Volume 33 - Issue 5

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Volume 33, Number 5 April 20, 2001

TheNewJournal F EATURES

12

Consolidated Edison Who stands to lost ifNew Haven follows Hamden into for-profit education ?

by Jacob Blecher

18

Conservative Compassion Global AIDS activists use Yale to prick the corporate conscience

by Daniel Kurtz-Phelan

25

Trainspotting Photos an d essay by Linda Rosenbury

28

The Dean's the Thing Yale's faltering drama school misses its cue

by Patrick Casey Pin s

STAN DAR OS 5

Editor's Note

6

Points of Departure

34 36

The Critical Angle: Looking for America by Matth~w Und~rwooJ

38

Endnote: Cracking the Whip by Clint Carroll

Essay: Wonder Women? by Victoria Lyall r~vi~wing th~

American ga//eriu at th~ Yal~ University Art Ga/L~ry

Nonr Jou~ is publish<d fiw rimts during the acod~mic year by Ttta Nonr jou-aNAL at Yak, Inc., P.O. Box )4)1 Yak Swio11, New Haw~~, CT o6f111. ~address: 1 p Pad< Sout. Pboae: {10)) 4 )1· All conrcou copyngln 1011t by THa Nonr .}outNAL at Yak, Inc. All RJ&hu ~c-t. Rq>toduaion eitbu iD whole or in pan wid>oat wrinm pamission of the publish<r and ~ror-in-<hi<f is prohibited. this mag:a:z.iM is published by Yak Clll!tv srudcoa. Yak Unh-crsiry is not rtsp~~nsibk for ira conttlllS. Scom thous:md fi~ hllll<ir<d copi<s of each ~ ,_ distributed fret m mcmh<rs of the Yak and New communiry. Subocnpuoru art av;ulabk ro those ouuic!t me ara. Rarts: One year, st8. Two ycars, $)1. Ttta Nonr ]OURHAI. is printed by Turley Publications, Palmer, w..; bookk«pmg and billillg tcn'lc:a art

by Colman Boolthtping of N~ Haven. THa Naw JouRNAL encoungts ltners to the ednor and comm~nu on Yale and New Hawn issuts. Write to Editorials. ).4) 1 Yak Srauon, New Hawn, CT Alllmers for publication must indude addr<SS and signature. We reservt the right to edit alllttten for publication.

I

The New Journal would like to thank:

-.I

Nakima Benjamin Jessica Bulman Jessica Cohen

'

Gabriel Freiman Julia Jitkoff-Partridge Alex Setness Daniel Yergin I

. Photo and Design Contributors:

Andrea Albin Karen Weise Correction In Jacob Blecher's article "Pool Ties" in issue 33-4 of TNJ, New York City Yale Club member Peter Rosen's name was misspelled . We sincerely apologize for the error.

-The editors of TNJ

APRIL 20, 2001

.

T

his magazine hits the stands April 20, amid two grand convergences. Thousands of activists, including a coalition of Yale students, workers, and homeless New Haveners, are leaving for Quebec City to protest the World Trade Organization's extension of unfettered trade across the Western Hemisphere. And hundreds of Yale's most illustrious alumni, including the elder President Bush, are arriving here to celebrate our tercentennial.

No doubt both events will be characterized by a lot of rhetorical arm-waving about their historic significance. But I, for one, would like to know which moment will prove more momentous, since I can only be in one place at one time.

A phrase that's been swimming around in my head for the last few months is "the myopia of the present"-in other words, the illusion that all points of time, space, and importance converge just before one's nose. I think that students at an elite university are especially susceptible to this optical illusion, being young, coddled, and flattered by fre¡ quent references to their school in connection with politics and literature and important scientific discoveries. Dan Kurtz-Phelan's story in this issue explores just such a flattering Yale connection. At a certain point in the fight to bring cheaper AIDS drugs to Africa, a quiet campaign at Yale was instrumental in securing the release of a patent it held on the drug d4T. But what happens next? As Dan points out, nobody really knows.

Which brings me to the kind of myopia I would like to be able to justify: the myopia of a bunch of writers with journalistic inclinations publishing a student magazine about Yale and New Haven. Recently we got the chance to meet Daniel Yergin, who founded The New Journal in 1967. He spoke on a tercentennial panel titled "Defining Moments at Yale." With an asymmetry perhaps meant to be dynamic, half the speakers addressed themselves to events before 1900, and the other half talked about the late 1960s. Yergin brought some early copies of the magazine and described his and his friends' attempts to record and respond to a moment of unprecedented upheaval, the "Kingman Brewster Years" of coeducation, countercultural protests, and the Black Panther trial. While the battle lines may be less firmly drawn for our generation, some of us still aspire to the same sharpness of focus .

-Anya Kamenetz, Editor-in-Chief

5

.

was beginning to wonder

when I first met enthusiasm about · had of the fact that I realan,ydling about anyof Q$ brief freshmanwith Studetu:s' Against had come in to get some some condoms. He also the '"kit" that everyone It h,as rubbing pads, band-aids, tourniquet to tie drug ace easier to find and to the Bridgeport Needle

all the time, every day it was He's been shooting crack for years, and does it every ·day. to brag about. When I have I do it every day. When I don't, I It ain't nothing to brag about," he Fred has two kids, who live with mom. He bas no job. How does this anyone, I was beginning to wonder. then I asked Fred what he used to do the van existed, before 1993· "I shared a lot of needles. I used to shoot up a often. I shared a lot of needles," he I asked him if he was scared of getting "Hell yeah I'm scared," he answered. why I come every day. I get needles ·I'Uibb4ecs. Yes I an1 scared." I asked if he to be as scared. "I just never thought it so much then. I just had no reason about it," he answered. This wasStudents Against Sweatshops was fucking real and true and was saving people's lives.

The Bridgeport Department of Health with its Needle Exchange stop the spread of HIV among '-"'.............. ,~~-J.......-. growing group of vicg rims-intravenous drug users. Maria ;;J Melendez, an Outreach Educator for the w ~ • Bddgeport Department of Health who ~~~~a i runs the van, has a similar mission: to hand l ~ ~ ~;;; out condoms and clean needles and love; to ~~,.·~~ ·

keep people sober as much as possible; to stop the spread of AIDS. "There's a misconception that needle exchange is just about needles. It connects people to all kinds of services. And it connects them to people," Maria explains.

Martha came in next. She asked for some clean needles and shuffled around for a few seconds, hiding inside her big black puffy jacket. Mack, a haem reduction worker, asked her how she was doing. She rolled up her sleeves and held out both of her palms to Mark and Maria. "See, I don't know what ~ese ace. The doctor said it was nothing, but ' I didn't tell him about the crack. It really hurts," she said quickly, pointing to conspicuous, oddly shaped bumps on both hands and a strange-colored patch on her face. "Do you think it's fungus? Or bugs? What is- it?" she asked anxiously. ~ark :i:nd~ Macia examined her hands carefu~ l.,couldn't believe that they were llft~j~~ching the bumps. What if -she ~V~~ous? "Is it a tingly pain or a <:sharp~?"' (Mack asked. 'kit's a pulsing pain, ?e~. Maria interrupted. "Ho~ey, you're s OOtUtg' up all wrong. That's why you s.ot t\,ose bumps. You got shingles," Maria sa\d. She patiently explained that Martha b~ to stop using vinegar to break the crack down, or she would start to get abscesses and fungal infections. She grabbed some packets of powdered citric and ascorbic acid &om the boxes lining the wall and explained that Martha couldn't use food products like vinegar and lemon juice to dissolve the crack because they contain bacteria; the powder is safer. Mark took Martha to the back of the van to talk to her more about her skin and how to make it better.

I asked Maria why Martha's doctor hadn't helped her. "Honey, she didn't go to no doctor," Maria explained. "They never go to the doctor. They treat them like shit at the hospital." She and Dave told me ho• sometimes people come in with hugt abscesses and high fevers bu~ say they ate

!!U~Eo·<.r.i;; ~g;

18JilSill

THE

Nsw JoURNAL

fine and absolutely refuse to enter the hospitals. "You just have to say, 'Honey, you goin' to the hospital.' Don't talk in no formal English. You have to talk in street talk.

If you talk in street talk, they listen. All those people at the hospital don't even know how to talk to these folks," she exclaimed. "And they are terrible at the hospital. They treat them so bad."

But what if someone is really sick?

What if someone has HIV or pneumonia or something that Maria's big heart and warm soup just can't ftx? "Sometimes I take them in," Maria explained. She told me about Cindy, who she had been close to, who had come to the van for clean needles every day.

She was a "working girl," Maria explained.

Maria noticed that she smelled terrible, so terrible that it fiUed up the whole van. "I knew it was coming from down there," she said. Maria took her in to the Bridgeport Hospital. The nurse was scared of her and the srneU. She wouldn't touch her at aU without gloves. "She treated her like a leper. She gave her a hospital gown holding it by two fingertips. She wouldn't talk to her. She would only talk to me. I said, 'She-'s not contagious. You don't have to worry.' She said, 'I know what these people are like. I'm a professional.'" Cindy wanted to leave, but Maria stayed with her, felt her

humiliation with her. Cindy turned out to have Hepatitis Band began receiving treatment. "Sometimes you have to make them go in," Maria said.

Maria glows because she loves so much and so well. She has bright purple nails and bright fuchsia lipstick, worn New Balance shoes, a gold tooth, and a necklace with a large, dangling crucifix. She shines. She cooks for the clients and hands out the vitamins and condoms and crack pipe screens with a gusto I could never have imagined.

"You gotta have TLC," she explains cmphaticaUy. "If you don't have that tender loving care, you're never going to get anywhere with them."

-Sushma Gandhi

Comma Law YEAR, COME EARLY MAY, the Yale Law School transforms into a battlefield. Lines are drawn, students and faculty cake sides, and fancy rhetoric spews forth from the mouths of soon-to-be litigious twentysomethings. Words like "democracy" and "tyranny" are thrown around with rhe same conviction and gravity as they were in Franco's Spain.

But what is at stake has less to do with

EAcH

the fate of nations than with the egos of a smattering of the school's students. It is in early May that the Yak Law journa~ the student-run law review of the nation's best law school (membership in which, according to some, is a prerequisite for important clerkships and job offers from big firms), culls the top of the very top of the student body for membership. And it is the test that does the culling that causes the Law School's yearly turmoil.

The test consists of two parts. The first asks students to compose a letter to the author of a submission to the journaL The second-the part that annually causes the brouhaha-is a test of students' "bluebooking" ability. The Law School blue book bears lircle resemblance to the beloved Yak Colkge Programs ofStudy. To get an idea of what the future Supreme Court justices of America are subjected to, think of the MLA Handbook annotated by a Senate subcommittee. Page upon page of the blue bookand, consequently, hour upon hour of testtakers' study time--is spent on the rules of comma placement and italicization. Major Supreme Court decisions are shorter and less complex chan the guidelines that answer the pressing question of when a comma should be italicized and inside the quotation mark. Or italicized and outside

7

of it? Not italicized and outside of it?

