Ted Scott (SY '93). "Bu£ 0.£C.£MBER 4•

199z

formed Bach's "Toccata and Fugue," One further attraction of carillonChopin's "Funeral March," "Ding ning is its distance from stereotypical Dong, the Witch is Dead," and the Yale activities. Wearn and Scott noted "Pink Panther. " In addition co perthat since carillonning is not exactly a forming for the Yale community, they mainstream thing, guild members play national anthems for visiting digtend co be a little on the, well, strange nitaries and do $75 gigs for weddings. side. "It's not chat we're eccentric," The guild is currently planning a said Scott. "But you could say .chat we spring trip co Belgium, where they will all have our eccentric aspects." visit a few of the original carillon towWhile the student community ers and acquaint themselves with the below walks around campus, enjoying, history of their instrument. ignoring, or even hating the music G•· ·•.; members choose their own that screams from the cower, the carillonneurs sic far above playing music tunes and sometimes improvise during their rings. The group has a library of with the sense of ultimate control. music into which players can delve, Although offbeat and perhaps a litcle and the selection includes Bach mysterious co most, guild members fugues, gospel hymns, Led Zeppelin's find carillonning co be an empowering "Stairway co Heaven," and the Sesame experience. " It's cataclysmic," said Street theme. Bernstein learned quickWearn. "You're siccing under 40 cons ly chat some student listeners display of bells, playing music you love, and once you scare to play, there's really their preferences quite clearly. "Lase the heavens open up!" li1J nothing anyone can do co stop you." year a group of Branford students Guild membership depends on would pose hate notices whenever I Stephanie Lowell is a senior in Moru musical skill and diligent practiceplayed the Beatles," she said. College. none of c h eE:::;::::::::;;;r;;;;;;;;~~iiF==----.====------=;~-;:=---;:;;,~;:~::::::iiiiiiiiii~~~-:-:---l present carillonneurs played the instrumen before coming to Yale. Beginners study under experienced guil members durin fall semester a audition befo winter break. Student illonneurs r the bells for half-hour rwice day, at 12: and 5:00 p. m. from Monday Saturday, a 2:00 and 5:00 p. m. on Sundays. carillonneur also play specia theme rings, r their Hallowee show, in which members per- In the past 300 yean, be/l-and-clapper technology has not changed dramatically. THE NEw jouRNAL 33

AFTERTHOUGHT-------------------------

The Boys of Autumn Elisha Cooper pick flowers before every away game. Flowers or some leaves that I put next to my seat on the bus for luck. I also give some to Pete Swartz, our kicker. On this drizzly Friday I pick an extra big bunch of red and orange leaves because we are playing Dartmouth, the biggest game of our season so far. We gather outside of Lapham Field House, all of us players carrying our clunky blue travel bags over our shoulders. The trainers and equipment men load big blue boxes into the belly of the bus and the managers hand out bag lunches. Our coaches, a good many of whom are Italian and wear funny hats, stand outside, shuffling. We are all dressed in jacket and tie, which makes the large lineman types look a bit out of place and ill at ease. On the way up 1-91 some of the guys sleep, snoring with Walkmans on their ears and textbooks across their laps. I watch the countryside and changing foliage of the Connecticut River Valley. The Connecticut River is a blue vein coursing through New England. In late October the valley's surrounding hills explode into orange and yellow and red. Fields are ochre with corn, or cold with dirt where the corn has already been harvested. One triangular-shaped field above Brattleboro is still tilled by horse. Small towns wedge themselves unobtrusively into bends in the river. From the bus, Hanover, New Hampshire is a few white houses and steeples pushing their

