Classroom Virtuoso: Recollections of a Life in Learning

Classroom Virtuoso Recollections of a Life in Learning

Victor L. Cahn

ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD EDUCATION Lanham • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

Published in the United States of America by Rowman & Littlefield Education A Division of Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowmaneducation.com Estover Road Plymouth PL6 7PY United Kingdom Copyright © 2009 by Victor L. Cahn All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cahn, Victor L. Classroom virtuoso : recollections of a life in learning / Victor L. Cahn. p. cm. ISBN-13: 978-1-60709-004-5 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 1-60709-004-X (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN-13: 978-1-60709-005-2 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 1-60709-005-8 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN-13: 978-1-60709-006-9 (electronic) ISBN-10: 1-60709-006-6 (electronic) 1. Cahn, Victor L. 2. Teachers—United States—Biography. 3. English teachers— United States—Biography. 4. College teachers—United States—Biography. I. Title. LA2317.C23A3 2009 371.10092—dc22 [B] 2008042064

⬁™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Manufactured in the United States of America.

To My Students



Contents

Acknowledgments

vii

Introduction

1

Chapter 1

My Friend Millard Fillmore

7

Chapter 2

Four Strings, a Bow, and Reality

15

Chapter 3

The Universe and Dr. Cahn

25

Chapter 4

Formidable Figures at the Front Desk

33

Chapter 5

Academic Interruptus

39

Chapter 6

On the Cusp of Change

47

Chapter 7

Finding My Way

53

Chapter 8

A Teacher Grows Up

65

Chapter 9

Reflections on a Way of Life

77

Chapter 10

Confessions of a Closet Jock

85

Chapter 11

Professor

97

Chapter 12

A Job for Life

111

Chapter 13

A Man of the Theater

123

v

vi



Contents

Chapter 14

On Being a Teacher

135

Chapter 15

Little Lessons Learned along the Way

141

Chapter 16

Curtain

149

About the Author

153



Acknowledgments

“My Friend Millard Fillmore” originally appeared in Skidmore Voices, and is reprinted with permission. “The Universe and Dr. Cahn” originally appeared in the Exeter Bulletin and is reprinted with permission. Copyright 1979 by the Trustees of Phillips Exeter Academy. Portions of “Confessions of a Closet Jock” originally appeared in the New York Times on June 11, 1978. A version of “Curtain” originally appeared in the New York Times on June 1, 1979. A revised version appeared in Skidmore Scope, and is reprinted with permission. My thanks to Jon Sisk for his support, to Tom Koerner for his advice, and to Maera Winters, Patricia Stevenson, and the staff of Rowman & Littlefield for their assistance throughout production. Finally, as always, my profound gratitude to my brother, Dr. Steven M. Cahn, who has always believed in this project. And in me.

vii

The Senior Class would like to pay tribute to Victor Cahn for the humor and refreshing intellect he brings to Pomfret. His constant smile and subtle nod can always be counted on whether he is playing his violin, reading behind the dorms, or simply swinging his umbrella. A very unique man, Mr. Cahn will be remembered by all who know him. from The Griffin, Pomfret School, 1977



Introduction

Most writers who offer a book of reminiscence believe their experiences to be so compelling that other people ought to read about them. Why, then, would anyone write about a life as sedate as mine? Welcome to my world. I’m confident that the material here will intrigue my acquaintances, but I’m also bold enough to hope that my readership will extend beyond that circle. Thus to spark curiosity, here are some tidbits about our subject. I was born in 1948. I was raised and educated largely in New York City, in comfortable but hardly lavish surroundings. I am six three, two hundred pounds. I used to be thin. I am an inveterate walker. Since the age of nine, I have worn glasses. I like them. I am single. I am straight. I live in a small, ranch-style house. I keep no pets or plants. I cannot cook, and I have no desire to do so. Thus I either dine in restaurants or bring home prepared food. My doctor has warned me that such fare contains unhealthful flavorings, but I see no possibility of my changing the habits of a lifetime. I usually eat alone while I read the daily newspapers. I clean my own house.

1

2



Introduction

I prize solitude, which permits me ample time to read, play music, listen to music, watch sports and movies on television, and follow several other pursuits, notably writing. I have turned out numerous theatrical scripts that have been produced, several nonfiction books that have been published, and too many works of fiction that have been rejected. I have a coterie of loyal friends, but I avoid gatherings, either professional or social, where the immediate company includes more than a few people. If attendance is mandatory, I seize the first opportunity to exit. I follow this strategy in every circumstance but one: when I perform. I am more comfortable on a stage than in an audience. Like all artists, I have received brickbats, some of which I have tossed myself, for I am rarely impressed by what I do. Yet I have also received more than my share of praise. Even without that encouragement, though, my eagerness to put myself on the line before a crowd would remain indomitable. This predilection astonishes people who know me in only certain contexts. When a friend from high school recently greeted me after a solo show in which I spoke from memory for ninety minutes without intermission, she exclaimed to her companion, “He never said two words back then!” I have performed as an actor, musician, and lecturer in concert halls, theaters, auditoriums, churches, and temples. The venue where I have worked most, however, is the classroom, where for virtually all of my adult life I have been a teacher of English, first at the secondary level, then at college. In thousands of written assessments, students have reported that they appreciate my efforts. Some comments have been touching: “This is why I came to college.” Others have been preposterous: “The greatest teacher ever.” A few have been comic: “Cahn is GOD.” Even my colleagues have been impressed, and their accounts of visits to my classes include adjectives like “remarkable,” “spectacular,” “phenomenal,” and “magical.” I must be doing something right. I do have detractors. Some suggest that I retain my own opinions too tenaciously, others that I tolerate divergent voices too generously. Some believe that I grade too strictly, others that I do so too magnanimously. Some assert that I obsess over detail, others that as I maintain pace, I risk superficiality. Some just haven’t liked me. But these censures have been comparatively few. The overwhelming majority of my charges have communicated that while in my company, they enjoyed themselves, learned a great deal, and became inspired to learn more.

Introduction 

3

I understand that my experience has been insulated. I have taught in elite private institutions populated by affluent, motivated students, and where I have been free from bureaucratic interference. My classroom has never been vandalized, and I’ve never been physically threatened. Thus warriors who battle in the trenches of public high school might regard me as a dilettante who has escaped the gritty reality of their jobs. Meanwhile beyond the bounds of each campus where I’ve been employed, men and women have struggled in exhausting labor ten or twelve hours a day, fifty weeks a year, to put food on the family table. Others have made fortunes in real estate, entertainment, drugs, or armaments. Or some combination thereof. Cutthroats and heroes continue to contend for power, while abuse of every variety is rampant. Nations are starving. Bombs are dropping. Governments are toppling. What am I doing? I’m on the lookout for dangling modifiers. I’m pondering the multiple levels of meaning in a line of dialogue. Consequently I cannot avoid one question: “Does my work matter?” My response (and I can conceive of no way to phrase this humbly) is “Yes, it does. And I’m glad I do it very, very well.” My determination to expand that answer is one reason I’m writing this book. Another comes indirectly from my students, who have told me that some of our most memorable moments together occurred when I related stories about my life and career. Here is a place to disseminate them more widely. A third reason is to dispel the pervasive impression that teachers’ lives are bereft of pizzazz. People who muse about glamorous careers usually muse about show business, politics, or sports. Perhaps they muse about medicine, law, hedge funds, or scientific exploration. At one time they probably mused about the military. Rarely does anyone muse longingly about teaching. No one should presume to speak for all teachers, even in our defense. Yet I’m going to try, because in many ways I’m typical of the profession. I think like a teacher. My calendar begins in September and ends in June, with a few nonweeks in late December, early January, and the middle of March. I function as if during July and August, the world goes on vacation. I act like a teacher. I plan my days carefully, and I enjoy order in my classroom and my house. I talk like a teacher. I invoke phrases like “A for effort, C for results.” I enjoy finding words to fit an occasion. I’m too polite to correct the grammatical and syntactical mistakes of others (except on papers I grade), but I constantly amend my own.

4



Introduction

Finally, I take advantage of one of the few privileges accorded a teacher: freedom to be my own person. My last motivation here is to explore the primary theme of my life: learning. I’m speaking now of both formal study and the haphazard acquisition of self-understanding. Given my years on both sides of the front desk, as well as my ancillary interests, I think that I’ve come to appreciate the subtleties and implications of this process. At the risk of being immodest once more, I confess that I don’t know of anyone else who has performed the complete Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin by Bach, published a volume containing an essay on each of the plays of Shakespeare, and written and presented a one-man show Off-Broadway. The classroom, though, is where everything begins. Therefore I’ll conclude this introduction with a replay of my first day as a professional teacher, which took place at Mercersburg Academy, a college preparatory school (then all-male) on the edge of a small Pennsylvania town of the same name. The time was the summer of 1969, one month after my graduation from college. I’ll explain the whys and hows of the job later, but at this juncture all readers need know is that I had been invited down for a week of observation and practice before my official duties started in the fall. Whatever career we follow, our first days remain vivid, for here is when unfamiliar challenges loom on every side, and we learn the fundamental lessons, good and bad, that we carry forever. So it was with me at Mercersburg, and later at Pomfret School and Phillips Exeter Academy. My six years in toto at these places make up less than a quarter of my career, but what I acquired during that time became the foundation of all that followed. Thus I feel free to dwell on my youthful trials, triumphs, and mishaps. When I first visited Mercersburg forty years ago, I had not yet taught English, but I was also not a pedagogic neophyte. First, I was following a family tradition. Before my mother devoted herself to raising my brother and me, she was an acclaimed high school teacher whose primary field was English. My father complemented his career in the rabbinate with adjunct positions at several colleges, while my older brother, about whom much more is written in the next chapter, has for decades been the paragon of a university professor and administrator. Family discussions always focused on the intricacies of school, particularly classroom life, and therefore by a young age I was a teacher in spirit, if not actuality. In addition, I was not devoid of practical experience. Years earlier, I had taught elementary-level students to read Hebrew, and I also coached boys of junior high age as they prepared for their bar mitzvah. In retrospect, my suc-

Introduction 

5

cess at both levels demonstrated a certain gift. I’m also convinced that anyone who believes that he or she has the ability to be a high school teacher or college professor should start with seventh-graders, for survivors of that stint will find working at higher levels to be a relative breeze. Back to Mercersburg. On the first morning after my arrival in July, I watched a veteran instructor lead a class of ten high school juniors through one hour of vocabulary study and a second on analysis of a short story. Nothing untoward occurred, but no one seemed excited, either. The next day I was asked to take over the group. I nervously approached the teacher’s desk and, not knowing what else to do, sat on it with my legs dangling. Meanwhile the students stared at me, for I was merely twenty, and looked about twelve. Book in hand, I began calling on the boys, much in the manner of my colleague, and asked them to define the assigned words. For a couple of minutes I continued the exercise, which, I realized quickly, was boring everyone, including me. Therefore in desperation I reverted to techniques I had developed at religious school, and after a timid answer from one student, challenged the next: “Do you agree with that definition?” “Yes.” “Are you sure?” “I think so.” My eyebrows rose in feigned disbelief. “But I sense doubt. And our only way of resolving the uncertainty is to solicit another opinion.” As I began to fire questions around the room, the company before me sat up straight and began to grin. Gradually I became more animated, almost like a vaudevillian comic peppering an audience with one-liners. I heard myself call for words to be used in sentences, for two words to be used in the same sentence, for students to quiz each other, and for ever more complicated routines and games. In the meantime, I maintained a cheerful patter: “Bravo! And if I claimed to be ‘abstemious,’ would I be more or less rigorous in my self-denial than if I was ‘ascetic’?” And to the next: “Jack, would you consider that definition ‘apt’ or unnecessarily ‘abstruse’? And if so, why? And if not, why not?” And later . . . “Bob, I see that we’re nearing the end of this portion of the entertainment. I presume that leaves you feeling acrimonious.” “No, sir,” with a smile. “What do you mean, ‘No, sir’? Are you implying that I have mischaracterized your mood?” “I don’t know, but you’re using the wrong word,” with a snicker.

6



Introduction

My face registered shock. “Am I to understand that you have the temerity to correct my usage?” “That’s what I’m doing.” By now, everyone was chuckling. “Allen, I see you find all this amusing. Then you must agree with Bob.” “He nailed you, sir!” “But ‘acrimonious’ means ‘pleased,’ doesn’t it?” “Not even close. It means ‘bitter.’” “Scott, he’s correcting me! Can you believe that?” “Yes, sir.” “And can you think of a word that would describe his boldness in doing so?” “How about ‘audacious’?” I continued in this manner for nearly half an hour, until everyone in the room was breathless. Our subject matter was hardly profound. Nevertheless, the class’s alertness and mastery of the words in question suggested that my approach had been effective. That during the next session their regular teacher tried to imitate my technique confirmed my presumptions. During the rest of the week I taught more vocabulary, some grammar (again with florid repartee), and a few short stories, including “Rip Van Winkle” by Washington Irving. While analyzing the latter, I directed the group to a close reading of the opening paragraphs, focusing on the evocative quality of Irving’s words. We talked about time, and how the story contrasts the permanence of nature with the transience of human life. For a few minutes we digressed by personifying Academy desks and buildings, imagining that they could recall the thousands of students who had passed through the school. That image struck the class into silence, but before long, hands waved and members contributed ideas of their own, speaking first to me, then to one another. What surprised me most was how easily my words flowed. I could not help remembering myself as a student: too nervous to raise my hand, stammering through oral presentations while struggling to breathe. Sitting on that desk, I spoke more passionately and imaginatively than I had during eight years of high school and college. Even better, nothing seemed to throw me. When I tripped over a conflagration of consonants, I simply laughed, waited for the students to laugh with me, and charged ahead. At the end of each session, most of the kids gave me a friendly farewell. When we passed on campus, they waved with a smile, and I waved back. Each day during my sojourn, I ate lunch and supper alone. And on and on . . . for nearly forty years.

C H A P T E R

O N E



My Friend Millard Fillmore

My initial experience in “learning” occurred not in the structured societies of nursery school and kindergarten, but in the casual atmosphere of home. There I was guided by the first teacher to influence my thoughts, feelings, and values: my brother, Steven. Readers should understand that Steve has always enjoyed talking, particularly from a Socratic perspective. As an elementary school student, he would have served as a stalwart member of Plato’s Academy. He delights in posing a question, hearing an answer, then proving it wrong. He relishes exposing inconsistencies in logic, or conclusions drawn incorrectly from premises. Little wonder, therefore, that he found his calling as a professor of philosophy. Steve was of this bent even with his tot of a brother. There I was, a satisfied two-year-old: lounging in my playpen, as yet unburdened by responsibility, and at peace with the world. Then in would amble Steve, all of eight, with his forehead wrinkled in contemplation. “Victor, I have an issue we need to discuss.” I had yet to reach any level of forensic sophistication. Yet he had a gentle way with him, so I smiled and nodded. He was not long satisfied, however, with a passive listener. His pleasure lay in give-and-take, and I had nothing to give. Thus I would have to be so provided. This need brought out the teacher in Steve, and I was a likely subject, for I clearly enjoyed his company. He decided that I would be his first student, and American history would be my major.

7

8



Chapter One

Before I could reflect on lessons of the past, however, I had to have knowledge about it. And how better to acquire that knowledge than through understanding the achievements of those involved? Such speculation led Steve directly to the presidents of the United States. He resolved that I would learn to recite all their names from memory. Since I was five and not yet an effective reader, we worked orally. Each day Steve would take me aside for fifteen or twenty minutes, drill a few names, then review. He would read, I would repeat. Eventually I would memorize. Then we rewarded ourselves by running outside and playing punchball. As the list of names grew, I found keeping all of them in my head a challenge. Yet they had to be kept in order, for aimless drifting never satisfied Steve. I offered no objection. For weeks we struggled. I must have been nearly six before I could whiz down the list, from Washington through then incumbent Eisenhower, in about thirty seconds. Meanwhile I acquired curious rhythms of recitation. I always said, and still do, when announcing the twenty-seventh president, “William Howard Taft.” Three names. Yet when announcing the nineteenth, I always said, and still do, “Rutherford B. Hayes.” No middle name. No “Birchard.” I said “Chester Alan Arthur,” but “Ulysses S. Grant.” I could discern no reason why, but that’s what I did. At last I had them all and stood prepared for declamation at any moment. At school, on the bus, any place, any time, especially before visitors at home, should the call go out for a list of the presidents, I piped up. In fact, I was the one who usually sent out the call: “Hey, I’ll bet nobody knows all the presidents.” Of course, if the demand was simply for a particular number, let’s say “the seventeenth,” I leaped in with “Andrew Johnson.” My only unsettling moments occurred when someone asked for the number of presidents in the twentieth century. In that case I was forced to ask, “Are you counting Grover Cleveland once or twice?” I then would explain that Cleveland was elected in 1884, served one term, and was succeeded by Benjamin Harrison, who also served one term. Cleveland was subsequently elected to a second term, which ended in 1897. Thus Cleveland was both the twenty-second and the twenty-fourth president, but he was just one man. Now imagine being a six-year-old of whom an adult demands, “Who was the thirtieth president of the United States?” Would you assume he meant the thirtieth elected, or the thirtieth to serve? Convention has it that Cleveland was both twentysecond and twenty-fourth, but I always felt uneasy, lest my inquisitor know the inside scoop. Hence my question: “Are you counting Grover Cleveland once or twice?” This qualifier tended to dull the excitement of the moment, since hardly anyone had heard of Grover Cleveland, nevermind the controversy

My Friend Millard Fillmore 

9

over whether he should be counted twice. Eventually I learned to skip my return inquiry and hope for the best, but I experienced panicky moments. Indeed, even as I remember them now, my palms are sweating. Yet once I had the names of the presidents under control, a void entered Steve’s life. What worlds were left? He took little time to conceive my next task: the vice presidents. And so we embarked once more, Steve reading and Victor memorizing. From here on, however, we stepped up the training schedule. No longer did we spend a mere twenty minutes a day. We were up to half an hour, even an hour, for at six I was in my prime. Soon names like Schuyler Colfax, Elbridge Gerry, William Rufus Devane King, and the immortal Hannibal Hamlin dominated our conversation. Meanwhile Steve conceived ways to drill me. At camp one summer, he used a password to let me know he was outside my bunk door: “Garret Hobart.” Who but me would know the name of Grover Cleveland’s second vice president? Who but me would care? Eventually I had all the vice presidents, matched with the presidents under whom they served. Our success was intoxicating. What next? Places of birth, as readers probably guessed. Eight presidents were born in Virginia, a fact that I assumed everyone knew. But how many people could identify the state that fostered the second highest number? I could, and proudly tossed off the seven born in Ohio: Grant, Hayes, Garfield, Harrison, McKinley, Taft, and Harding. And who, should anyone have wondered, was the first president born west of the Mississippi River? Herbert Hoover, in Iowa. And when? “I don’t know,” would have been my answer. “But give us another two weeks. Steve and I will have it.” Dates of birth were next, followed by dates of death, places of death, and places of burial. The numbers and facts became dizzying, and I was having trouble keeping everything in my head, so Steve shifted tactics. Names were my strong suit; thus we would work on more names. How about the presidential wives? Fine with me, Steve. Martha Dandridge Custis Washington. Abigail Smith Adams . . . Dorothea Payne Todd Madison . . . Rachel Robards Jackson . . . Down through my favorite, Lucretia Randoph, otherwise known as Mrs. James Garfield . . . To Mrs. Warren Harding, the ever popular Florence Kling De Wolfe . . . And who could forget Lou Henry, Mrs. Herbert Hoover? We were in a frenzy now. We had the wives. Now to the children. How many boys? How many girls?

10



Chapter One

Did you know that John Tyler was married twice, and fathered fifteen children? His first wife, whose maiden name was Letitia Christian, bore three boys and five girls. And his second wife, Julia Gardiner, had seven children, five boys and two girls. Do you care? Steve and I did. Again, though, I was drowning in numbers, so Steve switched back to names—the college every president attended. What? You didn’t know that Franklin Pierce graduated from Bowdoin? I learned their religions as well. Garfield, as readers are probably thrilled to learn, was the only member of the Disciples of Christ to attain the presidency. I wondered how people carried on without this knowledge. We took a long time to arrive at useful data. I was never sure to which political party each president belonged, nor the precise years of each administration. For some reason Steve judged these facts to be his territory. Therefore if someone who knew of my reputation inquired which years James Monroe was in office, I confessed without shame that I was unsure, since parties and terms were Steve’s responsibility. We thought of ourselves as a team, and as the body of information bloated, we were careful to divide it. Or so I assumed. Somehow Steve’s territory never exceeded terms, parties, and opposing candidates. He never failed to have the right answer, but then he never claimed to know very much. Rarely did we lift the pressure, and even riding in the car we worked. On Saturday mornings, as our mother drove us to Manhattan and our music lessons, Steve sat with me in the back, cramming names and dates. On the return trip we reviewed the morning’s work. When did we collapse under the sheer weight of information? I think the impossibility became apparent when Steve decided that my territory should include the names of all members of every presidential cabinet. The scheme was preposterous. Too many people had held the position of postmaster general, and at seven I was burned-out. Therefore we put away our books, and pursued less grandiose tasks. We spent hours of leisure playing chess, and car rides became strictly car rides, without the anxiety of mastering five dates by the time we reached the Triboro Bridge. Retirement was soothing. Our competition ended more than five decades ago. Yet scattered names and automatic responses remain. James Garfield? The twentieth president. The last born in a log cabin. A man who amused his friends by simultaneously writing Latin with one hand and Greek with the other. William Henry Harrison? The ninth president. At sixty-nine the oldest man to assume office (until Ronald Reagan). Refused to wear an overcoat at

My Friend Millard Fillmore 

11

his inauguration. Delivered the longest inaugural address ever. Caught pneumonia. Died one month later. Succeeded by John Tyler. Benjamin Harrison? The twenty-third president. The only grandson of a president to become president. Martin Van Buren? The eighth president. Known as “Red Fox of Kinderhook.” Rutherford B. Hayes? The nineteenth president. His wife refused to serve alcohol in the White House, thereby earning the sobriquet “Lemonade Lucy.” John Quincy Adams? The sixth president. After his term in office, he was elected to the House of Representatives, where he served with distinction. James Polk? The eleventh president. The first “dark-horse” candidate. Franklin Pierce? The fourteenth president. The unhappiest man who ever lived in the White House. Hated every minute of it. James Buchanan? The fifteenth president. The only bachelor president. His niece handled the social functions. William Howard Taft? The fattest president, who weighed over three hundred pounds. Later served as chief justice of the Supreme Court, a position he much preferred. And so on. But the list would be incomplete without mention of my friend Millard. To everyone else, he is the quintessential nonentity who embodies those thousands of lost figures in our country’s history. H. L. Mencken even celebrated Fillmore’s insignificance by writing that during his administration the first bathtub was installed in the White House, a comic proposal that has been passed on as truth. I, however, remember Fillmore differently. When I hear that name, I think, “There was the first president born in the nineteenth century—on January 7, 1800. The thirteenth man to hold the office, he succeeded to it on the death of Zachary Taylor, the general known as Ol’ Rough and Ready. Four years after Fillmore’s term, he was nominated by the Know-Nothing Party. Offered an honorary degree by Oxford University, he declined, explaining that he lacked a classical education, and that no one should accept a diploma he could not read. Later he led the Buffalo Historical Society. His wife, Abigail Powers Fillmore, started a presidential library.” This man mattered. Much of my other knowledge has faded with time. Yet the original list of presidents remains with me and probably will stay with me forever. I can still recite, robot-like, a roll call of esteemed and long-treasured pals, with but one quirk. Once I pass Dwight D. Eisenhower, I hesitate. That’s where our original list ended, so that’s where I stumble, never sure whether to include middle names or middle initials or what.

12



Chapter One

But if someday I should suffer amnesia, the best way to snap me back to reality would be to begin the list and set me off: George Washington John Adams Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe JohnQuincyAdamsAndrewJacksonMartinVanBurenWilliamHenry HarrisonJohnTylerJamesPolkZacharyTaylorMillardFillmoreFranklinPierceJamesBuchananAbrahamLincolnAndrewJohnsonUlyssesS. GrantRutherfordB.HayesJamesGarfieldChesterAlanArthurGrover ClevelandBenjaminHarrisonGroverClevelandWilliamMcKinley TheodoreRooseveltWilliamHowardTaftWoodrowWilsonWarrenHardingCalvinCoolidgeHerbertHooverFranklinD.RooseveltHarryS TrumanDwightD.Eisenhower . . . uhhh . . . John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson . . . Richard Nixon . . . ummm . . . Gerald Ford . . . Ronald, no—Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George Bush . . . Bill Clinton . . . George W. Bush . . . Barack Obama. I might suffer a relapse, but at least you’d be sure with whom you were dealing, because these men and the particulars of their lives are part of mine. My work with Steve influenced me in another, more significant way. I started with the presidents, but ever since, I’ve found joy in all information, no matter how small: from history to sports, literature to movies. And I never hesitate to share my passion with my students. In the midst of class, when a work under discussion hints at an historical or cultural reference, however oblique, I don’t mind interrupting the flow. One point of trivia usually leads to another, then another, and sometimes I wander totally afield. Yet surprisingly, or perhaps not, my students tell me that these diversions are some of the most entertaining exchanges of the semester. On the serious side, I also give midterm and final exams that demand detailed information from the texts, as well as identification of specific lines. English teachers rarely invoke such strategies, and a percentage of my college classes dismiss them as “high schoolish,” but I’m convinced that such close study not only promotes learning, but sharpens minds. Most of all, my early efforts left me with an appreciation for history. The phrase “You’re history” suggests derision for the past, the attitude that nothing that occurred before our own time is important. These days we are also barraged by reports about our young people’s paucity of historical knowledge. Many cannot place the Civil War within fifty years, and have no idea in

My Friend Millard Fillmore 

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what century the Great Depression occurred. Instead when they study history at all, they learn only pleasing slogans and vague generalizations. My experience, however, suggests that students find satisfaction in the authority of knowledge. When they can list names, dates, and places, or quote specific lines, when they have information at the ready, they’re as proud and happy as I was. (And still am. As readers probably can guess, I’m a threat at Trivial Pursuit.) When I return short-answer examinations with a plethora of As, I sense command in my students’ eyes. At such moments I think back to that little boy and his big brother, and their mutual delight in learning that James Madison was the shortest president (5’4”). By the way, Steve approves of my exams, especially after he peruses them to ensure that the questions are framed logically. Some things don’t change.

C H A P T E R

T W O



Four Strings, a Bow, and Reality

My excursion through the whirl of primary and secondary education was complemented by an auxiliary obligation: practicing the violin. In retrospect, this activity may have taught me more than all my classes combined. I didn’t ask to play, nor do I remember when I started. All I know is that I was given the instrument, apparently at the age of five. I was aware that music was a family tradition. My uncle Morton Baum, chairman of the New York City Opera and the New York City Ballet, was an outstanding pianist; my uncle Lester Baum was a first-rate violinist and a basso profundo; and my mother was a pianist and a soprano. My father did not play an instrument, but served as an enthusiastic audience. In addition, my brother played piano with proficiency, so I accepted my own responsibility without complaint. During my year in kindergarten, therefore, I arrived home from school, ate lunch, took a nap, and practiced for an hour. Initially, my mother worked with me by checking the accuracy of my notes against the piano. Simultaneously she counted to affirm correct rhythm, listened for clarity of tone, and, most important, urged me to master difficult passages by playing them slowly. She was a patient tutor, but I didn’t enjoy my labors, probably because the violin is so demanding. True, all instruments are difficult to play well, but the violin is hard to play even badly. Many a competent player can sometimes create unbearable screeching, while a novice does so with excruciating consistency. The problems involved are numerous. First, the fingers of the left hand must move briskly along a fingerboard unmarked by frets, as are found on a guitar. Thus each digit must be trained to fall by reflex on exactly the

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Chapter Two

right pitch, sometimes at the rate of a dozen or more notes per second. If placement is a centimeter high or low, the faulty intonation creates agony for both player and listeners. Meanwhile the right arm pulls the bow across strings, alternating among countless speeds and pressures. Finally, all this action must be coordinated to form a musical unit. In sum, the enterprise is complex. The violin also interfered with my two primary sources of amusement: playing ball and watching westerns on television. My mother was insistent, however, and usually cajoled me into “putting in my time.” During one span, she allowed me to practice while I wore my holstered cowboy guns, accoutrements that brought an undeniable ruggedness to the venture. My musical exertions led me to recordings by great violinists performing, among other works, concertos by Mendelssohn, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, and Brahms. (A “concerto” is a composition for solo instrument with orchestral accompaniment.) I also listened to tapes of my own playing, and at such moments I was horrified by my false notes and squeaks. How dare I call myself a “violinist”? How could I reconcile such scratchings with the glorious sounds produced by Heifetz, Menuhin, and other masters? No problem at all. I simply rationalized that I was a beginner who could not be expected to perform like a world-class artist, an excuse that sufficed as long as I ignored one fact: that when those great violinists were my age, they were already concert performers. Consequently I both resented practicing and recognized that I created unbearable noises. Yet I kept playing. Why? Certainly I respected the urging of my family, but that alone wouldn’t have been sufficient. No, I had one more motivation: I enjoyed performing. Whether I played in front of classes at school or before a single guest at home, I embraced the unnerving challenge of an audience, often with my brother as accompanist. Even during my first summer at camp, when I had been playing for less than a year, I stood before the entire group and sawed out a tune. I would have played more, but other acts were waiting. My brief recitals helped me discover the correlation between quality of practice and quality of performance. An old saying among musicians has been attributed to, among others, the great pianist Artur Rubinstein: “When I don’t practice for one day, I can tell. When I don’t practice for two days, other pianists can tell. When I don’t practice for three days, everybody can tell.” Rubinstein was being modest, but when a seven-year-old violinist missed a single turn, the world could tell. A couple of woeful performances taught me how easily I could embarrass myself, so I was trapped. My daily hour at the music stand was intrusive, but I relished every minute before an audience. Had I ever announced that I was

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relinquishing both practicing and performing, I doubt that my parents would have objected. Indeed, once when I was in a nonpracticing mood, my mother offered to let me resign from the family music department. In response, I summoned my newly developed skills at printing, and composed a terse, if ungrammatical, reply that I deposited on her pillow: “Don’t make no deals with the violin.” Thereafter I resumed my regimen, and never broached the subject of quitting again. The relation between preparation and performance was a lesson I learned over the years, but it had a corollary. Learning to play a piece was one task; learning to perform it was another, for under the tension of public exposure, even studied works could go awry. My fingers might tighten or sweat, while my bow could quiver uncontrollably. Only after performing a piece several times could I play it with confidence. Unjustified confidence, of course, but confidence all the same. I also learned to adhere to my mother’s firmest dictum about performance: a good musician plays from memory. Playing with the notes in front of me suggested that I was “insecure,” and therefore the entire effort was worthless. As a result, I have never performed a solo with the sheet music, and I never shall. When my mother and I saw a musician relying on that crutch, we exchanged silent glances. No comment was necessary, because the same word crossed both our minds: “insecure.” Perhaps most important, my diet of practicing and performing provided order outside school. None of my friends lived under such a unifying force, so they seemed disorganized. As for me, whether school was in or out of session, each day had a purpose. Not every young person should play music, but all children need structure, perhaps an hour a day to read or pursue some other useful activity. I don’t mean that anyone should be denied time for fun, but those early years are when we are most receptive to acquiring skills that will serve us throughout our lives. To waste such opportunity borders on the criminal. Even my classroom work today reflects my musical training. When, for example, I give students a short-answer exam, some do far worse than they expected. “But I studied!” they protest. At such moments I nod sympathetically, then inquire whether they were secure with the material. Or had they crammed and panicked under pressure? The same principle applies to me as a teacher. The first time I present a play or book, I’m unsure how to cover the text. What questions will stimulate discussion? What questions will stifle it? What points are essential? Which are extraneous? Only after several presentations of a work do I resolve these matters, and only then do I feel vaguely “secure.”