U nderlined? What, pray tell, do the gods of jurisprudence say about the ever wily umlaut? Do we cooperate, or do we cooperate? If you're perplexed, ask any one of the scores of law students clutching their blue book as a fanatical preacher might grasp his Bible. Be sure to approach them gently in the dining hall as they rack their brains to engage in what one law student affectionately calls "the utterly mind-numbing, useless memorization of thoroughly stupid details."

It is the stupidity of this exercise, coupled with the mythical importance of being on the journa4 that, according to dissenters, engenders the disgust and cynicism of each year's nay-sayers. Meetings at which students lodge complaints against the journal editors are announced. The infamous Law School "Wall," the permanent site for the airing of grievances of all sorts, plays host to endless pronouncements of "Why I'm not going to tty for the Yale Law journaL" The Law School's comedy troupe, the Law Revue, scarcely lets a year go by in which they do not lampoon the Law journal for its ridiculous admissions practices. Last year, as the testing season approached, a group of progressive students sold mugs emblazoned with the encouragement "Make love, not Law JournaL" It seems that none of the dissenters is really wrong. Is the memorization of ridiculously minuscule details the best way to distinguish the best of the best when admissions committee after admissions committee has already placed its imprimatur on these students' resumes? The procedure for electing students to membership on the journal has less to do, some would argue, with the studen ts' intellectual ability than with their ability to jump through yet another flaming hoop in order to prove their mettle. Couldn't they devise a more 8

reasonable way to figure out who would contribute most to the journal?

The unfortunate answer from journal supporters-who by and large acknowledge how ridiculous the admissions process must appear-is a resounding no. Simply put, bluebooking is what you do your first year or so on the journa4 so you have to be competent. If the explanation is so rational, then why the constant and vehement dissent? Perhaps it is because these students have danced the standardized-testmeritocracy two-step for so long and have finally tired of it. Or perhaps they are finally frightened of it. One journal survivor explained, "Yalies want merit badges, and too many of them just can't win this one."

-Alan Schoenftld

Smoke on the Water ON SEPTEMBER 18, 1992, JJ 4=35 A.M., residents on East Shore's Townsend Avenue were awakened to find the back of a neighboring house ablaze. Within minutes of their arrival, investigators were certain the ftre was the work of an arsonist hoping to prevent any former residents of the predominantly black Elm Haven housing project from moving to the neighborhood.

The pattern was repeated twice in the next six weeks. In 2001, as New Haven prepares to complete the demolition of Elm Haven, East Shore has incorporated these new arrivals, but the success of efforts to change its residents' minds remains equivocal.

East Shore sits across the Quinnipiac River from the rest of New Haven, an awkward and sometimes troublesome appendage. Part of East Shore once belonged to East Haven, but was sold to New Haven and finally incorporated in 1918. Since then, East Shore has had a troubled relationship with both cities, sharing New Haven's ta.x burden while socially

resembling its more suburban neighbor.

The East Shore of a decade ago is described as having its "roots in the Hill and in Wooster Square. It is a homogeneous neighborhood. About 75 percent of its people :ftc Italian Roman Catholics and most of the rest are Irish Roman Catholics.

A large number of residents attend Saint Bernadette's Church on Townsend Avenue."

In the summer of 1991, with the demolition of 366 units of the city's Elm Haven housing project, the federal government ordered that New Haven find housing for half of those who had been displaced. The government order further stipulated that this housing be "scattered-site"-not in areas zoned for low-income housing developments, but in middle-<:lass neighborhoods. In the city of New Haven, this left little choice but East Shore.

The New Haven Housing Authority purchased eleven homes in the area in January of 1992. The reaction in East Shore was immediate. Homeowners expressed concerns about property value, knowing the Housing Authority's dismal record.

They were also concerned about the gap that would be left in taX revenues when those homes used for the scattered-site program were taken off ta.x rolls. The news came on the heels of a jump in real estate taxes.

Seven months after the program was instituted, some of the residents' fears bad been realized as these properties stood vacant and uncared for. Then the fires started. While a plaque on Saint Bernadette's Church reads, "Saint Bernadene Parish Community Welcomes You," someone was sending a different message to the families who would soon occupy these homes. The ftre on Townsend Avenue was the first. Within six weeks, twO more fires were set and tern~ flared.

THE NEW JouRNAL

...

-

Opponents of scattered-site housing grew more vocal and defensive, its supporters more vehement and embittered, and the issue quickly became polarized by race. In response, the Reverend Howard J. Nash, a pastor at Saint Bernadette's Church, organized a series of interfaith meetings centered on acceptance. "At the rime we had no idea who might have been doing this. I just didn't want to see any violence or any acts ofhatred," Nash said. Morris Cove resident Edward Flynn recalled, "The meeting focused on brotherhood. 'We're all members of the human race,' that was the message, and the audience was a mixed one, over 500 people."

Despite these efforts, tensions continued. John Daniels, recently elected New Haven's first Mrican-American mayor, organized a rally of his own on the site of one of the burned homes. While the rally was designed to express outrage at the seemingly racially motivated arson, East Shore residents saw it as an accusation. For months the R~ and Advocate op-ed pages rang with heated talk from both sides. "Race Not Involved." "Tax Revenue Lost." "It's Mayor's Fault." Daniels and the local NAACP saw racism in other letters to the editor such as one that begged, "Who wants a slum next door?" Another concerned citizen urged, "Leadership Needed."

Indeed, leadership was the missing piece, as each faction had its supporters but few were "committed to bringing all sides and all points of view together."

Tensions over the scattered-site housing began to dissipate as agreements were reached over the care of property and private management was appointed for the homes. Yet, in 1993 continued economic trouble combined with earlier tensions instigated a movement among East Shore residents to secede from the city. Their reasons included high t.aJCltion, low quality social services, and lack of representation.

The movement had strong support from some, but it became clear the secessionist APRIL 20, 2001

Congratulations to the gradu ating seniors of

The N ew Journal Shruti Adhar Alexand er Dworkowitz Mich ael Gerber Ron en Givony

Makiko Harunari Nicholas Jitkoff Victoria Lyall David Slifka

Congratulations and good luck in the future, Berkeley seniors! of fresh roses and cut flowers in town!

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And to all of Berkeley, congratulations on another stunning Gimbel Cup victory!

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effort would face an uphill legaJ battle.

Though signs reading "secede for survival" remained on local roads until recendy, the effort was soon abandoned.

In the rime that has elapsed, property values have been reconfigured and the economy has long since recovered from the recession of the early nineties. East Shore itself has changed. There are currendy 153 scattered-site homes in the East Shore area, aJI inhabited and incident-free. Former Fire Chief Martin O'Connor views East Shore as a place where "diversity has been achieved without mandated busing or court orders." H e describes Lighthouse Park as being full of entirely white faces in 1979 and now a place where one hears four different languages in one visit.

After the divisive even ts of the past, residents resist talking about race, stressing instead good neighbors and property values. However, East Shore's demographic changes have nor come solely through addition. Reverend Nash notes that, among his parish, funerals are beginning to outnumber baptisms. Many of his newly married congregants are moving to the lower taxes and greater homogeneity of the suburbs. For these second- and third-generation residents, the financial benefits of suburban life outweigh the social benefits of a newly diverse neighborhood.

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School of the Americans What is an American and do you wonder why they do the things they do? Space is limited, so hurry if you are interested," urged the email that found its way to my inbox midFebruary. Clearing the papers off my keyboard, I responded with as much American gusto as I could m uster. A day later, with a welcome warmer than Mom's apple pie, I was cordially invited to participate as a "genuine American guest" in Yale's first us culture workshop. Great, I thought, an international petting zoo.

As I prepared for the panel, I considered how to present myself as an "authentic• American. Why did I ever agree co do this, I fretted in a high-pitched suburban Jewish white girl whine, pacing back and forth across my common room. Blasting

" P UZZLED BY .AMERICAN CULTURE?

THE NEW JouRNAL

"American Woman," I decided that I might as well look the part. I frantically rummaged through my closet, searching for the perfect outfit. Where were my m iniskirts and pom-poms? Forget it, I thought, settling for my red, white, and blue pajamas.

Already lace, I grabbed cup of coffee and set out on my way. ~ Following the pink signs through the labyrinthine basement of Rosenfeld Hall, I was greeted with open arms and an information packet by Elisabeth Mead, Assistant Director of the Office Of International Students and Scholars. Now here was a real American: blonde hair, blue eyes, and business casual. Mead, who left her job teaching ESL to start the program two years ago-following her first trip outside the United States at age 35-was eager to get under way. Nervously twirling her hair and chirping, ''I'm so Americanwhat time is it? What time is it? When are we going to start?" as she passed out agendas, complained about tardiness, and wondered whether we should watch the movie first or eat pizza.

Akemi, a Japanese housewife married to a doctor at the Medical School, leaned towards me to talk. Shy but confident, she told me she had come to the United States two years ago but had just perfected her English . On my left, Christopher, a !peal minister, was chatting in a thick Southern accent with Yong "Tony" Zha-Ma, Elisabeth's assistant for the afternoon.

Clapping her hands to get our attention, Elisabeth introduced herself. To make everyone feel comfortable, she decided to share her experience visiting Italy and her "culrure shock." "Here I was, coming from the nation of all nations, and I had no idea what to do. Can you imagine?" she asked.

Soon, it was rime to introduce ourselves, because we were going to learn so much about ourselves and each other. Pointing a lacquered nail around the room, Elisabeth named them. In the corner was Heidi, a researcher from "where they make BMWS." Heidi smiled back thinly. Next, Professor Maira, a visiting scholar in psychology ftom Kazakhstan. Then, Raquel, a pharmacist from Spain whose h usband was writing his d issertation. Across the room was Mukhtar, a Somalian graduate srudent in International Srudies who had left his family in an Eritrean refugee camp to come to

a

APRIL 20, 2001

New Haven. I had hoped to hear more of their stories, but Elisabeth was getting anxIous.

Soon, we were split up into groups.

"Look, you four, you are the s-t-a-r group," she explained, pointing to a symbol on Tony's name tag. With majestic hand gestures and short sentences, Raquel, Tony, Maira, and myself were herded into the corner to tackle questions like "What is your idea of culture shock?" and "What is the American Dream?" "Just signal if you need me," she called over her shoulder, bounding over to hdp the others find their groups.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Elisabeth interrupted and started the video, boasting that the "all-American pizza" was on its way. Praising us for the "simply wonderful" discussion, she reminded us that if we ever felt the need to talk, we should go to our friendly local therapist. "All Americans do," she assured. "I used to go every week!"

Then, she flipped on the video. Elisabeth would stop the tape every few minutes, reminding us that "culture was like an iceberg," our actions the result of deep, hidden values. "See," she explained, holding the packet up like a story-book, "sometimes [values] are under the water and we can't see what makes us act that way." But once we understand how Americans act, we can learn that it's "no problem" for us to "just all get along." We bonded over pizza and then said our good-byes.

Later, when I charted with Elisabeth about the program, she spoke of the limitations of her fledgling enterprise, but was confident that she was helping people "resolve [their] cross-cultural issues." It was only the first workshop, after all. Even though not everyone "loves people and new experiences" or "operates on the basis of compassion, understanding, and openmindedness" the way she, an American, does, we can all aspire to the ideal. Leaning back in her chair, she admitted that she "couldn't expect to change them into a mini-me." But it was only a matter of time.