I

34 THE NEw JouRNAL

way through the trees. We exit the highway, cross the iron bridge, and the dark river that has followed us for the whole trip is left behind. Hanover swims with fall and with studepts hurrying to put up a wooden bonfire in the center of the town green. Invaders in buses, we disembark at the old brick locker rooms that sit across a small paved walk from Dartmouth's Memorial Stadium. A bunch of us wander across the grass, poking the turf with our leather dress shoes. The huge empty stands, covered with ivy, rise up on either side. I try to imagine what the stadium will look like tomorrow. Then a whistle-Coach Cozza thinks it's too wet for practice, so .we go to our hotel to "rest up." The Holiday Inn in White River Junction looks just like the Ramada in Easton, Pennsylvania, which looks just like whatever hot~! is outside of Cornell in upstate New York. These places always make me wonder about the life of professional athletes on the road. This Holiday Inn does have some quality attractions--on the way to our identical rooms we pass a huge indoor recreation area with a swimming pool, a ping-pong table, a pool table, a putting green and even a railway caboose, maroon with Delaware-Hudson Line painted on the side. "How the hell'd this get in here?'' someone asks. None of us knows. I wish I could go for a walk. Most of the guys go to their rooms with the identical beds and watch TV. Ties pulled, feet up, waiting. Waiting specifically for dinner. Food comes at 5:30, along with a rush oflarge boys. Salad first, with iceberg lettuce. Spaghetti with meat sauce. Rolls that always run out. Chicken. Chocolate cake. A lot of my teammates have grumbled recently about the lack of red meat. After dinner we watch films. The same ones of Dartmouth we've watched all week. The only reason we meet is to meet, to keep the team together. Afterwards I walk through hollow corridors back to my room. I try to read and end up watching TV with Ed Kmak, my roommate and fellow receiver. I can't tell what's outside our closed DECEMBER 4â&#x20AC;˘ 1992

0

'0

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windows, dark and dap-

teammates get their ankles taped while traint!: We sit on our beds for ers scurry about, others ~ hours, watching Friday silen tly change their ยง night television, waiting. cleats. I change mine, put ~ them on, then run out~ Bill Gonillo wonders side in the cold to test :ยง about the corn chowder ..~........, ~ the field. -2 they usually bring up to 'fllllll"" O ld men are putting 8 the press box. A large final touches on the { man, with diabetes, he has field-painting lines, just downed ten of those rolling cords, putting the great chocolate chip cookchains in place. I hear ies they have up here and bands in the distance, doesn't know if he should,___ _ _.;;;;;;;.. _ _ _ ; _ _ : ; _ . . : : . . . _ - = - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ' : : : . _ - - ' drums and trombones have another. His stomach "SometiJing blew us down tl;e field. It was a moment offullness." sounding over blowing isn't feeling good from the yellow trees, and the bouncy Saturday morning flight up from New Haven. Bill sounds of tailgaters gathering. I stretch alone in the center looks out across the stadium at the fans teeming in and out of the field. Reporters and die-hard followers of Yale to the distant hills with their bright fall foliage. It's about Football, all men with large cigars, circle the locker room time to start. Scratching his day-old beard with one hand, door. I push back inside and leave the hum of the field he grabs the WELl mike with the other and begins: The behind. It's time to dress. blue loaded up the bus, they tripped up 1-91, they suffered I go to my bag: jockstrap, greys, girdle, white pants through the annual bonfire that comes h"ere every Friday night with two blue stripes, shoulder pads, jersey, black cleats and before Homecoming which always seems to be the Yale Football a battered white helmet with a big blue Y. Tape ripping, the game, and as the old beer ads say, "'t doesn't get much better slap of shoulder pads, we gather as a team and tramp out to than this. "It's the height, maybe just past the peak ofthe foliage the field for warm-ups. Stretching, running together, catchseason up here in the upper valley and it is great football. It is ing, throwing. Running routes and breaking a sweat. Yale and Dartmouth. Hi again everybody, and welcome to Adrenaline. The stands begin to fill with a trickle of fall Hanover, New Hampshire. fans, colorful and warm. Then back to the locker room. I pace around inside, catch a quick glance from a teammate. aturday morning breaks clear and cold. The wet from The door outside occasionally blows open and lets in a the day before barely sits on the ground. The air is short blast of bands and the assembling crowd. Northern crisp-not quite cold enough to see your Last instructions from our coaches. Sweat wiped away, breath, but cold enough for longjohns. Cold enough to eyeb)ack put on, mine smeared. Then, as usual, we kneel for think of snow. In the hotel parking lot I watch the nipping the Lord's Prayer. Sometimes I wonder about the Jewish wind pick up the leaves and blow them across the sky into members of the team. But there we all are, bowed in white uniforms, 70 men holding hands. It's comforting. Dave the biting early morning smoke from distant farmhouses. We leave the hotel and drive the nervous 11 miles up to Dixon, our fullback, always throws up before games. Nerves. He finds a way of doing this right in the middle of Hanover. the Lord's Prayer, or expertly between verses of the National Locker rooms during the week are loud and raucous. On game day an eerie silence descends. Players, half in dress Anthem. Against Dartmouth he does both. We are ready to clothes, half in uniform, sit on benches and read the pro- play. The players trot out onto the field, and to Bill from his gram. No one says a word. The only sounds are the hum of heavy metal coming through someone's Walkman and the green press box above the stands, they look very small: The never-ending flush of toilets from the bathroom. Some Elis in the visiting jersey with the gleaming white helmets, :~ pled with drops of rain.