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My most valuable lessons with the violin came during my teenage years. I was still studying student concertos, but I as yet nurtured the outlandish dream that I would be a singularly late bloomer who would one day take the musical world by storm. What allowed me to maintain this fantasy was that I had not met any gifted violinists my own age. Reality knocked me for a loop, however, when I attended the High School of Music and Art and Juilliard Prep, both in New York City, as well as two summer institutes, Kneisel Hall in Blue Hill, Maine, and the Meadowmount School in Elizabethtown, New York. The first two are gathering spots for young musicians of every ilk, while the latter two are meccas for string players, particularly violinists, and many of the most gifted young artists in the world have studied at one or more of these places. Let me repeat that phrase: “many of the most gifted young artists in the world.” I was there, too. I’m not sure I can communicate the impact of these institutions on me, but I was simply overwhelmed. At last I saw and heard young violinists who not only played concertos by Mendelssohn, Tchaikovsky, and Paganini, but who had also performed these works with world-class orchestras, and the obvious chasm between my hacking and the artistry around me was vast. For years I had convinced myself that I had been doing decently. Now I felt as if I were gazing into another musical universe. All my life I had been told that I had talent, and I suppose I had some. During this part of my life, however, I learned the difference between talent and talent. At Meadowmount, in particular, I felt the hopelessness of my ambitions. That summer I was nineteen, a college senior, and one of the older residents. The schedule included several concerts per week, during which one prodigy after another dazzled the crowd. Meanwhile these performances slammed into me like a series of body blows. Small wonder, then, that most students there became professional musicians: some as soloists, others in string quartets, the rest as members of the world’s leading orchestras. I don’t want to suggest that these players followed an easy path. To the contrary, the pressure they felt was more intense than any I have known, for they practiced and performed with the knowledge that one slip of a finger at the wrong competition or concert could sabotage a career, while a single opportunity lost or gained might mean the difference between eminence and anonymity. In many respects, my mediocrity was easier to bear.

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Nonetheless, humiliation came daily. During the four hours set aside every morning for practice, I struggled to make my fingers respond in pieces that had frustrated me for months. At night I would hear a boy or girl of fourteen toss off the same music after having opened the pages a week earlier. With no other recourse, I started to write plays. The word that best characterizes my reaction that summer was one I’ve already used: “humiliation.” But I also learned “appreciation.” If I categorize myself as the least gifted member of the Meadowmount community, I am not being unduly self-effacing. I lived amid 150 or so of the most brilliant musicians in the world, so being number 150 wasn’t bad. In fact, at someplace else I might have been one of the best. But these 150 worked unbelievably hard. To be sure, they indulged in typical teenage indiscretions, but each day they also put in five or six hours of concentrated effort. This awareness remains within me today. I know, for instance, that teachers are vulnerable to flights of ego, for as we parade our knowledge and authority, many of us, especially those entitled to use the title “professor,” may think we’re special. I’m less vulnerable to such self-deception. I’ve seen talent bordering on genius, and I’ve seen it up close, so whenever I verge on becoming too impressed with myself, all I have to do is glance at my violin, and I become appropriately meek. My mother had a saying she invoked to characterize anyone’s professional status: “To me you’re a captain, and to you you’re a captain. But to other captains, are you a captain?” Readers who substitute “violinist” for “captain” can answer that question about me for themselves. My adventures with the violin also gave me insight into teaching. Over fifteen years, I studied with several instructors, not including my mother, who was more of a practice partner. Some were men, others women. Some were young, others old. I met most of them once a week at their homes. One visited my house. One taught in a school music studio. All were competent violinists, all understood the instrument, and all tried their best. But under most I simply continued to play. Under two, though, I thrived. The first was Raphael Bronstein, who was in his seventies when I began to study with him. I was fifteen and still relegated to works by third-rate violinist-composers such as Beriot and Rode, whose creations were instrumental castor oil: wholesome, but bitter, especially for someone aching to play the masterpieces. Bronstein gave me that chance, and with him I studied concertos by Bruch, Lalo, Wieniawski, Tchaikovsky, Sibelius, Paganini,

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Prokofieff, and Brahms. Even readers who do not know the specific pieces will recognize some of those names. I understood that I wasn’t nearly skilled enough to master these works, but the opportunity to play them infused in me a zest to practice that increased my technical facility and brightened my musical outlook. Mr. Bronstein also taught me that a teacher has at least two responsibilities: to guide a student to learn, and to inspire that student to want to learn more. Under his tutelage, I practiced for two or three hours a day, and found a joy in playing when for years I had known only frustration. Nonetheless, he did not make one vital demand: that I strive for perfection. That goal was implanted by my next and final teacher, Ivan Galamian. He was the most celebrated violin pedagogue in the world, and his students included Itzhak Perlman, Pinchas Zukerman, Michael Rabin, and hundreds of other professionals. Through circumstances too convoluted to relate, I had the opportunity to audition for him, and he agreed to give me an hour-long lesson every other Sunday at 8 a.m. I never minded the early hour, for the schedule seemed to give me an extra day each week. I went to sleep Saturday night, awoke early Sunday morning, traveled to his apartment, took my lesson, came home, went back to sleep, awoke an hour or two later, and resumed my Sunday. These two teachers had entirely different approaches. Mr. Bronstein was a convivial man, overflowing with commentary about music, current events, and existence itself. How the war in Viet Nam related to the Sonatas and Partitas of Bach was never clear to me, but Mr. Bronstein regularly affirmed that thesis. He also regaled me with stories of musicians he knew personally, and if our time ran over, he never seemed to notice or care. Mr. Galamian, on the other hand, barely said hello to me. I might have taken his attitude personally, but when on occasion I was followed by some of his most eminent students, they received the same impersonal greeting and an order to start playing. If Mr. Galamian cared about my life apart from the violin, he never said so. Our lessons also began and ended precisely on time. Whatever and however I played for Mr. Bronstein, he tried to encourage me. He didn’t idly flatter, but he always tried to find something positive to say, then suggest ways for improvement. Mr. Galamian hardly ever offered a word of praise. When I finished a section, “Okay, next” was his way of saying I had done my best. Let me emphasize that point: my best. Extraordinary violinists from all over the globe studied with Mr. Galamian, and we both knew that I was not in their league. We also knew that I never would be. But he tried to ensure that I played as well as I could, so he forced me to stay with the same pieces,

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some of which I had studied with Mr. Bronstein, until I had achieved whatever control I could muster. He also insisted that I memorize everything. I’ll let readers imagine my mother’s pleasure when she learned of that directive. Finally, Mr. Galamian did not permit me any illusions. After one lesson, he acknowledged that I could at last graduate from a Mozart concerto, and something in his voice suggested that he was actually impressed. Thus I asked whether he would recommend me for a violin competition in which that concerto would serve. He said nothing, but just looked at me with his sad eyes and a sadder smile, and immediately I knew what he was tempted to say: “You must be kidding.” All he did, however, was shake his head and utter a simple “No.” The message, however, was unmistakable. Mr. Galamian was the founder and director of Meadowmount, the summer institute for strings I mentioned earlier. As I also mentioned, among those whizbang violinists, I didn’t measure up, so my devotion to practicing waned. At the end of eight weeks, Mr. Galamian expressed his disappointment by suggesting (make that declaring) that although he would keep me as a student, I would be entitled to only one lesson per month. My spirit was crushed, and at home I resolved to change his mind. In desperation I turned to a work that I had studied with Mr. Bronstein, Maurice Ravel’s Tzigane, a fiery dazzler that violinists often play to conclude recitals. Tzigane frustrates certain great artists, but for some reason I could handle it. Other reputedly easier pieces have always been beyond me, but back then Tzigane lay comfortably under my fingers, and I communicated its Gypsy spirit with flair. Therefore at our first meeting of the fall, I appeared in my customary 8:00 a.m. slot and took out the music. Mr. Galamian appeared dubious, but said nothing. I didn’t even glance at the notes, but simply tore into the opening lines. Suddenly I heard his voice: “Start again.” When I looked over, I saw that his eyes were wide with surprise. For the next hour, we worked painstakingly through the piece, as he corrected my bowings, adjusted my fingering, and suggested subtleties of interpretation. At 9:00 we finished. I looked at him with a hint of pride, for I knew he had not expected such an effort. Then he grinned. “Let’s make it every two weeks.” I uttered an audible cheer. Mr. Galamian almost laughed, then sent me on my way. That moment may have been the most rewarding of my violinistic career. My last lesson took place nearly forty years ago, but the influence of both Mr. Bronstein and Mr. Galamian remains with me. I try to give my students a passion for our subject, and if I occasionally detour along some byway, well,

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most amusing distractions never hurt. Yet I also hope I maintain high standards, along with the capacity to regard each student as an individual struggling to meet those standards. What about me and the violin? I still practice regularly. True, at times other duties take precedence, and the instrument lies quiet in its case, but nonetheless I try to fit in a few scales each day. Moreover, wherever I have taught, one bonus of having me on the faculty (or one penalty, depending on the perspective) has been listening to me play, although I had to learn to stay prepared. When I assumed my first position out of college, the head of the music department, knowing of my training, called to ask if I wanted to perform a solo at the next chapel service. Enveloped in a new environment, I had not stayed in violinistic shape, so I declined, but as soon as I hung up the phone, I berated myself: “What is wrong with you?” I may even have said the words out loud. After all those years, how could I refuse to play a few moments of Bach? I called back, offered to play, found time for some hours of practice, and performed on Sunday morning. I must have done decently, for I heard warm words from many members of the congregation, and a few weeks later I was invited to play again. This time I was ready. During my years at Skidmore I’ve performed a few concertos with the college orchestra, and with my brother I’ve presented several recitals on campus, where I also offered a recital-lecture devoted to the Unaccompanied Sonatas and Partitas of Bach. I can’t help listening to the tapes of these presentations, and no reader should be surprised to learn that sometimes I cringe in embarrassment. Every once in a while, though, I hear a passage that sounds almost as if it had been played by a real violinist, and at such moments my gratification is immeasurable. Furthermore, at the end of every one of my courses, I present Culture Day, which begins with my playing fifteen minutes or so of solo Bach. I’ll write more about those occasions elsewhere. I’m not sure why I maintain this dedication. Obviously I enjoy center stage, but a more important reason might be that my violin has become a special friend who’s tagged along everywhere I’ve been. As I have moved to each new school, and into every new apartment and house, the violin is always the last article I put in my car, and the first I unpack. It’s one of the fixtures in my life. I have yet another reason. Whenever I listen to great music, I feel in touch with some of the noblest creations of the human mind. Indeed, no matter how mundane my daily grind may temporarily be, music lifts me to another glorious realm.

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Most important, whatever my deficiencies as a player, I enjoy creating music, so I’m sure that I shall continue to play for the rest of my days. I also enjoy trying to improve. I know that I’ll never achieve mastery, but impossibility is not a lure (I save my existential angst for golf), nor is it a deterrent. Rather my small steps of progress confirm that as long as I keep working, reward will come. In fact, every so often, after I’ve practiced with particular intensity for a few days, I have a moment of epiphany, when the fingers of my left hand fly across the strings, and my right hand draws the bow with such smoothness that my tone glows. The moment never lasts, of course. How could it? I inevitably slip back, as my fingers plod and my bow squeaks, and all is right with the world. Yet I play on. I like to think that if Mr. Bronstein and Mr. Galamian, now long gone, knew of my efforts, they’d be glad that their handiwork was not for naught. I know my mother was pleased.

C H A P T E R

T H R E E



The Universe and Dr. Cahn

Teachers are often reluctant to acknowledge missteps, so when members of our classes flounder, many of us react with astonishment. How could anyone fail to fulfill our perfectly clear directives? We prefer not to confess that during our own student days we occasionally skipped an assignment or botched an exam. As ballast, then, I offer the following narrative. I also hope that it reminds readers how, as we wend our way along the intricate road of life, one detour need not be fatal. The original version of this essay appeared in the Phillips Exeter Academy magazine, where the author’s credits included not only my position at the school, but all my degrees. “Otherwise,” said the editor, “people will wonder what kind of faculty we’re appointing.”

 When I was fourteen and a sophomore in high school, I one day found myself in Brentano’s bookstore in New York City, holding a work entitled The Universe and Dr. Einstein by Lincoln Barnett. The volume was slim, so I was immediately attracted by it, as I am by all slim volumes. I sense a crystalline perfection in a book that says all in a few pages. Slim volumes have a magic about them, a purity that tingles. Fat volumes may have dignity, majesty, and weight, but rarely do they tingle.

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The title as well appealed to me. True, my knowledge of physics was nil, but Einstein’s name was alluring, and this cover claimed to guard the essence of his theory of relativity, as well as an array of other abstruse matters. I sensed power at my fingertips. If by chance I could digest this book, if I could grasp its pith, I would have much of twentieth-century science at my command. I would have Einstein and his grand vision in my intellectual hip pocket, as it were. And I could reveal him at choice moments, to leave both students and teachers agape with wonder. The purchase was completed, and I went home a-tingling. That evening, with a little trepidation, I began to read. I should not be considered boastful to report that over the next few nights I did complete the work, and even understood certain parts, now, of course, long forgotten. But for a fleeting moment I believe I actually had some sense of what relativity was all about. The book was that good. At the time, however, I was impressed with myself. So impressed, in fact, that I imagined I had found my calling. My world was physics. Forget those struggles through general science and biology. Forget the travails of plane geometry. I was meant for bigger things. Relativity. The world. The universe! I envisioned the grand scheme, the great continuum of existence. When I glanced at my assignments in English and history, I shook my head. The piddling academic grind was no longer for me. My realm was the heavens. Not long after this revelation, I came across a summer school catalog from Phillips Academy in Andover, the other eminent preparatory school bearing the Phillips name. Glancing through, I reached the science offerings and a course called “Basic Concepts of Physics.” Physics. My world. My thing. Yet would the challenge be sufficient? “Basic Concepts” had a juvenile tone to it, and I was not interested in mere basics, for I was already involved in relativity. But I relented, for surely I could pick up a few pointers even in this elementary course. Admittedly, I had never studied physics, except on my own, so perhaps I could use a brushup. I reasoned further that so short a course would not intrude on my own projects. In other words, the six weeks would be well spent, if a mite boring. I applied to the program (then all-male), was naturally accepted, and sat back in anticipation. Would I major in physics in college? That was the best place to start, where facilities and professors waited at the ready. Everyone started there. I would, too. Then on to graduate school, for a master’s degree and a doctorate. Yet I would not allow myself to be weighed down by academic rigmarole. No, I

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would also use the time to develop a network of colleagues, to learn professional ins and outs. And I would have opportunities, for my work would not demand twenty-four hours a day. I would have to take a break. Hobbies, for instance. Maybe I’d learn to plant a garden, to be at one with nature in yet another way. That seemed a particularly scientific thing to do, something physical, even relative. Perhaps I could sow carrots and string beans. Then when reporters came to interview me, I would offer them a salad grown right in my own backyard. How humble I would be. How charming for a great mind to occupy itself with the modest aspects of life. With my doctorate I would teach, perhaps at Harvard, perhaps at somewhere rural. Yet I also relished picturesque settings, so Cal Tech was a possibility. I knew I was jumping the gun, for I’d have to consider carefully specific offers, but options would be myriad. I would profit as well by continuing to study the violin. Einstein had created a healthy image for himself, although I did not want to be judged a crass imitator. But music and physics seemed to complement each other so neatly: the cold scientific domain of physics and the warm emotionalism of music. Not to mention my garden (with the home-grown salads). The press would eat it up. Ha-ha. Eventually my success would be renowned worldwide, and my workplace would become a shrine. Like Edison’s, it would be known as the home of “The Wizard of . . . Something Rural.” How else would they honor me? A nickname was a start, but even minor figures had nicknames. No doubt a university laboratory would be named after me, perhaps a building or two on the campus where I’d work and where the library would store my papers. But I didn’t intend to be strictly a local celebrity. No, I’d also be the recipient of a list of awards presented by a grateful nation and world. Certainly a Nobel Prize was in the offing. I had to receive my Nobel Prize. Every famous physicist I knew had one. Then I conceived a surer sign of immortality. Someone would name a unit of measurement after me: a “cahn.” A cahn. What a lovely sound. Four watts, three volts, two amps, and a cahn. What would a cahn measure? Something to do with physics, of course. Something very relative, perhaps with atoms. The distance across the span of a proton. A cahn. I envisioned physics instructors of the future demanding of their students: “I’d like that answer in cahns, please. Answers strictly in cahns.” Perhaps my colleagues in the lab would also bestow a personal gift. When they created a new element, they would name it after me: “cahnium.” That

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tribute would especially please me, because it came from my friends, the men and women with whom I had worked the closest. Finally I’d receive the greatest accolade of all. I might not live to see it, but little matter. Physics would henceforth be divided into two eras: B.C. and A.C. Before Cahn and after. I was satisfied. The world would long remember me, as well it should. At last school registration day arrived, and when I entered the administration building to receive my schedule and dormitory key, I reflected that one day biographers would retrace these very steps. Early that evening I wandered about the campus, until I came to Evans Hall, the science building. I had heard that it was impressive, and indeed it was. Of course, it had been completed only a year or two before. They had known I was coming. To my surprise, a door was open, and I toured the hallways, guided by the soft glow of twilight. The labs were attractive and spotless, and all the equipment I would need for my work was available. Here was a proper place for the great adventure to begin. Nothing would hold me back. That night in the dormitory, as I became acquainted with other residents, I was properly diffident. When asked which course I had elected, I replied simply, “Physics.” Just like that. No fanfare, no grandiose statements. Antagonizing my listeners would do no good. Humble, ever humble, was my byword. Let them discover my presence later on, then revel in the brilliance. Quality need not advertise. Before classes began, my chief responsibility was to obtain textbooks. For physics I was required to buy College Physics and a slide rule. College Physics sounded satisfactory, for at least I would not have to endure some petty high school course. The slide rule would help, of course, although I had never handled one before. (During the early 1960s, the time of this tale, calculators had yet to be available.) But after a couple of minutes’ attention, I would have no difficulty. After all, it was an important tool. I couldn’t spend my scientific life drowning in long division. Or did people in labs specialize in that sort of work? I would investigate. At last Monday morning arrived. The dawn broke, and with it a bright ray of sunshine glittered upon me. The moment was here. I dressed calmly. My image would suffer if I rushed headlong, the characteristically befogged scientist. Instead, an easy manner would do much more toward cultivating the proper demeanor. I sought to dispel the stereotype of the absent-minded professor. Brilliance and sloppiness were not necessarily

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intertwined, and a measure of style was perfectly compatible with genius. Even in my garden I would not look grubby. I would wear slacks and a sports shirt, so that no bony knees would protrude. A tie might be a bit much. With dignity I made my way across campus. How would my biographer describe the moment? “Across the green plushness he strode, onward to immortality.” A bit purplish, but a writer was entitled to license. In the movie, organ music would swell in the background. A choir? No, too early in the plot. That would come later. With the awarding of the Medal of Freedom? Much, much better. At last I reached Evans Hall, where my career would begin. I opened the door, and let it close gently behind me. My footsteps echoed down the corridor. Perhaps in the movie the camera would pan upward for a cathedral effect, to hint that a divine order permeates the universe. Subtle, but keener critics would grasp it. After a left turn, I opened a door that revealed the custodial closet. But with scarcely a breath, I reversed myself, took another hallway, and eventually came upon the classroom: Number 12. I paused outside. I felt no need to hurry. I checked my textbook, my slide rule, and the spiral notebook I had purchased. One day it would probably be encased in a library display. All was in order. I entered. By now twelve boys sat silently at their desks. No one looked at me. With what I fear was a hint of arrogance, I strutted to my seat. Perhaps “strutted” is too strong. “Swaggered”? No. I was not as pompous as that, either. “Sauntered”? No, not even that. My biographer would have it right. I “strode.” I took my seat at the back. I wanted perspective on events. Scientific detachment. I looked at the students. Here I might have said, “the other students.” Yet clearly I was not one of them. I was a world unto myself, following my own program, my own “schedule with destiny,” as my biographer would note. As I perused them, a few chatted quietly. Did they know? Did they intuit my presence? Did they sense the grandeur about them? Poor souls. I supposed they didn’t. But I didn’t blame them. One day they would tell stories to their children and, if they were lucky, to their colleagues and students. “I was with him at the beginning,” they would say. “And we could always tell. He had an air about him. The rest of us were apprehensive, but he stayed calm. It’s as though he always knew the answer. Even then we could tell that he was great.” No one was watching me. I took out my pencil. The newly sharpened point had broken off in my pocket, so I took out my spare. I was ready for action.

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The teacher arrived: a tall, balding man with an air of command. He would keep the others up to snuff. I would not be dragged down. He called the roll, and my name was third. When it rang out, no one stirred, but surely those echoes I heard were not illusory. The building resounded with my presence. After the roster was completed, the instructor offered a few instructions about how the course would proceed. I barely listened, for I was pondering relativity. I could not worry about the schedule of quizzes. With routine matters dispensed, the instructor indicated that first we would learn to use the slide rule. I concurred. The process would be annoying, but science could not be all glamour. Above the blackboard was a giant demonstration model. “Let’s try something simple,” he suggested. I agreed once more. After all, the other kids deserved a chance. “Three times two. Focus the middle slat here on two. Slide the plastic cover over. There’s your result. Six. Everybody clear? Good. Let’s go on.” I hadn’t quite managed to focus my middle slat. “Let’s try another. Six point seven times twenty-two. Slide this over, focus, measure up. Everybody have it?” Three times two . . . “Now let’s try something more challenging. Point oh-seven times eight to the seventh power. Focus here. Slide this slat over here. And don’t forget to align properly. Everybody okay?” Three times two equals . . . seventy-four . . . “Good enough. Let’s get going. The first subject of the term will be motion. Force and velocity. The essential stuff of physics.” Three times two equals . . . I put away the slide rule. They must have people in labs to do that kind of work. I was meant for bigger things. The previous evening I had resolved to take notes in one book, then recopy them neatly in another. That way each night I could simultaneously synthesize the day’s work and systematize my knowledge. Very scientific. Moreover, my biographer would have sufficient material to follow my development. The class moved swiftly. I confessed inwardly that I did not understand precisely what was happening, but I consoled myself that when I regrouped that night, all would be under control. Even Einstein tended to learn slowly, as everyone knew. At eight o’clock, I sat down at my dormitory room desk to solve the seven problems assigned for the following day. Before embarking on those, however, I prepared to recopy the day’s notes and therefore opened my spiral.

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All I saw was a maze of letters, numbers, and arrows. Initially I imagined that for some reason I had kept writing my own name, but eventually I realized that the word I found six times was not “victor,” but “vector.” Later I found several instances each of “force,” “velocity,” and “distance.” At one o’clock I found a “time.” As I went to bed, a quiver of panic worked through my stomach. My only hope was that no one had been able to solve any of the problems, that our instructor had overestimated the abilities of his students. The weakest in the group had completed only five. After class, I walked up to the teacher and explained that the solutions to the previous night’s problems had not been completely clear. He moved to the board and talked for a few minutes. He drew some arrows, and he said “vector,” “force,” “distance,” “velocity,” and “time.” I nodded and left the room. The next day we held our first lab, in which we were expected to study blocks of wood moving up and down inclined planes. Again, “vector,” “force,” and “velocity.” Someone added “weight.” The instructions were clear: “Turn in a report tomorrow.” It was to be accompanied by a graph that showed how heavy the blocks became, or didn’t become, as they went somewhere at some speed that might change if the blocks were heavier than the angle of the wood. Or something like that. My blocks didn’t go anywhere. Everyone else’s graph was a gentle hill, sloping up, then down. Mine was rather like a corkscrew. The first examination came on Friday. I wrote “distance” twice, then “velocity,” “force,” and “time.” I drew some arrows, and I wrote some numbers. At the last minute, after I wrote my name on the answer sheet, I remembered to write “vector.” I earned a seven. Out of a hundred. It was a gift seven. On Saturday morning I transferred into French. It was not much fun, as everyone spoke another language. Nevertheless, I understood more than I had in physics. Perhaps I had aimed too high. People do so, of course. My talents lay elsewhere. Occasionally one must accept one’s limitations. “I’d like this answer in cahns, please. Strictly in cahns.” That still has a wonderful ring.

C H A P T E R

F O U R



Formidable Figures at the Front Desk

After the last chapter, readers may wonder how I ever survived high school. Well, I wasn’t always a scholastic disaster. My negotiations through grades one through twelve included attendance at three institutions, not counting extra tours of duty during the summer, and in 1965 I graduated from Columbia Grammar School (now Columbia Prep) in New York City, where I periodically found my name on the honor roll. I attribute this moderate success to my affection for reading, a sharp memory developed in my early years, a facility for writing, and a general sense of responsibility. I did what I was told. Yet I should have done better. My main problem was a predilection for pursuing activities other than those assigned. When, for instance, I attended summer school to study French, I read a cargo of English novels. When during another July and August I signed up for chemistry, I practiced violin several hours a day. And as I related earlier, when I was supposed to devote myself to music, I wrote plays. Perhaps an incipient rebel lurked within me. Probably not. Still, I looked as if I were on the ball. My glasses certainly contributed to my scholarly demeanor, as did my quiet nature, so both peers and teachers probably assumed I was in deep cogitation. To the contrary, I was an inveterate dreamer, forever gazing blankly or doodling in my notebook, and such absentmindedness left me vulnerable. In one high school English class, for example, the group was discussing a story or poem (something literary), when I drifted away, recalled an amusing story, and snickered to myself.

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“Victor Cahn,” crackled an adult female voice. “If you can’t say anything useful, please don’t laugh at those who are trying.” I didn’t bother to explain that I wasn’t listening. My teachers were not to blame for my irregular habits, which I developed all by myself. Nevertheless, from grade school through high school, many of these folks did matter to me, and a few made such a profound impression that I have borne their lessons ever since. I am referring to both the material they taught as well as they manner in which they presented it. And themselves. First I must acknowledge Rebecca Sheard, my third-grade teacher at Woodmere Academy. When I joined her company in 1956, she was already a thirty-five-year veteran, and she would live to be a hundred years old. Until her class, I received mostly As in the dozen or so categories in which my classmates and I were evaluated, but Miss Sheard’s first report card on me included a mere three such high grades. I need not elaborate on the shock to my system, but her high standards inspired me to study, and eventually she awarded me six or seven As per semester. Miss Sheard also invoked a series of teaching tools like arithmetic baseball (you had to be there), which taught me that a classroom was a place that welcomed energy and imagination. Had she been born fifty years later than she was, she might still have found a career in education, but I envision her lecturing before a college class of five hundred, then visiting the dean and delineating his inadequacies. Next I salute Maxwell Kern, with whom I studied French in fifth grade, also at Woodmere Academy. He was a dapper man, who in my memory always wore a bow tie. More important, he exuded a style of wordplay that will stay with me forever. When the group’s test results were disappointing, he announced that we “had achieved a new high for low.” His meaning wasn’t clear, but the phrase sounded wonderful, and also eliminated any pain we might have felt. When one student claimed to have “looked over” an assignment, Mr. Kern inquired, “Did you ‘look over’ it, or ‘overlook’ it?” Anyone who gave a strong answer was congratulated on having “joined the intelligentsia,” while when a proverbially weak student showed a flash of brilliance, Mr. Kern exclaimed that he was inspired to rush home and record the event in “Dear Diary.” My favorite expression was applied when one of us tilted our chairs back from our desks: “All six legs on the floor.” By the time we had figured out how many legs were involved, we were sitting straight. None of these remarks would pass for wit on the Shavian level, but I loved his turns of phrase and his classroom theatricality. In his presence nothing seemed routine, and we were never bored. Indeed, even as I write his words, I’m smiling at the style he brought to teaching. He was a natural performer

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whose stage happened to be the classroom. And when I began to teach . . . well, I’ll come to that subject later. By the way, Mr. Kern also inculcated in me French vocabulary and phrases that I have never forgotten. In seventh and eighth grades at Columbia Grammar, I studied with three important influences. One was Dr. Jane Carney, who appeared to be a stereotypical schoolmarm from the nineteenth century. She was at the end of what must have been a long, long career, and we thought her to be ancient. Yet she was relentlessly organized, and in her classes I knew exactly where I stood. She maintained our records on a pack of five-by-eight cards, and regularly invited us to her desk to review how we stood academically. She also made precisely clear which assignments were due and when. Compositions were always submitted on Mondays, when class meetings were devoted to vocabulary. On Tuesdays, we took vocabulary and grammar exams, while on Wednesdays through Fridays we studied literature and grammar. Speaking of grammar, I learned virtually all of it from Dr. Carney’s instruction in diagramming sentences. That art is lost now, but I don’t know a better way to master English usage and syntax. These days, as I try to explain predicate nominatives and subordinate clauses to my own classes, I remember her with gratitude. I wish I could claim that I recognized back then how skilled she was, but I wasn’t remotely perceptive enough. I also remember that although she seemed incurably straitlaced, she occasionally showed a different side, as during the 1960 World Series between the Yankees and the Pirates. At that time, all games were played at a civilized hour in the afternoon, so fans with jobs who wanted to follow the action had two alternatives: either to stand outside television stores and huddle around sets in the window, or to bring a radio to their place of employment. Our employment was school, and therefore some students always smuggled in a pocket device and surreptitiously spread word of the score. On the day of the seventh and last game, the whole school, indeed, the entire city was caught up in the competition, and schoolwork seemed irrelevant. When eighth period began, the game had reached the middle innings, but just then Dr. Carney entered the room. Our spirits naturally dropped, for we were certain that she would demand that our attention be turned to schoolwork. “Who has the radio?” she demanded, and immediately our fears were confirmed. But when one boy sheepishly raised his hand, Dr. Carney revealed that she had another plan. “Okay. Now put it away for fifteen minutes so we can finish what we have to do. Then we’ll listen together.”

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The class was stunned, but for those fifteen minutes we worked as hard as we could. Then, as she promised, she put down the chalk. “Thank you. Now turn up that radio. And the Yankees had better be winning.” We almost cheered, and thereafter I never regarded her in the same way. Formal, but with a touch of humanity: not a bad model for a teacher. During those same two years, Mr. Sol Mishkin taught me one profound lesson. Under his guidance I studied geography, then American history, and an essential part of both courses was filling in maps and other such projects. After completing these assignments with the requisite information, but receiving no more than Bs, I wondered how to improve my grade. Then I noticed that other students who had received higher marks had provided the same information, only more elaborately, so for the next project I worked with colored pencils. This time my map earned an A–. Then I put glitter around the sides, and I moved up to A. Finally, I constructed a frame for the project, and received an A+. Were my efforts the nonsensical consequence of grade-grubbing? Not at all. The extra hours I devoted might have resulted in mere decoration, but all the while I was rereading my work, contemplating it, and absorbing it. Mr. Mishkin helped me become engaged in the subject, and I became eager to submit as impressive a creation as I could. Later in this book, I’ll mention an assignment I give my college students that reflects his influence. Finally I must mention my Latin teacher, also in eighth grade: Mr. John Millones. He ordinarily taught Spanish, but a faculty crisis mandated that he add Latin to his repertoire, and during our first session, as he recalled grappling with the subject many years before, his manner was even more bemused than usual. The group included fifteen students, ranging from seventh grade to eleventh, so Mr. Millones faced the challenge of reconciling all those disparate ages and abilities. He succeeded by treating everyone exactly the same: with a remarkable balance of respect and puckish humor. No one was immune from his laughter, but no one ever felt even a hint of harshness. Rather everyone shared the jokes, especially the target. Indeed, we all relished being worthy of his wit. Most important, Mr. Millones also mocked his own follies, including his chronic lateness, his mysterious life outside school, and his insistence that his judgment was unerring because, as he regularly reminded us, “Mr. Millones is the fairest man in the world.” He fostered so ingratiating a learning environment that each night the homework I completed first was for Latin. And when I did well on an assignment or offered a correct answer in class, a joke of congratulation from Mr. Millones was the reward I prized most.