-Sara Hirschhorn

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By Jacob Blecher ~~HI,

MY NAM£ IS DANIEL," a boy stutters softly as he walks up to the doorway, "and this is a seventh~grade math class. We've been working on solving equations and correcting our homework, and right now we're going over some work we did yesterday." He smiles, turns, and heads back to his desk. His classmates, all the while, work quietly, showing little interest in the speech. Daniel is a stu~ dent at Wintergreen lnterdistrict Magnet School in Hamden, Connecticut's first partnership with Edison Schools, Inc., a compa~ ny (headed by former Yale president Benno Schmidt) that manages public schools for profit. Daniel is also one of the school's "greeters," Edison~prescribed tour guides who inform visitors of the daily happenings.

Since it opened in 1998, Wmtergreen has been welcoming vis~ itors of all kinds-researchers, politicians, prospective parents, and curious local residentS---every day, and the school has appeared glamorously in publications like Time and The New York Times. For Connecticut, Wintergreen is the first for~profit educational venture, serving K~8 students from Hamden, New Haven, Wallingford, and Woodbridge. For Edison, which typically commandeers failing public schools, Wintergreen is the first interdisuict school and one of the few schools with a majority of white, middle~class kids. "We have a very, very diverse learning population here," Dale Becnardoni, the school's principal, told me. "We don't have a pop~ ulation that's 98 percent minority or 80 percent free~ or reduced~ lunch."

In the mid~nineries, a vacant school on Wmtergreen Avenue came to the attention of the Hamden school board as they faced overcrowding. Realizing that the state would pay for renovations if the school became an interdisuict magnet, the board secured the participation of three area school districts. With that, " WIMS," as Wmtergreen is affectionately known, was born. None of the four districts sending students wanted to manage the school or supply the curriculum, so they looked elsewhere. They decided that the nitty~gritty details, like employment and maintenance, would fall to Area Cooperative Education Services (ACES), a subdivision of the State Depanment of Education which operates magnet schools and

APRIL 20, 2001

arts and special education programs in southern Connecticut.

Curriculum, technology, and teacher training would come from Edison. "We're a public school in every way," Bernardoni told me, "except that we follow an Edison design and we're managed by ACES. So we follow all of the standards that are part of being a pub~ lie school, such as teacher certification, using the Connecticut Mastery Tests as a tool for assessment, and getting our funding from local and state taxes." A steering committee, composed of superin~ tendents and school board members from the sending districts, ACES representatives, and Edison representatives, oversees the whole process. "This is a very complex school," Bernardoni admitted.

Over the years, educators, politicians, and community leaders in New Haven have been joining the growing ranks of Wintergreen's interested observers. In recent months, more and more of them have been expressing a desire to bring Edison into New Haven's public schools. This is true even though for weeks, the media have been trumpeting Edison's scandalously failed bid to manage five New York City schools and allegations that the com~ pany kicked out under~performing and minority students at its San Francisco school. And the latest Edison Schools Annual Report described Wmtergreen's trends in state test scores as "strongly nega~ • rive"- in fact, the school received the worst performance rating of • any Edison school in the nation. The percentage of fourth graders at the school who met the state goal for reading in 1999 had fallen from 56 percent, the state average, to 50 percent.

E DISON CLAIMS TO SELL an irmovarive and thoroughly researched . product to its schools. According to its web site, the company has • "designed an absorbing curriculum, anchored by ambitious standards for student achievement." Every Edison school uses the same ' battery of programs. For reading, teachers use Success for All, a program developed at Johns Hopkins University; for science, a National Science Foundation program; for math, Everyday Mathematics, a program developed. at the University of Chicago;' and for history and social studies, an ethics program developed by

13

• ""

Hamden's Wintergreen school has the worst performance ratings of any Edison school in the nation. the Heartwood Institute. Edison schools are divided into "academies"-which correspond, more or less, ro elementary school, middle school, and high school-but the programs of study are similarly conceived for each one: Edison devises a curriculum ¡on the corporate level that schools are obliged co follow.

On a visit co Wintergreen, I sat in on a first and second grade reading class. Every morning, from 8:30 co 10:00, students in kindergarten through fifth divide into Success for All reading classes. As Edison's website expounds, "The whole school is reading! The next 90 minutes are the most precious of the Edison day. Families are urged not to make appointments for students during the reading block, and teachers are given release time only for emergencies. The whole school is focused on building reading skills with the Success for All program."

Instead of grouping students by grade level, Success for All uses "tracking."

Students are tested and placed into classes according to scores. The class I visited was made up of high-performing first graders, average second graders, and low-performing third graders. At the beginning of the period, students were sitting in small groups. The teacher had written the words "plenty," "coyotes," "whispered,"

"molasses," and "sight" on the board and had asked the class to write five sentences using those words. Like most features of the Edison curriculum, this activity has a special name: Meaningful Sentences.

Though some students seemed to be hard at work, others were obviously not on task.

When I asked one nine-year-old what he was writing about, he replied tersely, "I don't know." Other students I askedyounger ones who sat together mutelydid not even reply to my question. The teacher, all the while, sat at her desk in silence.

By nine o'clock, the class had moved onto a new activity called Adventures in Writing, a prompt-based writing exercise related to a story the class has been reading.

"What are five things that you would bring with you .if.you had co move?" the teacher asked the class. "I want you to think first, and then to list them." She repeated "five things" over and over again and then asked the students what important piece of information they need to tack on to the end of their lists. None of the kids figured it out, and the teacher finally told them: "I want you to write 'These things are important because .... "' This mech'od of teaching, which is an integral part of the Edison design, also has a special name: Direction Instruction. Edison describes Direction

Instruction as "explicit teaching combined with skilled questioning and observing to assess student understanding." Or, as Jack Gillette, head of the Yale Teacher Preparation Program, exaggerated, "Chanting-Ah-Eh-EEh-Oh-Ou." While students immersed themselves in Adventures in Writing, the teacher told me that behavior had been a problem lately. "Some of the kids are new this week," she said, "and they're getting used to my expectationS:" Success for All allows kids who score high enough on periodic assessments to move up into higher-level reading classes during the year, and chi~ class had just received a fresh batch of advancing students. She does not think, though, that the mixture of ages in her class is bad for the kids socially. "It usually ends up balancing out. It definitely works."

Success for All runs on a rigid five-day schedule that cycles throughout the year.

On day one, the teacher introduces vocabulary and a story. On day two, the class finishes the story and participates in vocabulary building activities. Days three and four focus mosdy on Meaningful Sentences and Adventures in Writing, and on day five the class reviews the weekly story and cakes a short test. Each activity has a specific time limit and structure, described thoroughly in the Success for All handbook, and teach-

I

ers are expected to adhere to the schedule. student achievem ent," reads the WMU ..Pop in and out of classrooms," Edison's N ADDITION TO THE CURRICULUM, Edison study, "Edison schools perform at levels schools have a number of other distinctive similar to their host districts but fail co literature says, "and you'll see the same structure and routine during these 90 min features. The school year is 198 days--18 make the educational gains Edison adminutes." Success for All and Edison , in fact, more than the 180 of surrounding disistrators claim." And as the A FT study says, require that a multicolored set of five trices--and the school day runs about a "There are discrepancies between the posters outlining the Success for All schedhalf-hour longer than that of most public record of Edison schools, as measured by ule in great detail be up in every reading schools. T he company provides technology, standard methods of educational evaluaclassroom. The first few lines of r - - -..::.__ _ __ _ _ __ _:.____:_:.__ _ _ _ _ __;;;___:_ _ _ __, tio n, and the company's sJ.lcs ~ the poster for day o ne, fo r example, read, "Listening comprehension-20 minutes; Reading together-55 minutes."

Success for All and Edison representatives come aro und every so often with checklists in hand to make sure everything is in order.

Despite Success fo r All's structure, th e unyielding teacher I talked to said she feels like she does have freedom "to go out of the box and use creativity'" at rimes. When I asked her in what ways, she was unclear. "We can do special projects now and then," she said. But she also said she thinks Success for All works very well. "It kind of does what it says--success for all."

In terms of improving test scores, however, Success for All has a mixed record. It has worked effectively in certain schools, but not in others. Gillette said that it works well with teachers who have no experience. ..You just get told exactly what you're doing each day. That's why it can take some of the lowest reading scores and move them up to the next-to-lowest- which is not unim pressive. But it can't m ove them oftentimes from the next-to-lowest to the middle."

The students in the class I was observing continued working on Adventures in Writing uncil the end of the period. Most seemed anxious to leave by then; an hour and half of reading is an awful lot to demand of an eight-year-old. As the students filed out of the room to return to their "home bases," the hallways began to 611 up. Two teachers who passed by me were discussing the very same Success for activities I had just witnessed.

â&#x20AC;˘

too. Every W intergreen family with a child in third grade or higher receives a home computer, and reachers receive their own lapto ps. Edison has an intranet system called "The Common," over which students, teachers, and parents can virtually interact. Bernardoni, however, admitted that only 80 to 85 percent of fam ilies fully use the system, because of network overcrowding. Edison also provides its teachers and adminisuators with ongoing training in o rder to help them teach the Edison curriculum. The company provides teachers with transportation to Edison camps d uring the summer and to Edison conferences during the school year. Edison representatives also visit schools regularly.

But as districts across the nat ion increasingly jum p on the Edison bandwagon, Edison's promises of ed ucational im provement have yet to be realized. The American Federation ofTeachers (AFT) and Western Michigan University recently released separate srudies claiming that Edison schools have not been as beneficial as promised. "When it comes to measuring

presentations and promotional materials."

Edison, of course, disagrees. Its website features Ten Fundamentals of its "innovative schools" promising "dramatic results." Using bUJ..zwords like "purpose," "leadership," "expectations," "teamwork," "accountability," and "community," the company paints itself as radically experimental. Fundamental number one reads, "Edison's organizational model is based on principles that have been shown to ensure effective schools." N umber four, "Edison is committed to vital and diverse instructional strategies that encourage innovation and excitement." And number seven, " Parcnership schools are technologically rich environments that prepare students for the workplaces of tomorrow." Edison even has a study of its own posted on the website: "NEA-Columbia U niversity Study Finds Edison Schools a Promising Model for Teachers."

But nothing at Wintergreen seemed particularly innovative. Teachers follow packaged programs like Success for All almost blindly. Gillette thinks chat even if Edison's profit motive were in some way tolerable, the design and curriculum char Edison provides are no t worth it. "Their design is not even a particularly unique design," he said. "Their design is not innovative, their structure is no t innovative."

Ultimately, Edison seems to subscribe ro the view of Steve Wilson, the founder of Advantage Schools, another private operator of public schools. Wuson told Th~ Nroâ&#x20AC;˘ l'Orkn- last October, "Teachers have lx'Cn

ingenious about Edison is that it has the make itself look innovative even when it's not. ' 15

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socialized in schools of education and taught to apply their own creativity to a problem. That's nice up to a point, but the idea that we should have tens of thousands of teachers all around the country trying to stumble upon the best way to teach reading to a first grader is lcind of psychotic, right?"

Edison, named for the man who experimented with over six thousand filaments in his laboratory in order to invent the light bulb, ironically takes the power to experiment away from teachers in the classroom.

What is so ingenious about Edison, though, is that it has the capital to make itself look innovative, even when it is not.