S

DECEMBER 4, 1992

THE NEw JouRNAL

35

white pants and the blue numbers and Dartmouth, the Big Green, in the green jerseys and the white numerals and the white helmets with Dartmouth on the side... then with a rush and a roar it scares .. . he boots it and we're underway... it takes a hop- the deep man Ho./fmeister- dekes a man! At the 20, the 30! A fumble! The bali squirts in the air, Mike Brown recovers in the air for Yale! Bill Gonillo yells into the mike. What a beginning. The fans hardly in their seats! But Yale fails to capitalize. The offense sputters and Pete Swartz, the kicker, misses a 39-yard field goal into the wind. Nothing has gone right for the Elis early on, Bill mumbles between bites of his corn chowder. This chowder is always the best thing about broadcasting games up in Hanover, and today it's the only good thing. Yale's getting thoroughly dominated by Jay Fielder, Dartmouth's star quarterback. After the missed field goal, Yale's workhorse

running back Keith Price fumbles. Fielder throws a strike to Greg Hoffmeister on the next play for a touchdown. And so goes the first half: again- a playfake-stepping upFielder, going Long, for Brzica, catches the football three steps out ofbounds at the two, what a throw by jay Fielder! Across his body-off baittnce--40 yards down field-a strike! Yale is down by 23. Then· a final insult: Dartmouth's third-string fullback Chris Umshied rambles over 30 yards co the 10 on a fake punt with only 12 seconds left in the half. Fielder hits receiver David Shearer on the lase play before halftime for a touchdown. The bands thump, the home crowd roars, and Bill tries to find something good to say: gonna know the words of "Its the Backs Go Marching By" because, uh, they sing it after every score here and thry've Mne it five times already this, uh, this half Bill remembers an anecdote about the 1987 Yale game against Hawaii. It was

"The clock ticks and the game beats with last minuu desperation. "

broadcast at around three in the morning New Haven time, and with Hawaii up by a bunch late in the third, the announcer heard all the radios on the East Coast go off with one big click.

T

he game StartS well, we recover a fumble. But we can't seem co drive, and Dartmouth's quarterback can't seem t_? do anything wrong. As we huddle sweating and angry on the sideline, planning our next series, the crowd explodes and we turn our heads to see some receiver in green dashing down the sidelines. A deep voice crackles cheerfully over the public address system "Fielder co Bnica" or "Fielder to Hoffmeister." At half-time we walk off the field feeling like we've been punched in the stomach, our air gone. Mystified, downturned faces in the locker room. Looks not met. Coach Cozza has two things to say to us: " Keep your poise, play with your hearts." We don't know what co chink, but out we go for the second half.

Fall foliag~things look beautiful, but things aren't so beautiful right now and certainly the Yale Bulldogs have a heck ofa mountain to climb if they want to get back in the game, Bill says into the mike as the second half starts. He chews on a complimentary hot dog and counts 17 different colors in the mountain behind the stands. Pretty impressive. Then Yale scores on an unobtrusive run by halfback Price. WELl field commentator Joe Benanto checks in: It's a start, hey. you have to score one before you score four, so you never know what's going to happen. Bill starts looking at the action on the field more closely. Next DEC£MB£R 4· 1997.

series, the Yale defense holds Dartmouth to a field goal. Yale's Matt Fahrney runs back a long return. Price takes a pitch from Mills and completes a halfback pass. Yale scores again, trus

Coach Cozza has two things to say to us: c'Keep your poise, play with your hearts. ,, time Mills dives over the end line. Bill leans forward now, into the game. It's notoutofthe realm ofpossibility. he says u ncertainly. A comeback is in the air, the wind picks up and the home crowd, quieted, grows nervous as the fall shadows lengthen. The Yale band bumps happily, "March, march on down the field," and the Yale defense holds again, bringing Fielder to earth. Yale has the ball once more, driving. The offensive line is opening up holes for Price, who cuts back expertly, diving for extra yardage. Yale reaches the Dartmouth two, the quarter comes to an end, and Bill shouts: Don't go anywhere! n the third period something happened, an intangible change, though I'm not sure what it was. Maybe the weather. The fall afternoon became full of wind, blustery leaves danced across the field, shadows spread towards us from the stands and press box, and thousands of people, some ringing the end zones and sitting on the grass, crowded around. Something blew us down the field. It was a moment of fullness: we were all inside of the game. And for a moment, I thought we had a chance to win.