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I had hoped to pursue Latin further, but outside circumstances prevented my doing so. Nonetheless, I am sure that my affection for the subject glows from this page. I am equally confident that readers understand the source of my good feeling. All these teachers are gone now. (Mr. Millones, by far the youngest, taught into the 1990s, then died several years ago.) Yet whenever I find myself behaving in a way that recalls their influence, I explain to my students what memory has just crossed my mind. They enjoy my appreciation as much as I do.

 The last influential person I’ll mention here was not a teacher at all, at least in the strict sense of the word. Yet thirty years after his death, he remains a vivid presence in my life. His name was Robert L. Howard, and for fifty years he was an exemplar of a profession that has faded from American life. He directed Camp Seneca in the Berkshires, which he founded in 1921. I knew Bob my whole life. My father had been a counselor at Seneca and my brother a camper before I joined in 1954 at the age of five. I rarely called the director anything but “Bob.” “Uncle Bob” was his official title. “Mr. Howard” was out of the question. Seneca was a world unto itself. We followed military protocol, obeying bugle calls and whistles, but we lived in bunks named “Comanche” and “Iroquois,” and we aspired to become “Bravemen of Seneca.” Whether we were soldiers or Native Americans was never clear, but then we didn’t reflect much on the matter. We never left the grounds except to compete against other camps in softball and basketball. We played sports virtually all day, except for quiet moments in the woodshop or nature hut. We also sang songs. Boy, did we sing songs—with abandon: team songs, college songs, and camps songs. And we yelled cheers all the time. Such activity sounds commonplace, I suppose. Yet boys kept returning, summer after summer, for ten or twelve years. Then they became counselors. Fathers sent their sons and daughters, then their grandchildren. Why? One reason was the glorious innocence of the place. At its heart was a faith in people, a belief that children could forever run, swim, and thrive at Senecaland. Bob always wanted to believe so.

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As did I. When I was in my twenties, well over six feet, and a teacher struggling to think of myself as an adult, nothing made me feel quite so warm as to see him approach, smile, and call out, “There’s the little fellow.” He always seemed amused by my brother and me, as we sat with him and recalled names and places about the camp. He never seemed to realize that to us he embodied that carefree time when we wore short pants and baseball caps, and could find comfort in a way of life we valued. Even those of my father’s generation instinctively grinned when they saw him, and for a few moments they were boys again. When Bob could no longer take an active part in Seneca, the supportive precision fell apart. Then the camp grounds were sold, the buildings were torn down, and only memories remained. Still, I don’t think even a young Bob could have kept Seneca alive. For all his business acumen, he was an innocent man, and a generation that sought thrills through drugs and drinking was beyond his ken. These children would not have followed a bugle and a whistle. They would not have sung songs. Bob had a favorite expression: “The sun always shines on Seneca.” We laughed when he spoke these words during rainstorms that kept us huddled inside. Years later, though, I understood. The sun always did shine on Seneca, because the warmth and light came from within him and within us. Indeed, I think the sun always will shine. However the rest of my life should proceed, what good memories I shall have. And how much they will mean to me. Thank you, Uncle Bob.

C H A P T E R

F I V E



Academic Interruptus

“May you live in interesting times.” So goes an ancient Chinese curse. I attended college during interesting times. In the fall of 1965, I began study at Columbia College in New York City, and for the first two years or so, all appeared innocent. During orientation week, for instance, our guide wore a suit and tie, and spoke with verve about college traditions from a century earlier. At night, freshmen were invited to entertainments created by the staffs of the newspaper, yearbook, radio station, and other organizations soliciting members, and little would have distinguished these sexist and profane productions from those performed for first-year classes of previous generations. Once classes were under way, I was taken aback to see a fellow student smoking a pipe, and I needed time to adjust to a biology lecture delivered to two hundred listeners. Moreover, I was still a jacket-and-tie man, a residue of my high school days, while my classmates dressed considerably more informally. I also lived at home, but I visited friends in the dorms, where to my knowledge no one had a television, and only a few denizens had stereos or radios. I heard little about drug use. I do remember that the aftermath of one fraternity party resulted in furniture being deposited on the street, and on other days colleagues of mine wandered in a haze after an initiation or some other tribal ritual. The point is, almost nothing I saw would have surprised a Columbia graduate from the 1940s. We heard little about politics. All of us were aware that protests had flared on the Berkeley campus, but Columbia was different.

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Or so we believed. As for me, I enrolled with an eye toward pre-med, but an intensive course in chemistry during the previous summer, on top of my earlier disaster with physics, at last disabused me of any future in the sciences. Thus I entered Columbia “undecided.” Over the next two years, I fulfilled the college’s numerous and invaluable requirements, searched for a field of specialization, and settled on English. My professors were uniformly knowledgeable, and a few were stimulating, but some were surely not. One directed her lectures to the ceiling, while another gave an entire class As, then during the next semester tried to amend his reputation by giving everyone a D. The professor who impressed me most was the late Edward Said. Even back then he was a scholar of international repute, but the political leanings that eventually made him so notorious had yet to become common knowledge. All I knew was that he imbued me with the capacity and desire to read closely, and to probe how language and theme worked in tandem. Generally speaking, though, the first two years of my undergraduate career were uneventful. I read books, wrote papers, and took exams. I succeeded nobly in some classes, muddled through others, and occasionally earned honors. My extracurricular life consisted primarily of daily stops at the chess club and eventual participation in the university orchestra, where I served as concertmaster, or first-chair violinist. During the second semester of my junior year, however, things happened. As usual, I remained on the periphery of events, and during this past spring, the fortieth anniversary of 1968, reports more vivid than mine have been filed. Nonetheless, those weeks shook me as they did everyone else, and I emerged from the experience with beliefs that have lasted ever since. During the latter part of the 1960s, the war in Viet Nam escalated to such an extent that many Americans who had once regarded it as a curious battle in a remote rice paddy realized that American boys were dying in a conflict whose goals remained murky. College students participated in marches and protests, but most still felt protected from the draft by educational deferments that were expected to continue through graduate school. During 1967–1968, however, many postcollege deferments were eliminated, and suddenly young men about to graduate recognized that they would soon be eligible for service. As newsreels of warfare that had once been a distraction over dinner became an ever-approaching reality, panic set in. On the morning of April 22, 1968, I arrived at school late, one of the rare occasions I did so, for I had spent the previous evening typing a term paper: “Eyesight in King Lear” (a thoroughly hackneyed topic, I note in passing). As

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a result, I missed my ten o’clock class, “Eighteenth-Century English Literature,” which met in Hamilton Hall, and went instead to an auditorium at Teachers College, a branch of Columbia University. Here was where my Shakespeare class met, and where the two hundred and fifty seats matched the enrollment. Usually, however, no more than forty students appeared for each session, and today was no exception. When I saw a friend from my earlier class, I asked if anything important had occurred, and he startled me with the news that our group had not met because the doors of Hamilton Hall had been locked by rampaging students, who had then obstructed the entrance with mountains of desks and chairs. So outlandish was his claim that I smiled and assumed that he, too, had cut the class. I didn’t bother visiting Hamilton, but after the Shakespeare lecture submitted my paper, headed to lunch, and took a bus home. That night I returned to campus for a concert with the university orchestra. By chance we were to perform in a dormitory lounge across from Hamilton, and when I reached the quadrangle, I saw that the building was still blockaded, with a mob now surrounding the action. Amazingly, the concert proceeded on schedule, although our conductor’s remarks before and after reflected his bewilderment over the circumstances surrounding us. At the end I walked outside, violin case in hand, and saw that despite the rain that had since begun, the group of protesters had expanded. Everyone expected the lockout to end by the next morning, but instead it spread. The next building taken was Low Library, home to the university administration, and within hours all its residents were expelled. Meanwhile other buildings on campus were occupied and locked. The general cause of the protests was the war, but the specific target was the university’s support of research by companies that provided napalm and other weapons to the Department of Defense. In addition, black students from the college and nearby Harlem spoke against the imminent construction of a gymnasium in Morningside Park, where the facility would intrude into public territory, but be unavailable for public use. Eventually all white students were expelled from Hamilton, which became, in the words of one spokesman, “a black stronghold.” The chaos at Columbia quickly turned into national news, and building occupations were featured on the front page of newspapers and on network news shows. Leaders of SDS (Students for a Democratic Society) became celebrities, and their pronouncements about everything from the military to marijuana were taken to embody the attitudes of a generation. The media featured pictures of students lounging and smoking cigars in the president’s office, raiding university facilities, burning records, climbing in and out of

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buildings, sneering at all officialdom, and treating their escapades as alternately exhilarating and embittering. Where, readers may wonder, was I? With the campus under siege, classes were cancelled, so for several days I didn’t bother going to school. The war offended me, but whether I was moved by injustice or a fear of my own possible participation I can’t say. Either way, I identified with the protesters’ cause. Yet something inside of me objected to their tactics, although I couldn’t articulate my reasons. I should clarify that not all students at the university were participants in the occupations or even sympathetic to them. An entourage of conservatives, including many athletes, resented that the protesters were being treated as if they spoke for everyone, and one day these counterdemonstrators encircled buildings to prevent food and other supplies from reaching those inside. Squabbles ensued, but I don’t recall any bloodshed. That came two weeks after the first day of takeovers. Late at night, or rather, very early in the morning, the police, with the approval of university officials, squirreled through a network of underground tunnels and invaded the occupied structures. With billy clubs flying, troops evacuated the protesters in bloody scenes that were replayed over and over on the news. The next day the university paper, the Spectator, offered no editorial, just a column outlined in black. This spasm of violence outraged many members of the Columbia community who to this point had been opposed to the occupations. I, however, was still confused, and in my own mind blamed everyone: the students for carrying their protests too far, the university for not acting sooner and more calmly, and the police for attacking so brutally. Several years later I met a police captain who had been involved in the early-morning raid, and he confirmed my judgment. Yet memory of that night left Columbia an institution in torment. From the beginning of the sit-ins, a subtle implication had bubbled below the surface: that the university, linked through contracts and personnel to countless government agencies, was itself a manifestation of our country’s malevolent policies. Protesters had drawn a parallel between the activities of the government and the structure of the college, so the imperatives of our political leaders were regarded as an extension of the regulations that controlled student lives. The midnight massacre was taken as further evidence that such suspicions were legitimate. Therefore a challenge was put to the officers of the university to articulate a university position against the war. Further protest took the form of a resolution by the vast majority of students and faculty not to

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enter university buildings for the rest of the semester, and classes thereafter met in fraternities, churches, and faculty homes, among other exotic locations. Even Butler Library was picketed. Here, at last, the activist within me emerged. I felt compassion for friends who had been injured in the police raid, but I also realized that I was an advocate for intellectual freedom. Hence I concluded that a college or university should not have an official position on anything, that absolute freedom of speech and thought is vital to such institutions. I also decided that although certain opinions may be objectionable or even offensive, and some speakers may offer judgments that are unacceptable to either end of the political spectrum, the very word “university” implies that all ideas must be tolerated. To be sure, not every judgment should be accepted as valid, and voices in opposition deserve a respectful hearing, but at a school no idea should be censored, no persona declared non grata. In 1968, a vast portion of the Columbia community believed that the war in Viet Nam was morally unjustifiable, but a minority saw it as legitimate. Thus the university had no right to claim to speak for all its constituents. Indeed, following the precepts of the nineteenth-century British philosopher John Stuart Mill, I was convinced that even were the entire university community in unanimous accord, establishing an official opinion would still have been wrong. I expressed this conviction is two ways. One, whenever a professor of mine was willing to hold our class in a university building, I chose that option. Sometimes only two or three out of a hundred course members joined us, and those professors who maintained this practice risked retribution. In fact, more than a few faculty offices were looted and the occupants’ research burned, all in the name of freedom. My bolder maneuver occurred after the doors of Butler Library were blocked so that all employees who arrived to earn their salaries endured harassment along the way. To me, this behavior reflected unacceptable intolerance, and to express my displeasure I determined to return my one outstanding book. By the time I reached the area, a few hundred protesters had formed two lines that narrowed at the door so that all who desired entrance had to pass through the threatening hordes. Undeterred, I proudly walked toward my destination, all the while enduring catcalls. Some protesters spewed their anger right in my face, but I merely slowed my pace, as if savoring that rage. At the library door, I turned around and held the book aloft to reassert my purpose and integrity. Then I entered. Inside the building I returned my volume, then walked to the card catalog. I had nothing to look up, but I wanted to use the resource simply to exert

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my belief in freedom. After a few minutes of aimless shuffling, I left the building and once again embraced the cries hurled at me. The next day pickets departed from the front of Butler, and the building reopened. I like to think my actions contributed to the restoration of order. The next autumn, campus life resumed with a veneer of stability. Political unrest, however, still simmered. For example, I registered for a senior seminar in dramatic literature, and to each meeting wore my customary suit and carried my customary attaché case. Most of the rest of the group, however, including several notables from SDS, regularly wore surplus fatigues. During the second class meeting, the topic turned from Pirandello’s Henry IV to strategies for how to fail an army physical. A couple of sessions later, after military officials proposed making undergraduates eligible for the draft according to their academic standing, the class seriously weighed the pros and cons of blowing up the university registrar so that no grades would be available for government inspection. Rarely did the group discuss dramatic literature. No doubt I seem as yet disconsolate about the events that took place at Columbia, and I am sure that some readers would remind me that the protests from which I demurred and which spread throughout the country helped end a war that might otherwise have raged much longer. That sentiment is probably fair. Others might accept my disapproval of what happened back then, but ask how I take action today. What causes have I publicly supported, and along what picket lines have I marched? In what assemblages have I spoken out, and for what principles have I fought? The answer to all those queries is “None.” In meetings of all kinds I remain silent. I never march. I wear no pins or armbands. My car sports no political decals. Even on far less controversial matters, my voice is rarely heard. During curricular conferences, committee sessions, and departmental and general faculty meetings, I sit silently. When controversial speakers from the right or the left are scheduled to appear on campus, and e-mails fly in either protest or support, my perspectives remain private. If anyone asks my opinion, I explain that I support letting everyone speak. End of discussion. The only place I am vociferous is my classroom, where I am not shy about establishing my views. Yet I am far more fervent in my attempts to solicit opinions that oppose mine. As long as respondents speak respectfully to me and to their colleagues, I actively promote disagreement. I am also proud that I sometimes comment on student essays that I disagree with the author’s thesis, but because it is argued effectively, the paper warrants an A.

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The turmoil at Columbia and many other schools across the country brought about vast changes in higher education, notably in areas of admissions, curricula, and general administrative policy. Some of these innovations have been productive; others have been disastrous. In any case, here is not the place to evaluate them. Instead I’ll conclude by noting that my own experiences decades ago inculcated within me a set of values that I hope my students esteem: candor, conviction, and, above all, respect.

C H A P T E R

S I X



On the Cusp of Change

I wish I could declare that my foray into teaching was the result of noble intentions, but the decision was in fact born of desperation. As a college graduate in 1969, I faced being drafted to join a war I opposed, and I knew that teachers were exempt. The placement service at Columbia University received notices of school vacancies, and as I have indicated, I was fortunate enough to gain a position at Mercersburg Academy. It is one of those intriguing institutions known as “prep schools,” each a private galaxy, but almost all bound by certain qualities. Many are more than a century old, and set on magnificent campuses distinguished by buildings evincing classical dignity. The endowments are plentiful, and the facilities, both academic and athletic, the envy of many a small college. The vast majority of students are boarders, and until comparatively recently, almost all were upper-class WASPs of one gender. Alumni registers include countless luminaries in business, medicine, law, education, and politics. Life at these places has always been intense. Classes usually begin at 8 a.m. and meet six mornings per week. The academic load is heavy, and grading strict, but these pressures are imposed with the understanding that those who survive what has been called “the prep crucible” will be rewarded by admission to a topflight college. In addition, all students compete in athletics: if not on varsity teams, then on junior varsity or club squads. Faculty members lead equally demanding lives. Most not only teach, but also coach, supervise extracurricular activities, and live in dormitories right down the hall from their students. This proximity, plus the general intensity

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of a 24–7 existence, gives rise to an endemic quirkiness that has been dramatized in a multitude of fictional works. J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye and John Knowles’s A Separate Peace have become classics, but numerous other examples have reached cult status, including Louis Auchincloss’s The Rector of Justin, John Horne Burns’s Lucifer with a Book, Richard Yates’s A Good School, and Robert Anderson’s play Tea and Sympathy. More recent examples include Curtis Sittenfeld’s Prep and movies like Dead Poets’ Society and School Ties. Curiously, although millions more young people attend college than prep school, a similar compilation of works about the undergraduate experience would be difficult to formulate. In short, whether individual students find prep school enriching or revolting, and judgments on both sides are plentiful, the experience is usually indelible. Presently I’ll explain specifically what I taught and learned at Mercersburg as well as at Pomfret and Phillips Exeter, the other prep schools where I worked. At this point, though, I’d like to reflect on how swiftly much of private school life altered during the four years between the end of my high school career and the beginning of my work as a teacher. For nowhere were changes more dramatic than at Mercersburg. Let me start back in 1964, with a trivial but telling matter. During that year, boys at Columbia Grammar were expected to wear blue blazers that featured the school insignia. A few of my classmates protested this rule, but the administration paid little notice until one student sliced the back of his blazer into long, thin ribbons, then wore his creation to school. Before long, sanctioned blazers were no longer required, and ordinary jackets and ties sufficed. Rebellion had reared its head. It did so more subtly and more artistically in another way. Chances are that readers of this volume will never glance at a 1964 Columbia Grammar School yearbook, but those who did would find it indistinguishable from such publications of decades before. The layout is traditional, the posed pictures formal, and the text polite. The 1965 yearbook, however, the one composed by my classmates, is a chaotic hodgepodge. No portraits of club or organization memberships are included, while most pictures, except those of the graduating class, are candid and haphazardly laid out, supplemented by text comprising meandering prose poems. The effort is clearly the product of young people aching to break strictures. Whenever I return to those pages, I can only think that three years later such an attitude would take the form of riots at colleges and universities across the country. Now let’s move to the spring of 1969, a few months before I was to graduate from college. The site is Mercersburg, Pennsylvania, a hamlet ten miles

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above the Maryland border. The town contains, among other establishments, a few shopping markets, a drugstore, some filling stations, a couple of restaurants, an inn, and a movie theater. Until the mid-1960s, that theater was segregated, and black and white patrons sat in different sections. Adjoining the town is the Academy, which was established as a seminary in the early nineteenth century, and in 1893 assumed the identity I would encounter. The student population then included five hundred boys, mostly boarders, plus a few female day students. Within a couple of years, the school would be entirely coed, as would dozens of other prep schools. In other ways, too, although Mercersburg was in some ways more conservative than most, the changes it underwent were hardly unique. For instance, the Academy had a longstanding tradition of hazing new students with a plethora of humiliations befitting a particularly grim college fraternity. In the spring of 1969, a batch of younger faculty objected to this practice, and after considerable argument it was abolished. Not all veteran instructors (or “masters”) were pleased, for some valued the camaraderie that such behavior supposedly fostered. Older students, too, resented the loss of their chance to inflict retribution for the suffering they had endured. This crisis, however, paled before the next one. Religion had always been vital to Mercersburg life, and the campus chapel remains a magnificent edifice. For decades, students had been required to attend services four times per week, including a brief program on Saturday mornings at 8:00 a.m. This demand struck some as irksome, because unlike most prep schools, Mercersburg did not hold classes on weekends, and the boys were thus forced to rise on the single morning when they could salvage a few precious hours of sleep. Unrest over the matter percolated until the spring of 1969, when one day the student body as a unit stood up in the middle of a service and filed out of the chapel. This action struck a blow at what many masters and administrators believed to be the heart of Academy life. Eventually a compromise was reached, by which the Saturday morning session was eliminated, and other attendance was required only twice a week, but the episode left lasting bitterness. After a few months of the next academic year, all services became voluntary. For many Mercersburg personnel of long standing, this loss was heartbreaking. A majority of these men had joined the Academy when radios and “record players” were forbidden in dormitories, when weekends away from campus were limited to one or two a year, when boys were required to study at their desk, when austerity was so prized that the wattage of lightbulbs was routinely checked to prevent the waste of money. Some masters could even

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remember when prospective brides had to be brought before the headmaster and his wife for approval. To individuals from such a background, virtually any change was intolerable. Yet chapel attendance was not the only alteration at the school. The dress code, for instance, was a matter of considerable controversy. Throughout the country, universal standards of appearance were being replaced by expressions of individual taste, and Mercersburg students sought similar freedom. Again, after lengthy discussion, coats and ties remained de rigueur, but the sight of boys wearing jackets with torn moccasins, scraggly ties, and otherwise seedy apparel distressed many adults. The administration held the line by forbidding moustaches, but once the school abandoned the prohibition of hair length below the shirt collar (a measurement imposed on some poor soul nearly every day), shoulder-length fringe became familiar. Teachers generally were dismayed at this fashion statement, but none took more drastic action than the master who, while serving food at his lunch table, observed one boy’s locks trailing in a tureen of soup. The man stood from his table, walked out of the building, and for the rest of his tenure at Mercersburg never returned. Perhaps the most insidious violation of prep school territory during this era was the drug culture. Tobacco and alcohol had long been forbidden vices, although many faculty members indulged in them privately, but marijuana, cocaine, and quaaludes were distinctly foreign. Yet teachers were expected to be on watch for these novelties, and by the time I arrived in the fall of 1969, searching procedures had become intense, as I’ll explain in the next chapter. I must reaffirm, however, that events I have described at Mercersburg were hardly unique to this school. Indeed, during the 1960s and thereafter, every prep campus underwent its own version of such warfare, and none of these institutions, once exclusive and prestigious, remained immune from forces that invaded our society at every level. By the middle of the 1970s, most single-sex schools had become coed, thereby creating new complications that left faculty in greater confusion. Over the years almost all the nation’s prep schools, including the most famous ones in the Northeast, have endured scandal. One place was discovered to have been the nexus of an international drug ring, another the center of a gambling syndicate, and yet another a distribution center for pornography. Innumerable mass expulsions have occurred over substance abuse and dormitory brutalization. The list is numbing. Yet the situation is more complicated, for graduates of these places who pursue the positive opportunities offered often leave with superior academic educations, as well as the independence and confidence to take on a challenging world.

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I must emphasize, too, that not all the changes that occurred at Mercersburg and elsewhere were unwelcome. School populations became more heterogeneous, and the notion that all members of the community had to aspire to a single model of citizenship was displaced. Whereas at one time faculty members remained at the same school for their entire career, and so became entrenched in ancient regulation and their own personal eccentricities, by the 1970s turnover was constant, and new teachers brought fresh ideas. Thus while certain longtime instructors might have become local legends whose influence spanned generations, new teachers provided impetus for curricular expansion, freedom of expression, and a tolerance of individuality that humanized many places which had once functioned with an almost military brutality. Here is not the place to analyze what can only be labeled the “democratization” of prep schools, but any fair analysis must balance the loss of tradition, some positive and some not, with the victory of innovation, also some positive, some not. I’ll save my final evaluation of the prep experience, both the general and my own, until later.

C H A P T E R

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Finding My Way

When I arrived at Mercersburg Academy in the fall of 1969, my annual salary was $5,000 plus room and board. My responsibilities included teaching two sections of tenth-grade and two sections of eleventh-grade English, as well as supervising students who lived around me two-to-a-room on the second floor of a three-story dormitory. I was not required to coach. My “room” was a small apartment with a private bedroom, a public sitting space, and a bathroom. Some furnishings belonged to the school; the rest were left by the previous occupant. “Board” meant that I was entitled to eat twenty-one meals a week in the school dining hall, where I was assigned to a table with rotating populations of boys to whom I served food brought by student waiters. I was expected to attend fifteen meals per week, but my predilection for dining in solitary was already burgeoning, and I never came close to meeting my quota. Fortunately, another teacher was placed with me, and he was far more diligent than I in carrying out this particular duty. My life at Mercersburg thus had two tracks: one inside the classroom, the other outside. I’ll begin with the former. On the morning of my first day of teaching, I pondered strategy. Should I meet my students at the classroom door? Or would I seem too eager? Should I sit at my desk and feign world-weariness? Or should I stroll through the corridor to communicate an enthusiasm borne of self-assurance? Should I write my name on the chalkboard? Or announce it and hope that everyone would write it down and thereafter spell it correctly?

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Should I teach standing or sitting? These questions may sound piddling, but as I stood alone in my classroom at 7:40 a.m., they weighed on me. When the halls finally filled with the rumble of students, I tried to carry out all tactics simultaneously, but all I did was bump into people. I must note that two days earlier, when I met the rest of the faculty, I was treated with complete respect. Virtually everyone in the room was experienced enough to have been one of my own high school teachers, but no one communicated the slightest doubt about my capacity to do the job. The uncertainty I felt was entirely self-generated. By 8:00, fifteen eleventh-grade boys had taken their seats. Several slouched menacingly, several looked as old as I, and none appeared impressed. Yet all sat in silence. As I stood at my desk behind a lectern and called out the roll of names, I spoke loudly and slowly to prevent my voice from quivering. I then listed the books we would be studying, all of which were familiar to me from my brief summer trial period. When I spent ten minutes warning about the dangers of plagiarism, a few faces showed a trace of fear. I concluded the hour by asking each student to write a brief essay that might help me get to know him, and I made sure to add that this work would not be graded. To my amazement, everyone began to write, and a couple of students actually seemed gratified by my interest. After I collected their pieces, I assigned vocabulary exercises for the next day, then pointed to one student after another and identified everyone by name. That I could do so after perusing the roster just once earned a rumble of respect, and with a smile and a humble shrug, I dismissed the group. Nothing to it, I thought. Between classes, I chatted with a colleague and left my room empty for the next group, this one composed of tenth-graders. Then I sauntered in like an old-timer, and ran through the roll, the texts we would be using, and the evils of plagiarism. Yet I sensed the group was fidgety, and I even heard whispers. When I requested a personal essay, the whispers turned into groans. Still, they started to write, and as they did, I contemplated my situation. I soon understood that I had proceeded too hastily, that in trying to appear casual I had come off as shallow. My immediate reaction was to throw everyone out and start again, but of course I was stuck. When the boys finished writing, I attempted to salvage the disaster with another bravura memory display, but after a few stumbles over names I recognized that during my first reading I had failed to concentrate. Finally I signaled for the students to depart, but at the

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last moment remembered that I had neglected to assign any homework, and as everyone scrambled from the room, my desperate shouts earned snickers. In two hours, I had learned two lessons. First, even though a teacher is outnumbered, the position carries innate authority. Yet that authority is easily squandered. Second, the initial tone a teacher sets is hard to break. Indeed, my slipshod performance with the sophomores kept them out of whack for weeks. The first-period juniors, on the other hand, despite my nonsensical emphasis on plagiarism, never strayed. Other revelations followed. For instance, all the boys called me “Sir,” a title I shared with the rest of the faculty, but which I could not believe I warranted. I still felt absurdly young, and because most other instructors seemed to find pride in being regarded as autocrats, I attempted to follow their example. During class I stood behind my desk and conducted proceedings from notes that I placed on the lectern. I also tried to maintain a severe front, and even as I reviewed vocabulary and grammar exercises, I permitted myself no flippancy. I also pretended to be far more knowledgeable than I was. When I taught a story that I had first read the night before, I referred to “the last time I taught this piece” as if I had presented it to generations of classes. Meanwhile I was trying to remember the names of the characters. The attitudes of my different groups also gave me insight. One section at each of my two levels turned out to be quiet, while one proved rambunctious. Initially I was grateful for the timid ones, most of whose members never questioned my assignments or otherwise commented on material. The more boisterous classes, however, ultimately proved more helpful. They responded boldly to literature and any other work I distributed, and in doing so forced me to justify my opinions and directives. They also laughed among themselves, and at times I sensed that they were inviting me to join them. Thus I soon stopped taking myself so seriously. I also discarded my pages of notes and simply marked passages in the texts. Finally I moved from behind the lectern and sat on the desk. Best of all, whenever the mood struck, I permitted myself to make jokes, and before long that mood struck with increasing frequency. Here was another clear lesson. Initially I had tried to adopt a persona that was alien to me, so I was perpetually ill at ease. Only when I let “Sir” emerge did I begin to enjoy myself, for he was more far entertaining and authoritative than I would have imagined. He also seemed to know more than I did. Anywhere else on campus, “Victor” remained hopelessly diffident. “Sir,” on the other hand, projected inexhaustible resources, but only in the classroom. Ironically, several students eventually confided to me that my formidable demeanor initially intimidated them. More ironic, when decades later I took

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to acting onstage, I displayed both an affinity and affection for parts that required a malevolent manner. In class, though, I have always preferred my congenial side, seasoned with a vigor whose source remains a mystery to me. I understand that this analysis sounds vaguely schizophrenic, but here is how I have felt. Some bond surely exists between my performances onstage and those in the classroom, but I’ll wait to plumb that subject more deeply. Yet no matter how relaxed I became when I was teaching, I never sensed that I was diminishing myself. As long as my assignments were fair and clear, and as long as class sessions were organized and part of a defined structure, the boys stood by me. Equally telling, the more I acknowledged my own ideas and feelings, and the more respect I showed for theirs, the more good will they returned. I can’t guarantee that these strategies would work for every aspiring instructor, but they certainly aided me. One discovery that did not surprise me was the need for class preparation. Because I was free from coaching responsibilities, I had extra time to organize the rest of my work. Vocabulary and grammar were easy, because I had answer keys, and my in-class routines were familiar. Literature, however, was another matter, and I often sought commentary to supplement my own ideas. Then I stayed up until the early morning to ensure that I’d have something intelligent to say the next day. Sometimes I was convinced that I was the only member of the department who felt so insecure, especially when one colleague left me nonplussed by claiming that “Teaching books you’ve read is easy. The real challenge is the ones you’ve never looked at.” He might have been fooling, but I don’t think so. In any case, I never acquired his surety, so I prepared assiduously. Such work might have been necessary, but it was hardly sufficient. How to proceed in class? What exactly should I do? The bulk of our reading was fiction and drama, so my first priority was focusing on language. I frequently read passages aloud and urged my students to consider not only the import of what was said, but also the specific words invoked. Why does this particular character use this particular adjective? Why does the author describe a face or a room this way? Why are these details important? From language, we moved to theme, and I could conceive no better way to communicate this element than by relating the characters’ situations to the students’ own lives, as well as to events of the day. I also never hesitated to recall people and places from my own life. Given current trends in criticism, my approach will seem old-fashioned. It may well have been, but it remains the same one I use now, when I teach ex-

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clusively drama, and approach scripts from the perspective of a playwright, actor, and director, all jobs I have fulfilled. Sometimes my boldness took me aback. When we read Huckleberry Finn and Native Son, I questioned the boys about their own racial attitudes, as well as the implications of their attending a school that was almost entirely white. As everyone squirmed, I pondered whether I would have been so aggressive had the class included black students. At other times, my suggestions drew metaphoric blood. When we studied Macbeth and came to the great soliloquy “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow . . .” I dwelled heavily on the Scottish king’s vision of the meaninglessness of life, then asked what meaning the boys saw in their own lives, or even whether those lives had any meaning at all. My suggestion deeply perturbed one student, a hitherto jolly fellow, who resented what he took to be Shakespeare’s implications. I explained that the one who saw the lack of meaning was the character, not the author, but the boy could not accept my interpretation, and as he defended his beliefs, he verged on tears. On the other hand, some students managed to take my efforts more casually. After we finished Macbeth, one young man was so taken with the play that every time I saw him for the rest of the year, he greeted me with the title character’s words: “So foul and fair a day / I have not seen.” I’ve never been able to read the line seriously since. At times I became so involved with my subject that I forgot I was simply teaching a class. Reflecting on one of the witches’ opening phrases, “. . . when the battle’s lost and won . . . ,” I asked the group, “What battle is she talking about?” “Scotland,” said one student. “And . . . ?” “The battle for the throne,” said another. “And . . . ?” I queried, as my eyes widened over my own forthcoming insight. Silence reigned. “The battle,” I intoned with portentous solemnity, “for Macbeth’s soul.” I looked up in expectation of wondrous approval, but heard only a mocking chorus: “Ooooh.” Even I had to laugh at my own pretension. Sometimes group participation was the only way to proceed. During the funeral scene of Julius Caesar, I assigned a couple of students the leads, and let the rest of the class portray the Roman mob. When the plebeians were to yell, I invited my cast to shout as loudly as they wanted. Initially they only mumbled, but under my urging their inhibitions disappeared, and soon they screamed at full tilt. I later learned that our performance unnerved two