"Edison has exaggerated test score gains and emphasized favorable comparisons in order to show Edison schools in the most positive light," reads the AFT report. "In fact, if public schools were to usc some of Edison's evaluation methods and modes of presenting data, they would look a lot better, too." Since 1995, Edison has invested over $150 million in its II3 schools across the nation, supplying them not only with neatly packaged school designs, but with a built-in public relations machine as well.

It's what Edison says that matters, not what it actually does. "The big issue is they give everyone a laptop," said Gillette. "But even when they say they give everyone a laptop, they don't actually tic it to any pedagogical intervention. It's as if that statement alone had educational value. You scratch the surface and there's nothing. It plays upon people's assumptions about status, and that's been their marketing tool." In Edison's annual "customer satisfaction" surveys, 90 percent of parents rate the company A orB, while 75 percent of teachers rate the company B or c. Edison also has a teacher turnover rate of twenty-four percentalmost double the national average.

ATU.ST

FBBRUARYS State of the City Address, New Haven mayor John DeStefano announced for the first time his interest in turning some of the city's schools over to Edison. "I would like to see an Edison School in New Haven," he told the Nnu Havm Registn-. "I think it would introduce choice and competition."

But Edison had been the topic of backroom conversations in New Haven since Wintergreen opened in 1998, when New Haven Superintendent of Schools

Tus NEW JouRNAL

Regjnald Mayo told The New York Times, "This is a chance to take a look at Edison.

I have played with it and toyed with it. We may involve some of our own schools."

Mayo, in fact, had been talking informally with Edison representatives several years before about his desire to bring the corporation into New Have(\. And for Benno Schmidt, chairman of Edison, the feeling is mutual-he "would be delighted" to sign 1 contract with New Haven.

In the midst of an increasingly brutal reelection campaign, DeStefano has been talking about Edison more frequently. "As part of the choice proposal, we wanted to explore not just choice curriculum, but choice in management models," he said.

"The issue of Edison Schools has been floating around New Haven for a long time, and we thought we might consider an Edison School or two." DeStefano says that Edison can spark competition in ways that other schools cannot. "I think that competition is a good thing," he said, "and I think the difference in management styles creates a dynamic that makes everybody look at what they're doing." Then he added, with a wink, "I know that when I'm in an election-you know, where I'm running against somebody-it makes me focus a litde bit harder. " But given Wintergreen's record and the ongoing national controversy surrounding Edison, the mayor's move is surprising. Gillette cannot understand why the mayor even considered Edison. "From a rational, analytic perspective it doesn't make sense," he said. "From a political perspective it must be because there's some status attached to a for-profit, or there's some other political advantage to being allied with [Edison)." But, for both Edison and DeStefano, success is more about good PR than actual results. And if they can convince everyone that they're on the right track, what's behind the sales pitch just might not matter.

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17

Conservative Compassion W HEN

SARA AVU!L TALKS ABOUT BOTSWANA, her voice is burdened by bewilderment and helplessness. The Davenport junior spent last summer studying in the sub-Saharan African nation, which has a rate of HlV infection well above 30 percent-the highest in the world. But even as she rattles off death rates and recounts harrowing stories of her encounters with AIDS, she frequendy stops, frustrated with her inability to express or confront the magnitude of the problem. "People I knew would go to funerals every weekend," she remembers. "And even though they would never say that it was from AIDs--they always said it was tuberculosis or pneumonia or something-you just knew .... " After returning to Yale last fall, her sense of paralysis became a call to action. Avid scoured the undergraduate community for a venue for international AIDS activism with little success. Finally she contacted the Center for Interdisciplinary Research on AIDs--only to find out that there were "no plans to be involved in any advocacy/activism work in Africa" and that the center's "involvement in Africa is minimal at the moment." Ic wasn't until she read a January 2.8, 2001, article in The New l'Ork Times Magazine called "The World's AIDS Crisis is Solvable: Look at Brazil" that Avid realized there was a viable avenue for action so close to home. "There was one line in the article about Yale owning the patent to an important AIDS drug,,. she recalled. So she approached several professors to see if anyone knew anything about it, but again came up empty.

And then the wave hit.

On February 20, Avid received an e-mail from Marco Simons, a third-year Yale law student. The message was simple: Yale owned the patent for <4T, a critical and expensive antiretroviral medication which impedes the spread of HJV, and a group of srudents was orga· nwng tO put pressure on Yale to make the drug available at low-cost in South Africa. Simons had heard from a Harvard dassmaterutned·AIDS activist, Toby Kasper, who works for the international medical aid organization Doctors Without Borders (DWB) and was leading the charge to find a cheap source of <4T for South Africa.

Kasper and his forces had already unsuccessfully appealed to Bristol-Myers Squibb, the Manhattan-based pharmaceutical giant to which Yale has exclusively licensed rhe production and sale of the drug. Now they were turning their attention to Yale itself.

Simons ended his e-mail with one small request: "For the moment, this is not for media consumption." But less than a month later, the issue would be making headlines around the world, cui· minating on March 15 with a fulsomely congratulatory announce· ment by The New l'Ork Times, "Maker Yielding Patent in Africa for AIDS Drug."

D

4T, OR STAVUDINE, constitutes one-third of a drug coc.k:t2i1 that has proven remarkably successful in treating HIV·posi· rive patients. The compound is an antiretroviral, mean· ing it prevents HIV from reproduc·

By Daniel Kurtz-Phelan 18

THE NEW

JouRNAl.

Global AIDS activists use Vale to prick the corporate conscience

ing and delays the onset of AIOS, thereby allowing patients tO survive for decades after contracting the virus. Though it was first synthesized in a cancer study at the University of Michigan in the 1960s, interest in <4T was not renewed until the global aids epidemic flared up in the 1980s. In 1986, two Yale doctors, William Prusoff and Tai-shun Lin, received several million dollars of funding from the National Institutes of Health and other sourcesBristol-Myers among them-to investigate whether the compound could be used in combating HIV. When experiments in Yale pharmacology labs proved successful, the University quickly patented the compound and sought out a pharmaceutical company to take care of the development, marketing, and distribution of the drug.

Bristol-Myers had "right of first refusal" because of its help funding the project, and, naturally, the company jumped at the opportunity.

In 1994, <4T hit the shelves under the brand name Zerit. us newspapers praised the low cost of the new drug, which would be offered at s6 a day. But this still meant that a year's supply of Zerit would cost almost $2000, more than the per capita income of almost every African nation.

The high price of AIDS drugs in the developing world has elicited considerable international attention-and frequent outrage-in the past two years. Emotionally charged articles in publications from Th~ &oTWmist to Mothn-jones have highlighted the difficulties of treating AIDS in poor countries. International NGOs have called

APRIL 20, 2.001

on the developed world to help provide treatment for HIV-positive patients who can't afford the S15,ooo-a-year drug regimen required to slow the spread of the virus and the onset of AIDS. The ATOS activism group ACT-UP headed a widely publicized campaign of civil disobedience at every one of Al Gore's presidential campaign stops until he agreed that-contrary to previous statements in which he had toed the pharmaceutical company line-there is an urgent need for low-cost AIDS drugs in Africa. And, most forebodingly for pharmaceutical companies, Brazil and India were often pointed to as models of how the developing world could deal with the crisis: by ignoring patents and allowing cheap generic production of medicanons.

South Africa has been a focal point in the struggle for affordable AIDS medication. Not only does it have more cases of HIV than any other country, but, unlike most of sub-Saharan Africa, it has both a strong patent protection system and sufficient domestic infrastructure to develop its own pharmaceutical manufacturing if patents allow it-making South Africa a battlefront for corporations and NGOs. Toby Kasper coordinates ows's "Access to Essential Medicines Campaign" in South Africa and has emerged as the spokesman and de facto leader of the mix of activists, officials, and AIDS patients fighting for drug availability. Last fall , Kasper picked out Bristol-Myers as a cargeL He sought to convince the company to voluntarily give up their rights to <4T in South Africa in order to allow for inexpensive generic production, knowing the effort was

19

years, she has worked for an international AIDS consortium in England and did research for a "60 Minutes" documentary on AIDS in Africa, which sent her to a conference in Durbin, South Africa, last summer. There, she learned about her future school's ownership of the <4T patent and met Toby Kasper. When Kasper and DWB-which won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1999-set their sights on Yale in January, Kapczyski and Simons were the first people contacted.

Kapczynski, who was described by a colleague as having "a radical inside combined with a very rational sense of how to get things done," recognized a unique opportunity with fur-reaching implications. " Up to now," she quixotic. "Drug companies have always said, "it's been activists fighting on the tried to protect their patents to the bone," ground and big corporations making concessions." But in this case, the object of he acknowledged. The company's profits on the drug exceed s6oo million annually, pressure was a university rather than a corand there had never before been a case poration, and for Kapczynski, Kasper, and where a pharmaceutical company had their small squadron of activists, this was given up such a lucrative drug in a protectan essential difference. "Universities ace a ed market like South Africa. In fact, gt>od point of leverage," Kapczynski Bristol-Myers is one of 39 international remarked. "They are an important pressure drug-makers currently suing the South point, in part because they have student African government for more stringenr bodies that care about these things." And, patent protectionas Kasper did not hesitate despite the fucr that sales Yale and to point out to Yale, the of <4T in the country ace University has a stated Bristol-Myers objective virtually nil. in patents and But <4T was a special had emerged licensing to "pursue the case: A university, not a benefit of society in from the fray general." corporation, had the patent. After a stream of camwith no sign of paignSo,wasthe letters from DWB begininitially kept ning last November, Injury. quiet and private, reflecting Bristol-Myers passed the Simons's belief that "with buck to Yale, which itself profits some $40 University politics things tend to get done million a year from the drug. So Kasper better behind closed doors than in the called up his friends in New Haven, sent a midst of big public campaigns." Instead of letter to the University, and set out to perapproaching Yale as they would a corporasuade, pressure, or shame Yale into giving cion, the coalition treated it as a potencial up the rights to <4T in South .Aft:ica. associate. "No one considered the University an adversary, but really more of a cautious partner," Aviel said. "And it was L IKE AVIEL, Amy Kapczynski, a firstour job to capitalize on this partnership." year law student, hadn't done much in the In February of this year, all currents of way of AIDS activism at Yale before the the movement were coming together, and movement for patent relief shifted its focus the point of their convergence was Yale. towards the University. But in the past few DWB had focused its private and public

20

efforts on the University; the issue of patents and AIDS drugs was making the national editorial pages; and a small but informed coalition of students began pleading the case to administrators, building an alliance with aid workers and patients who rely on <4T, and directing international momenrum into key channels. "I don't think we can take credit for making this happen," said Avid. "It was definitely globaJ momentum that we directed a little closer to home. We rode the wave of activists around the world." ~

ON

FEBRUARY 14, DWB wrote a letter to Jon Soderstrom, the Managing Director of the Office for Cooperative Research (OCR), which oversees patenting and licensing fo r University studies. The letter called for Yale to issue DWB a "voluntary license" so that it could obtain generic drugs for distribution in South Africa. That day, Kasper sent another letter to BristolMyers asking the company to support this request. The Yale students also wrote to University officials and issued a request, which was denied, for a copy of the BristolMyers licensing agreement. Meanwhile, they were gearing up to intensify pressure on Soderstrom, whom they expected would not initially grant Kasper's request.