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wh&tJ* Yale scores on the first play of the fourth quarter. It's now Dartmouth 33, Yale 21. Bill clutches the mike: plenty of time, plenty of time here. Things become crazy, possible. The DECEMBER -4. 1992

Copies only 4¢ •per oopy for more than ten oop1es of the same original; the prioe 1s 4 " oents each !or one to ten oopies.

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white uniforms on the Yale bench jump in the sun. Dartmouth has the ball: Fi~ldn¡ at th~ 45-lofts on~ dup--has a r~c~iv~r-Ciijfortt-makes th~ catch at th~ 20-0h!-br~aks the tacit/~ th~r~ and... Danny Urban hit him as soon as h~ caught th~ ball but Urban is g~tting up slow.. .It was a tremendous hit, but the Yale player is the one hurt. He limps off. In the next play Fielder throws to a leaping Brzica in the left corner of the end zone. Touchdown. The Dartmouth side sighs with relief. Oh, that is a baclt-br~akn:

field after the botched kick and misses a field goal-but Yale has an extra man on the field and the drive continues because of the penalty. lnexcusabl~! The battered and grassstained white defense holds Dartmouth on the one- yard line, but time is not with Yale. Their last drive ends with a long interception, the ball fluttering desperately down the field only to fall into the hands of a green uniform. The gun sounds, fans pour onto the field and Bill, up in the booth, shakes his head. That would'v~ been something.

Then the final gun, shaking hands with Dartmouth at midfield, and the solitary walk back to the locker room. Now the field lies empty and I stand outside, hair wet from the shower, body tired, eyeblack taken off, tie back on. A large radio man and a few reporters with notebooks hover around the locker room door, waiting for the coach or the odd player, and the final shafts of the su n jump through the t~ps of the trees over the deserted field. At moments

............. ,,...,. _..

But Yale is not through. Quarterback Mills engineers another drive and slides across the end line. Swartz lines up for an onside kickand botches it, completely missing the ball. The Yale side groans, and so does Bill: Oh Pa"' that was absoluuly horribk P~. The dock ticks and the game beats with last minute desperation. Dartmouth moves down the 38 THB Nsw JouRNAL

nd then it's over. The field stands alone, battered, covered n shadow. A program bounces along the sidelines in the wind. Memories of our fallen comeback dance through my mind: a lucky pass, a missed kick, a groan, huge and unfathomable, as we turned our sweaty faces to the clock in the end zone, pleading with time to slow.

A

like this, in the waning light of a lost game on a fall day in Hanover, New Hampshire, I know why I love football, and I know that I will remember these days when I am old. I shoulder my blue bag and walk back to the bm. liD

Elisha Coop" is a unior in Trumbull Co/Leg~.

DECEMBER 4 ¡ 1992

Here's what they are saying about us: "D. E. Shaw is in the vanguard of computerized trading ..." "Mr. Shaw has hired some of the most talented computing minds around to tum his computers into thinking machines." "The competitors are way, way behind him."

-The Wall Street Journal, October 15, 1992 "D. E. Shaw operates almost around the clock .... Silently, with lights flickering, batteries of computers_go about their programmed business .... These machines are die traffic lights of the Informational city. Their codes manage the flow of symbols that can be translated by other programs into Investments, profits, castles in Spain and skyscrapers 1n mid-Manhattan."

-The New York Times, August 9, 1992

It's true. D. E. Shaw & Co. is not like other Wall Street Companies. To begin with, we're not located on Wall Street. We don't wear suits and ties. We are smaller (74 people at last count), better capitalized (several hundred million dollars in partners' capital) and more successful than our nearest competitors. We also only hire the best: everyone at D. E. Shaw is in the top 1% in terms of intelligence and ability. And our policy is to compensate exceptionally gifted individuals at a level exceeding that of the market. We may be the future of Wall Street -

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If you want to be a trader, a software engineer, an accountant, a researcher - or

you're not sure what you want to be but think you might enjoy a rather unorthodox Wall Street career - we want to hear from you. We'll be interviewing on campus January 19, 1993, so sign up now at Career Services. Or send your resume directly to:

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