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floors of the classroom building. When during that same scene Antony holds Caesar’s cape and recalls the assassins’ attack, I removed my own jacket and directed each boy to stab it with the eraser end of his pencil. Then at Antony’s imaginary recreation of the knife wounds that tore through Caesar, I attached a name to each blow that had been struck against my garment, making vivid Antony’s oratorical technique and the manipulation of his listeners. Yet even arduous preparation had its limits. A few days before I staged my production of act 3 of Caesar, one of my classes was observed for the first time by a colleague. Such visits were school policy, so I was not being singled out. Nevertheless, I feared that he would listen for five minutes, recognize that I was an imposter, and recommend immediate dismissal. When my colleague entered the room, I felt the same nerves that had beset me on opening day. I wasn’t sure whether to take my accustomed seat on the desk, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I plopped down. Then I indicated that before we moved to the text, I’d provide background. I drew a deep breath and blasted off at ninety miles per hour, dashing through the Renaissance vision of the universe as well as details of Shakespeare’s life, then following with garbled references to Christopher Marlowe, who was Shakespeare’s most notable contemporary, Edward Allyn, Marlowe’s leading actor, and finally Caesar himself. Some of what I blurted made sense, but the delivery was so frantic that the boys stopped trying to scribble information and looked at me in bewilderment. Keener minds grasped why I was frazzled, and when I bothered to look up from my notes, their faces said, “Hey, we know it’s rough. Take it easy.” When I reached the text itself, my speed finally diminished. I asked students to read passages out loud, and proffered questions about words and character. I was gratified that the boys responded, and when I glanced at my colleague, he seemed relaxed. Nonetheless, I soon allowed the presentation to resume at breakneck speed. At the end of the fiasco, the visitor thanked me, and suggested that I stop by his office for a chat. Despite his geniality, I was convinced that I had made an idiot of myself, and was to be fired that afternoon. At the appointed hour, I burst in with apology, and babbled that the particular class was not representative of my work. Then I noticed that he still didn’t seem disturbed. He pointed out that I brought a good deal of energy to the class, and I hastily agreed. Then he added that my students and I clearly enjoyed mutual respect. I think I knew as much, but I had never articulated the concept to myself. He also noted my command of the text. Finally he suggested something that I needed to hear: “Maybe one out of every ten classes

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works out the way you plan.” Knowing his reputation, I’m sure his percentage was considerably higher, and I like to think the same of my own, but at the time I deeply appreciated his solicitude. On the other hand, on certain days I felt lucky to escape class with my reputation intact. During one session, with twenty-five minutes remaining, I found myself utterly bankrupt of ideas. I had no markings on any upcoming pages, and I had forgotten the next steps in the plot. In desperation, I said, “Let’s turn to page 200,” with no idea of what I might find there. When we arrived, I was still lost, so I asked one student to read a paragraph out loud. While he did, I tried to reorient myself, but I was still confused. My last resort was to ask, “Can anyone tell me why this paragraph is important?” After an awful silence, someone tried to do so. His answer piqued something in me, and I survived, but every day I lived in dread that a similar trap awaited me. When my juniors began their segment of the term on poetry, I distributed five different poems without the author’s name attached: one was by Keats, another by Auden, two by lesser poets, and one by me. We spent the period analyzing whose work was superior and why. When the class voted as to who they believed had composed each work, my poem was judged the worst, so I was in one sense pleased. Yet two students were certain that I had created the “Ode on Melancholy.” So even though the session was probably entertaining, at the end I wondered whether anything had been accomplished. Despite my slipups, I was invited back to Mercersburg for a second year, when I was asked to teach only seniors, and to contribute to a series of electives from which they could choose. That a huge percentage of students selected my offerings was gratifying, but I knew that I was, by Mercersburg standards, an easy grader, so I tempered my self-congratulation. I did puff up, though, when I completed a drivers’ ed. course and purchased my first car. The beginning of my second year at the Academy found me feeling like something of an old hand, especially when I explained school procedures to new faculty. Many boys in my classes already knew me, and when on opening day a group that included many familiar faces charged into my classroom, one student grabbed the same seat he had occupied the previous year and shouted, “Okay! Here we go!” Perhaps needless to say, such high spirits boosted my self-esteem. That year I offered six electives, including “Modern Drama,” “Hemingway and Fitzgerald,” “The Bildungsroman,” and “Utopias and Anti-Utopias.” With so much material to master, I had to prepare intensely, and the pace of these classes was compounded by our exclusive attention to literature, without breaks for grammar and vocabulary. I believed that my students appreciated the material we read, but I still retained doubts about my competence.

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Some nights I was compelled to rummage through the library for secondary material that would enhance my presentations, and on too many days I entered my classroom unnerved, lest someone ask a question that would expose my shallow background. I was never intellectually denuded, but the threat was ever-present. Careful readers of this chapter will note a lacuna: discussion about the teaching of writing. No matter how effectively I might have taught literature, instruction in this area always loomed as the more challenging aspect of the job. Mercersburg required that students complete one piece of writing a week, either in class or outside. With my four sections, I therefore corrected essays almost every night, and as any English teacher will confirm, seeking errors in construction, logic, syntax, and grammar never became easy or pleasant. Yet the more papers I corrected, and the more mistakes I tried to explain to my classes, the more acute my editorial skills became. Some of my students were gifted writers, others not. How could I help the latter? That question is one every instructor in my subject has pondered. In class I provided exercises that reinforced the importance of such basics as topic sentences and unified paragraphs. When time permitted, I reviewed individual papers privately with the authors, but I could not assign or even allow mass rewrites, for with four sections I’d never have escaped from under the barrage. One of my more daring strategies was to compose model essays in class. I’d explain the structure for the week, such as comparison and contrast or argument, and the students would give me a topic. Then I’d spontaneously write a piece on the chalkboard by thinking out loud, asking questions, and soliciting answers and suggestions, all the while trying to apply guidelines we had reviewed. I understood that the boys enjoyed watching me scurry around the room, covering myself in chalk dust, but I was less sure whether they learned. Did I narrow the gap between the gifted and the less proficient? Sometimes I felt that I was making progress, for a student would surprise me by turning in a piece distinguished by a gusto he had never before demonstrated. At those moments I didn’t worry about grammar and other mechanics, but tried instead to build on the promise he had shown. In other words, I corrected his mistakes, but de-emphasized them. “They have people like me who sit in offices and proofread,” I’d say. “But no one can provide the ideas and feelings inside you.” Sometimes my support inspired further improvement, sometimes not. I could not help comparing myself to my colleagues, some of whom were so imperious that the boys could barely abide them. Yet these men also seemed supremely self-assured, so I took for granted that they were su-

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perb instructors. My corollary assumption was that I conducted myself so amiably that I could not be achieving anything. Thus when I learned that a few smug masters were scorned by students as ineffectual, I was relieved. Unfortunately, the boys also related that certain other confident teachers were dynamite in class, and at those reports my own doubts resurfaced with greater urgency. Underlying all my pedagogic exertions, however, was one omnipresent realization: the business of my classroom was only a part of my students’ lives. Which brings me to the dormitory. I had lived under such circumstances before, but never as the one in charge. I have already explained that I was very young and looked far younger, so when on the night before school opening I visited each room and introduced myself, furtive looks suggested that my presence did not inspire terror. Buttressing my authority, however, was Mercersburg’s rigorous system of discipline, by which boys who committed transgressions ranging from the minor (such as cutting a meal) to the major (smoking, for example) served varying degrees of punishment under the generic title of “guard.” This involved weekend study hall and a number of hours spent marching in silence under the supervision of the dean. Such penalties were imposed with rigor, and I thought the process sometimes a trifle severe. I also recognized, though, that without the support of so imposing a mechanism, a marshmallow like me could have been overpowered. Instead, most boys came to regard me as callow but refreshing. Thus life generally proceeded in orderly fashion. During afternoons, when the boys played sports and the dorm was empty, I took a nap. During evening study hours, when quiet was enforced and they completed their work, I prepared assignments and corrected papers. On weekends, some boys dropped by my quarters to play chess, while others visited to chat, borrow a book, or ask me to proofread their writing. When I heard an unaccountable noise in the building, I would search out the source and attempt to quell any ruckus. Quarrels broke out periodically, and once I interceded in actual fisticuffs by picking up one boy and depositing him out of harm’s way, then staring down the other combatant. That display earned me a fleeting respect. All sounds manageable, I suppose. I have neglected to mention, however, one qualifier: I was surrounded by an underworld about which I knew virtually nothing. A portion of this society included boys who roamed the campus at night to reconnoiter with town girls or visit out-of-town bars. A far more insidious segment, though, was the

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drug culture, which as I have written, flourished at Mercersburg as it did in all such schools. Consequently, my job also included bringing users and dealers to the light of day. How sharp a lookout was I? Well, I hate to disillusion any readers, but during my high school days, I never heard the word “marijuana.” I may have been out of the social loop (check that—I was out of it), but at a class reunion in the 1980s, my classmates confirmed my recollection. Apparently a few of our exotics had experimented with grass (do I sound cool or what?), but for the most part, the members of my 1965 circle concentrated on their upcoming eighteenth birthday, when they would be permitted to go to a bar and legally drink. I didn’t care about that thrill, either. I was never a smoker or drinker (I’m still not), and although I lived through the swinging 1960s and 1970s, I never tried drugs (and still haven’t). To put the matter bluntly, I knew nothing about anything. My abstentions, by the way, are no sign of moral superiority. I just never had reason to indulge. Back to Mercersburg, where in my ignorance concerning drugs I was hardly alone, so the administration took steps to enlighten us. During one faculty meeting, held as usual on a Monday night, a state trooper appeared with a bag of marijuana, which was passed throughout the faculty so that we would recognize the stuff. When the package came my way, I was sure I was looking at pencil shavings. Then the material was set aflame, and the odor was allowed to waft through the room so that if any of us subsequently came across that singular smell, we would recognize it. One amusing note. After the state trooper departed with his bag, the dean warned us not to tell the boys what had transpired, and we all nodded solemnly. When I returned to my dormitory, though, I was immediately assaulted by several students, who inquired laughingly: “Did you bring back samples?” Despite my ignorance, I occasionally intuited the presence of a netherworld around me. One night when I was ostensibly in charge of the dorm, I was called from my room because a boy on the first floor was stalking the halls and raving. Even in my innocence, I could tell that he had overdosed on something, but fortunately the dean and some medical personnel had already been summoned, so I had little to do but stand and look profound. Eventually the young man was quieted and escorted to the infirmary. To appear authoritative, I walked over to one senior and inquired whether he knew anything about the young man’s “supplier” (I think that was the word I used). When he shook his head, I nodded and walked away, as if culling evidence for my report to the FBI. A few minutes later, however, one proctor

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whispered to me that the student whose counsel I had sought was himself a user and probably a dealer. I maintained my pretense of circumspection, but I felt like a fool. I didn’t feel any brighter when a few weeks later a raid was conducted on my floor. True, with thirty-five boys under my supervision, I couldn’t know them all intimately, and on this occasion the one in question was regarded by both the other residents and my colleagues as a charming naïf. When authorities invaded his closet, however, they discovered a virtual pharmacy that was later proven to have supplied substances to users across the campus and into towns several miles away. Certainly on the job, wasn’t I? At times the lanes of my life intersected. During one discussion in class, I listened with incredulity when one student insisted that driving a car under the influence of marijuana was in no way dangerous. The same young man had previously delineated all the pleasures of the drug, including distorted vision and diminished reflexes, so with scientific calm I asked whether such consequences might be detrimental to the operator of a vehicle. The student denied the possibility. He went on to claim that a driver who was even a bit drunk deserved to be pulled from the road, but one with a good “buzz” was no threat and should not be harassed. Here was one of many instances when I realized that classes were but a small part of my students’ world. One evening I apportioned matters mathematically and decided that the boys gave half their attention to school, and half to everything else. Of the 50 percent accorded Mercersburg, half belonged to the academic side and half to athletics, extracurriculars, and more nefarious pursuits. Finally, the academic 25 percent was divided among each student’s five courses. Therefore, on any given day, I could stake a claim to roughly 5 percent of the boys’ attention. Over the years and at the several institutions where I’ve worked, I’ve had no reason to alter that estimate. I was also surrounded by countless mini-dramas. Some of these were known to me, but most passed without my noticing. Even my ten advisees, those boys in whom I was supposed to take special academic interest, remained essentially mysteries. I knew that some of my students had problems with family and health, but occasionally in class when I was preoccupied with communicating the importance of a literary conceit, an idle remark from someone else reminded me that the details over which I pored were nothing compared to miseries that lurked around me. I’ll never forget the tearful apology from one of my stalwarts when he informed me that he was leaving the Academy to spend a few final weeks with his dying father.

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During my second year, a reshuffling of personnel entailed my moving to another building, and to a floor without students. Nevertheless, on certain nights and weekends I was assigned supervision of the dormitory, and through humor and cajolery I managed to create good will, but otherwise I was spared the daily pressures. Another consequence, however, was my losing contact with a portion of school life. Indeed, as the year dwindled to its close, I appeared in the dining hall less frequently than ever, sometimes sampling no more than one or two meals per week, and eating the rest in local restaurants. I now sensed that I was ready to look beyond Mercersburg. Yet I was also far from sure what I wanted to do with my life. Any hesitancy in departing, however, was demolished when I received a letter from the administration explaining that because of shrinking Academy enrollment, the faculty would have to be consolidated, and my services, though deeply appreciated, were no longer required. (Within a short time, I should observe, the school recovered, and today stands on extremely firm footing.) In sum, these first two years as a professional educator didn’t establish any lasting personal vision for me, but they were nonetheless invaluable. When I arrived at Mercersburg, my strengths and limitations were amorphous; by the time I left, they had begun to take shape, as I had discovered that I possessed the raw ability to teach. Forgive my resorting to a platitude, but here it’s appropriate: while instructing others, I learned a lot about myself.

C H A P T E R

E I G H T



A Teacher Grows Up

One of the ironies of being a teacher is that as we try to help bring order and purpose into our students’ lives, our own may be in chaos. Such was my dilemma as I left Mercersburg and returned to New York City. Since I thought I was blessed with a quick wit and an agile pen, I attempted to become a comedy writer, and over three months I sold two jokes for eight dollars a piece. Then the pace slowed. I also investigated entrance positions in journalism, publishing, advertising, and television, but given my background, most potential employers first told me about their own school experiences, then congratulated me on the swell work I had done, and finally wished me luck in finding a job. For a year, I was a freelance drama critic for Variety, “the Bible of show business,” and I enjoyed seeing shows for free. The position lost it allure, however, when I entered one grimy theater on a rainy night, marched up to the box office, and requested “Two for Variety,” only to be greeted with “Hey, Variety, close the door. It’s cold.” I also worked as press representative for the Oberlin Music Theater in Ohio, and very briefly as assistant director of admissions at a now defunct Manhattan private school, a position for which I was totally ill-suited. After a year and a half of confusion, I grasped that for the time being I should stick with teaching. The next logical step, then, was an advanced degree or two, so I applied to New York University (NYU), where I was accepted. My field was English, with a likely concentration in dramatic literature, for although I didn’t know much, my Variety experience confirmed that I enjoyed the theater.

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Those unfamiliar with graduate school may assume that the experience is like law school or medical school: completion of a well-defined course of study, then graduation with a degree and prospects for a job. Not exactly. Every department in every institution establishes its own requirements. More important, graduate students proceed at an individual pace, taking as few as one course a year or as many as four a semester. In NYU’s large program, I felt as if all of us ran along private tracks, which occasionally intersected in classes. These were usually less than inspiring, for although all my professors were eminent scholars, most were underwhelming teachers. During my first semester, for instance, one man spent the opening nine sessions (the course met once a week) sitting for two hours at his desk up front and peeking over a pile of books from which he sifted critical remarks. As we plodded through the syllabus, everyone gradually recognized that we would never cover it all. When the professor finally confirmed our plight, the seventy students expected that he would choose which of the remaining readings we would study. Instead he proposed that “Since we can’t finish everything, let’s cancel the rest of our classes.” And we did. Other professors were more organized, but classroom presentation was not their primary concern. Moreover, my transition from teacher to student was not easy, for no matter how numbing correcting papers and tests might be, writing them is far more burdensome. Still, my desperation to finish inspired me to gobble courses quickly, earn my master’s degree in a year, pass my comprehensive exams, and begin the great stumbling block for all aspiring Ph.D.s, the doctoral dissertation. This book-length project is expected to be the culmination of years of effort, but the actual work is only part of the challenge. Each manuscript must receive the approval of a faculty director, and a persnickety advisor can keep a student rewriting beyond human endurance. I was lucky to be sponsored by George Winchester Stone, a distinguished authority on eighteenth-century and Restoration drama, who agreed to help even though my topic, the contemporary British dramatist Tom Stoppard, was outside his area of expertise. Today Stoppard is renowned all over the world, and the subject of multitudinous books and articles, but in 1974 his career was just taking flight, so I was exploring new territory. Indeed, I hope readers will be impressed to learn that the author of the book they currently hold will always be the first American to complete a doctoral dissertation on the plays of Mr. Stoppard. (I pause for cheers. Thank you very much.) My years in graduate school also confirmed the contrast between my lack of expertise and the knowledge displayed by my professors. Still, with doctorate in hand, I felt recharged to reenter the classroom.

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Most Ph.D.s anticipate teaching at college, but in the 1970s that market was virtually closed. I didn’t mind, though, for I always intended to return to prep school. Thus while I finished my degree, I sent for catalogs from all over the country, and eventually applied to forty-five schools. I was invited for several interviews, received three offers, and opted to teach and live at Pomfret School, located in the rural town of the same name in northeast Connecticut. In the fall of 1976, I strolled onto the Pomfret campus not with the reserve I had felt at Mercersburg, but with a smugness that bordered on arrogance. After all, I reasoned, I had just turned twenty-eight, I had two years of teaching as well as three years of graduate study under my belt, and I was feeling my intellectual oats. I was also one of only two Ph.D.s on the thirty-person faculty, so when at the opening meeting I was introduced merely as “from New York,” I was peeved. So much more remained to be said. Pomfret was half the size of Mercersburg and functioned much more informally, a condition that should have eased my indoctrination. Nonetheless, over the first week or two, I maintained an absurd pomposity, and committed a series of blunders that in retrospect make me wince. For instance, at one faculty-student orientation event, a junior asked if he could call me by my first name, as several teachers permitted. I replied, “No.” Not “I don’t think so” or “I’d rather you didn’t.” Just “No.” Charming. At the opening meeting with the boys on my dorm floor, I threatened to open their rooms at any time of day to check on the state of things. I had seen such searches conducted at Mercersburg, and now felt obligated to follow this practice myself. Fortunately, my proctor, a student assigned to serve as liaison and help maintain order, had the sense and courage to suggest that such behavior would not win me any friends, and I was smart enough to follow his counsel. On the opening day of class, I warned my first group of seniors that the time had come for them to “stop fooling around and to take on adult responsibilities.” They stared at me as if I were crazy. After I dwelled for ten minutes on the evils of plagiarism, expressions around the room grew only colder. I could describe other misguided efforts, but I shall report instead that after a few days I calmed down and reverted to form. Once I relaxed, my students did the same, and we had a fine time together. Indeed, about three weeks into the term, one colleague said to me, “What are you doing?” Unnerved, I asked, “Is something wrong?”

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“Not at all,” she replied. “I hear great things about your classes. What are you doing?” I couldn’t say precisely, but remember the account of my first days of summer instruction at Mercersburg? That’s what I was doing. I trust that readers now accustomed to my confessions of inadequacy will forgive a few boasts about my next two years’ progress in the classroom. I still had the most fun drilling vocabulary and grammar. So did my students. Julius Caesar was such a success with one tenth-grade class that they requested another play by Shakespeare, so with gratitude I assigned Romeo and Juliet, which became a bigger hit. I offered several senior electives that proved popular. In “Modern Drama,” which included masterpieces by Ibsen, Chekhov, Pirandello, Beckett, and Pinter, we moved through plays scene by scene, analyzing how language and action create character, and how all these elements together create theme. A significant part of my pleasure remained reading out loud and playing as many parts as possible, and I reasoned that my strategy was the most efficient way to focus attention on crucial words and lines. No doubt I was rationalizing to give myself a chance to emote in full grandeur, but at least my intentions were benign. During my second year, I offered “The Art of Wit,” in which we read classic works by Shakespeare, Moliere, Jonathan Swift, Voltaire, Mark Twain, and others. We considered the differences between wit and humor, verbal and situational irony, and farce and mock-epic, while questions about tone, technique, and target dominated discussion. The approach had dangers, for probing laughter too deeply can destroy the fun, but we flourished. I also taught a couple of sections of “The Hero in Literature,” with a syllabus that included Beowulf, Hamlet, The Stranger by Camus, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by my old friend Stoppard. I had never before presented these works to a class, but the risks paid off, as I was reminded again that the best way to learn any subject is to teach it. I also taught my first course devoted exclusively to Shakespeare, a forerunner of subsequent efforts. Perhaps my most satisfying moments occurred when class members did original work on examinations and term papers, explicating material that we had not studied together. When I saw how effectively the students proceeded on their own, I felt that I was beginning to deserve the title of “teacher.” Yet my way was not entirely smooth. As I tried to inspire my students, I drove myself to meet my own standards, sometimes with calamitous results.

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For instance, I had long understood the value of students’ rewriting graded essays, thereby reinforcing corrections and becoming shrewder critics. Fortunately, my invitations to do so were embraced, and virtually every day I received a fresh pile of papers. Fearful of diminishing student enthusiasm, I tried to review all assignments on the day they were submitted, and therefore stayed up until one or two o’clock each morning, then rose at seven for classes. No doubt readers can anticipate the result. I collapsed with a severe bronchial infection, and remained out of commission for a week. I then corrected at a more reasonable pace, and my students never noticed the difference. In life outside the Pomfret classroom, amid circumstances that could be described as “social,” I found myself a better fit. At Mercersburg I was so young that I struggled to stay afloat, but at Pomfret the gap between my age and that of the students suggested to some that I might possess experience and wisdom. Thus I helped several individuals prepare their college applications, and supported others as they navigated more personal crises. I did not assume any coaching responsibilities, but stylishly supervised the student work squad, and on game days drove vans of teams to other schools. These undertakings were hardly of prime importance, but they did help me secure a niche in the close community. Pomfret, by the way, had been coed for several years, and was also riddled with the same drug and drinking issues that I had found at Mercersburg. Disciplinary cases were frequent, and their resolutions usually painful. I still wasn’t equipped to deal with any of it, but I tried. Not effectively, but I tried. I also observed myself changing in more subtle ways. Ever since college, I had decorated my room with posters of W. C. Fields, Laurel and Hardy, and other heroes, but when I hung these pictures in my Pomfret apartment, they seemed childish, so I distributed them to members of the dormitory, and adorned my own room with framed reproductions of serious art. I was also conscious that my personal demeanor communicated an attitude toward my work. Although the school initially did not adhere to a dress code, I always wore a suit to class, and I have maintained that practice ever since. Perhaps I am stuffy (not perhaps, I am), but I’m convinced that my strict appearance allows me to be otherwise a tad more informal. I also played the violin more frequently at Pomfret than I had at Mercersburg, and various solo performances in the chapel, plus my participation in a faculty chamber group and in the orchestra for school musicals, provided considerable pleasure. Overall, then, I was extremely content at Pomfret, which turned out to be one of the most important periods of my life. Most of us, I suspect, undergo

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a youthful experience or two that proves of particular influence. Often that episode is college or military service, but for me it was my two years at Pomfret, where for the first time I felt myself both in command of my work and integrally connected to an institution. This confidence came partially from my association with many receptive students, but I owe far more to several faculty colleagues, who must have sensed something in me worth harvesting, and in their own way gently lowered my wall of reticence. When they invited me to lunch, I initially declined (of course), but they persisted until I obliged. Thereafter I enjoyed myself so much that to my own surprise I reciprocated by asking some of them to join me for a meal. My colleagues also welcomed me into their homes, where I met their families and various guests, and thereby increased my associations exponentially. In the faculty room, the dining room, and the dormitory, indeed, all across the campus, these folks included me in their warm and entertaining circle, and I shall never forget their generosity. A few of those Pomfret colleagues have since died, but even today, long after my prep school career ended, the rest remain among my closest friends. I speak with them regularly, and every so often we meet, either at reunions or other functions. Yet even if years pass between sightings, our bond remains unshakeable, and as soon as we see one another, it reestablishes itself at once. Almost all of them still treat me like the loping eccentric I once was (and still am, they would likely say), so that after we ruminate over whatever personal crises we have undergone, and some of these have been truly painful, the conversation inevitably leavens with laughter. I could list these friends by name, but I’m liable to forget someone. Besides, they know of whom I speak, and I trust they value our relationship as much as I do. After learning of all my good feelings for Pomfret, readers may wonder how I could leave. The answer is that I also possessed an ambition that was not to be contained, and I was convinced that I should seek the challenges and rewards of the best institution that would accept me. For a couple of years I had been sending letters of inquiry to Phillips Exeter Academy, the leading prep school in the country, and at last I was offered a position there. Exeter is one of the two Phillips academies (the other is in Andover, Massachusetts, where I had my misadventure with physics) that were founded at the end of the eighteenth century, and from then on they have stood at the acme of the prep world. Like so many schools, Exeter takes its name from the town where it is set, this one in New Hampshire.

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The campus swells with grandeur and history. Facilities are overwhelming, including multiple gymnasiums and hockey rinks that serve the student body of a thousand or so, which became coed around 1970. When I arrived, the faculty numbered roughly one hundred and seventy, with 15 percent holding Ph.D.s, and despite increased turnover, certain territorial imperatives were obvious. I was accustomed, for instance, to faculty members taking regular seats at meetings, but at Exeter many of these positions had been held for decades and would not be relinquished until the landlords retired. Faculty members at Exeter were also cognizant that their methods set national standards in secondary education. Indeed, instructors had authored or edited many textbooks used at both the Academy and other schools around the country. Consequently, teachers did not hesitate to offer strong advice, as happened at the opening department meeting in the fall, when the chairman reminded us that during the first class session we should bring in a constructive project. When he explicitly cautioned that we should not dwell on the crime of plagiarism, recollection of my previous introductory assaults left me withered. The lynchpin of Exeter education was and remains the Harkness system, implemented in the 1930s, and according to which all members of the class, instructor included, sit around a seminar table. One oft-repeated sentence characterizes the situation: “In the Exeter classroom, there’s no place to hide.” According to the underlying vision, the teacher should be a mediator, refereeing as students stimulate one another to promote discussion. Because I was accustomed to perching on a front desk, working within the Harkness system proved a challenge, but I was determined to conduct myself in the proper spirit. Thus on the first day with one of my senior classes, and with the chair’s counsel still fresh, I provided copies of a few brief works, including an old English poem, “The Ruin,” plus some contemporary samples. I invited the class to discuss these pieces in the hope that a common theme would emerge. Under my prodding, we concluded that all the texts dealt with the comparative brevity of human life, a point I emphasized as if bringing tablets down from the mount. In response, one student looked up and said, “So?” All I could reply was something to the effect that the coincidence intrigued me. He shrugged, as did the rest of the company. Happily, once we moved to richer material, both he and the group turned out to be enthusiastic participants. I opened another class by providing copies of Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” After an obligatory joke about “What’s a Greek urn?” (“Two drachmas an hour”), I invited comments that almost immediately began to drag unbearably.

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Halfway through the period, one student commented, “Let me get this straight. Life is an urn. Is that it?” I have often felt as incompetent as I did at that moment, but I have never felt more so. Wait a minute. I have. During my second year at the Academy, with a group of tenth-graders, I taught John Knowles’s A Separate Peace, which is set at Exeter itself, from where Knowles graduated. I began our discussion by relating that during the previous spring, the author had revisited the campus, and he, the school librarian, and I had searched out the famous tree at the center of the novel. The students were mildly impressed, until I mentioned that one of the lead characters dies. Suddenly a dozen pairs of eyes stared in horror. “He DIES?” Given the popularity of the book, I had assumed that everyone knew the story. Not everyone did, and in five seconds I had ruined it for them. A more helpless feeling overtook me every day in another tenth-grade class, this one slightly overcrowded so that one girl used the tight quarters as an excuse to sit apart from the group. I knew that her physical separation reflected a deeper estrangement she felt from the school as a whole, so I tried to coax her into joining us, but she refused. I could have forced the situation, but doing so would only have aggravated her discontent. The result was a nagging sense of pedagogic impotence. Despite my bumbling, I must have done something right, for my initial student evaluations were kind. An even more flattering response occurred in the spring of that first year, when seniors were traditionally allowed to select from a variety of English electives. Mine was “The Art of Wit,” and nearly 20 percent of the three hundred eligible members registered for it. Certain members of my department grumbled that if I were allowed to co-opt so much of the senior population, their own offerings would be eliminated, but the chairman graciously let me teach four sections, all of which reacted differently to the same material. The one that met at 8 a.m. was the most scholarly. The students talked a lot, especially for such an early hour, but their tone was serious. Another section was comparatively silent, especially by Exeter standards. They occasionally laughed, but they were content to let me carry the show. Quite a few eventually told me how much fun the course had been, but I never would have guessed. The third group had a rollicking time. Virtually everything we read struck them as amusing, and their inspired commentary left the texts behind, so I could lean back and enjoy the revelry.