The effort received a boost when Cipla, an Indian pharmaceutical firm, announced that it would produce a generic version of d4T and sell it at a remarkable 1.5 percent of the cost of Zerit. Thus, when Yale did respond to DWB on February 28--claiming, according to Kasper, "chat they couldn't do anything" because of their exclusive license with Brisrol-Myers-che issue was no longer quiet. The day before, Kasper and other representatives of DWB had visited Yale, issuing a public challenge to the University for the first time.

From this point until the March 14 announcement by Bristol-Myers, exacdy what transpired between the University

THa NEW JouRNAL

~

and the pharmaceutical company is connational event raised the bar for Bristolfined to speculation. Kapczynski called the Myers and Yale: The drug manufacturer negotiations "a murky procession of events." The public request by OWB elicited a tentative endorsement from Or. Prusoff, who still does pharmacology research at Yale. "This was not something I've worried about before," Prusoff admitted. "But the problem was clearly presented." On March 9, DWB sent a second letter to Soderstrom. T h e message, according to Kasper, was simple: "If you are following your own licensing policy, you should do something about <4T prices in South Africa." In an appeal to the ocR's profit-making focus, the letter also pointed out that Yale had almost nothing to lose fmanAmy Kapczynskl cially in granting a voluntary license for d4T. T he issue had also been picked up by Merck announced that it would sell its GESO, Yale's incipient graduate student AIDS drugs at cost in South Africa. This union, after Fran Balamuth, an MDIPHD was unknown territory for the industry, student in immunobiology, brought the but once it had made the step, it could issue to the attention of the coordinating only move forward. committee. For her, the controversy was Public pressure reached a critical about researchers' rights. " D4T is intimatepoint on March 12 when Th~ N~ l'Ork _ly connected with what [GESO is] fighting Times printed an article on Yale's unwillingness to relax the <4T patent in South for," she maintained. "For a long time, Africa. Even Prusoff, who remains one of GESo's been talking about the role of corporations in determining research and Yale's most reliable supporters on this issue where it goes." The union created a petiand who shares in the pharmaceutical company's profits from c4T, points to the tion calling for the release of the c4T public relations nightmare conjured up by patent in South Africa and mobilized its the article. "The most important thing was sprawling grassroots network. Within a when Th~ Nnu York Tim~s picked up that matter of days, Balamuth and others had article and brought that forward," he speccollected over 6oo signatures-including ulated. "I think that was a major factor in one from Prusoff, the drug's inventor. stimulating discussion between the Yale However, contrary to the accounts of GESO administrators and Bristol-Myers." activists, Soderstrom claims he never actuKasper agrees with this ally saw the petition until after the appraisal. "There was the decision was made. article, and voila, things As both the public and private worked out. I don't campaigns continued, Soderstrom think it was just coinciremained quiet. For the students and DWB, dence."' this seemed a sign of dubious activity on Soderstrom, however, the part of Yale and Bristol-Myers. maintains that these external facKapczynsk.i and Simons were prepared co tors had little persuasive effect. escalate public pressure when the student "Bristol-Myers was correct in saying that body returned to campus after spring were certain things they couldn't break. At this point, another inter-

APRIL 20, 2001

do without our permission," he said. "Both they and the University moved at lightspeed to make this change."

And as co criticisms that Yale refused to ever make publicly available the discussion with Bristol-Meyers and the contract itself? Soderstrom defends the decision as typical business policy. "The fact that we don't negotiate things like this in public says that's not the way you get things done in corporations. We didn't have all the answers, and we needed time to talk to Bristol-Myers. We weren't forced to do anything we didn't want to do." Yale and Bristol-Myers were simply "moving at the speed of business," and in mid-March, the process proved fruitful.

0

MARcH 14, Yale and Bristol-Myers Squibb issued simultaneous press releases: The University, expressing its pride at having "helped prolong the lives of so many who suffer from AIDs," said that it had removed all obstacles preventing Bristol-Myers from making <4T available at low cost in South Africa; BristolMyers, for its part, announced that it would make Zerit and Vide.x, another AIDS medicine, available below cost ¡ not try to prevent cheaper generic versions of the drugs from being produced, imported, and sold in South Africa. "The company," the announcement proudly proclaimed, "has no other patent rights in Africa which it will allow to prevent AIDS therapy there."

Headlines around the world cheered the unprecedented move, lauding both the University and Bristol-Myers. Yale enthusiastically patted the company on the back.

"Bristol-Myers came up with a more comprehensive and far-reaching solution than any other pharmaceutical company," said Soderstrom. "This is unprecedented change, and they should be applauded for that." In this age of compassionate conse~-

21

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vacism, the <4T announcement was the perfect plug: industry, government, NCO, and academy working rogether and ignoring self-imerest co find a humanitarian solution ro an international problem. And Yale and Bristol-Myers had emerged from the fray with no sign of injury: Neither had actually forfeited anything in the way of profits, they had avoided a potencial PR debacle, and, in the process, chey had taken the issue away from the activist community. In a March 19 op-ed in Th~ Nnv York Ttm~s. Or. Prusoff concluded, "I find ic hard to see any pattern in all chis, except perhaps chat there is a moral urge among people that, however coincidentally, can sometimes bring results."

Ac Yale, meanwhile, student interest in the issue was coming to a peak.

Kapczynski, Simons, Avid, and a number of ocher students planned a "reach-in" to educate beyond the headlines. On April 2, over 250 students, professors, and other members of che community crowded into a room in Linsly-Chiccenden Hall. The speakers represented every element of the struggle chat had led co the Yale-BristolMyers decision. Kasper spoke on the pandemic in Africa, highlighting the need for affordable medicine. HIV-posit ive South African activists added a personal note.

Asia Russell, who works for ACT-UP Philadelphia, accused the us of "driving a coalition which was actually killing people with AIDS" and denounced this "state-sanctioned genocide," proclaiming, "They did chis because we demanded it." Balamuth discussed Yale's patenting and licensing policy, calling for a greater role for researchers in such decisions, and highlighting GESO's commitment co the issue.

Kapczynski matter-of-faccly described the negotiations process. The lefty crowd, arriving lace from the most recent anti-Free Trade Area of the Americas protest, extended an open invitation to the AIDS activists to join them on a trip to Quebec City for the April 2.0 anti-globalization protest.

There was a dizzying array of "actions" to take, wcbsices to consult, lists co sign, and people co contact. But even as the offshoots of the original campaign multiplied, those initially involved were not sure what their next step should be.

THE NEw JouRNAL

IN

THE MONTH SINCE Yale and BristolMyers made their announcement, the effects have rippled. Yale has pledged its continued commitment to improving access to AIDS treatinent in Africa: At an open forum in early April, ~ President Richard Levin called for "a significant effort

by Yale to help train people to administer [d4T) in Africa" and claimed, ''I'm very committed to this."

CESO has kicked off an effort to give researchers more voice in how their discoveries are patented and licensed.

Student radicals have added access to AIDS medicine to their agenda. The media's fascination with AIDS in Africa has become, if anything, more intense; a recent lead article in Th~ Nnu York Dr. Prusoff Ttm~s highlighted the continued problem of access to essential medicines, issuing an implicit calJ to sustained action. Students at other major universities--most notably the University of Minnesota, which licenses the patent for another important AIDS drug to GlaxoSrnithKline--have raken up the sort of fight first seen at Yale last month. And in early April, at the behest of UN Secretary General Kofi Annan, six major pharmaceutical firms-BristolMyers Squibb, GlaxoSmithKline, Pfizer, Abbott, Hoffinan-Laroche, and Boehringer Ingelheim-dedared their commitment to lowering prices and malcing AIDS drugs more widely available and affordable in the neediest portions of the developing world.

But the people who hastened the change at Yale are cautious in their celebration. In fact, at this point, they are not even sure what the decision meant. "We don't know what the outcome is," Kapczynslci admitted. T he OCR has only said chat it amended the licensing agreement with Bristol-Myers. "An exclusive license ensures that a company is diligent in marketing a product and doesn't just put it on the shelf.• Soderstrom explained. "In order to do this, certain restrictions are put on the agreement-we had to remove those restrictions." Bristol-Myers, in addition to

APRIL :2.0, :2.001

offering drugs to UNAIDS and the World Health Organization at a reduced (but still far higher than generics) cost, has merely pledged not to fight back if the patent is violated. "This is a big step forward and it has a lot of possibility," Kasper said. "But drug companies often make very grandiose announcements and don't do anything on the ground."

For the moment, Kapczynslci, Simons, Avid, and ocher concerned students are taking minor steps and doing their best to get their bearings.

They are examining "the systematic problem of research being so closely tied to corporate interests", convening a forum (with some coaxing by the dean of the law school) to educate themselves on how the licensing process works, and in the preliminary stages of creating some sore of University-wide AIDS coalition. Still, Avid said, "None of us know exactly how chis works or where it's going." And Kapczynski warned, "A lot of forruitious things worked together to make this successful, but the more this becomes replicable, the more resistance there will be."

Amy Kapczysnlci, Marco Simons, and Sara Avid alighted on a wave of international momenrum and directed it closer to home. Now, the wave is mosdy past them.

But they all realize that "on the ground" nothing yet has been gained. And though all of this started on the ground, no one knows if that's where it will end.

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Branford College Presents

Master's Teas with Two of America's Most Influential Writers

DAVID GERGEN Yale Corporation Branford College Master's House 80 High Street Friday, April 20 5:00P.M.

&

TOM WOLFE Branford College Common Room Saturday. April 21 4:00P.M.

Trains potting

By Linda Rosenbury

I take the Metro-North train from New Haven to New York at least four times a semester .

This semester, I decided to get off the train at every stop and explore each town until the next train carne one hour later.

I brought my camera and shot about one roll at each town. I was attracted to slippages in time, the kind of photographs that could have been taken any time in the last four decades.

Even as I wrote the name of the city on each canister of film, I knew I could not capture a town in one hour and thirty-six photographs.

After photographing seven towns, I realized that I was drawn the most to New Haven's three closest towns -Milford, Stratford, and Bridgeport.

I went back again and again, intrigued by their close proximity to and distance from my life at Yale.

I revisited my favorite things, like the mancoon cat that lived in the gun shop in Stratford and the abandoned storefronts in Bridgeport.

I made friends and began to feel like an insider in these towns.

Now it makes more sense to me that I am registered to vote in Connecticut.

Stratford, 10:06 a.m.

Bridgeport, 12:25 p.m .

:16

THE NEW JouRNAL

Stratford, 9:45 a.m.

Milford, 11:12 a.m.

APRIL 20, 2001

A

NNE BoGART WANTS ro BE DEAN oF THE YALE ScHOOL OF DRAMA. After a day packed with a Master's Lunch, a Master's Tea, and a lecture and dinner sponsored by the Dramat, she seems too tired to hide her desire for the position. "This is the only position I would consider any place in the United States. There's no. other institution I )VOuld have been interested in," she reveals. She sips her coffee and, sighlng, admits to the feelings that arose as she walked past the University Theatre and the Yale Repertory Theatre to the coffee shop. ''I'm disappointed that the searchers were not more adventurous."

Bogart is not some forlorn dreamer who has set her sights too high. She is the artistic director of New York's Saratoga International Theatre Institute (szn) and an associate professor of directing at Columbia University. She directed her first play, Eugene Ionesco's The Bald Soprano, at the age of fifteen. Her method .of theatrical training, known as Viewpoints, is extremely influential in the theater world. She has received two Obies and a Guggenheim Fellowship, among other awards. Robert wildman, managing director of The Connecticut Repertory Theatre and former marketing director of the Drama School and the Yale Rep .calls her "a brilliant theater artist." And she was a candidate ten years ago when the last search for a Drama School dean took place.

But Bogart has not been offered the position. While her ideas about theater and the changes necessary within the Drama School's programs set her apart from many of the other candidates, a much more striking difference has become apparent in the last three months-unlike Bogart, most of the other theater luminaries recommended by the search committee to President Richard Levin don't actually want the job. Two, Oskar Eustis and Jon Jory, have already turned it down; two others, Mark Lamos and JoAnne Akalaitis, withdrew themselves from the short list because they weren't interested. The outgoing dean has been forced to plan a theater season of which he may not be a part, and he may need to remain at Yale for an extra year as the University scrambles to

The Dean's Yale's faltering drama 28

THE NEW JouRNAL

By Patrick Casey Pitts find a replacement. Because of a decline in the Rep's popularity and a drop in the Drama School's reputation, the search is much more difficult than it has ever been. While a forward-thinlcing artist like Bogart might be just what the Drama School needs, financial concerns make such a daring choice uncomfortable. At the same time, many of those who could help the institution regain its standing are reluctant to come to New Haven.

O n April25, 2000, after two five-year terms, Stan Wojewodslci Jr. announced that he would be stepping down from his position as dean of the Yale School of Drama and artistic director of the Yale Repertory Theatre at the end of the school year. President Levin quickly appointed an eight-person search committee charged with interviewing candidates and submitting a list of recommendations. "It was dear to me from the beginning that the intent was to try to have someone here by the end of the calendar year," explains committee member Gary Haller, a professor of chemical engineering and master of Jonathan Edwards College. If a new dean were not hired by January 2001, many worried that the planning of the Rep's 2001-2002 season would be delayed. The committee worked through the summer, contacting potential candidates and reporting back to other committee members. "Nobody could accuse us of not hearing from everybody," says Haller. "The amount of input was Larger than it has been on any other dean search committee I've been on. We tried to hear from all components of the academic drama and the professional drama communities." Still, the search tearh did have its own idea of what they were loolcing for: "The hope was that we could fmd some person who had professional achievement as a director, a playwright, choreographer, or something like that, and had had some academic interaction as well," says Haller. "Not only should the person actually work professionally but they should also have a sense of management so that they can manage not only the repertory theater part of it but also the academic programs." Although some committee members were unsure of Bogart's managemenr skills, she made the short List.

the

Thing

school misses its cue APRIL

20, 2001

FALL, the potential deans carne to New Haven for interviews.

Two of the top candidates, Akalaitis of Bard College and Lamos, formerly of the Hartford Stage, quickly bowed out. Both apparendy decided that they didn't want to become academic administrators. "I'm not sure I want to be the dean of anything, although I think the Yale School of Drama is very important and it is essential that they find a wonderful person," explains Akalaitis.

In both her interviews, in September and November, Bogart articulated a vision for the Drama School and the Rep that involved huge changes. "I said that I didn't think that the Rep should be a regional theater anymore, but that it should be an international theater," Bogart recalls.

"I wanted to radically change the kind of training for actors and directors. The train-; ing would be influenced from ocher cultures throughout the world. Actors would not necessarily be trained for the regional theater, bur would train, in a way, to be 'poets of the theater' with physical and vocal virtuosity and rigor."

In December, the committee met with Levin. According to Haller, "essentially the work of the whole committee was conveyed to the president." The final decision was left to Levin himselÂŁ According co sources, the top choices were Oskar Eustis, artistic director of Triniry Repertory Company of Providence and former head of the Eureka Theatre Company in San Francisco, and Jon Jory, former artistic director of the Actors Theatre of Louisville and a founder of New Haven's own Long WharfThearre. Bogart was apparendy roo radical for the staid Drama School: .. [Their choice was] essentially an articulation of a very different concept of theater," Bogart says. " It became dear that I was not what they were looking for." Phone calls between New Haven and Providence comTHROUGHOUT THE

30

menced-Eustis was the first choice for the position. On December 21, the Hartford Courant ran the headline "Trinity Rep Director Likely Yale Successor." The short article included only the unsourced assertion of the likelihood of Eustis's selection as dean and a summary of his career.

T he leak of Eustis's name would make the replacement process infinitely more difficult.

\nne Bogart

LE

SEARCH quickly became as much a matter for the press as for President Levin.

The Courant continued to cover the story, while the Providmce Journal took up the question even more intensely. On January 13, it confirmed that the job had been offered to Eustis, posing the question "Will Oskar Leave?" to its readers, and fretting that "being head of a top company such as Trinity is an important post, but Chief at Yale? That is a world-class position."

This commotion surrounding the current process contrasts sharply with the 1990 search that resulted in Wojewodski's appointment. In that search, newspaper stories included all the names being thrown

around and suggested that the process was moving forward too slowly, but the selection of Wojewodski was kept under wraps until officially revealed by Wojewodski ~d the University. According to Wildman, who had to handle the University's announcement of the hiring, "I was only cold a week before the announcement . . . The process was almost entirely leak-free." Bogart, a candidate at the rime, confirms this. "That was done very effectively, particularly as it was announced. I don't think there was much buzz at all beforehand."

In 2000, press leaks changed the dynamics of the situation entirely. Now, Yale was at a disadvantage-any potential candidates knew that they were not Yale's first choice, information that was bruising to theater-sized egos. According to Haller, "It's turned into such a public search that now everybody's gun-shy. I'm convinced that the reason we lost one of our candidates had to be one of the publications. " While Haller, as a member of the search committee, is not allowed to comment on specific candidates, sources speculate char Jon Jory, the second choice for the deanship, turned the position down because he discovered that Eustis was the first choice.

Both the city of Providence and Eustis himself used the increased media attention to their advantage. For Providence, the coverage helped keep Eustis in town. "One thing is for sure," the Journal wrote.

"If Eustis leaves, it would have a major impact on Rhode Island's arts scene. Not only has his regime seen Trinity go from oceans of red ink to black, it has seen a revitalizing of the mission of the old theater .. .

Eustis has had a remarkable reign here. He has matched up with this community better than any other artistic leader I've seen in 25 years covering the arts. He has placed Rhode Island back on the map and it will be a shame if he moves on." The paper's

THE NEW JouRNAL

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coverage also reminded Eustis of past promises: "2.132 years ago, he volunteered co [article writer Bill Gale] in an interview that he had pledged to stay at Trinity for five more years, to see through the upgrading he was beginning. You don't have to have gone to Yale University to see that half that com mitment rem ains."

However, the benefits of the publicity to Eustis were even more im mediate.

Bogart sums it up: "He used [the media coverage] brilliantly. It was a great political act." According to the jouma4 Trinity's board "met with Eustis after he had talked with Yale," agreed to an early contractual salary increase, "and recommitted their support of some of his favorite projects at the theater, including higher salaries for actors and others, more warehouse and shop space, a program with Brown University, and an increased emphasis o n Trinity's training arm, the conservatory."

The public relations bonanza provided by the newspaper coverage was topped off by a press conference at wh ich Eustis announced that he would not be accepting the job from Yale. "It is unusual for som ebody to publicly announce that they're declining an offer," observes H aller. T his peculiar PR choice was accom panied by an attempt to play up the importance of his current job. He said that he hoped his rejection of Yale would "let a lot of people here recognize that we have a national jewel, one of the top places in the country."

While an early salary increase may seem to be a strong benefit of the media coverage, sources say Yale was offering even more. A more important advantage is revealed by Eustis's language at the press conference, in his previous words regarding the Trinity Repertory Company, and in the projects to which his board recommitted.

At the press conference, Eustis observed, "The [Trinity] conservatory is very good now, but in five years I want people rurn-

APRJL 20, 2001

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32

ing down Julliard, Yale, and NYU to come here." By connecting Brown to Trinity in the same way that Yale is connected to the Yale Rep, Eustis hopes to move his theater into Yale's place at the top of the American theater scene, a goal he set at the start of his tenure.

E

sns's CONTENTION IS SIMPLE: "Yale Rep is not a better theater than Trinity Rep." While Yale's offer of the deanship to Eustis may have inadvertently strengthened one the University's competitors in the world of drama, many remain skeptical about Eustis's statements. Wildman believes that "five years is an awfully short timetable to get from nowhere on the map to the top of the map. I think it's entirely possible that they could emerge as another exciting program, but that quickly, I don't know." Still, many already see the transition taking place. "[Trinity is] in better shape than the Yale Rep," believes Bogart.

"Oskar's put it back on the map."

More importantly, many say Yale's reputation bas declined overall. "As in any theater school, it h as its ups and downs, and I think it's more in a down than an up right now," says Bogart. "Probably the strongest program is design, and I think that people will go for management and take it seriously, and dramaturgy bas a good reputation, and technical theater has a great ÂŁeputation, but the rest of the school and the Rep have slipped." The committee was also concerned about just such a slip. "The committee certainly was not unaware of the perception about the stature of the school and repertory theater and certainly ... subscription rates to the Yale Rep have declined," admits Haller. "In a competitive sense, the school wasn't 100 percent the way people wanted it. There was a dear THE NEW JouRNAL

recogn1t1on that maybe we weren't in the catbird position that the school had been in not so long ago and everybody agrees that we wanted the school back in it." Frank Rizzo of the Courant says, "The Rep has had less of an impact beyond New Haven . . . Whatever one thought of the work being done, the overall profile of activities was decidedly low. In an informal survey taken at a gathering last summer of nonprofit regional theater leaders, the consensus was that the Rep no longer generates high theater people, certainly in York, much national."

The of

founded by Robert Brustein in 1966 after Yale President Kingman Brewster took the bold step of ignoring the academics recommended by his own search committee and selecting Brustein, a professional theaterwriter, for the job. Upon his arrival, Brustein founded the Yale Rep as part of the regional theater movement-a movement of anti-New York theaters throughout the country. According to Rizzo,

tance is a1.1 ...... '""' u not only in declining subscriptions to the Rep, but also in declining appliations to the school. Both of these changes may be due in part to the programming choices made by Wojewodski over the last ten years. Under his leadership, the Yale Rep's programming has shifted from a mainstream focus that fed many plays to Broadway to a more experimental type of theater. However, the criticism of Wojewodski's tenure has not been limited to conventional consumers interested only in mainstream theater.

Bogart believes that Wojewodski is unadventurous and uncharismatic. The New York Times has heavily criticized many of the plays that Wojewodski has directed, calling one of his efforts, the Rep's 35th anniversary play, "an academic exercise in scasis and an invitation to clock-watching."

However, Bogart also feels that some of the blame for the Rep's slide rests elsewhere. The Yale Repertory Theatre was

was a dynamic, controversial, exciting,

Brustein, it

APRIL 2.0, 2.001

enraging, exasperating, provocative theater, offering students a chance to work side by side with theater professionals on stage."