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The last section was the rowdiest. Not only did they enjoy the works we studied, but several members were eager to match their wit against that of our authors. And me. I often found myself playing verbal ping-pong, and at times matters almost flew out of hand. During my second year, I was more conscious than ever how the energy of the Exeter classroom permeated the school. The students were remarkably acute, and the environment in which they functioned encouraged them to use their abilities. I had worked with talented students before, but here the overall level was remarkable. Yet the atmosphere was not universally beneficial. One of my advisees suffered constant anguish because of the high standards against which he measured himself. At his public high school he had always received As, but at Exeter he found himself with Bs and Cs, respectable scores by academy standards, but humiliating to him. One low grade especially stung, because he received it in math, his favorite subject. This boy was a top-notch tennis player, popular and respected, and would have been a campus leader. When he confessed his frustration, I tried to restore his ego by assuring him of eventual admission to the college of his choice, but I couldn’t assuage his misery, and he departed after his sophomore year. On April 15, the day when college notification letters arrived, many students who were rejected by their first-choice schools felt profound depression. One fellow used my phone to tell his parents that he had been turned down by Harvard, and in fury he nearly tore the machine from the wall. He had been accepted by several outstanding colleges, but felt betrayed by Exeter, his parents, and himself, and for the rest of the year he was inconsolable. That day in April could also inspire the worst in successful students. In the midst of mass dejection, one young woman walked around bemoaning her singular fate: “Wow, am I in a mess! I got into Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. Where do I go?” Several students had angry suggestions. Girls as well as boys felt Exeter anxiety, and girls as well as boys handled it. Here, then, is a juncture where I may note that throughout my career I have been told that girls need special encouragement and support. I, however, have seen no evidence to support this thesis. In every class, some of either gender are talkative, and some are quiet; some are thorough, and some are careless; some are disciplined, and some are lazy. All a teacher can do is treat every student with respect, and be alert to individual needs. One of the few times I was conscious that females may respond differently was when a girl at Exeter sent me two anonymous notes, each suggesting that I was loveable in class, but that I should cheer up outside of it. Apparently as I

My family (From left to right: my grandmother, Victoria Bieber Baum; my uncle Morton Baum; my uncle Lester Baum; my mother, Evelyn Baum Cahn. In front: my brother, Steven; at bottom: me (Photo taken by Judah Cahn)

Steven and Victor, a couple of years before studying the presidents (Photo taken by Judah Cahn)

Victor and Steven fifty-five years later, after a performance of Sherlock Solo (Photo taken by Marilyn Ross, MD)

Victor in teaching mode, perched on a desk (Courtesy of Pomfret School)

Reveling in villainy as the wicked sorcerer (Photo taken by Bob Mayette; provided courtesy of Home Made Theater)

A view of Sherlock Solo (Photo taken by Jon Kandel; provided courtesy of Resonance Ensemble)

Another view of Sherlock Solo (Photo taken by Jon Kandel; provided courtesy of Resonance Ensemble)

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roamed the grounds, my expression appeared gloomy, and she wanted to assure me that life was okay. By the way, I deduced the gender, but not the identity, of my correspondent from the penmanship and the nom de plume: “Ariel.” Gender differences had also surfaced at Pomfret when I drove teams to and from competitions. When I transported boys, the occupants typically conked out and slept, both going to and coming from the competition. Female riders, on the other hand, sang show tunes virtually nonstop. I have no idea what conclusions to draw from either phenomenon. The ambition and intellectual energy of the Exeter student population did not make them immune from illicit activities I had observed elsewhere. As usual, I was unsophisticated about the underground network, but sometimes the evidence was so blatant that even I grasped the situation. One night during check-in, I entered a dorm room and was assaulted by a peculiar haze and an equally peculiar smell. The combination didn’t register at once, but as soon as I left, I recognized the presence of marijuana, so I reopened the door and asked whether my suspicions were correct. When the boys nodded, all I could say was, “I guess you know what I have to do.” Again they nodded, and we all understood that I had to report my findings, for failure to do so would have wrecked my credibility across the campus. We understood, too, that the boys would soon stand before the Academy discipline committee, and that after six weeks of legal wrangling, both would be expelled. Indeed, the scenario played out exactly that way for these otherwise decent fellows. While the rigors of Exeter life aroused strong reactions from students, instructors were not immune from the tension. For instance, all classes were assumed to be open to all visitors, and over my two years the parade of alumni, trustees, parents, and teachers from other schools guaranteed that I would lose self-consciousness. Yet the most important observers were my colleagues, who usually planted themselves right at the table among my students. After each observation, they challenged me. Why did I ask that question? Why did this student not contribute? Why did I assign a particular essay topic? At first such cross-examination was intimidating, but before long I realized that once I brought faculty visitors into the discussion, they were less imposing. Thus I’d ask my colleagues “Have you read anything about this story?” Whatever the answer, the intruder lost the aura of lordly detachment. I also appreciated regular discussions the department conducted about classroom methods. I can’t say I enjoyed those sessions, for among twentyfive voices speaking I was uncomfortable, but hearing about free association writing, ungraded essays, and students evaluating one another’s work made me challenge my own tactics. Sad to say, the only time I invoked one of these

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schemes proved to be disastrous, as I shall report in a subsequent chapter, but at least I became cognizant of new ideas. Whatever my success in the Exeter classroom, I always felt confined by the Harkness system. One reason is that I’m too much of a showman, but I also think of myself as a resource with a perspective that students, no matter how bright, cannot provide. Surely on many days at Exeter I talked too much, but if I stifled a portion of the discussion, I hope my contributions also helped. In any case, when I recall those instructors who swore by the Harkness method, and whose attitude implied that any other approach was inferior, I wonder how they might have survived when called upon to lecture for an hour or two. Outside the classroom and dormitory, I found a couple of niches. Naturally I performed on the violin, while my primary athletic responsibility was supervising club tennis in the fall and spring. Because these programs were intramural, my task was coordination, not coaching. Thus I held my post wearing a three-piece suit, complemented by sunglasses, and as other faculty in sports apparel passed me on their way to the outer fields and more strenuous endeavors, they tossed ingratiating barbs my way. Yet the director of physical education never demanded that I conform to any code of behavior. He was simply pleased that my colleagues and I ran the activity in orderly fashion, and if my attire bothered him, I heard nary a word. My most meaningful outside assignment, however, was writing for several Academy publications, work that made me feel an intimate part of the place. I turned out articles for various alumni and parents’ bulletins, as well as material for the upcoming Exeter bicentennial. Such efforts led to my editing a book about the school’s history that was to be published in concert with the celebration. Redoing this volume over the summer honed my editorial skills, as I discovered more ways than I would have thought possible to unify paragraphs, cut repetitive words and phrases, and create transitions. The project also increased my feeling of kinship with the Academy. Yet ironically my efforts simultaneously augmented my desire to leave. After the final product was submitted, the publisher himself called me to praise the work, then mentioned that I surely had the talent to establish a career in his field. During this same period, I wrote a couple of plays, as well as a regular column for the editorial page of a local newspaper. As a result, I was eager to pursue these creative avenues, and feared that staying at Exeter might deny me the opportunity. Thus in the spring of 1980 when the school offered me a new contract, I hesitated to sign. At that moment I was proud to be teaching three more sections of “Wit,” but I was more conscious than ever how most seniors in the

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final term of high school have little patience with any classes, including mine. Until they receive word from college all they do is await results, and once that news is learned they direct their attention elsewhere. In addition, my inability to find peace and rest in the perpetual whirligig of the dormitory was wearing me down, and although I considered finding a room away from campus where I could retreat when off-duty, I knew that a private haven would not solve the core of my problem. Like my students, I was ready to move on. My departure from Exeter and ultimately from prep school life was symbolized by the events of one evening. To ensure that work for my “Wit” classes would be submitted promptly, I had announced at the start of the courses that late papers would not be accepted, that if an essay arrived even one minute late, it would receive an F. Fortunately I never had to carry out my threat, for all papers showed up on time. Quite a few suggested casual effort, but after enduring the strain of a career at Exeter, these seniors had little left to give. The final paper was due a couple of days before the end of the term. To allow students as much time as possible, I decreed that the deadline would be 10 p.m., and the place of submission my dorm room. I had already begun packing, so the rug was rolled, the bookcases were bare, and sealed boxes lay on the floor. At 8:30 the first students arrived, and after they gave me their work, they sat down to chat. As more students appeared, they too, found seats, and gradually the room filled as these seniors huddled together, alternately laughing and remembering. All would graduate in a few days, and such finality, in concert with my own imminent farewell, hinted at a touch of mortality in us all. As the hour of ten approached, we counted the number of papers outstanding, and each new arrival earned a cheer. By 9:59, only one paper remained undelivered. Suddenly its owner rushed in, and breathlessly explained that he had completed a draft, but hoped for a few minutes to recopy. I threw the question to the multitudes, and by acclamation they awarded him an extension. Moments later the room was empty. Within a week, all the students had left, and my prep school days had ended.

C H A P T E R

N I N E



Reflections on a Way of Life

After all this time, how do I regard my prep school experience, which became the foundation of my teaching life? The answer, as an academic might say, is complex. Part of it involves the nature of these institutions, part involves the people I met, both students and teachers, and part involves how these forces combined to influence me. First, the schools themselves. At all three, certain students relished the unflagging pace, and their energy and accomplishment were dazzling. Perhaps most impressive were those individuals who arrived without ambition, but for whom the combination of other bright young people and demanding teachers provided long-needed motivation. Yet the same experience discouraged other students, gifted or otherwise. The required confluence of classes, sports, extracurriculars, and dormitory life proved so dispiriting that they resigned into cynicism or far more selfdestructive attitudes and behavior. In the close quarters of the dormitory, some shy students came out of themselves to develop deep friendships. Others never stopped hating the oppressive proximity of strangers and the rough treatment that residents sometimes inflicted on one another. Under the urging of friends and faculty, many students joined unfamiliar activities: theater, music, the newspaper, the yearbook. Not all became stars, but some found unimagined strengths and skills.

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Yet some students abhorred the demand for constant employment, while others resented the absence of any opportunity for solitude and reflection. Indeed, this nonstop action bothered a significant portion of students and teachers alike, who felt as if everyone, regardless of rank, was forced into so many projects that all of us were denied time to do any of them as well as possible. Yet those same critics also recognized that the relentless schedule sustained vitality in certain people who otherwise would have wallowed in indolence. The intensity of prep life (I’m sorry to repeat that phrase, but it’s the one that best applies) also gave rise to an important discovery within me about teaching in general. Instructors at any level often assume that the essence of what they teach is their subject, whether chemistry, literature, French, or soccer. But in fact the real subject of any teacher is . . . the teacher. Whether we want to believe so, ultimately what we teach is ourselves: our attitudes, standards, and values. How we approach education, how we deal with students and colleagues, and how we conduct our lives are the core of what those around us learn. Students remember a teacher’s anger and humor. They remember when a teacher derides and when a teacher encourages, when a teacher is narrowminded and when a teacher is compassionate. At prep school, this aspect of education is heightened. After all, the populace meets not only in the artificial setting of the classroom, but in less structured environments like the fields and the dormitory. A teacher’s entire life becomes part of the instruction. To be sure, the resulting lack of privacy can be infuriating. Whenever I switched on the television in my room, passersby would call out to ask what program I was watching. If I brought back a pizza, a gauntlet of observers requested a slice. I regularly accepted phone calls for students in the middle of the night, frequently from parents demanding to know why their son had not contacted them. I also had to keep a none-too-perceptive eye out for lawbreakers. And I received a constant stream of students: some with serious problems, others with simply a need to talk. I was usually happy to give of myself, and I think I helped people. Yet every session took time and energy. Thus the job extended over all hours of the day, every day. One weekend a month I’d visit New York, and maybe one night a week I’d attend a movie or concert. Otherwise the dorm was home base. And I was single. Imagine how such intrusions disrupted a master with a spouse and children. Another source of strain is that in such close communities, behavior of every sort becomes public knowledge. An unmarried instructor who invites

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an overnight visitor, a married teacher who has a loud confrontation with his wife, or any adult who has a drink may inspire endless chatter. To be sure, I doubt that my students followed my every move in hopes of learning nuggets about the ever-fascinating Cahn. Nor was I the most sought-after confidant. And I guarantee that no one was perpetually fearful of being caught drinking or smoking by eagle-eye Victor. Nevertheless, I was on constant display. When I competed against my students in table tennis or chess, how did I conduct myself? Like a sportsman or like a fool? When students bantered with me, did I let myself be the object of humor? When I joked back, did I zing recipients unfairly and thereby abuse my authority? (That I even mention this matter reveals that I sometimes did.) When I played the violin in chapel or as part of an ensemble, how did I respond to the pressure of performance? When students complained about any of dozens of issues that arose, did I dismiss the problems with a few clichés? Or was I able to listen, understand, and reason? Whatever the circumstance, did I hide behind my role as teacher? Or was I willing to be open about myself? In brief, the nature of the job ensured that I was more than an instructor in grammar and literature. I was teaching constantly, and I taught the man I was. The opportunity to do so makes the preparatory school experience unique. It also gives rise to curious faculty attitudes. Some veterans became obsessed with maintaining their way of life, and their devotion to procedure occasionally reached the absurd. For example, one of my advisees at Exeter, a very rare straight-A student, petitioned the faculty for the right to leave school over a weekend so that he might defend his national swimming title. To my shock, the faculty initially rejected his request under the rationale that the journey would entail his missing a single class. Only after several protests by individual teachers, including yours truly, was that student allowed to take his trip. Yet despite such instances, I recognized that those with an arch-conservative vision for the institution also cared about its well-being in a way that I never could. I might privately mock the fanaticism of masters whose devotion overrode all other considerations, but I also understood that their twenty-five or thirty-year tenure provided meaning and order for them, as well as values they were trying to inculcate in their students. My alliances naturally formed with faculty who took a more liberal approach, but I still respected certain old-fashioned souls who believed in what they advocated. On the other hand, students frequently sensed hypocrisy on the part of faculty who proclaimed one set of values and lived according to another. In

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response, these young people developed a scorn for authority that grew almost beyond measure. Which brings me to another point: my abiding affection for the prep school experience in general. Perhaps the reason for this good feeling is that I was still comparatively young, and what we experience in our early days we often remember with generosity of spirit. A more likely answer is that although these schools have a reputation for severity, I was treated kindly by almost everyone I met. Why? I can’t say with certainty. True, I tried to do the job well, even though I ducked out of meals, assemblies, and other mass gatherings. Nevertheless, in those situations where I was expected to work hard, I did. I have written of my gratitude toward faculty colleagues at Pomfret. I shall add here that a few others from Mercersburg and Exeter also became friends for life. As for my students, I remember innumerable names and faces with much warmth. Some of these people have remained in communication with me. Others, though, enter my mind at the most curious moments. For example, whenever I dwell intently on the minutiae of exams and grades, I think of one girl who took a quiz on Hamlet that required students to identify passages from the play and explain their context. She identified eight thoroughly, and her mastery of the text was obvious, but because she omitted two answers, I was forced to give a lower score than she warranted. When I returned the quiz, I did so with an apology: “I wish I could have given you a better grade.” My intention was to soothe what I imagined was her great disappointment. Instead she looked at me with amusement, as if to say, “You’re awfully sweet, but you don’t think any of this really matters, do you?” On the other hand, whenever I gloss over my actions under the assumption that a single mistake by one teacher can’t harm anyone, I recall another young woman, this one an aspiring writer, who asked me to read a couple of pages of her fiction. I agreed but foolishly put the material deep into a desk drawer. She was reluctant to bother me about her request, and only after weeks did I remember it. By then she was discouraged, and the lavish praise I offered was meaningless. This girl eventually left school under unhappy circumstances. I am not so presumptuous to think I could have saved her. Yet I am still ashamed when I think that I might have spared her some suffering. I also am conscious that interpretations of literature may strike students in unintended ways. For instance, during a discussion of Edward Albee’s A Delicate Balance, I dwelled so intently on the playwright’s vision of the terrors of

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ordinary life that at the end of the class one hitherto happy-go-lucky student could not rise from his seat. I had invaded his sense of self with an impact I had not anticipated, and he needed quite a while to recover. I was also aware that the student populations at the prep schools where I worked were largely homogenous. Indeed, minority enrollment, specifically of African-Americans and Hispanics, was a sensitive subject. Most of these students were on scholarship, and their transition was never easy, especially because minority faculty and administrators were rare, and all the institutions were set in small towns without a minority community. Moreover, because a significant percentage of these students were gifted athletically, the suspicion was reinforced that they were mercenaries hired to perform on the court or field, but otherwise to be ushered along. Such an assumption was unfair, but it circulated. I was privy to several destructive examples of such prejudice. In one class, a white male bemoaned the college application crisis, since, in his words, “All they want is black skin.” Under any circumstances the remark would have aroused discomfort, but the presence of a lone black girl right next to him made the situation agonizing. I decided that the pain was beyond remedy, and that a public scolding would only exacerbate it. Thus I sharply corrected the young man, clarified my estimate of his stupidity, and afterward spoke to him about both his accuracy and his judgment. Even on playing fields, where teammates might have been expected to work together, conflicts arose, frequently among black starters and white reserves. After one skirmish, which was attributed to the antics of a single sullen white, a residue of mutual bitterness fumed until a black student who had endured one taunt too many exploded in violence that led to his expulsion. The challenges that minority students encountered were epitomized for me by one Puerto Rican boy from the Bronx. Since he knew that I was from New York, he thought of me as a kindred spirit, and on occasion we talked about our common locale. Although he never confided in me, I gradually grasped the essence of his predicament. When he arrived in the fall, John was still the streetwise kid, full of ghetto language and gestures. Suddenly, however, he found himself in the WASP, upper-crust prep world, where the sophistication of many students gave them an air of detachment that left John behind. He strove to establish his own version of “cool,” but living amid a conflicting set of values proved difficult, for most white students regarded him as a renegade from a world they had only heard about, and they treated him as an alien presence. During the semester John attempted to assimilate by gradually dropping his street style, but he never reached his goal. He also paid a price back

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home, where his friends looked upon him as a traitor. The tension of existing between two irreconcilable worlds left John at war with himself, and he dropped out. I could mention other students who suffered similar crises, some of which ended tragically, but John was the one I knew best, and I regard his case as archetypal. Two other students (minorities of one, I should call them) warrant mention here. One was a tenth-grader whom I shall refer to as Chris. On the second day of the fall semester, I met his class for the first time, and when I read the roll, he muttered “Here,” then added, “I don’t like English or English teachers.” I had no soothing reply, so I said simply, “I appreciate your honesty.” He must have been anticipating a more violent response, for his face briefly registered surprise. Then he resumed sneering. Over the semester, Chris continued to grumble, but never maliciously, because for some reason he found me funny. Occasionally he muttered a comment that, if sardonic, was nonetheless to the point. He didn’t always bring the book that the rest of the class was reading, but he did complete his assignments, albeit in his own fashion. For instance, on vocabulary exams that required him to use specific words in sentences, his constructions usually involved descriptions of faculty shenanigans: for example, who was sleeping with whom, and who had been discovered drunk and where. The material was both hilarious and revelatory, but I didn’t dare show it to anyone. Still, I gave Chris As because he did use the words correctly. His essays, meanwhile, were spiked with similar allusions, all communicated in a tone that was unerringly ironic and mechanically flawless. Chris and I slowly achieved equilibrium. He never disturbed the group with what I knew might be acid remarks, and I waited patiently after each class to hear what he was thinking. I knew how unhappy he was, but aside from offering a sympathetic ear, I was unsure how to help. At final exam time, Chris must have been determined to be expelled, for in his answer booklet he wrote nothing but the same phrase one hundred times: “Vic Cahn is a spiffy dude.” I gave him a forty so he wouldn’t fail the course, but he probably failed everyone else’s, for he did not return to school. I never knew what to do with Chris. I’ve always tried to maintain the same standards for all my students, so if I allow one to complete an assignment in a particular way, I give everyone else the same option. But my memory of Chris always gives me pause. He was not as gifted academically as some, but he was a unique talent, and nowadays I frequently wonder whether by holding all students to the same rules, I am smothering an extraordinary gift that

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might blossom under a more imaginative hand. Should I have told Chris to forget about the class’s pedestrian work and write me a novel? I don’t know. Even had I known, I’m not sure I would have had the courage to act so independently. What I do believe is that when a student is possessed by creative demons, a teacher ought to try to help release those demons in some constructive form. I never heard of Chris again. I hope he found satisfaction somewhere. The other remarkable student was never in a class of mine, but everyone on campus knew him. Allen was overweight and sloppy, but what truly distinguished him was his unabashed enthusiasm for everything he did and everyone he met. Every book he read was wonderful, every science experiment a joy. All his classes stimulated him, and all his teachers enthralled him. He spoke to me most often about classical music, which he enjoyed by listening to recordings in the library while simultaneously conducting and marching with a total lack of restraint. What was most interesting about Allen was the reaction of the community. While faculty understandably indulged him, and a percentage of his peers thought him a loon, many of the school’s worldly preppies actually accepted him. They understood that they themselves were prisoners of mass opinion, and all of them feared being judged an outsider. Allen, however, lived beyond such considerations, so when others saw him humming and contorting to the music, they smiled benignly. What everyone envied was Allen’s capacity to find happiness within himself. He didn’t need anyone else’s approval, and he didn’t need to impose his values. He knew who he was, and he was delighted to partake of his own company. When I tell my current students about Allen, I add that one of my hopes for them is that they have the good fortune to become as passionate about anything as he was about everything. I have no idea how Allen lives now. I only hope that his happiness remains undiminished. To conclude, I must reveal the most important legacy of my prep school experience, one that unites all these elements. When my students back then succeeded, I felt pride. I took no credit for their achievement, but I liked to think I facilitated their progress. When one of my students flopped, though, I took the matter personally. One reason was that any kind of failure warranted a note of explanation, and I hated writing those. Not only were they time-consuming; they were also a confession of my inadequacy. I had been unable to reach the student in question, and hence I usually felt obligated to evaluate my entire approach to teaching. Should I have been tougher? Would a more rigorous instructor have

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inspired better results? Should I have conferred with a school counselor? How did I go wrong? Even when one of my advisees received a poor grade from another instructor, I felt responsible. Maybe I should have done more than simply sign a program card and offer cheerful greetings. Why was I such a failure? In the dormitory as well, my guilt was unrelenting. When horseplay or a more serious infraction occurred, I felt sure that I had let the perpetrators down. Were I a more formidable presence, I thought, such discord would never have been unleashed. I know that I should not have always reproved myself. Some students have no interest in schoolwork, others are naturally fractious, and I am not so irresistable a personality that with a few words I can alter a life. Nevertheless, I accepted blame. After three decades as a college professor, I still do. When someone fails to submit a paper or bungles an exam, I excoriate myself. When certain written work is inadequate, I wonder whether I have graded inappropriately. When I see students in my class sketching in their notebook or gazing ahead blankly, I assume that I’ve droned on too long, or that the assignment was illconceived, or that my analysis was shallow, or . . . I can conjure an infinite number of ways in which I am inept. On the lighter side, if I’m in an apartment building or hotel, and I hear noise in the hallway, I briefly wonder whether I’m expected to quell the disturbance. These pangs of conscience aside, I hope I have communicated the affection I hold for my prep school days. Why do I retain such sentiment? Surely I made many friends. Yet I also continue to recall the fascinating interplay between students and faculty, so when the mail brings alumni magazines from Mercersburg, Pomfret, and Exeter, I peruse these publications eagerly, wondering how I’d get along today. Do I read with rose-tinted spectacles? Almost certainly. Whatever the explanation, I remain convinced of one truth about myself: no matter how far I go or what I do, a part of me will always remain a prep school teacher.

C H A P T E R

T E N



Confessions of a Closet Jock

You wouldn’t know it to look at me. My face, however immodest I may sound, is obviously that of a bookish soul. I have always been gangly, and when I played ball at camp or school, my coltish lack of coordination was at the very least amusing. I moved with no discernable rhythm, as arms and legs thrashed every which way. In most sports, I had trouble mastering basic skills. I could not, for instance, hit a softball, the source of great frustration. Experts diagnosed a permanent hitch in my swing, so although I might have looked impressive holding the bat, just as the ball reached the plate I would tense, draw myself in, tense once more, and finally bring the bat around. Inevitably the ball would float past me, so I either missed it completely or tapped it harmlessly to the first baseman, who would pick it up with a laugh and step on the bag. Particularly galling was the certainty of this pattern. The first time I came to bat before unsuspecting opponents, my authoritative mannerisms would inspired deference and the cry “Push back the fences.” My second time up, someone would shout “Look sharp.” The third time? “Relax.” Basketball was also a problem. Because I was tall, I was positioned as center, but I could not shoot with any accuracy. More embarrassing, I took layups from my knees. I know that picture sounds inconceivable, but believe me: under the pressure of a game, I shot from the knees. I didn’t mind knocking heads and bodies to fight for a loose ball, but no matter how many rebounds I gathered or shots I blocked, no one was fooled. Those layups were a giveaway.

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I suspect what readers are thinking. Why does this man care about such a deficiency? Lots of people are incompetent athletes. Besides, sports are not the most momentous of human endeavors. Surely this fellow has found more profitable ways to spend his time. Surely he has matured. Well . . . I used to play tennis, but I never took lessons, so my wild swats at the ball were ludicrous. I still play golf, where I drive the ball a long way, but too often it lands on the wrong fairway. But, readers say, these games are too inconsequential to worry about. This man has a career, responsibilities, authority. He’s a grown-up. He’s a professor, for goodness sake. Well . . . When I taught at prep school, I had many opportunities to join my colleagues and coach boys or girls at any level. After classes, other faculty would rush outside, radiant in their athletic togs, and happily blow whistles for hours on end. Yet as I have reported, I avoided these exertions. Naturally everyone assumed that I had no interest in athletics, that I was preoccupied with more artistic matters. But in fact I was devoted to sports. All right, readers mutter. He doesn’t play well, and he doesn’t coach. Does he release his frustrations as a fan? Now we’re on the right track (so to speak). I can waste hours watching game after game. As long as a ball is involved, and somebody is trying to do something with it, and somebody else is trying either to counter the first player or to maneuver the ball more skillfully, I’m happy. When the tension reaches an apex, I pace the floor, shouting commentary and exhausting myself. I also scrutinize box scores and standings. I examine the loss column and upcoming schedules. I study statistics. Such effort has made me a compendium of trivia. During the summer when I was ten years old, I was hauled up before my entire camp and bombarded with questions. Although I bluffed a couple of times, I did know most of the answers. More recently when I have revealed the depths of my knowledge, I inevitably receive an expression of wonder: “You mean YOU actually follow this stuff?” I used to read a slew of sports magazines and tabloids, digesting story after story about the same event. Today I still joyously recount episodes from sports history with an immediacy that suggests I have zipped across the boundaries of time. Okay, readers decide. The guy is obsessive about sports, and he’ll read every paper and see every game he can. Well . . .

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I am seldom a spectator anywhere, for unruly crowds scare me. I have a vision of myself at a ballpark on the occasion of the home team’s winning a championship. At the final out, the mob explodes out of the stands, deliriously trampling bodies, including mine. In idle moments, I worry about abuse from drunken fans. Reality hurts, too. The last few times I attended contests, I felt assaulted from every side, as raucous voices screamed obscenities, while the odors of beer, cigarettes, and marijuana combined to befoul the atmosphere. Okay, readers decide. Now everything’s clear. The guy loves sports, but only from a distance. After all, he does enjoy his privacy. But give him anything to do with sports, anything at all, and he’s hooked. Well . . . Rarely do I seek out stories about the seamier side of competition. I pay little attention to contract squabbles and salaries. I think of athletes as entertainers with short-lived careers, so whatever money they can grab, they should take. I avoid stories about steroids, pill-popping, clubhouse squabbles, racism, or sexism. I understand now, readers scoff. This fellow wants to hide from reality. He wants to drown in fantasy, to recapture those days when athletes were gods, not human beings. An exaggeration, perhaps, but we’re coming close. That’s what sports and games have always been to me: a world of glorious victory, where skill triumphs over incompetence. When I lose at tennis (now table tennis) and golf, I’m reassured because I’m not good. I’m supposed to lose. How often in life can we say the best person won? Certainly the best candidates don’t always win political office. The best movies, plays, and books don’t always win prizes. The best applicants don’t always earn jobs, and the best workers don’t always gain promotion. We all know that irrelevant considerations like money and influence often take precedence over merit. But not in sports. If any of us could hit fifty home runs against major league pitching, we’d be in a starting lineup tomorrow. If we could regularly kick field goals of sixty yards, we could waltz into an NFL camp, demonstrate our prowess, and sign a contract. If we could break par at Pebble Beach, we could sign up for the Q School, and have our chance. If we could run a mile in three minutes and fifty seconds, we could try out for the next Olympics. Results of competition are clear. The basketball team that scores the most points wins. The pole vaulter who soars highest wins. The skier who reaches the bottom of the mountain fastest wins.

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Here is why competitive activities like figure skating and diving are so frustrating: judges hold much too much power. They literally “judge” who’s best, as all absolute criteria vanish, and we are left with art, not sport. I relish the arts, but they are not the same as sports. I admit that certain numbers are open to interpretation. Is fifty goals a season in hockey as impressive a total today as it was decades ago? Maybe, maybe not. But I do know that fifty goals a season is better than thirty, and for that clarity I am grateful. Even better, to make sure the best player wins, sports have rules, standards by which everyone must play. Moreover, to ensure that competitors abide by those rules, officials supervise the contest. Where else in life do we have officials? True, sometimes referees are incompetent or unfair, sometimes players succeed in committing illegalities, and sometimes losers have a legitimate reason to blame officials for a defeat. But even whiners seem to realize that had their team played more competently, one or two blunders by an umpire would have been erased. In a world of uncertainty, where so much of life runs out of control, sports and games are sanctuaries of objectivity, and the purity of statistics is a monument. The experience of competition teaches me even more, though. Occasionally on a golf course, one of several easy ones I play, I am paired with a four- or five-handicapper, and I always enjoy the experience. Watching someone hit drive after drive two hundred and fifty yards down the middle, then chip regularly to within a few feet, and finally sink one putt after another is a pleasure, and during the round I usually reflect that my partner has a legitimate chance in the club championship. Then I realize that despite his skill he is probably not good enough to compete seriously in the city championship, while the winner of that tournament is barely good enough to try for the state championship. The winner there may be able to qualify to compete for a national amateur title, but the winner of that event stands only an infinitesimal chance of becoming a touring pro. Then I reflect on the top twenty of that group, and imagine how far superior they are to the fivehandicapper who leaves me gasping. As I wrote when I recalled my experiences with the violin, there’s talent, and there’s talent. In sports and games, the distinction is clear. To be sure, the invasion of steroids and other artificial aids has tainted certain records. Even so, a shortstop cannot bluff his way to fielding a ground ball, and a tennis player cannot bluff having a first serve. An athlete either achieves excellence or doesn’t.

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But what about athletes as people? They may be champions, but many are selfish, stupid, cruel, and in countless other ways unpleasant. I can’t claim that this state of affairs makes me happy, but more important in my mind is how they conduct themselves as competitors. Some handle the responsibility admirably, while others cannot bear up. Educators sometimes suggest that sports and games build character. Participants know the contrary to be true: that sports and games are much more likely to reveal character. Any competition provides ample opportunity for players to demonstrate honesty, dignity, indeed, quality of all sorts. They can also show the opposite traits. I identify with classy winners. I may not be gifted myself, but vicariously their victories are mine, their skills are mine, and, when I so choose, their style is mine. I know what kind of champion I would like to be, and I do not care which sport I win. Whatever season is at hand, the sport of the day is my sport. In my mind’s eye, I am a figure of dignity, a quiet champion accepting the challenge of a brash newcomer. (I am never the brash newcomer.) I never yell at an official. I never slam my racquet, spear a defenseman, toss my golf club, throw at a batter’s head, or cuff an opposing lineman with a forearm. I never talk trash to an opponent. I never scream obscenities, and I never beat my chest. I never spike a football, and I never, ever dance in the end zone. I never show up an opponent. I accept my triumphs and the resulting plaudits of the crowd with humility. I answer questions from the press honestly, and sign autographs politely. I pay little or no attention to financial compensation. I remain with one team for my entire career. In all ways I quietly earn the respect of teammates, opponents, coaches, reporters, and fans. I am a champion, and I behave in a manner befitting my status. Thus I sit at home, watching contests on television, safe in distance and detachment, reveling in vicarious exultation.

 Four competitive activities, two games and two sports, have loomed large in my life. My history in all four includes learning experiences, so I feel free to share them here.

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From my youngest days, I played chess seriously. I began competing against my brother, who always seemed to maintain an edge. Then I moved to my high school team (yes, we had such a thing), college intermural competition, and sanctioned tournaments. I devoted time to studying books of openings, and I proudly recall one occasion at Columbia College when a more experienced opponent fell into a trap I had prepared. I also won a small round-robin event organized by the United States Chess Federation, for which I was awarded a trophy so large that it might belong to a world champion. Chess thus aroused my competitive instinct, which occasionally ran amok, especially when I played blitz chess at the college club. In this form, each player has five minutes to make all moves, and after each one the player pounds a special clock that starts the opponent’s time. Reactions must be virtually instantaneous, so the clock-slamming grows violent, and the level of play may not be especially keen. Yet the time limit often keeps games going until actual checkmate, for a player with a winning position might not have sufficient seconds remaining on the clock to play every move necessary to achieve victory. The most intriguing aspect of the activity, however, is how captivating it can prove. Back then I had no hesitation about surrendering my hour between classes to play, even to the extent of skipping lunch. One day when I was particularly absorbed, I mentioned that my next class started soon, but that I didn’t mind being late, and I might even cut it so I could continue playing. Fortunately my opponent had the good sense to stop both of our clocks, and send me on my way. Remember, we’re talking about chess. No wonder I have sympathy for students who are attracted to gambling and more harmful attractions. I understand the power of addiction. One other note about chess. My tournament experience frequently demanded that I play four games over one weekend, and each game lasted several hours. The concentration involved is hard to describe, but sitting for the greater part of a day, planning strategy and anticipating counterstrategy, all the while trying to read the face and body language of an opponent who hopes to crush one’s mind and spirit, can be exhausting. By the last afternoon of each event, I was so tired that my range of vision literally could not encompass the entire board, and I was amazed to see my opponents’ pieces swoop across as if from another plane of existence. In my early twenties, I did well enough in one tournament to earn a B rating. Recognizing that I had reached the peak to which a player of my ability could aspire, but which was still several categories below the rank of master, I quit playing seriously.