These theaters were usually built, as Bogart describes it, "out of the huge artistic brains of cettain artists." Brustein and many other founders of these regional theaters eventually left them-an exodus that left behind institutions that today are "continuing [their] regional habits and a little bit out of touch with what's going on in the [international] theater world," according to Bogart.

Offering the dean's job to Eustis, the head of another prominent regional theater, represents an attempt on the part of the adminiStration to stick to the "meat and potatoes regional theater" that Bogart sees as the unfortunate wake of this exodus.

ALTHOUGH THE UNlVP.llSITY

is no

longer the sole center of the American theater scene or the most important training

institution in the country, Anne Bogart still wants to be the next dean. However, following a dean under whom subscriptions and entrances to the Yale Rep dropped drastically, the University seems wary of hiring someone, like Anne Bogart, even more radical than the current dean.

After all, she professes a belief that financial concerns should never enter one's thoughts when planning a theatrical undertaking. This same focus on the decline of the Drama .

School and the Yale Rep may be at the heart of the decisions of the other candidates, since no one need fret that he or she is turning down the most important position in theater.

Carey Perloff, artistic director of San Francisco's American Conservacory Theater, is one of the few names still floating through theater circles as a potential successor to Wojewodski. However, many in the theater scene believe that if she were to become the next dean, the move would be a lateral or downward one on the ladder of us theater.

In 1966, Kingman Brewster set a radical precedent by ignoring his search committee, forging an entirely new direction for the Drama School. That selection would help place the Drama School and the Rep at the pinnacle of American theater for the next 30 years, making subsequent searches much easier.

However, the &IJ in reputation and financial concerns of the last ten years make both of these examples difficult to follow.

Patriclt Casey Pitts, a sophomo~Y in &rktky Co/l.tgt, is a managing tditor forTNJ.

33

WoNDER WoMEN? hv Victoria Lyall

I

YALE. Today is Friday and by Monday everything will be different. Not different in a little way, but rest-of-your-life different. Suddenly, living a life in Manhattan on $10,000 is a possible concern, and then comes the next six months ... the demands of graduate school, jobs, careers, life. This is my future, and it's standing outside, if I'll only let it in. I keep hoping that maybe along with my diploma, Dick will hand me an instruction booklet: Dear Graduate, Welcome to your lifo post- Yale! l'Our first step is to contact ali those successfUl Yale alumni, who will instruct you further on how to attain ultimate happiness and fol.fi/lment both profossionai/y AND emotionally ... WOrry not: Those $I20,ooo were well-invested.

But life is more complicated than that. And I am perplexed. In a small English-language bookstore in Paris last spring, I found a beat-up copy of The Feminine Mystique.

Living in Paris, reading Friedan, I wondered where I would be in a year, five years. Where would we all be in five years? I became so interested in these questions that, like any good Yale srudent, I decided to write my senior essay about them. But my essay does not address issues of the future for every Yale graduate. I am not Everyman; I am one woman.

Therefore I chose to look at one specific group: Yale women.

Thirty years after the explosion of feminism, millions of women struggle to balance a professional career and a stable family. The question is no longer whether to do one or the other, but how to do both.

Women of my generation have found that it is now their turn to ask themselves this question. A Yale woman's identity is in flux, its nature discussed daily in dorm rooms, apartments, bars, dining halls, and classrooms. We think both long and short-term and wonder where to anchor our identities. I and every other woman I know stand at this edge, asking ourselves, "How do I come to decide what makes life worthwhile?"

The history of women at Yale has been one of stops and starts. Back in 1783, Eua Stiles wrote up a sheepskin parchment for one of his private female students, noting that were it not for her sex she would surely have been a member of the Yale freshman class. In 1886, another ambitious woman applied to Yale Law School. She was admitted and managed to graduate, narrowly escaping the wrath of the Yale Corporation, which quickly instiruted a rule that no woman could belong to any class save the ones already enrolled in the School of Arts and Sciences. So, for 268 years ofYale College's illustrious history no woman roamed its hallowed halls until the "experiment" of 1969. 580 women were selected from an applicant pool of 5,000 to be the first female Yalies. La creme de la creme, rna cherie. lauded as "superwomen", they were photographed endlessly by The New York Times, N~ek, Look, and Lifo, not to mention all the women's maga2ines that speculated about their dating lives in full-page spreads. That spring, as Kingman Brewster unered the traditional Yale promise w graduate the next "1000 male leaders of the future", for the first time dissension was heard among the ranks.

34

AM A WOMAN IN MY FINAL YEAR AT

THE NEW JouRNAL

..

For the class of 2004, 6549 women and 6338 men applied, yet there was a 16.6 percent adm ission rate for men, versus only l5 percent fo r wo men. The final class standing is 674 men and 678 women. The unequal rate of admission is done to compensate for the higher matricu.lation rate among women. Old Blue wantS to keep th ing~ balanced- and rightfully so. H owever,· my point is, it's damn hard to get into Yale and it's even harder if you're a girl.

In a 1987 a.rticle entitled "The Next Steps for the Superwomen," the Yau Alumni MagtJZin~ explo red th e fate of female Yalies after graduation: "The possibility that these extraordinary you ng women m ight becom e leaders-the conventional destiny of their male classmates for centuries--[then] seemed mo re remote.

It is now taken for granted ." We are all, men and women, trained to be "super." We look at the admission rates an d our jaws drop-how did I make it here? To be a Yale graduate is something momentous. But my questio n is, how is it different for a woman?

Every senior woman I know struggles with the idea of being a leader. We reach out to each other and talk, as if by talking we can sort through the messiness of all that awaitS us in the real world. Some of us construct elaborate life plans: "Live in New York two years, grad school, marry around 2.8 (don't want to be tied down too early), kid by 32, three years off, and back to work." O thers live more in the moment: "I don't think in long term, o nly short term. I go from today to tomorrow and maybe co the next six months but can't really chink beyond that, you know?" Some grapple with social conventions: "Yeah, I wanna get married. Marriage may be a societal construction hue it's one that I have bought completely." Or: "You know, the more I think about it, all I am doing is biding rime till I can actually have a f.unily. I know I am completely shining on the feminist doctrine; we are caught co go out and take on the world, but what if I just want to have kids?"

Most of the women I interviewed wanted it aU. T hey don't want to enter the work force; they want to lead the work force. They want co find loving parcners and have happy, fulfilling lives. As we make decisions about next year, the year after, the next five to ten years, we wo nder how all the pieces of this puzzle will come together.

APRIL 2 0, 2001

O r if they will come together. I worry about how ro balance ambition and life's realities. I worry about loving someone in L.A. from my apartment in Manhanan. I leave you with the voices of four Yale women who are facing the same difficulties. In their voices anxiety and optimism, am bition and practicality, coexist as equal partners of a Yale woman's identity. Their openness and honesty have helped me define my own dilemma.

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I gu~ss for m~. sucuss entails not only happy and having a t,"at family but also achi~ing a urtain kv~L in my car~n: If I ~ a world-renown~d doctor but had sacrific~d marriag~ and family, and wn-~ misuabu, I wouldn't consider that sucuss. But nrithu would I consid~r it succ~ss ifI wn-~ simply a happy hous~ifo. b~ing

I thought I just wanud to b~ a high schooL scienu uachn- but that is not so~­ thing you do whm you go to YIJU. Unkss you do uach for Am~rica for a coupu years and thm you go to law schooL Ddiniuly p~opk hav~ this vi~ that ifyou go to Yak you hav~ to mak~ som~thing of it-you can't j ust b~ a hous~ifo or som~thing. }Qu hav~ to do som~­ thing with that degr~~ . . . I hav~ very conflicting foelings about it . . . I don't nud to hav~ som~ big pown:fit! car~u and I just want to do something tl;at mak~ m~ happy. But thm th~ othu suu ofm~ is /ik~ but you wmt to Yak and you should uu that ....

I think that's why I'w struggled for th~ past yMr, ~ar-and-a-ha/f . .. ron-yon~ is asking you, ·so what ar~ you going to b~ doing noa?" And Pm erp~cud to hav~ an answu; I o:p~ct an answn-ftom mys~lf... And ~sp~ciaL­ Ly coming out of Yal~ th~ o:p~ct that your~ going to do som~thmg incr~dibk. A lot ofp~o­ pk don't know what thry a~ going to do and thry a~ just trying to find thanselves and mayb~ th~ is nothing wrong with that.

...

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FIFTEEN HUNDRED years ago, Afghan artisans in Bamiyan began carving away at a mountainside with hammer and chisel.

Last month, soldiers from che Taliban regime finished the job with explosives, destroying the cwo colossal Buddhas left by their predecessors. The world-especially the West-was dumbfounded at the Afghans' defiant act of desecration. Ever since 1793, when the French made the Louvre palace into the people's museum, arc preservation has been a chief public project of Western democracies; co do the opposite is co proclaim one's own barbarism. This notion has never been lost on Americans, who, like skilled curators throughout history, have always used art to make the state look good. Museums traditionally divide their galleries by national school, and our own museums are no exception in shining the brightest spotlight on our native achievements. Therefore, the recent reopening of the remodeled American galleries ac¡ the Yale University Art Gallery, a point of Yale pride as the country's oldest college art museum , was, like many Yale events, an occasion for gratuitous self-congratulation. T his is the story of how we came to the top, and we're proud ofic.

For narrative effect, it's best to view the collection starting at the back, among the colonial and early national works of the Trumbull gallery. Most prominent is John Trumbull's history cycle depicting the Revolutionary War. The display marks our national inception, but one can't help bur feel that, as a nation, we got a rather silly start. What we see is a secular apotheosis of George Washington. The general is at once a Christ figure, ascending to the heavens buoyed by the heroic cherubim underneath, and a cock-sure acror taking his final bows: H e strides out of the gigantic central portrait while the war's supporting characters golf-clap appreciatively in the wings.

But the theatricality of the project seems amateurish now-it's only myth, and second-rate myth at that. Knowing what we know now of their slaves and their sexual

by Matthew U nderwood

peccadilloes, we can't help but feel an adolescent awkwardness in the proto-nationalist posturing of the Founding Fathers.

Things just haven't turned out as the they planned. For centuries, the name Agincourt was capable of rousing English pride; and the French still rally around the Bastille every July; but we are more likely to pinch our noses as we pass through Trenton, New Jersey, than to cross our hearts in memory of that glorious victory.

The gallery captures TrumbulJ's rime and its attitudes perfectly. Though we can today see past the spectacle, Trumbull and his peers were not disingenuous when they cast Trenton as the new Troy. A bust of Trumbull himself surveys the gallery, along with ThomaS Crawford's busts of Homer, D emosthenes, and Cicero; their presence equates Trumbull's achievements with their own. Centrally located is Thomas Greenbough's statue of The Angel Abdie~ seemingly advancing towards the New World. One almost hears echoes of Milton's praise following behind, applying equally co angel and revolutionary: Having fought the better fight, each now stand approved in sight of God, though worlds judged them perverse. The wall opposite Washington is occupied by portraits of the righteous (if misproportioned) worthies of Trumbull's time. Many of the works are Grand Tour portraits with the ruins of the Old World set as a backdrop, a powerful symbol of the American promise to rebuild the Western ideal from its current degenerate state. Even Ezra Stiles is here, standing before his bookcase in fuller possession of the Western tradition than any Oxford don. Taking it all in, the viewer is struck with wonder at the early nation's artistic project: We see here the artful but unmistakable extension of the young nation's middle finger, a gesture of contemptuous pride directed to the Old Country monarchs. One cannot help but nod in approval.