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The other game that dominated my early years was Monopoly, and about this creation I shall be blunt: I dislike Monopoly. I dislike it intensely. I have always disliked it, even when I played it regularly, and I always shall dislike it. One day I may again find myself at a Monopoly board, and I may very well play once more, but I shall dislike the experience. Intensely. Advocates for the game claim that it is realistic, and maybe that realism is the source of my problem. All I know is that the divisions of property and the intricate system of building houses and hotels provoke realistic attitudes and reactions from competitors. Consider how the game proceeds. First, the three, four, or five players choose tokens to move around the board. Even this process is a pitfall, though, for some participants always have a favorite. They must have the wheelbarrow. Or the hat. Or the thimble. In any case, their insistence inevitably antagonizes the rest of us. Then the money is apportioned, and suddenly all players become secretive. Piles of hundred-dollar bills are tucked away surreptitiously, and within a few seconds everyone forgets that we are hiding play money. People become suspicious of every glance at their hoard, the atmosphere becomes thick with malice, and the game has yet to start. Then the dice are rolled, and all begin to acquire properties. I have yet, however, to see a game where any players are content with their assets. No, all look longingly across the board. Those with cheap places, like Baltic and Connecticut Avenues, bemoan that no matter how many houses or hotels can be erected, the return will be a pittance. Meanwhile those who stumble on expensive squares, like North Carolina Avenue and the infamous Marvin Gardens, complain how much each house costs to build. In short, five minutes in, and everyone is miserable. Soon, however, genuine malevolence surfaces, as players start landing on one another’s real estate. The early penalty fees are harmless, but not the tone in which they are exacted. “Three dollars, please” can sound so rapacious. And with every flip of the dice, requests grow nastier: “Thirteen dollars. Fork it over!” Or a more subtle, but equally vicious “I believe you have four dollars that belongs to me.” At such moments I am ready to toss in my properties, money, and token, and head off to play chess, Scrabble, or Parcheesi. But here is another cruel aspect of Monopoly: the game lasts forever, and escape is impossible. Once we’re in, we’re in until the death. Yet the contest grows only worse. Once all properties are purchased, truly evil tactics abound. For instance, I usually find myself the object of trade offers. Perhaps someone is willing to swap one purple property for an orange

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one, so that both of us will have complete color sets and be eligible to build. Under this pressure, I never know how to proceed, but whatever path I choose, I’m wrong. I am always taken to the cleaners. No matter the color of my properties, they go nowhere. To compound the misery, players outside my deal react as if they have been mugged: “Oh, yeah?” Then they converse only to one another. “I’ll give you St. Charles Place if you’ll give me free rides on all your railroads.” Before long the mutual hatred is unbearable. Some participants start to build ferociously, while others are left rolling the dice to no avail. Meanwhile houses and hotels shoot up, greed multiplies, and reams of money fly back and forth. Fortunes are lost and made amid protests over ill luck, snide innuendoes about illegal alliances, and smacks against the board, as pieces are slammed from square to square. What fun. Eventually one player acquires virtually everything, and the rest are reduced to staggering along with a few pathetic dollars and one or two mortgaged properties. Can we resign? No sir. The leader always exhorts us: “C’mon! You never can tell. I might land on your Waterworks!” Chortle, chortle. After hours of suffering, the game mercifully ends, and all head their separate ways. I suppose the winner is happy, but I can’t say for sure, because I’ve never won a game of Monopoly. That’s right. In all of my life I’ve never won. Some might consider that condition sad. I’ve always judged it a point of honor. Now let’s move to a brighter subject: the two sports I play. I’ve competed at table tennis (or “ping-pong”) ever since I was a boy, especially during summers at camp. Because the activity poses little risk to the participants’ hands, it is popular among musicians, and at the Meadowmount School for Strings, for instance, the tables were in constant use. In that locale I was, as I have indicated, among the weakest instrumentalists, but at ping-pong (forgive this minor boast) I conquered some of the world’s great violinists. In later years at prep school, I played against my students with equal success, but for decades thereafter no facility was available to me. Consequently, when I finally moved into a house, I made sure the cellar had sufficient space for a table, and I’ve been playing consistently ever since. I’m especially fortunate to have a compatible partner, Steven Millhauser, the Pulitzer prize–winning novelist and my colleague in the English Department of Skidmore College. We are ideally matched, for I am a natural attacker, while he is by inclination a defensive specialist. Even better, we enjoy serious competition, and when guests visit to participate, they are often taken aback by our vigorous exertions. Yet even though we both enjoy winning, we prize even more the quality of play. If the competition is close, we’re

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content. In fact, if a point is especially dramatic, the loser is more apt to exclaim how exciting it was. Nonetheless, both of us recognize that we are mere basement players. Good basement players, perhaps, but feeble compared to professionals against whom we would be lucky to gain a point or two. Thus even as we analyze our sessions as if they were Olympic-level contests, a spirit of fun underlies everything. The other sport I play seriously is golf, which I have pursued since I was in college. “Pursued” is definitely the right word, for that little white ball rarely ends up where I intend. Nevertheless, I continue my efforts. The reasons why can perhaps best be explained in the context of table tennis, for the attractions of both activities are almost entirely different. I play table tennis when I want and with whom I want. Golf, on the other hand, demands a far greater allotment of time that is usually spent in the company of strangers. Rarely am I in such a social mood, so for me a day of golf is a major commitment. I believe, however, that the aesthetic qualities of the two games account for the varying pleasures they provide. In table tennis, I am trapped within a limited space and compete against a human opponent. I probe for weaknesses, and strive metaphorically to wound my antagonist, who will then be unable to keep the ball in play. In golf, the real adversary is the course. Nature lies serene in the form of a club, a ball, a fairway, and a green, while traps, woods, and ponds lurk in malevolent repose. When I waver from my appointed task, I am stranded in a void, lost and lonely, with no recourse but to hack helplessly at a pitiless universe. In table tennis, I have little time to think, only to react. If I triumph, I may claim dominance over another human being. If I lose, I lie conquered. In golf, if I hit an errant shot, I can blame neither opponent nor umpire. I must accept responsibility myself, and as I trudge hundreds of yards up the fairway or a couple of feet after an errant putt, I must gather myself and play on, aware that every time a shot is less than ideal, I am at fault. In table tennis, I can recover from a bad shot. A bad game can be forgotten within a successful set. Even a losing set can be put out of mind if I win the match. In golf, every stroke I take is indelible on the card. “Mulligans” are anathema. Every swing is relentlessly added to a total that can only grow as a symbol of my imperfection. In table tennis, I am the warrior, pounding my way to triumph. In golf, I am the hopeless utopian, striving for the perfect swing, the perfect “thwack” against the ball, the perfect round, and the right to walk unencumbered across a world of wide open fairways that stretch before me.

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Which sport do I prefer? I enjoy golf, but I am so far from playing respectably that frustration inevitably leaves me dejected. As for table tennis, give me one day of absolute freedom, and I guarantee that I shall devote a large portion to my favorite game of all time.

 I recognize that some readers may judge my preoccupation with sports and games, both as viewer and participant, to be ridiculous. Some may even accuse me of remaining a perpetual adolescent. I don’t think so, and my reasons why were crystallized in 1973, when I saw the Broadway production of the play The Changing Room by David Storey. Set in the locker room of a British rugby team, this drama received much acclaim for its theatrical qualities. Nevertheless, another disconcerting motif pervaded the reviews: why does any of this action matter? Why do these men run out on a freezing afternoon and let themselves be bloodied and beaten senseless? Why do they insist on playing despite injuries and pain? Why do they revert to childish behavior in the changing room? And above all, why should we care if they devote themselves to such an absurd enterprise as rugby? Another play running in New York at the same time, That Championship Season by Jason Miller, was much more warmly embraced by critics and audiences. The theme of that work is how the triumphs of sport are hollow and corruptive, that boys and men who run around to throw a ball in a basket are ludicrous. In 1973 such sentiments found receptivity in a society where tradition and authority were under assault. I, however, interpreted the two works differently, especially The Changing Room. I understood the team in that play to be a refuge from a cruel, incomprehensible world, where work is carried out in mines and textile mills, where wages provide no more than necessities, where family life is difficult, and where pleasures are few. Even more striking, in the outside world, every player lives and dies alone. But not with the team. On the field (or rugby “pitch”), players face triumph and defeat together. For three hours on a Saturday afternoon they live by a different code, and the outside world cannot intrude. Thus the players punish themselves so that they may experience every bit of joy in their private universe. They also ignore injury, for not to play is to be thrust back into the outside world and its inherent isolation.

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They behave childishly in the changing room: singing obscene songs, trading insults, and flaunting nudity with outrageous impudence, for only there may they have the freedom of spirit prohibited outside. I framed these ideas, quoted very closely here, in an article published June 10, 1973, in the Sunday Arts and Leisure section of the New York Times. For a few days afterward, I received generous responses, but the most remarkable consequence has been that the final two paragraphs of this piece have become part of rugby lore all over the world. Indeed, during the past decades, I have received numerous queries as to whether I am truly “the Victor L. Cahn” who articulated these sentiments. I have also discovered on the Internet that my words have been quoted on rugby websites, and posted in many modern “changing rooms.” Sometimes I am even credited with having written The Changing Room itself. No matter. Here, at long last, is the bulk of those paragraphs. I have added only two words, which I have put in brackets. Since 1973, women’s rugby teams have also flourished, and sometimes my original review is quoted as if those two extra words were part of it. I include them now out of respect to female athletes in this sport and others: These rugby players, with their muddied, cracked bodies, their snapping towels, and their mutual jubilation, are struggling to hold onto a sense of humanity that we in America have lost and are unlikely to regain. They are struggling to retain a few hours of ordered innocence in their lives, and the great pleasure of this innocence is that they may share it with other human beings. An ennobling purity is part of every real team competition. The game may only be to move a ball forward on a dirt field, but the task can be accomplished with an unshackled joy. The men [and women] who play on that rugby field are more alive than too many of us will ever be. The foolish emptiness we think we perceive in their existence is only our own.

I’m not sure I’ve ever written better words. I know I’ve never written any that have had longer and wider impact. Best of all, those words apply to me.

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In my time I’ve bought more than a few suits, and for many years I shopped at one store where the same salesman worked with me. Even if I entered seeking only a shirt and a tie, he would invariably claim that a terrific assortment of items in my size had just arrived. I understood that I was being manipulated, but his manner was irresistable. He also knew my taste, so I’d usually leave with at least one suit, possibly an overcoat, and . . . oh, yes, a couple of shirts and ties. When the store was about to close, I asked my friend whether he had any prospects. “A few,” he said. “In clothing?” “Some.” “But that’s what you know best, right?” He smiled. “Probably, but it doesn’t matter. Remember, Vic, I’m a salesman.” That sentiment relates to me. If I were suddenly told that for the upcoming semester I’d be covering courses in French, algebra, or history, I wouldn’t be especially perturbed. I’d have to prepare new syllabi and review the material, but I’d still feel confident that whatever techniques I’ve applied to teaching vocabulary, grammar, and literature would work just as well in these courses. On the other hand, if my colleagues at college were given the same directive, the vast majority would protest vigorously. To put the matter another way, my profession is teaching.

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My colleagues’ profession is their subject. I do not mean that all professors ignore their teaching. To the contrary, many give it substantial thought and effort. Nonetheless, most are more concerned with conducting research, publishing articles and books, and participating in scholarly meetings. A handful of individuals at Exeter pursued similar interests, but the heart of their academic life remained the classroom. Few college professors would make the same claim. In the fall of 1980, I was living in New York City and working as a freelance book editor. I had completed one project and was in the market for another when I faced one of those unexpected moments that can turn a life upside down. On a Saturday morning in December, my phone rang, and the caller was the chairman of English at Bowdoin College. He explained that a member of the department had just been appointed president of the institution, and someone was needed in January to take over his two courses in dramatic literature. Was I interested? How the people Bowdoin knew of my availability is complicated. Here I’ll explain only that a few faculty had perused my recently published book, Beyond Absurdity: The Plays of Tom Stoppard (an expansion of my doctoral dissertation), and another was aware of my teaching experience at Pomfret and Exeter, as well as my recent departure from the latter. Early the following week, I headed to Brunswick, Maine, another classic New England town, this one thirty miles north of Portland. Bowdoin then had about 1,250 students and a reputation it maintains as one of the strongest liberal arts colleges in the country. I was interviewed by the dean of the faculty, the president-to-be, a faculty group composed of representatives from several disciplines, and the entire English Department, which numbered twelve or so. A few minutes before that last meeting, I was told that members expected a brief presentation from me. No one had mentioned that task before, so I improvised. I talked about my experience teaching drama, and how I approached the subject by considering language, action, character, and theme. My ramblings ended up with Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, and I noted that one aspect of the play I emphasized was the relationship between form and content. Suddenly a voice barked. “Form is content!” I had no idea who had spoken, so I just nodded. Immediately someone else remarked about the nature of dramatic form, then another person mentioned another play, and before I knew what was happening, the discussion was buzzing around the room. After several minutes, attention returned to my

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hope of employment, and thereafter the most salient remark was offered by one listener who hinted not very subtly that I was too concerned with my students. Otherwise, only when talk involved text and theory did the group manifest interest. I was in a new world. Whatever certain individuals at that meeting might have felt, the new term was imminent, so perhaps most people assumed that in four months I could not do irreparable damage to the college. In any case, I was offered a position as visiting assistant professor of English, and in early January packed a couple of suitcases (along with my violin) and settled in a Brunswick motel, where I was given a substantial reduction on the already low off-season rate. At 9:00 on a freezing January morning, I walked into my classroom. I was nervous not because of the size of the class (sixty) or the age of my students (mostly juniors and seniors). Rather I wondered how they would react after having registered for a well-known professor and seeing instead this youthful imposter. I was cheered by the sight of a former student from Pomfret, now a Bowdoin senior, and a moment later by a graduate of Exeter who remembered me and introduced himself. Otherwise all I saw were disgruntled faces, even when I distributed the syllabus. I was wearing my customary three-piece suit, so when I settled on the desk and crossed my legs in what used to be called “Indian style,” I heard a buzz of amusement and relaxed. First we reviewed course readings and requirements. I talked much too fast, but at least I paused to solicit questions. No one had any. As I forced myself to speak slowly, I began what would become my opening ploy for all dramatic literature courses. First I delineated elements of a dramatic situation, such as plot, character, dialogue, and conflict. Then I talked about various dramatic media: stage, film, television, and radio. A few people jotted notes. Maybe they’re accepting me, I said to myself. Next I charged through the social and intellectual forces of the late nineteenth century, when most of the opening plays of the course were written. I mentioned Darwin, Marx, and Freud, simultaneously apologizing for the glibness with which I summarized the influence of each. I grew more impassioned when I described the consequences of World War I, and the scientific, social, political, and intellectual ferment of that time. I tried to relate the tensions of the age to the problems of our own, and as I proceeded, I became aware that I was using every bit of information I could summon.

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Now most people were writing. I cautioned that the first play of the course, Danton’s Death by Büchner, would be a challenge, but a worthwhile one. Then I dismissed the group, and my friends from Pomfret and Exeter waved good-bye. Over the next weeks, the class met on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. We proceeded through several plays, focusing on how language and action reveal character, and how character and plot reveal theme. I spoke with greater energy than I had ever invoked in the small rooms at prep school, for I was determined that everyone from the front row to the back would catch every word. Yet as I bellowed, I never moved off my roost. As a result, my arms constantly waved, and my legs constantly kicked. When I wanted to pause for breath, I asked questions, and gradually students began to answer, then contribute comments and questions of their own. As the number of speakers increased, I searched for any students who looked as if they might raise their hand, and immediately I invited them to participate. The more voices I heard, the more confident I felt. One helpful moment occurred when I was asked by a colleague to announce a series of upcoming lectures at the school. After I did so with a large dollop of irony, one student inquired whether I would be attending any of these events. I replied offhandedly about my intense calendar of commitments, and the group’s laughter inspired me to offer a monologue about my inert social life. The subsequent merriment was considerable, and thereafter the class regularly shared guffaws, mostly at my expense. Yet I was still uncertain whether my instructional efforts were making impact. I was given some indication by a young woman in the back row who never said a word, but who maintained the ingratiating habit of nodding each time one of my remarks clicked with her. I constantly looked her way for reassurance, and when she seemed busy nodding and writing, I was comforted. When she was not so occupied, I wondered what I was doing wrong. During the second month of the semester, the chair of English gave a reception at his home for departmental majors. I was invited, too, and felt obligated to attend. I was perusing the bookcases, as is my wont in such situations, when a member of my modern drama class greeted me. After we talked for a moment, she casually said, “I guess you know that we all love the course.” I truly didn’t. The temperature outside in the Maine winter was twenty-five below; nonetheless, I felt warm, if confused. How could I have been so out of touch? Then I reasoned that I was no longer living in a school dormitory, and therefore not privy to student feelings about me or anything else.

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A couple of weeks later, though, I was the only faculty member invited to a student house for a buffet dinner that included snacks and pieces of fried chicken that my hosts categorized as “Good Colonel.” For a while I was the center of attention, but when other celebrants began to pair off and head upstairs, I took my leave. No one protested. The rest of “Modern Drama” went smoothly. I maintained my stricture about not accepting late papers, and virtually all were submitted on time. One fellow’s came in late because he had stayed up all night with a friend who had overdosed on drugs. In the light of such trauma, I tempered my penalty, and thereafter added to my rule the codicil “except under extraordinary circumstances.” The paper topic was one I had developed at Pomfret: analysis of an unassigned play by a dramatist whose work we had studied. The approach allowed students to build on what the class had covered, but also to pursue their own direction. The essays were strong, but correcting sixty papers was exhausting. Final exams, always much easier to grade, also revealed that my class had mastered the material we had covered, and on that day, at least, could articulate the contributions of numerous playwrights. Such results confirmed for me the course had been effective, and laudatory student evaluations reinforced my satisfaction. One student even wrote that because of me, she had decided to stay in college. I appreciated the sentiment, but was unnerved at how powerful an influence I could be. Meanwhile I received encouragement from colleagues in departments other than English, for word of whatever I had done right had permeated the intimate Bowdoin campus. I do not mean to imply that the school shimmered with my presence. Still, sixty or so students were superb press agents. I even found opportunity to play the violin. When I was told that the faculty included several gifted pianists who gave an annual concert, I wheedled my way in, and gave forth with some solo Bach. Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, I heard little from my colleagues in English, who were cordial but distant. They probably regarded me as temporary help, as well as a prep school interloper. Yet I did not invite much familiarity. Not all of them were distinguished scholars with a vast list of publications, but as I overheard their discussions, I sensed that everyone was familiar with a range of primary and secondary material that to me was but a compilation of names. Yet my embarrassment had a positive consequence. Rather than surrender to feelings of inadequacy, I resolved to overcome them. I became eager to read more, both original works and commentary. I also resolved to write my own ideas about the works I taught.

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At prep school, when my colleagues and I discussed literature, we did so strictly from the perspective of class presentation. I remember one normally jovial fellow who during one meeting became embarrassingly emotional about his inability to make his class feel the intrinsic evil in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Over the years I’ve come to doubt that any college professors would ever become similarly exercised. Instead of worrying about student response, they would debate points of analysis, cite classic and recent criticism, and wrestle with the work in the context of Conrad’s output and the tradition of Western culture. One result of this give-and-take, which occurs throughout my field and all others, is a flood of pretentious palaver. But a more important and beneficial consequence is that serious exchanges of ideas, whether in print or speech, create better scholars. Or, in my case, a better teacher.

 Careful readers will remember that during my first spring at Bowdoin, I was assigned two courses. The second eventually worked out (sort of), but the path was choppy, and as usual, my missteps taught me far more than my successes. The class was a freshman seminar called “The Theater of the Absurd.” The subject was handed to me, but I did select the texts, a series of contemporary plays built around one theme: the meaninglessness of life. The playwrights in question included Beckett, Ionesco, Pinter, and Albee. To provide a traditional context in which absurdist themes loomed, I started with Shakespeare’s King Lear. The course was supposed to give equal emphasis to the development of writing skills. Thus my syllabus indicated that I would require six papers, roughly a thousand words each, as well as occasional rewrites. Here was the extent of my specificity. Trouble. My next blunder was allotting only three sessions of fifty minutes each for Lear. The text is dense, to say the least, and with so little time for discussion I was forced to rush headlong through it. As a result, the chaos of the play was matched by the chaos in my classroom. Then I assigned the first paper with a choice of topics, all of which I explained feebly. Moreover, I provided no suggestions for structure or methods of development. Even worse, I gave the students only one weekend to write,

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while I also assigned another play to be read, Büchner’s Danton’s Death, which I had described to my upper-level drama class as the toughest work of the semester. Well done, Professor Cahn. All papers were submitted on Monday, and I corrected them with prep school efficiency, but I was not pleased. Virtually every one was a mess, so on Wednesday I discussed fundamentals of thesis, paragraph unity, evidence in support of that thesis, and a conclusion. If this summary sounds hasty, my presentation was even more so. Besides, I was desperate to move to analysis of the next play. Yet I also assigned another paper due a week later, as well as rewrites of the Lear piece and, finally, further reading. I hope readers appreciate that with so much work piled upon them, my students could complete none of it with care. Well done, Professor Cahn. Did I do anything right? Yes. I encouraged class members to visit my office so we could review their essays. These conferences were invariably valuable, and remain the basis of all writing courses I have taught since. Then, however, I went too far and reasoned that if review of a single paper helped an individual student, why not let the entire class join the process? The tactic was one I had heard proposed at Exeter, so I assumed it had to work. The result was the most moronic maneuver I have ever pulled in a classroom. My second assignment contained more specific guidelines, including reminders about organizational issues we had considered. One paper showed improvement in these areas, so without asking the author’s permission, I blotted out her name, made copies, and distributed them to the class for analysis, clarifying that the identity of the writer was unimportant. When this student saw that her work was the one to be examined, she looked at me with horror. Then, as the rest of group read her effort, she pretended to do the same. After everyone finished, I began to review what I found admirable about the essay. Unfortunately, I was so preoccupied with mechanics that I had failed to observe that all its ideas had emerged from class discussion. Thus when I asked for opinions, another girl raised her hand. “But this paper doesn’t say anything new. It just repeats what you said.” Several students muttered in assent. If the expression “looked daggers” has any meaning, that was how the author glared at me. For the next few moments, she appeared ready either to cry or punch me in the nose. Meanwhile, I didn’t know how to respond and, as teachers do when they are trapped, I relied on my authority to bluff and bluster. I reaffirmed that the

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paper was well organized, then scrounged through it for scraps of insight. The point had been made, however, and I knew that it was on target. Over the next few days I reflected on my entire career, brief though it was. Had I always worried too much about grammar and structure, and failed to give credit for original thought? Was I so preoccupied with the absence of error that I paid no attention to the presence of ideas? When I recalled original work that my earlier students had completed, I decided that I had not always been the flop I was at this moment. Yet I could also remember assigning papers that were in reality take-home exams, in which students were allowed and even encouraged to rehash concepts covered in class. I don’t want to turn this event into more than it was. Nothing mystical occurred, and I did not nail Ninety-five Theses to the door of Bowdoin’s library. Yet I never again lost sight of the need to balance consideration of the mechanics of writing with appreciation for a student’s insight and creativity. I’m not saying I’ve always judged properly, but I’ve tried. In the meantime, the seminar presented another problem. One bright young man seemed bored, and in that respect he was a reincarnation of Chris from prep school, but without Chris’s charm. This second fellow attended regularly, but sat in the back of the room reading extraneous material, and going out of his way to show his distaste for me and anything I said or did. I weighed demanding that he fall in line, but ultimately I let him alone. Perhaps I was too busy with other concerns. Besides, he did submit all assignments, and his papers were among the few strong ones. At the end of the term, I learned that he had treated his other classes with similar insouciance, and that for most he had not even bothered doing any work. Yet I blamed myself for his alienation. When he left school at the end of the term, I concluded that he did so in disgust with me, Bowdoin, college life, and education, in no particular order. As for the rest of the class, I took time one day to confess before them much of what I have written here, and my honesty brought most students into my corner, even the victim of my paper fiasco (I think). They also probably appreciated the individual attention I continued to provide, and concluding evaluations were generally enthusiastic. During the concluding week of my stint at Bowdoin, I was preparing to leave when the department chair called me into his office and asked whether I was available for the next academic year. If so, could I “bone up” (his words) on a few courses the department wanted to offer? Several of these, as academics might say, lay “outside my areas of expertise.” Nonetheless, the opportunity to stay at Bowdoin was irresistable, and I volunteered. The word

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“visiting” was removed from my title, and I was given what I eventually learned was the heaviest course load of anyone on the faculty: six preparations over two semesters, several covering material that I had never read, let alone taught. Over the summer I moved into an apartment, and for hours a day I studied texts and commentary in preparation for what would be a strenuous couple of terms. Two courses were upper-level lectures: “The Eighteenth-Century English Novel” and “The Victorian Novel.” Each was an adventure of its own. The first had an enrollment of forty-six students, five times what the course traditionally attracted. My reading list comprised ten works by, among others, Defoe, Richardson, Goldsmith, Sterne, Walpole, Godwin, and Austen. A majority of these were new to me in every sense of the word, so despite my summer exertions, I needed serious daily preparation. Thus I regularly set my alarm for 4:00 a.m. to review texts and scribble comments in the margins. I was determined never to teach with my head buried in paper. I survived, but eventually fatigue caught up with me. On the penultimate day of the semester, we were supposed to finish Jane Austen’s Emma, when halfway through the period I put the book on my lap, looked up, and announced, “Folks, I’m Emma’d out. Go home. We’ll finish it next time.” Everyone else must have been exhausted as well, for my confession seemed to surprise no one. One girl, however, did stop by my desk: “I hope you feel better.” I assured her that I was fine, that I just needed to forget about the English novel for the rest of the day. Student evaluations confirmed that the class was satisfied, but I must have underestimated my appeal, for when I returned from winter vacation, I learned that the continuation course had an enrollment of one hundred and twenty, essentially 10 percent of the Bowdoin student body. Ever the showman, I was willing to teach everyone, but the new chairman suddenly invoked a hitherto obsolete rule that limited any English course to no more than forty students. I protested that during the previous two semesters I had taught enrollments exceeding that number, but he was adamant, and arbitrarily slashed eighty names off the roster. This semester included novels by the Brontës, Trollope, Dickens, Eliot, Hardy, and Butler. Again I was teaching unfamiliar works, so once more I regularly awoke before the sun rose to ensure that I supplied myself with commentary sufficient for a ninety-minute lecture. This course, too, proved successful, but the class comprised mostly secondsemester seniors, and their motivation was limited, especially given the massiveness of most works we covered. On certain days I glanced at the students’ newly purchased books and realized that they had not been opened to the

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specified sections. I weighed providing additional stimulation by introducing quizzes, but to change the rules so late seemed unfair. I am under no illusions that many of my students completed the thousands of pages of reading, but over the years I have received letters affirming that this class was one of the most meaningful in my correspondents’ careers. One never knows. Two of my other courses were freshmen seminars, one each in the fall and spring. In “The Art of the Essay,” we analyzed selections from an anthology, and the students composed their own works based on the structure of those models. I spent too much class time in rambling discussion and not enough on writing strategies, but the students’ constant revision led some to improve. “Modern American Drama” met at 8:00 a.m. beginning in January during the arctic-like Maine winter. On those mornings I had been awake since daybreak, so I arrived in a chipper mood. My students, however, usually staggered in semiconscious, and they rarely became chatty. Yet despite the combination of gloomy weather and depressing themes in works by O’Neill, Williams, Miller, and Albee (one of the hazards of teaching modern drama), the group maintained an ingratiating tone. Even more satisfying, most members willingly came to my office for writing conferences, then revised their essays, some as many as three or four times, and the progress I witnessed was palpable. In “Composition,” which I offered in the spring, I tried a drastic stratagem by cancelling one of the two scheduled class meetings per week, and holding instead a half-hour conference with each of the fifteen students. The single group session was devoted to analyzing sample essays and consideration of strategies, as well as review of common errors in grammar and organization. The conferences were given over to close critiques of each student’s most recent paper, as well as rewrites of past efforts. My impression was that class members enjoyed these personal sessions, and also that they were profitable. The downside was that although I spared myself ninety minutes of class time, I took on another eight hours per week in my office. Moreover, the conferences themselves were exhausting, for improvement in writing does not follow one straight line. Students often repeat errors, or correct inadequately and thereby create new problems, or even lose their way entirely, and maintaining balance between legitimate criticism and bolstering wounded egos is never easy. Yet I apparently gained a reputation for adeptness in this area. One afternoon, as I was taking a rare quiet moment, a senior member of the department stopped by my office to explain that one of his students suffered from writing difficulties that the professor had neither time nor patience to cure. Did I have a few spare hours that I might devote to helping “the lad”?

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I stared blankly. This senior professor taught only two courses, both of which enrolled fewer than ten students. Meanwhile I was drowning in preparation and papers. Fortunately the student in question was registered in another class of mine, so with my eye on a permanent position at the college, I consented to my colleague’s request. My sixth course at Bowdoin that year turned out to be the most dramatic: “Afro-American Fiction,” a freshman seminar that the department sought to offer every year. The only member qualified to teach it had been let go, and no one else was willing to take up the challenge. I volunteered, and my willingness was surely a primary reason why I was reappointed. During that same busy summer, I composed a syllabus that included works by Dunbar, Toomer, Hurston, Wright, Ellison, Baldwin, Gaines, and Morrison. I prepared five paper assignments in advance, and on opening day of the fall entered the classroom eager to work. I had no hint of what awaited me. The first day of any class holds a bit of tension, but when I entered this room, I sensed absolute panic. Seventeen students, three of them black, sat in silence. No one looked at anyone else. Expressions around the room communicated one sentiment: “Help!” Remember, we were in Brunswick, Maine, another New England town where the minority population was nonexistent. I greeted everyone with my customary energy, but all I received were nervous grins. I intuited that the white students feared that they might become objects of accusation, while the black students were nervous that they’d be treated as case histories or racial symbols. All right, I decided. Go for broke. After we ran down the roster, and I distributed the syllabus, I asked, “How many people in this room are descended from immigrants to this country?” I lifted my own hand, then saw other hands slowly rise. “Unless we have any Native Americans here,” I continued, “I’m confident that all our ancestors arrived by boat. Am I right?” The members of the class signaled their assent. Finally, everyone in the room was sitting with one hand in the air. I glimpsed a few smiles. My next step was to personalize the situation. I noted that I was white, and that my accent and name probably indicated that I was Jewish. “Therefore how should I define myself? Am I a Jewish American or an American Jew?” I resolved the issue by concluding that because the noun was supreme, I identified myself as the former. After my analysis, members of the class seemed to weigh their own resolution to the question I had posed.