As we pass into the colonial decorative arts galleries, the atmosphere is no longer that of a princely gallery, but your great-

great-grandfather's attic. The contrast balances our forefathers' idealized self-portrait with a snapshot of who they actually were.

Most striking is the central display of colonial chairs which matches Trumbull's history cycle: Here we see the apotheosis of the joint-stool, circa 1715, artist unknown. T he srool evokes far more pathos than Trumbull's grandstanding generals ever will, embodying the humble origins of America's rough-hewn, democratic genius.

These cwo models remain consistent throughout the rest of the collection: The picture gallery is an aesthete's delight, while the peripheral decorative arts galleries provide a more sober sense of historical resonance. Albert Bierstadt's painting of America's finest cathedral, Yosemite Valley, is expertly placed to capture our attention as we leave rhe furniture behin_d and seemingly venture out of doors into the natural light of the grand salon, streaming through the newly uncovered skylights in the roof.

Unfortunately, the curators have not taken full advantage of the spectacular views created along the room's side corridors. Joseph Stella's Brooklyn Bridge, the 20th century's answer to Bierstadt's natural cathedral, should hang on the far wall behind it.

Instead, it is o n one of the shorter central walls; rhe connection is lost and the viewer is unable ro stand back and take it all in.

The corridor view presents us only with a decidedly un-epic piece by Edward Hopper, and the line of sight is broken by a group of statues by Thomas Eakins.

Hiram Powers's rarified Greek Slave is similarly crowded by the display of Pennsylvania Dutch ironworks in the background, overflowing from the colonial decorative arts galleries. Seen from the side, she is caged by the sandstone columns uncovered during the renovation, and this view would be enough to make Elizabeth Barrett Browning compose a second sonnet in her honor. By far the best-placed object is the gilded bronze American Eagle, perched on high and visible across the gallery from the entrance, a glorious reminder of the first battles that made this THE NEW JoURNAL

The American galleries at the Yale University Art Gallery all possible. Although his gold leaf has flaked off in the perilous fight, like the flag he is emphatically still there.

Bierstadt's Yosnniu Valky, like the works in the Trumbull gallery, bears witness to the continuing king-of-the-mountain battle between Europe and America to the peak of the Western tradition. But even in the paintings of the Hudson River School, whose artists rejected the monuments of classical Europe in favor of the natural beauty of God's canvas, the European aesthetic still rules: Yosemite is _beautiful not so much in itself, but because it outdoes Chartres in majesty. Even among the genre scenes of cranberry gatherers and the still lives of the American flora the figure of the glorious European dandy still lurks here in the work of Thomas Horenden. As we come nearer to the present, the line between European and American art blurs further as the very best American city-, sea-, and landscapes-all in the style of the Impressionists---cover the gallery walls.

The decorative arts galleries present a narrative that likewise drifts from its original thesis. From the patriotic, frontier heroism of the joint-stool, we move to the sophisticated European revivals of the 18oos, then to the more familiar designs of the early wth century. This is no longer your great-great-grandfather's attic, but your own. My mother's Revere Ware pots, or at least the original 1936 design, are in the Modernist room. So is my grandmother's Electrolux vacuum. The aura of miraculous survival no longer surrounds the objects, and the viewer is left to look into .APIUL 20, 2001

the cases with contradictory motivations: Should I stand in solemn contemplation, or put the spaghetti on the stove and sweep the floor? One cannot help but feel confused in the Contemporary D esign room, which enshrines a bright orange i-Book and those skin-chilling black metal chairs that are ubiquitous on the Yale campus. It takes a bit of false consciousness to install these "artifacts" alo ngside the joint-stool; the curator plays the time-capsule game, guessing that hundreds of years into the future, the laptop and the dorm-room accessory will be the iconic emblems of the lives we lived.

It is fitting for the gallery's narrative to end with the art of the 40s and 50s. T his was the turning po int in the American pro. ject, when we finally got the upper hand on the Continentals and New York became the center of the art world. But we did so by a process of artistic globalization: the American and the European blended into one. T he m useum's layout as a whole confirms this: Thro ugh the door of the American galleries are the m odern and contemporary roo ms, the fusion point of the museum's European and American collections. But something was lost o n both sides in the process. Nothing captures this better than the series of paintings along the left wall at the end of the gr~d salon-we see the transformatio n happen before us, passing from Marsden H artley's elegiac Last Stone Walls, Dogtown to the cold concrete elegance of Arnold W irz's American Landscape to the geometric abstraction of Livingston Schaumburg's M orton Machine.

This was also the point. when art got away from us, defying the concept that seemed proper a few rooms back of a uniquely "American" gallery. In the first room beyond the American wing hang the works of quintessentially American artists like Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg, shoved outdoors like the children the curators know will misbehave when the company comes to visit, ruining the happy family illusion. We see them eventually, however, and the story we've been led to believe is suddenly no longer relevant. In effect, the viewer is left inside a H opper painting, waiting like that woman in the hotel room white-knuckling the bedpost, afraid to venture out inro the world we've shaped in our own image. We're afraid because we're still comfortable with the old narrative. We refuse to leave and thus get stuck, not knowing any longer how to respond to art.

Even our response to the iconoclastic Taliban despots is simply another example of our growing uncertainties. One couldn't help but wince when the Grand Mullah pointed out that, for all of our clamoring about two stone statues, no one has rushed in to feed the children in Afghanistan who are starving as a result of UN sanctions.

After all, they are just as innocent of the Taliban's atrocities as the two Buddhas carved out of the rock. Hateful as his regime is, the Mullah had a point. H is comments were yet another signal that our Enlightenment attitudes toward art are illfitted to the contemporary world. Yet these artirudes are nor going to change on their own. The first place to look for the necessary cultural redefinition ought to be the temple of artistic culture itself-the m useum. T he Yale University Art Gallery, however, has passed at its chance to provide any new insight. T he new American galleries stick to the script of 1793, and they play it well. But as one passes through the exhibit, the narrative at its foundation becomes less and less apt. One leaves with the disheartening feeling that the final monologue, the speech that makes our progression from John Trumbull to Jackson Pollack explicitly clear, has yet to be spoken.

Matthew Undn-wood, a sophomore in Davenport College, is an associate editor ofTNJ.

Cracki rig the Whip

by Clint Carroll What happens when you r sen ior essay is still due five years later

T

he senior essay is supposedly a graduation requirement-and to be literal, it is. But it's not due in April. While the rest of the graduating class scrambles to meet the deadline, a wily few just take it easy. They know the truth: They have up to five years after graduation to finish their projects.

I had heard of people doing this, delinquents who had left Yale with a toy diploma and a stern warning: Five years or else! These were the legends, the mythic heroes ofevery kid who had ever called home in tears, lamenting work, deadlines, and the future. But were they really out there? That's when my obsession began.

The first delinquent I cornered was Susan (names have been changed), a young professional living in California. She had left Yale in 1999 without a diploma and with just enough dignity to make it out West. For her, the senior essay had been of secondary importance, an afterthought in her world of activism, "event organizing," and liberalism. She was willing to tell me everything, even though she had been bedridden for days with a cold.

She claimed that she hadn't needed a degree to get a job. "I think I got my job because of the skills I learned in extracurricular pursuits ... and not because of my academic experiences at Yale." I never found out exactly what she did. I just couldn't press her. She was my first contact, a ¡confirmed invalid, and a charming woman.

But I could sense a blackness in her story. I proceeded with caution.

The senior essay had indeed affected her adult life. And though she was all laughs and nonchalance when it came to talking about this, I could sense a desperation in her words: "Ir makes me stay horne on Saturday nights . . . and plunge into isolated depression, staring at the wall, picking my ear." I could see Susan in a hospice gown, slobbering over some coloring book, writing that damn essay.

My heart almost went out to her.

But her anxiety seemed to be self-imposed. She told me that Yale never contacted her, that she didn't have an advisor, and that she could graduate at her own leisure. She was planning on getting her diploma this year, so that a younger friend, in the class of 'ox, wouldn't be able to "rub it in." She had even made a big foam board for her door, a schedule to help her manage time. Her cat had devoured it in a frighteningly symbolic act, leaving her with nothing but an essay due and a ticking clock.

Susan wasn't the only one I found. I had heard that another like her lived in New Haven. They called him "Seven Year Pete" and he was rumored to be the "oldest undergraduate ever." I was told that I could find him at a local coffee shop, that he never left the place.

But, naturally, he wasn't there. His friends, a roguish group of three, told me that Pete had moved to Virginia and that he couldn't be reached. He had too many boys in New Haven; it was impossible for him to concentrate on work when he was here.

They continued to talk about Pete for some time, growing less and less cool as they did so. Their stories began to sound conspiratorial. Yale was supposedly threatening to hold Pete's diploma indefinitely, and he had needed to "get away" until something blew over. He was holed up down South, Yale was upset, and here I was, sipping coffee with three strangers with as many cigarettes and a whole lot of tattoos.

I never did talk co Pete. Yet I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Susan had found happy anonymity in California. He was a known fugitive. She was working on her essay at leisure. He was finishing his under a looming deadline. She was bedridden in the sun.

And he was hiding from Big Brother. It just didn't seem fair.

So I went looking. for help. I figured that Susan was fine, but was worried about Pete. I wanted to fmd him someone--a mentor who could inspire him and coax him out of hiding. I found one, and she c~aimed to be good. She was a ~ominatrix who dismissed all procrastin;lting students as "naughty, naughty" people. Her operation, "Fit-to-be-Tied,~ seemed legitimate. So I contacted her. Her name was Mistress Mineko, and she was the real thing.

I explained that I was looking for students who could not possibly finish their essays on time. I asked whether the Mistress could help these stragglers, and she said that she could. "I actually charge a reduced rate for writers of overdue papers. In our experience, the more desperate the client, the easier he or she is to break," she elaborated. I didn't really know what she was talking about.

She sounded like a real hard-nose. She was clearly a sadist, but had a girlish sweetness. She told me, "[I'll do] whatever it takes to get results, fast. All some clients require is a good talking to ...

Other clients require more severe measures. This is why we require our agents to bring one of our standard 'thesis toolboxes"'- I could only guess what these boxes contained, envisioning some duct tape, gags, maybe a low-voltage prod-"which include duct tape, gags, low-voltage prods."

I wasn't sure whether bizarre sex would solve any of Pete's problems, but the Mistress was onto something. Students like Pete just need to be pushed sometimes. Often all it takes is an authority figure stepping in-a teacher, a parent, an older sibling, a sadist. I knew that I would never be a figure of eminence to Pete. But maybe the Mistress could be. She was so kind, so motherly, so obnoxiously raw. She was all a procrastinating student really needed-a smile, a hug, and a stinging slap on the ass.

-

Clint Carroll, a J"shman in Branford Co/leg~. is a circulations and subscriptions manager for TN].

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