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Then I reread the roll, and as I came to each name, I asked individuals to identify their ethnic origins. Some were delightfully obvious, but each acknowledgement, surprising or not, earned a chuckle or cheer. The tension began to ease, for in any classroom communal laughter suggests a salubrious atmosphere. “Now,” I said. “Let’s remember that not every arrival took place under similar conditions. We’ll be reading about the experience of black people, many of whose ancestors arrived here as slaves.” That last word immediately aroused renewed tension, but I persisted. “All our readings, then, will focus on this group, and how their experience is one aspect of the totality of American history and culture.” I let the concept sink in. Stares from around the room suggested I was proceeding usefully. I had one more gambit to unveil, the riskiest of all. “I must also point out that in this course we’re going to come across some unpleasant words, and they’re going to make us all uncomfortable. They should make us uncomfortable. They’re some of the nastiest words in our language. But some version of them has been applied to every culture, so we’d better get used to them. Let’s start with me first. Anybody know any dirty words to call Jews?” Now the students looked at one another. I had to be kidding, right? “I’m serious, gang. Let me hear whatever you know.” Still, silence. “It’s okay. I promise. I’m asking for them.” Finally one student spoke quietly. “Does ‘Yid’ count?” “Absolutely,” I replied. “Anybody have any more?” Then a stream followed: from “kike” on down. Or up. We moved next to the Irish, the Italians, and the Polish. We covered every group in the class, then those unrepresented in our room. We ended up with the blacks. By the time we finished, we had delineated dozens of the ugliest epithets imaginable, quite a few of which were new to me. (By the way, we didn’t use the euphemism “N-word.” We said “Nigger.”) Yet the class seemed relieved, and suddenly students were talking with one another, trying to recall other racial and ethnic sobriquets that had not been mentioned. Some were so bizarre as to evoke laughter. We never let these words lose their denotations of hatred, but by speaking openly we allowed ourselves to be honest about the psychological destruction inherent in them. Finally we began the formal work of the course. I offered printed excerpts from three African-American writers: Ralph Ellison, W. E. B. DuBois, and

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Ron Karenga. All the passages dealt with matters of identity and assimilation. “Here we are,” I said. “Many of you are away from home for the first time, but still hold certain beliefs and values. They’re going to be challenged. Will you keep any of them? To what extent will you allow other people to change those values?” I dwelled on this point, drawing a parallel between my students and the characters in the literature we were about to read, many of whom were caught between pride in heritage and pressure to assimilate. Everyone understood. We were on our way. I would never claim that the rest of the semester was entirely smooth, but I do believe that no matter how many awkward moments followed, the class never lost that fundamentally good feeling we shared on opening day. As my second year at Bowdoin proceeded, I hoped that my strong teaching and the book on Stoppard might earn me contract renewal and a chance at a tenure-track position. My optimism increased when I was asked to select a schedule for the following year, and in doing so I noted that of the seven students scheduled to write senior theses with the English department, I was faculty advisor for all seven. Nonetheless, my luck ran out. In March the chairman who had eliminated all those students from my “Novel” course suggested that we have lunch, a prospect that I accepted with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner. In truth, he had become one of my stronger supporters, and even wrote a generous letter when I was nominated to become the college’s dean of students (my candidacy was rejected). On this day, however, he explained that other members of the department sought someone with a more mainstream doctoral dissertation. Even so, because of my efforts, I would be granted one more year at Bowdoin. He foresaw a possibility of my staying beyond that time, but he could make no guarantees. I might have protested, but no recourse was open to me. Near the very end of the term, though, the English Department of Skidmore College advertised a three-year, tenure-track position with specialization in drama, for which I applied and was accepted. Yet I was not eager to move from picturesque Brunswick, so when I received the offer, I telephoned the chair of English to see if perchance Bowdoin cared to make a counteroffer. He replied by pondering out loud which of his friends could take my place. Thus reassured that my time in Maine was finite, I headed off to Saratoga Springs, New York, which proved to be much more than picturesque.

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By the way, I later learned that to fill my one slot, Bowdoin appointed three new faculty. I spent only a year and a half there, but the experience was invaluable. I’m glad, however, that I was young at the time, because given the burdens I assumed, I wonder that I survived as well as I did. One last thought. I still teach classes at eight in the morning. I just don’t get up at four to prepare them.

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T W E L V E



A Job for Life

Skidmore is a distinguished liberal arts college with a student population of 2,400. It is located in the famous summer resort that features the country’s oldest racetrack, fountains flowing with celebrated mineral waters, and numerous other attractions. Originally a woman’s undergraduate institution set downtown, Skidmore was by the 1970s coeducational and resettled on a new campus in a north corner of the city. After a period of financial instability, the institution now stands on solid academic, social, and fiscal ground. The essentials of my service are as follows. In the fall of 1982, I joined a particularly amicable English Department of approximately thirty members. I held the rank of assistant professor, and my primary field was dramatic literature. Six years later, with near unanimous support from my colleagues, I received tenure, the brass ring of academic life, which ensured me a permanent position. Game and set. Tenure is customarily complemented by promotion to associate professor, but the department dilly-dallied for a couple of years until I received that second honor. After the minimum of six more years, the department moved with alacrity, and I was promoted to full professor. Game, set, and match. The rest is commentary. Very happy commentary.

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 To recapitulate all the courses I have taught during twenty-six years at Skidmore would be impossible. Instead let me note that during my career in this locale, lessons that I learned elsewhere have been reinforced, so now I apply them with greater understanding. Here goes. I have no classroom attendance policy. I’m aware of who’s present and who’s not, and if someone misses more than two sessions, I make inquiries, but otherwise my students are free to come and go. After all, they are technically adults, privileged to drive, vote, and fight, so I try to treat them as such. I do fuss about lateness, which I take to be a manifestation of rudeness, but again I impose no penalties. I give all my classes frequent and unannounced quizzes. These may seem petty, but they motivate almost everyone to complete the assigned reading, and consequently more members arrive prepared to participate in discussion. Such quizzes, in concert with a short-answer midterm and a final that requires essays, give students ample opportunity to demonstrate knowledge of the course material. In all my upper-level courses in dramatic literature, the twenty-five to thirty students write three papers, which I consider an opportunity for them to use their knowledge and to write critically about the works we study. The first paper is a textual analysis, in which students probe the language of a brief passage to explore how it reflects elements of character and theme throughout the work. The second paper invites study of an entire scene from the perspective of an actor, director, or dramaturge. The essay may be structured as a memo or lecture, as well as in traditional format. This assignment often inspires students to create diagrams with set, lighting, or costume design, and the attention they devote reminds me of my own efforts for the aforementioned Mr. Mishkin. The third paper is a longer piece with a more conventional topic of each student’s choice, and requires research and response to critical sources. I try to evaluate all papers on the basis of clarity and keenness of thought, as well as on felicity of expression. Every paper is preceded weeks before by a preview sheet that explains the assignment. Each sheet includes the following phrase: “LATE PAPERS WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED, except under extraordinary circumstances.” In

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class I emphasize that “extraordinary circumstances” are those in which a student is physically or emotionally incapacitated. Work for other courses is not grounds to claim such debility. Late papers receive an F. I explain to my students that in most respects I am “a peach of a guy,” but I understand that they wish to be treated like adults, and promptness is one of the responsibilities of being an adult. On that rare occasion when a student requests an extension because of illness, family problems, or any other unforeseen contingency, I never request documents from medical or administrative personnel. I accept whatever explanation the student furnishes, and together we decide on an appropriate deadline. Years ago, I realized that I had to trust either every one of my charges or none of them, and I decided to trust everyone. Over the years some students have probably deceived me, but I can live with that knowledge. I try to return all papers by the next class meeting, and the best way to do so is to start correcting as soon as a set is submitted. Thus on my first night with fresh papers, I put a number before me and refuse to stop until I’m finished. During the next morning, and the next afternoon, and the next evening, I establish targets, and I do not stop until I reach them. By the time I’m tired, I have only a few to go. By correcting with such energy, I believe that I do so more astutely and sympathetically. Sometimes I read a paper and acknowledge that when I was a student, I never could have accomplished work of such quality. I also realize that the author is probably far more gifted than I, and at such moments I feel grateful that I do not have to start my career over again. My regular freshman writing course has undergone several transformations. Its most recent incarnation is “The Art of Reading Plays.” The class of fifteen writes five papers on assigned topics. On days when papers are due, I cancel our group meeting, and confer individually with students to review their work. Then they rewrite each paper as many times as they want, each time for a new grade. My colleagues who teach similar courses divide their own classes into groups of three or four to critique the students’ writing. I prefer to work oneon-one, where I can speak openly, and where students feel free to challenge any of my judgments and ask any questions they want, no matter how outlandish or personal. During our sessions, I remind students that in the act of putting words on a page, we clarify our ideas. In other words, we write to learn what we think.

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Therefore revising a thesis after weighing evidence and arriving at a conclusion is perfectly reasonable. Sometimes these sessions yield tangible results, as my students’ writing acquires organization, crispness, and elegance. Sometimes students resist all counsel, I see no improvement, and I brood over whether my efforts make any difference whatsoever. Now back to classes in general. Sometimes I walk in so replete with material that I spend the hour and a half stumbling over my own thoughts, and leave everyone utterly dazed. Sometimes I walk in uncertain whether I’ll find anything useful to say, but then one unanticipated comment sends the class soaring. I always try to solicit student contributions, and I try as well to react to each comment or question, even when it is hopelessly off the mark. I also try to remember who said what and when, and sometimes I offer such recollections weeks afterward. After a particularly insightful contribution, I often alert the class, then ask the speaker to repeat the remark. Sometimes my students carry the discussion themselves, batting ideas back and forth, challenging and answering one another respectfully. Under such circumstances I feel absurdly gratified that they have the desire and confidence to debate among themselves without fear of deprecation. Sometimes students slip a familiar four-letter obscenity into their comments. I know such language has become commonplace in society, but to my mind it reflects slovenly thought, so I suggest that in an English class we should try to elevate the level of discourse. When one student rambles or speaks too often, the group may grow restless. Then I recognize that I must exert jurisdiction, but I still don’t like doing so. To lead without throttling opinion, but also without allowing pointless verbosity: there is the proverbial fine line. I still talk too much and too fast. At the end of every semester, I remind all my students that through no fault of their own, they have too little time to complete too many assignments. How they manage that time, however, is the most accurate measure of how much they have learned. If they remain in control, if they put forth the best effort they reasonably can and submit their work on time, then the grade is secondary. No matter what career they follow, such self-discipline will serve them well. If, on the other hand, they are so disorganized that they neglect to sleep for three days in order to complete their tasks, then they have failed, no matter what their grades turn out to be.

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I regularly remind students that a grade on a paper is one person’s very fallible opinion. I believe I am a fair grader. Yet one consequence of all the written work I require is that my students have many chances to demonstrate achievement and thereby earn high grades. I have no problem awarding such grades if they are deserved. I have never understood instructors who delight in giving low marks, which seem to me to be acknowledgment that the teacher’s efforts have failed. I once asked a notoriously low grader if he was a good enough writer to earn an A in his own course. When he sneered, “No way,” I saw little use in continuing the discussion. To criticize a student’s work without providing hope or direction for improvement is among the most destructive actions any teacher can commit. To treat students fairly and respectfully is the noblest action any teacher can perform.

 My syllabi include two novelties that I suspect are unique to my classroom. The first is Puzzle Day, which originated during my prep school days, and which I now give to my Expository Writing courses. This program is a multipage project composed of challenges in trivia and logic that the group completes together. One selection includes inventors whose names have become attached to the product, such as Gillette, who invented the safety razor, or Kellogg, who invented flaked breakfast cereal. We have a section on the real names of celebrities, one on curious facts, such as the best-selling newspapers and magazines, and finally a series of infuriating teasers that require elementary-school math and adult reasoning. This session generally proves to be fun, but it is not without its informative aspects, especially for me. When, for example, I distribute the question sheets, some class members always ask, “Does this count toward our grade?” When I answer in the negative, the questioners put down their pens. These same students may have talked incessantly during the semester, but on this day they either ignore the enterprise or mock it by shouting purposefully stupid answers. They care nothing about acquiring new information or unraveling puzzles. Even more intriguing are those students who may have been quiet all semester, but who on this day become invigorated. They delight in learning facts, and are willing to grapple with a problem until I insist that we move

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on. When such liveliness emerges from unexpected sources, I realize that they have untapped ability, and thereafter I have faith that one day they will bring the same energy to their career, whatever it turns out to be. The other special event also has its roots in prep school. One day at Pomfret, I became aware that students were unfamiliar with some of my cultural references, so I invited a class to my dormitory room and played a few records. I didn’t offer the program again until I arrived at Skidmore, when at the end of an early semester, I found myself with a day to spare. With no other alternative, I played some music for the group, and they clarified how much they enjoyed it. Subsequently I recreated the event in other upper-level sections, until one class, knowing that I played the violin, requested a performance. I complied, and before long Culture Day and my participation in it became fixtures in every course. Nowadays, during the opening meeting of each class, I explain that our penultimate session will be a day of music, “live and recorded.” Most will be classical, I add, and some will be popular, but it will most definitely be “my popular music,” meaning from several decades back. During the session prior to Culture Day, when students are in the midst of preparing their final papers, I remind members that next time they need bring no books, and that they are welcome to invite guests. My only condition is that everyone arrives promptly, because once the door closes, I do not want any interruptions. Besides, our soloist of the day (me) is notoriously temperamental. On Culture Day itself, I distribute a typed program listing all selections. Then I recall the origins of this event and explain that I do not expect everyone to enjoy everything. Rather I hope that all in attendance will see or hear at least one excerpt that will matter to them. If so, the day will be a success. I begin by playing fifteen minutes of Bach. I explain first that violinists usually perform as soloist with piano or orchestra, or as part of a chamber group such as a trio or quartet, or as a member of an orchestra. Bach’s six unaccompanied Sonatas and Partitas, however, all composed in roughly 1720, are for violin alone, and they remain the supreme creations for the instrument, pieces of such depth that they are played by all serious violinists throughout their career. My rendering of a movement or two is usually far short of professional caliber (as readers need not be told), and sometimes I am abashed by my scratches and inaccurate notes, but the performance is usually strong enough to communicate the essence of music that students probably have not heard before. In addition, the sight of an English professor playing the violin a few feet in front of them is sufficiently unusual that few people seem bored. Recently, a member of one class supplemented my

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playing with her own beautiful performance of a rare unaccompanied piece for flute. The next feature is usually a video of a celebrated violinist such as Heifetz, Perlman, or Chang, and I usually follow with a wry remark about the gap in quality between the two artists they have just heard. Next, since almost every class includes some who have studied piano, I include a performance by Horowitz, Rubinstein, Michelangeli, or Argerich. Most of these classical excerpts are eight to ten minutes long, and I try to select ones that show all facets of the instrument. On rare occasions I offer a portion of Wagner’s Ring of the Nibelungen, but only with classes who seem ready for such a daunting work. Whatever selections I choose, I supply commentary before and after. The one constant on every Culture Day, aside from me, is an awardwinning short film about the African-American singer and activist Paul Robeson, in which he performs “Ol’ Man River.” The excerpt also includes clips from newsreels of the day, and thus my students gain some sense of the racial climate in this country sixty years ago. No matter how many times I see this movie, the final moment of Robeson reciting words from Othello always moves me. Indeed, no matter what else I include on the program, Robeson usually packs the greatest wallop. Then I move to some other singers: perhaps Nilsson and Te Kanawa from the classical world, and usually Garland and Sinatra from the popular side. Then we often have a comedy sketch: Abbott and Costello performing “Who’s on First,” or Danny Kaye’s stumbling over “the vessel with the pestle” from The Court Jester. Occasionally I add a serious movie clip: Ronald Colman’s words at the conclusion of A Tale of Two Cities, the final minute of Greta Garbo in Queen Christina, or the denouement of Chaplin’s City Lights. The show concludes with dance: Fred Astaire from any of several movies or the Nicholas Brothers from Stormy Weather. After the last note sounds, I thank everyone for coming. Class dismissed. Occasionally some students recognize a selection or two, but usually almost everything is unfamiliar to almost everyone. Consequently, I am perpetually surprised by what impresses them. For instance, one student was amazed to learn that Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” had not been composed expressly for the movie Apocalypse Now. Another student confessed, “I’d heard of Fred Astaire, but I never saw him dance. He’s really very good.” I also remember one playing of a video featuring Sinatra singing “All the Way.” The recording was made in the 1950s, when he was at the height of

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his powers, and in the middle of the song one girl in the front row turned to her companion and silently mouthed “Wow.” Culture Day has become a familiar phenomenon in my department, so when colleagues see me carrying my violin through the corridor, they know what’s up. Still, even though our celebration seeps into other classrooms and offices, both professors and staff members are remarkably tolerant of the show. Indeed, some report that they stand outside my door and listen. I can’t imagine a higher compliment. More important, word has come to me that my classes relish these events. I’m glad, for I think of them as my way of sharing the rest of my life and giving my students a taste of the arts that they might otherwise never encounter. After all, most of the other sounds to which they listen are sheer cacophony. Whether the official category is hard rock, heavy metal, hip-hop, or any other of the seemingly infinite classifications, in these forms harmony and melody are replaced by amperage. I may sound antediluvian, but I figure that most “rock” sounds scramble listeners’ brains. Human beings simply cannot tolerate such clatter for long before damage is inflicted through diminution of both auditory senses and aesthetic sensibilities. Forgive my bluntness, but I prefer music. So, I have discovered, do my students, at least after they have been exposed to it. For many, Culture Day is the first time they experience works by Schubert, Chopin, or Debussy, and the first time they see and hear a concert pianist or violinist. From time to time, I receive reports that my program inspired listeners to attend a classical concert or try a new CD. That’s good enough for me. Okay, I like to perform, too.

 These special occasions, however, are just that: special occasions. Clearly the bulk of my time at Skidmore has been spent with more standard classroom fare, and although the innumerable classes from my early days now blend together, certain memories remain. For instance, when I arrived at the college, the academic year still included a January term, in which instructors taught one course for two hours a day, several days a week. My customary offering was “The Short Story,” and during each meeting I tried to bring together pieces that shared a common element: an author, an era, a country, or a theme. One day we read a few mysteries, including “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic

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featuring Sherlock Holmes. At the end of the discussion, I held up an LP of a dramatization taken off the radio, and explained that forty years before, here was how children and adults alike were entertained. The recording starred Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, the most famous Holmes and Watson of the movies, and the broadcast was made during World War II, so it included commercials promoting the purchase of war bonds. The most amusing result of the session was how within ten minutes, most pairs of eyes were rolling or closing. Even though we had just analyzed the story, my students were so visually attuned that they could not focus on sound alone. Without pictures, they were lost. I also remember teaching “Masterpieces of British and American Literature” and wondering during one class session whether any professor anywhere had ever taught the poetry of Wordsworth as listlessly as I was at that moment. I presume that in general I spoke accurately about flowers, nature, and other themes, but my heart was never there. I remember teaching a section of “Introduction to Black Literature,” as it was then called, and struggling to maintain order as students argued about the dangers of assimilation, and the need for militancy to counteract such harm. The split was not between black and white; in fact, students of both races stood on either side. Rather, tensions arose because of contrasting views of this country. Had two very bright young men not been sitting on opposites sides of the room, I might have had a fistfight on my hands. I am reminded regularly that my classes and I are often peripheral to my students’ lives. I shall never forget one afternoon when two young women visited my office independently to explain that they would be taking medical leave for rehabilitation: one for alcohol, one for drugs. In between those conversations, another student requested an extension for her paper because several hours earlier she had undergone an abortion. I granted the extension. Some of my colleagues insinuate that they have far deeper insight into the lives of the students. Perhaps they do, but given my own bewilderment, I often wonder how I should proceed. My answer is always the same: the best I can. For decades I have tried to help students with their reading, writing, and thinking. I have tried to instill in them appreciation for great literature, the verities that stand imperishable no matter what forces rage about us. I have also advised them about their academic programs and career choices, and at times I have tried to help them resolve more personal quandaries. In this last area, I suspect that other instructors are better able to commiserate, that students tend to regard me as a benign but distant presence. On the other hand, maybe all the students who

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have sought consolation in my office have more faith in my judgment than I realize. When I reflect on all my experiences at Skidmore, though, the work that has changed my life most profoundly has been teaching and writing about Shakespeare. Before I arrived, I had taught several of the tragedies, a couple of comedies, and one history. Meanwhile, the possibility of mastering the complete oeuvre seemed beyond me. In a sense it was, for the subject of Shakespeare and the commentary about him is beyond measure. Yet whatever I have learned has been enthralling. My formal career with his plays began when the department needed a substitute for the regular Shakespeare authority who had accepted a last-minute offer to spend a semester in England. As a result, I was offered the chance to teach the ten tragedies, of which I had read most, but not all. After serious preparation, I succeeded, even with the two unfamiliar dramas, Titus Andronicus and Timon of Athens. Thus inspired, I offered to take on the department’s other upper-level Shakespeare course on the comedies, histories, and romances. This class, though, did not thrive. The main problem was Shakespeare’s history plays, specifically the sequence known as “The Henriad,” which encompasses Richard II, Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2, and Henry V. I prepared the works themselves, but neglected to study the actual events on which they are based, and to understand how Shakespeare diverged from them. Thus when questions arose, I had no answers, just guesses. My self-consciousness was magnified by the presence of a history major whose specialty was medieval England, the era about which these plays were written. One day, for example, I was asked whether the reign of Henry IV was part of the historical tide known as the War of the Roses. When I answered in the affirmative, my student could not contain himself. “No, it isn’t!” he exclaimed. “The War of the Roses doesn’t come for thirty years yet!” For a few seconds I “humma-hummaed,” trying to articulate that the complications in question formed the background to the War of the Roses. No one was impressed, particularly me. I devoted the subsequent summer to reading English history, and in the fall took on another version of that same course, this one focused exclusively on Shakespeare’s ten history plays. When I walked into my classroom, I was actually looking forward to questions. Any questions at all. Had I to select one course to represent my entire career, this one would be it. The class was gifted, but the members were also willing to read, think, and immerse themselves in the subject as have few groups I have ever taught.

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We lived with the kings: Richard and the Henrys, then Edward, and the next Richard. We came to know the nobles: the Percies, the Yorks, and the Lancasters. We followed the escapades of Talbot, Falstaff, Pistol, Fluellen, and Wolsey. We found ourselves amid bravery and treachery, courage and greed, murder and glory. We discussed power and responsibility as well as divine right and political chicanery. We considered the forces that shook three eras: the one about which Shakespeare wrote, his own era two centuries later, and our own four centuries after that. We drew parallels between Shakespeare’s characters and figures on the modern and contemporary political landscape. I confess that once or twice during the semester I sensed weariness in the room. In the middle of the last session before Thanksgiving vacation, for instance, when we were completing Henry VI, Part 3, I looked at the enervated faces before me and said, “I have a feeling that at this moment no one really cares about what’s going to happen to the Duke of York.” Everyone laughed, and for a couple of moments they released exhaustion in a series of jokes and comments. But they held together, and the class finished in fine form. The following semester, two-thirds of them joined me for Shakespeare’s tragedies. Even with these masterpieces, though, I sometimes forget that listeners have their own priorities. Some years ago, when I was in my early forties, I lectured on King Lear before an alumni audience that included several older women who sat in the first row and seemed to be paying very close attention. At least I reached the climax of my presentation, and concluded with a series of grandiose statements about “the tragic aspects of tragedy that give us the tragedy of the tragic” or something to that end. After I finished and exhaled deeply, the group of a few dozen listeners offered generous applause. I then asked for questions, and one woman in that front group raised her hand. “Professor Cahn, are you married?” As the group laughed, I shrugged. “I’m afraid not.” The woman smiled to her companions. “Now that’s a tragedy.” I never know what matters. Teaching Shakespeare has inspired me to write down my own ideas on the plays. First I put out a collection of ten essays, one on each tragedy. As I taught more and more plays, however, the scope of my ambition widened, and eventually I turned out Shakespeare the Playwright, with detailed readings of each of the thirty-seven plays. I am proud to report that this effort earned a prize. A few years later, I followed with The Plays of Shakespeare: A Thematic Guide. As I hope I’ve communicated, teaching drama is fun, whether the subject is Aeschylus and Sophocles, Ibsen and Chekhov, Miller and Williams, or Beckett and Pinter (about whom I wrote a book called Gender and Power in

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the Plays of Harold Pinter). I enjoy playing every part, imagining how directors and actors might present scenes, and speculating on the ramifications of the characters’ words and actions. Shakespeare, though, is special, because no other artist has written so stirringly about all aspects of our existence. His characters also speak the richest poetry and prose that the human race has ever produced: lyrical, bawdy, noble, ferocious, and eloquent. Each semester I experience these plays anew. The best moment of all, though, occurs at the end of every first day, when I hold up my weathered copy of the complete works and announce that we shall be studying “the greatest book that any one person has ever written.” After such an introduction, how can I not be inspired?

C H A P T E R

T H I R T E E N



A Man of the Theater

Not many people come upon a rewarding new career in midlife, but I’m one of the fortunate few. This second calling has brought me minor acclaim and a little money, but those rewards dwindle when contrasted with the boundless pleasure that my experiences have afforded me, and the countless lessons that they have taught me. As I’ve written, I’ve always enjoyed the theater. When I was very young, I performed happily in plays at school, but I was too reserved to pursue the activity, either within or beyond that setting. I was also probably too absorbed with my futile efforts to master the violin. Even so, I remained a confirmed playgoer. As I have indicated as well, during the summer after my junior year of college, while studying the violin at Meadowmount, I accepted the painful realization that music was unlikely to be my profession, so in desperation I wrote a one-act play. Set in a single room, it dramatized sexual tension between two men and one woman, and as such was a shameless imitation of British playwright Harold Pinter’s oblique dialogue punctuated by pauses. When I returned to school that fall, I asked one of my professors, the distinguished scholar and critic Eric Bentley, to read it. He graciously did so, and suggested that I had a good ear for dialogue. Bolstered by his encouragement, I submitted the script to the supervisor of Columbia’s theater workshop, who recommended that my effort warranted a production for which he selected three actors and a director.

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Rehearsals proved unnerving, since for the first time I heard and watched actors say words that I had written, and perform exertions that I had proposed. My reaction was the same one I still feel whenever a script of mine is brought to life: am I responsible for all this? During the actual performance, which took place before thirty students, I would have preferred to hide under my chair. Yet audience response was kind, and in fact earned commentary that as yet puzzles me. “It seems like the he [me] was trying to recreate the Garden of Eden,” said one observer. “You know: Adam, Eve, and the snake.” “I thought it was more like Sartre’s No Exit,” said another. At first I was impressed with my achievement. Then I decided that my reviewers had no idea what they were talking about, and I’ve been suspicious of critics ever since. I turned out my next substantive effort years later when I was teaching at Pomfret. Two students who knew of my dramatic aspirations asked me to write a script specifically for them, and I obliged with a short play about two prep school teachers. I thought the piece had merit, but after rereading it I understood that I could not allow it to be performed where I was working. Over spring break, with the campus deserted, I remained in my dormitory apartment and tried again, but after a week of strenuous effort I couldn’t come up with anything. I was pondering what excuse I would give my students, when I reflected that both of them were in Florida, probably watching spring training baseball games and commenting on the action. Suddenly I had an idea. Before I took time to outline a plot, the dialogue began to write itself. I had typed three pages when I paused to reflect that my two young characters were no doubt sitting amid a crowd of men in their sixties and seventies. At that moment, lightning really struck. I grasped that all of those old men carried a lifetime’s worth of joys, hopes, and frustrations. In other words, all were far more interesting than either of my students. I started over. Within seconds, and I mean literally seconds, I discovered that my two old men were both from New York City, that one was a Yankee fan, and that the other had rooted for the Brooklyn Dodgers until the team moved to Los Angeles. From there, the conversation flowed, and over a single weekend I completed a one-act script about baseball, dreams, and memory. Somewhere in the middle of my efforts, the title Bottom of the Ninth popped into my mind, and I’ve never found a better one for anything I’ve written.

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When my students read the script, they were delighted, but one of them had to quit the project, so I took his place. Several weeks later I was acting onstage for the first time since fifth grade, and enjoying every moment. Still, I never gave any thought to more appearances, for I was preoccupied with my next job. At Exeter I continued to write plays, and by the time I returned to New York City, I had completed several scripts that I judged to be ready for submission to agents and producers. After too many calls, letters, and meetings to recount, two of my one-act plays were produced Off-Broadway in 1982: Bottom of the Ninth and Sheepskin, the latter about an arrogant English professor, his long-suffering wife, and a female graduate student who gets the best of both of them. Here was my first taste of professional theater, and I found the experience revelatory. I was fascinated to see how skillful actors, under the guidance of a perceptive director, could bring a script to life in ways that I as playwright could not conceive. I also learned what destruction could be wreaked by uncontrolled artistic temperament, and as battles ensued, I was happy to retreat to Bowdoin and teach the English novel. Ultimately the baseball play earned good reviews, while the academic play did not. Nonetheless, I was sufficiently encouraged to keep writing. A couple of years after I arrived at Skidmore, I submitted Bottom of the Ninth to an academic conference on baseball (yes, such things exist) to be held at Cooperstown, New York, near the Baseball Hall of Fame. The script was accepted, and given to two local actors and a director. I attended one early rehearsal, then showed up for the actual performance, which was held in an auditorium at the Hall of Fame itself, a room decorated as if it were a ballpark. The show was well received, a copy of the script was given to the archives, and my reward was a lifetime pass to the Hall. I have yet to use this prize, but I’m determined that one day I shall. During my first decade at Skidmore, I offered several pieces to the college’s excellent theater program, where my works were given readings. The scripts otherwise floated aimlessly, however, until Joan Pendergast, one of my students and coincidentally a graduate of Exeter, requested permission to direct a workshop production of my comedy Romantic Trapezoid. I enthusiastically agreed, and the department approved. Auditions were held in the fall of 1991. I watched incredulously as Joan put the aspirants through a series of what I found to be embarrassing warmups, but no one seemed the slightest bit reluctant to participate. Meanwhile I consoled myself that as the playwright I was absolved from all physical exertions.

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Joan eventually chose a cast that included Keira Naughton, the daughter of Tony-winning actor James Naughton. Both would later be part of my life. I promised Joan that I would provide whatever support she needed, but after I repeatedly interrupted the first couple of rehearsals to note that the actors had missed words, Joan hinted that the process might proceed more efficiently if I occupied myself elsewhere. I did, and the cast finally began to progress. Lesson learned? Playwrights should leave actors alone. However choppy subsequent early rehearsals might have been, performances went well, and I absorbed another truth about theater: before a play can be judged fairly, it needs to breathe before an audience. When that production ended, Joan stopped by my office for a wrap-up. Instead of merely thanking her, however, I handed her another script: a twocharacter, full-length version of Sheepskin, now a dark comedy about that English professor and the graduate student who seeks his approval for her doctoral dissertation. After reading it, Joan suggested that she would enjoy directing it at Caffé Lena, a Saratoga folk-singing landmark that featured a black box theater. “If you want to direct it,” I said, “I want to act in it.” Joan looked at me with astonishment. “You’ll do this?” I must add that the character I was asking to enact was a lecherous scoundrel on the prowl for sex, and some scenes with his student were, shall we say, physical. Therefore after we agreed that I would play the part, Joan and I decided that my working with anyone at the college was out of the question. Undaunted, we held auditions, and a few actresses appeared. One, Carol Max, offered considerable professional experience, an ideal look, and the willingness to work for the fee we had in mind: zero. When rehearsals began, I was an eager participant, but almost immediately I felt at sea. I understood the script, of course, but with people watching, I felt that my every movement, from walking across the stage to making out with Carol, appeared hopelessly awkward. I also couldn’t reproduce line readings I heard in my head. But Carol and Joan showed remarkable forbearance. In retrospect, the main problem was that I had become accustomed to performing “Professor Victor L. Cahn,” my entertaining and good-hearted classroom role, but my character in the play, “Wyatt Randall,” was, to put the matter bluntly, a creep, and despite all the nasty lines I had written, I couldn’t leave Professor Victor behind. Nonetheless, our three performances of the script worked, especially because in that intimate space the audience sat so closely around the playing space. Several colleagues attended, but I think a few were dismayed by my cynical portrait of academic life. Virtually all of them, however, along with

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quite a few students, were unsettled by scenes in which I wore nothing but pajama bottoms and rolled around the floor with Carol. Remember, these people had rarely seen me in any garb less formal than a blue pinstripe suit. When a few days later I passed one student on campus, I asked what she thought of the show. “I was shocked,” she said. “Shocked!” I couldn’t tell whether she was serious. I must admit, though, that I didn’t care. Despite all my initial discomfort, I had a wonderful time. By the next summer, Joan had graduated, but Carol and I rejoined forces to present another of my plays, a thriller called Murder on My Mind. Once more we performed at Caffé Lena, and although the production sold out for three weekends, I still felt myself unable to summon the dark qualities inherent in my character. Never one to hold back, Carol suggested that I gain experience by acting in plays written by somebody other than myself. I knew she was right. I had been aware that theater companies flourished in Saratoga and nearby communities, but I had never scanned audition notices for suitable parts. Now I did, and one evening ended up at tryouts in Stillwater, New York, fifteen miles from Saratoga Springs. The play was Wait Until Dark by Frederick Knott, and the part I wanted was a sadistic murderer named Roat. Fortunately only a small number of actors showed up, but more important, no one in Stillwater knew me, so I didn’t feel hampered by any preconceived image. Here I wasn’t Professor Cahn, just another actor, and given my size and deep voice, plus my generally saturnine expression, I was cast. What I must describe as a turning point in my onstage endeavors came one night during rehearsal of the final scene, when my character is supposed to torment a blind woman hiding a cache of drugs. The line in question was simply “Get up!” two words I had always barked. On this occasion, however, I was inspired to growl them in a low, slow, guttural rasp: “Geettt uuuppp.” As soon as I spoke, I stopped, unnerved at my own venom. Meanwhile the theater became silent. Uh-oh. I had lost “Victor.” From that moment on, I plunged into the part with sadistic delight. I had no idea from where I drew this capacity, but I relished unleashing the devil inside me, and thereafter playing villains became a delectable specialty. Eventually I concluded that because I’m so reserved in real life, I enjoy exploring opposite emotions onstage. The following spring, I was cast in two more plays, including a restaging in Stillwater of Murder on My Mind, now called Poisoned Pawn. At the end

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of one performance, a woman said to me, “I have seen you in three plays this year, and in all three you died. And all three times I was glad.” I thanked her, but she merely turned away in disgust. That same night, a crew member told me, “I saw you at auditions for Wait Until Dark, and I’ve hated you ever since.” He, at least, was smiling. As readers probably can tell, I had caught the bug, and began to audition in theaters all over what’s known as the Capital Region of New York. For a while I appeared in several shows a year, and since rehearsals and performances took place mostly at night, I framed my Skidmore schedule so that I taught all my classes in the morning, then rested each afternoon before heading off for fun. Meanwhile Carol Max and her husband, Peter, boldly started their own theater, which they called Curtain Call. After six years in summer locations, it established a permanent home and ran year-round. From the start, I helped out in a variety of capacities, and began to learn the complications and satisfactions of theater administration. Between Curtain Call and other venues, opportunities to perform were plentiful. Oddly, I was never cast to play the mild fellow I am, because onstage I apparently ooze elegance and arrogance, especially when armed with a British accent. As a result, however, some splendid parts have come my way. One was Tony Wendice, the treacherous husband in Frederick Knott’s Dial M for Murder. Another was Garry Essendine, Noel Coward’s comic, yet touching self-portrait in Present Laughter. I would have welcomed a year-long run in either role. This latter production led to my fleeting participation in musical theater. Folks from the nearby town of Gloversville were casting a production of Cole Porter’s Kiss Me, Kate, and after the company lost a few candidates for the leading male part, someone remembered seeing me in Present Laughter, and called me to audition. Despite my protests that as a bass I could not sing certain notes written for a baritone, the invitation was irresistable, and almost at once I was cast as Fred/Petruchio. The Gloversville players were generous, but much of the part remained as far out of my range as the songs themselves. Even so, to this day I avow that in my red tights I looked absolutely dashing. I succeeded more admirably in my second and last musical part: Colonel Pickering in My Fair Lady. Here, however, a problem of another nature struck. During one sold-out matinee, a tablecloth became trapped under the wheel of a serving cart, and when I followed my director’s orders and tried to roll the contraption into the wings, the dishes on top were pulled to the floor, creating an unbearable din and a pile of smashed china. Fortunately the en-

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semble of housekeepers was onstage singing at the time, and as they finished their selection, they nonchalantly cleaned up my mess. That catastrophe has hardly been my only onstage misfortune. During a production of Laura, a stage version of the well-known movie, I was cast as the streetwise detective (a peculiar choice, to be sure). At my big moment, I was supposed to fire my gun, but one night the weapon jammed, and with amazing aplomb, I leaped over a sofa and disarmed my antagonist with a karate chop. So convincing was my catapult that some in the audience were fooled into believing that such staging was planned. That production, by the way, was marred by constant technical mishaps. Phones didn’t ring when they were supposed to, then did ring when they weren’t. My cigarette lighter rarely worked. A canister that was set to break into fragments after falling several feet to the floor usually remained stubbornly together, so I grew accustomed to ad-libbing “Why did you try to break that jar?” As my acting credits accumulated, my colleagues at Skidmore grew aware of this aspect of my life. Yet few found opportunity to attend any performances. One show that did attract some members of my department was a holiday production of Aladdin and the Magic Lamp, in which I played the wicked sorcerer, goatee and all. I must have done something right, for at the end of each show, when I was blown up, the youthful audience cheered. The cast included students and children of Skidmore personnel, and other acquaintances brought their own offspring. Exactly how menacing I had been was clear after each show, when the cast, still in costume, greeted the audience in the lobby. The rest of the performers were mobbed for autographs, but I was left stranded, because no one wanted to speak to me, except one little girl who demanded to know why I was so “mean.” I explained that I had endured a difficult childhood, but she remained unconvinced, and simply slapped me and moved on. Another parent tried to carry her very young son over to introduce him to me, but the closer they drew, and the more she tried to assure him that I was harmless, the louder the boy screamed. During these confrontations, the theater administrators stood to the side and giggled. Meanwhile my Skidmore colleagues who had witnessed the performance looked at me with wonder: Could this man be the same one who during meetings sits silently in the corner? And who doesn’t even show up for parties? Yes, indeed. Meanwhile, my theater work infiltrated the rest of my life. First, it facilitated my making friends outside academia, for one of the delights of theatrical work is that it unites otherwise disparate individuals. For

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those hours in which we work, the play stands supreme, and we forget about the rest of our lives, but when we’re offstage, everyone learns about everyone else, and for me that experience has been especially valuable. My theatrical ventures have also influenced my teaching. In class, for instance, I often ruminate aloud on what actors, directors, and designers endure in creating a show. True, much of my work has been with amateurs, but I have also collaborated with artists who bring extensive professional backgrounds, and absorbing their know-how has been the equivalent of taking classes. On my course syllabi, I try to add plays in which I have performed, including works by Shakespeare, Pinter, Peter Shaffer, Coward, and A. R. Gurney. Thus I am able to discuss how one particular production came together, and occasionally I even play a recording in which I took part. Meanwhile, in the theater itself, I have become conscious of how my onstage personality alters with different roles. When, for instance, I take on a British accent, my gestures become stylized, and I feel myself walking taller. Whenever I play a villain, my diction grows crisp, the rhythms of my speech tend to slow, and I savor each malevolent moment, as I find reasons to enjoy my evil. None of these reflections will surprise readers who have acted, but the sensations always amuse me, perhaps because I am even more aware of the gap between “Victor” and “Professor Cahn.” As Victor, I was (and am) something of a nerd: amiable, but timid and invariably deficient in repartee. When, however, the classroom curtain rises on Professor Cahn, my sudden volubility amazes me, as does the passion of my retorts and reflections. The result is that even during performances I wonder where Victor leaves off and Professor Cahn begins. Meanwhile I settle on my desk and conduct myself with mannerisms far more exuberant than those permitted by my clenched, real-life posture. I also have no objection to visitors, whether colleagues, parents, or perspective students, and I leave my classroom door open for the amusement and edification of passersby. Yet as soon as a class ends, I revert to Victor, and walk humbly back to my office. As I wrote earlier about “Victor” and his prep school counterpart, “Sir,” this explanation must sound peculiar. Even so, it’s accurate. Acting also helped another creative aspect of my life, for the more parts I played, the more ideas I conceived for works of my own. Not all of them reached final form, but I eventually found myself with several scripts that I judged to be worthy of submission. Over these years, a series of events has spurred my playwriting career. As I have noted, theatrical activity leads to new friendships, and in any walk of life these often bring new contacts. Such has been the pattern for me.

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First I began my association with Theater Voices of Albany, an organization that each year presents several fully staged readings for the public. After my initial participation as an actor, I submitted one script after another, all of which require small casts, and thus have been ideal for the intimate settings in which Theater Voices functions. The group has produced several of what I consider to be “chamber plays,” usually with me taking a leading part. Almost all have been directed by Edward Noel Wilson, who tempers my mania for rewriting with his admirable directorial instincts. He also takes time to reassure the other actors that whatever my antics, the production will resolve happily. This whirlwind of activity has been proven particularly enriching. Ten years ago, Theater Voices produced my Embraceable Me, which two friends found so appealing that they contacted a young New York producer, Rachel Reiner, who put together a developmental production for Off-Broadway. Next, Carol Max of Curtain Call took a rewritten version of Murder on My Mind called Fit to Kill, and staged it in her space. Rachel saw a performance, and was inspired to produce it on Off-Broadway’s Theatre Row. (I’m aware, by the way, that I’m alternating between “theatre” and “theater,” but different companies make their own choice on this question of spelling, and I’m trying to be faithful to everyone.) Along the way, Theater Voices staged my two-person play in letters, Roses in December. When writing this piece, I realized that it was ideal for James Naughton, whom I had met when he visited to see his daughter, Keira, perform in Romantic Trapezoid at Skidmore. Therefore I sent the script to both of them, while my agent sent it independently to Urban Stages, a company in Manhattan, where the producer was sufficiently enthusiastic to contact Mr. Naughton on her own. When everyone joined forces, the play was given a splendid New York City production and received enthusiastic reviews. I arrive now at the climax of both my acting and playwriting careers. In the summer of 2005, I learned that Albany Civic Theater’s first production of the upcoming fall season would be Sherlock Holmes and the West End Horror, an adaptation of a 1975 novel by Nicholas Meyer. The story is set in 1895 in London’s West End, and populated by theatrical personages from that time and place. Holmes has long been my favorite character in fiction. As a boy I read the complete canon, repeatedly watched the film versions, and even met Basil Rathbone, the iconic Holmes of the movies. The place was Carnegie Hall, where my brother and I found ourselves seated next to Mr. Rathbone and his wife. I summoned the courage to articulate admiration for his work, but he

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turned that subject aside, and shifted the conversation to the music of the evening. Both he and his wife were charming, by the way. Lastly, I even resemble the famous Paget illustrations of the great detective. (If the pictures included in this book leave you unconvinced of my claim, then I chose the wrong pictures). I called the director of The West End Horror, whom I knew from his work at Curtain Call, and asked whether the part had been cast. He explained that it remained open, and invited me to audition. I read the script, and noted that it called for Holmes to play the violin, as he does in the original stories. I then attended both nights of auditions, clarifying that in addition to acting, I was ready to play any piece on the violin at any time. Happily, I was cast, and the production turned out to be all I had anticipated, especially when the director suggested that I offer extra solos during the show. When each night I picked up the instrument for the first time, I heard snickers, but when I started to play, those snickers turned to mumbles as the audience tried to decide if I was actually making the sounds that filled the theater. At the end of a most enjoyable three-week run, I didn’t want to let go of the character. I had always speculated about performing what has become a theatrical trend in recent years, a one-person show, and now I had at last found my character. Thus I wrote Sherlock Solo and submitted it to Theater Voices. After brief negotiations, Albany Civic itself became available for performances, and Ed Wilson agreed to direct me. I spent the following summer memorizing the ninety-minute show, and subsequently performed it before small houses in Albany and Saratoga. Response indicated that the script worked, and therefore I sent a sharpened version, along with a video of my effort, to Rachel Reiner, who had recently become managing director of Resonance Ensemble in New York. She enjoyed it, while the company’s artistic director, Eric Parness, agreed that the script fulfilled the company’s mission: to present new theatrical works inspired by classics. In January 2008, the play opened on New York’s Theatre Row under Eric’s sympathetic and intelligent direction and with your beloved author playing Holmes. If any project may be said to unite all the elements of my life, here is the one. It begins with my offering a few lines of solo Bach on the violin. Then with an accent honed after help from a dialect coach, I present the great detective as emerging from retirement to relate a previously undisclosed case featuring a young woman who fascinates him. As I stroll around the stage, much in the manner of a professor, I offer background about Holmes, although much of his

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reminiscence turns out to be applicable to me as well. This material is imaginary, but it is based on details from the original stories, including Holmes’s affection for Shakespeare and acting. Eventually I recreate the new case itself, and I probably need not add that I enact all the characters therein. The play ends with Holmes reflecting wistfully on music and life. For the month-long run of that show, I presented myself as writer, actor, lecturer, and violinist. The project was shamelessly egoistic, but I enjoyed every minute. I must acknowledge that reviews were mixed, for a couple of critics insisted on coming to the first preview, when I was still finding my stage legs, and their evaluations were captious. Several subsequent reviewers, however, extolled my writing, my acting, or both. After several of the performances, I was pleased to greet figures from my past who were generous enough to attend. Among them was that friend from high school I mentioned in the introduction, as well as students and teachers from my prep school years. The most memorable night of all, though, occurred when the house was filled with members of the Baker Street Irregulars, the international Sherlock Holmes society. I worried that they might object to my riff on the subject they venerate so deeply, but they responded with more enthusiasm than I had any right to expect. As of this writing, I am scheduled to perform Sherlock Solo at two more theaters, and perhaps further engagements will come my way. Yet whatever the result of Rachel’s efforts in this area, my reward has already been substantial. As I write these words, I anticipate that Fit to Kill will soon be published, and that Roses in December and several more of my plays will appear in a single volume. I shall be delighted to see them reach print, for then they may live in other productions, including some that take place long after I’m no longer here to enjoy them. Now a few final words about playwriting and acting. In the opening paragraph of this chapter, I indicated that my theatrical experiences have taught me many lessons, and I hope I’ve made those clear. Here I’ll add one more. Some readers will doubtless find it simple, even obvious. Nevertheless, I can’t think of anything more important that I’ve ever learned: Life holds no greater pleasure than working for the sheer joy of doing so. I must also establish one more theme of my existence. From the time I was a child, the most interesting people to me have been artists, both creative and interpretive. I am speaking now of writers and composers, musicians and actors, singers and comedians, conductors and directors. I am fascinated by how

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they harness their talents, overcome personal and professional challenges, and deal with the pressures of struggle, then with success and failure. I recognize that artists are rarely the most congenial or balanced of human beings, and on a personal level some of them are nothing short of monstrous. Nonetheless, I find them endlessly intriguing, and I so enjoy what they do that I indulge virtually all their foibles. Finally, I want to complete the circle of this book by including among this company of artists those of us who teach. This assertion may strike readers as preposterous, but I believe that teaching involves both aspects of the artistic experience. Most people, including my colleagues, would agree that teachers try to be creative, for we shape and present ideas to communicate them as effectively as possible. On the other hand, too many people, again including my colleagues, prefer not to think of teachers as interpretive artists. Yet my lifetime in the classroom has convinced me that performing is essential to what teachers do. Our students are our audience, and depending on their age, react just as any audience would. When they are bored, the youngest scuffle or shout, while the older ones doze or doodle. But when they are entertained, all respond with the same passion exhibited by Shakespeare’s groundlings, who watched and listened while standing before the apron of the Globe stage centuries ago. For me, each class is a production of which I am star and director, and although I know the plot, the script is largely improvised. Keeping my performance fresh is not easy, especially since the audience remains the same for several months, but each show provides new material with which I can work. Whenever I’m backstage at an actual theater, preparing to go on, I pace relentlessly. I’m not worried that I’ll forget my lines (as has happened), or that some other disaster will strike. I’m simply eager to start and do my best. Similarly, before every class, I stroll through the corridors, focusing myself. Again, I’m not fearful that something will go awry. Besides, I have no lines to forget, and even if I do temporarily run out of ideas, my audience usually supplies plenty of their own. In both settings, though, the sensation is identical: I’m ready to take the stage. And whether I’m playing the wicked sorcerer, Sherlock Holmes, or Professor Cahn, my goal is the same: to give the best presentation I can. Often, of course, I fall short, and then I repine over my failure. But soon my innate optimism asserts itself, and at the next opportunity I try again with renewed energy. How lucky I am to have a place in these two worlds.

C H A P T E R

F O U R T E E N



On Being a Teacher

“Good morning. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Victor Cahn.” (Pause.) “In fact, for those of you who do know me, my name is . . .” At this point, I trail off rather than state the obvious. I generally utter these sentences during the first meeting of each of my courses. At the unexpected train of thought, several students laugh, while others puzzle over exactly what my name is. Either way, everyone’s listening. This tableau may be taken as final evidence that over the past decades I’ve become comfortable in front of a classroom. Nevertheless, I can rarely resist indulging in a chronic preoccupation: useless speculation about how my life might have gone in a different direction. I enjoy acting so much that sometimes I wonder what would have happened had I stumbled upon it earlier. Then I acknowledge my obvious deficiencies in looks and talent. Next I remember how all actors endure jobs and people they despise, as well as constant rejection and other vagaries of the business. At last I realize that I was never tough enough to survive. Sometimes I think I should have devoted more time to music. When I was in college, I was told that with serious study I could become a good enough violinist to join a first-class orchestra, but I’ve never envisioned myself satisfied sitting among thirty others all playing the same instrument. I’ve also practiced the piano, and my enjoyment at exploring popular songs from years back makes me regret that I didn’t develop this ability further. Then I reflect on how many people are so much more gifted than I.

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When I taught at Exeter, I wrote editorial pieces for a local newspaper, and during my early days at Skidmore, I continued the practice by contributing a weekly column to the Saratogian, the city’s daily. I chose my own subjects, and therefore opined most often about trends in politics, education, and entertainment. Turning out essays on deadline surely improved my writing, but after more than a year I grew weary of the routine, and turned to larger projects. My colleagues were never enthusiastic about my output, but otherwise I had a loyal readership. Moreover, since my picture accompanied each article, I soon found myself recognized in restaurants and supermarkets, a phenomenon I initially enjoyed, but which soon became unnerving. For instance, I concluded one column by pondering, “Am I the only person who has no interest in the career of Michael Jackson?” A couple of days later, someone yelled at me from across a mall plaza: “I can’t stand Michael Jackson, either!” Before my admirer could take up the issue in greater detail, I escaped the premises. Despite such incidents, I still occasionally wonder whether I should have persisted in my journalistic endeavors by rambling hither and yon in search of new grist for my mill. Then I recall that I do not enjoy traveling, and that I’m not remotely aggressive enough to grapple with the harsh truths of life. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had I worked in television, publishing, or any of the other businesses I have investigated. Then I imagine myself in an office eight hours a day, forty-odd weeks a year, conforming to procedures imposed from on high. I’d have to worry about arbitrary bosses, rival coworkers, and ambitious underlings. True, enduring such trials might have earned me more money, as well as furnished material for additional plays and stories, but I understand that what I prize most in life is autonomy, and no career provides more of that commodity than teaching. I savor running my own classroom, planning my daily schedule, eating where and when I want, and spending vacations how I choose. Quite a few years ago, I heard comedian Danny Kaye say something to the effect that “we all end up doing what we’re supposed to do.” I am a teacher. When I reveal this fact to strangers, such as golfing partners for the day, it usually earns a resounding “ho hum.” Even when I add that I am privileged to call myself “professor,” new acquaintances tend not to probe further. If they learn that I teach English, their standard reaction is “Hey! That was my worst subject! I better watch my grammar.” At this point I usually smile and wait for someone to shift conversational gears. We’ve all heard the apothegm “Those who can, do. Those who cannot, teach.” Like most sayings, this one has a modicum of truth. Yet it also implies

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a sentiment far less valid: that almost anyone can teach, as long as he or she is willing to take on the occasionally petty tasks inherent in keeping young people on the straight and narrow. In other words, we are what some might consider glorified babysitters. College teachers may be granted extra respect for having plumbed into books so deeply as to have amassed great learning, but this scholarship is often seen as serving little practical purpose. Otherwise, people assume that all any instructor needs is the requisite knowledge to solve geometry problems, speak French, or recall names and dates from history. Or, in the case of an English teacher, to read, write, and place commas correctly. Some subjects, like mathematics, the sciences, and Greek and Latin, have an aura about them that leads civilians to suspect that the requisite knowledge is not at all easy to acquire. Nevertheless, whatever the academic subject, the majority of people suppose that once the information and skills are in hand, all a teacher does is . . . well, teach. Oddly, though, most everyone’s experiences include numerous incompetent teachers and only a few outstanding ones. Yet even when this truth is established, few folks deem teaching to be an art that can be mastered. Rather, they regard it as a chore that must be discharged. In addition, most teachers don’t make a great deal of money. True, our compensation includes extended vacations, but we still cannot help matching our incomes against those earned by other professionals who have roughly equivalent educations. For instance, my salary fulfills my comparatively simple needs, but I’m aware that after thirty-five years on the job, I earn less than is made by first-year associates at a quality law firm, who, after they become partners, will take in at least ten times what I make. Of course, they will spend roughly twenty times more hours in their office. Still, whatever our financial recompense, teachers are rarely scorned, for we are supposed to strive for something higher. We are even reputed to be vaguely virtuous. Young people are frequently urged to “respect your teachers,” while certain books, television programs, and community issues are described as vital to “parents and teachers.” In a moment of passion, someone may wax poetic and allude to teachers as “guardians of our future.” Even politicians extol our service, then apologize because local budgets are so tight that funding for our labors must be cut. In sum, we are praised extravagantly and paid tolerably for performing invaluable work that almost anyone can do. We also function largely amid young people: ordering them about, fretting over their problems, and punishing their transgressions. Yet we rarely deal with them as equals. Rather we set directives for them to follow, and when they fail to meet our expectations, we decry the decline in standards.

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As a result, we teachers constantly try to reaffirm our contribution. Followers of most other careers take for granted that their work aids the populace. Doctors, garbage collectors, insurance brokers, and construction workers rarely need to justify themselves, but teachers do. We believe that our efforts matter, but we also believe that we are obliged to explain why. The great irony is that in justifying our importance to others, we reaffirm it to ourselves. We are important because we stand for something. Whatever the forces that bluster outside our classrooms, we believe that certain values, traditions, and verities are worth preserving: Joy in knowledge, for one: not knowledge solely as a path to a job, but knowledge for its own sake and for the enrichment of an individual life. Fairness and decency in dealing with others. Self-discipline to carry out responsibilities as best we can. Freedom of thought and speech. The richness of the human imagination and the potential strength of the human character. We keep these goals in mind throughout our careers, but the moment when they are clearest is the first day of any term, when fresh paraphernalia of all sorts appears: new texts, new pens, new notebooks. Does anything embody academic aspirations better than a new notebook? On this day we may briefly regret that our own work and pleasures must be subordinated to the academic routine. But far more important, I think, is that every opening day is a time of hope. We envision classes that are nothing short of miraculous, in which we present material with such élan that students cannot help but be roused. Our probing questions elicit sparkling insights that zoom from desk to desk. Even those who enter our classrooms surly and resentful will be swept up in the wave of enthusiasm. We understand that not everyone who succeeds with us is guaranteed to triumph afterward. Indeed, some will miss the supportive boundaries and guidelines that our classroom provides. Meanwhile, others who fumble during their time in our company will find fulfillment later on and in another setting. Only after they escape those same boundaries and guidelines will these individuals flourish. Yet even as we accept this awareness, teachers cannot subdue our natural expectations for our students. Nor do we want to. When we meet our classes for the first time, we see potential everywhere. We see the best in everyone. Each year certain hopes from that first day are fulfilled. Each year some students are motivated to work, think, and discover. Each year some acquire

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knowledge and skills, the courage to confront obstacles, and the determination to do their best for themselves and for others. Every one of those stories is dramatic. Every one of those stories matters. And the greatest reward of being a teacher is the knowledge that we have played a part. Here is the pizzazz of a teacher’s life. To be a teacher, then, is to dream. I am a teacher.

C H A P T E R

F I F T E E N



Little Lessons Learned along the Way

My popcorn always runs out before the movie starts. A stupid idea typed into a computer is still a stupid idea. I’m impressed by a man who carries a pocket watch. Few people outside the military know their own blood type. A woman who expresses approval by forming a circle with her thumb and forefinger is bound to be delightful company. I can’t figure out what constitutes an offside in soccer. To understand the forces that shaped the American spirit, read Huckleberry Finn and The Great Gatsby. When a singer distorts the rhythm, lyrics, and melody beyond all recognition, she is awarded the title “song stylist.” The real problem with wire hangers is that my pants slip off. The next time Congress prepares the defense budget, I wish that they’d first watch Dr. Strangelove. The designated hitter violates every principle of baseball. In most religious songs, the music is better than the lyrics. The art of criticism consists not in distinguishing between the good and the bad, but between the good and the great. My slice of watermelon has more seeds than anyone else’s. I never saw a woman who looked good with a handkerchief up her sleeve. The same joke is funnier in Yiddish. The best movie about politics remains The Candidate. I’m embarrassed for adults who dress up to celebrate Halloween.

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Chapter Fifteen

Can anyone appear dignified while waiting to try on a pair of shoes? When I fill up my car with fuel, I worry that I’ll forget to tighten the gas cap. Nothing teaches children less about the value of money than giving them an allowance. I believe the commercial where the family prefers stuffing to potatoes. If I had my way, I’d eliminate all Little League baseball and football, and let the kids play on their own. A mountain is far more attractive without skiers. Few sensations top the cool side of the pillow on a warm night. If basketball players shot from the foul line underhanded, their percentage of success would be much higher, but they’ll never change, because doing so wouldn’t look cool. A checkbook that doesn’t balance keeps me awake at night. The noblest moment in any form of travel is when a train slowly pulls out of the station. On vacations I take along books that I never read, then buy books that I do. The world would be more tranquil if children still played marbles. I wonder about those guys who appear during rainstorms to sell umbrellas. Where do they go when the sun shines? One of the great comic villains was Joe Flynn as Captain Binghamton on the 1960s television series McHale’s Navy. If you asked me real fast, I’d say it was seven years ago. Once I knew how to do logarithms. Now I forget what they’re used for. A luxury of youth is that one’s decisions are reversible. One of life’s trickier tasks is making sure a belt goes through all the loops. I’m reassured when I have a calendar in every room. The discussion is over when someone quotes the Bible as evidence. A retraction in the newspaper does the recipient all the good of a war decoration awarded posthumously. A shrimp cocktail is a waste when a salad follows. I’ve never seen a blond fellow who helped himself by wearing a moustache. It’s impossible for a woman with a deep voice not to sound sexy. Think about the early days of basketball. Think about the person who suggested removing the bottoms of the peach baskets at the end of each court. There was a mind to be reckoned with. The least onerous household task is vacuuming. I assume that doctors who wear a white coat are trying to convince both of us that they’re really in charge.

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The most alluring female character in the history of television is Emma Peel, as played by Diana Rigg on The Avengers. When they lower the lights in a restaurant, I figure they’re trying to hide the food. How many evil schemes have been concocted during silent meditation in church? The only serious rye bread has seeds. I’ve never seen a tattoo that amounted to more than some degree of selfmutilation. Almost all women look good dancing. Almost all men don’t. The only pencils worth carrying are number 2s. No book can be worth the effort demanded by Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake. Ninety percent of all meetings are for show. Anyone who looks attractive in open-toed footwear will look much better in real shoes. Prospective marriage partners should be studied amid their families. Opportunity does not knock. It cowers outside, blending with the scenery. The more ornaments hanging from a car’s rearview mirror, the more incompetent the driver. Rocking chairs aren’t as comfortable as they look, but lounge chairs are. Dips are better at somebody else’s house. The fable about the tortoise and the hare is wishful thinking. Too many events are included in a swim meet. No one will ever convince me that baseball players who catch fly balls with one hand are doing anything but showing off. Why does ice cream taste better in a cone? There’s always one more pin in a new pair of pajamas. Skill learns the rules and obeys them. Talent learns the rules but knows when to break them. Imagination makes new rules. Genius never heard of rules. Watch out for anyone who begins an explanation with “Frankly speaking . . .” or “To be perfectly honest . . .” The one baseball record guaranteed to stand forever is Cy Young’s total of 511 pitching wins. I doubt that anyone has ever done anything as well as Jascha Heifetz played the violin. How extraordinary that people treat graffiti as if it were the work of legitimate artists. Too many poets seem to say as little as possible as deviously as possible. Women are rarely influenced by compliments, but often by indifference.

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Chapter Fifteen

The warmest song of any holiday season is “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” Do any people really believe that they have a lucky number? Progressive jazz never offers a tune I can follow. When I glance at home repair books that purport to explain how to rewire a house or build a porch, I’m convinced that no one is capable of following those directions. The only time to eat garlic bread is with Italian food. When children go astray, everyone blames the parents, but when children succeed, hardly anyone credits the parents. Is a man ever characterized as “vivacious”? Or “pert”? Or “petite”? Or “willowy”? When I see the phrase “choice morsels” on a menu, I assume the portions will be miniscule. Few things are more frustrating than socks that droop moments after I pull them up. We all need someone who may freely call us a fool. “Whirlaway” is the best name ever for a racehorse. “Man O’ War” is second. Opera audiences that interrupt a performance with applause affirm that they have no interest in music, only voices. I’m suspicious of people who go by one name. Out of every ten pistachio nuts, one is spoiled, and one is in a shell that is unopenable. Bridge is a wonderful game. You can play for hours before anyone discovers that you have no idea what you’re doing. The world has many more women whom we judge to be beautiful than men we consider handsome. There are no better seats on a bus. Filet of sole is good, sole meuniere is better, sole almondine is best. I have yet to encounter a dog that offered an insincere wag of its tail. One of life’s great treats is a surprise jelly donut in the middle of the morning. Is anyone interested in what the “dew point” is today? Omelets are best when they’re soft and runny. Pick your sport. Offense earns the headlines, but defense wins the games. Men tend to establish a general principle, and assume that it applies to every situation. Women tend to analyze one specific situation, and assume that its lessons apply universally. A saxophone sounds like a foghorn with keys. “Cracking the books” is a phrase unique to physical education teachers. I struggle to believe that there is such a thing as a male poodle.

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No one has ever described heaven as to make it of more than casual interest. I can’t grasp why a man would buy a three-piece suit in corduroy. I like onion soup, but I’ve never seen anyone gracefully consume that mound of melted cheese in the middle. The boorishness that’s common among current political commentators on television would earn sharp rebukes outside a studio. Folks with elaborately decorated stationary rarely have anything interesting to write. Riding through a car wash is vaguely exhilarating. Most people have too many pictures on their living room walls. The silliest of egotists is the man who believes a woman virtuous because she refuses to go to bed with him. Cross-country skiing seems a lot more fun than the downhill variety. Even when I’m a stranger in town, I’m the guy people ask for directions. I can’t believe that someone can get as clean in a shower as in a bath. Football was more fun when they didn’t pray in the locker room. On the highway, I try to avoid automatic toll booths. I figure I’ll miss the bucket. Anyone who uses a fountain pen these days is downright elegant. Had astronauts not traveled into space, most of them would be pretty dull fellows. In school I took three courses called “social studies.” All they had in common was that in each we studied fjords and tundras. A husband publicly lauding the virtues of his wife is offering propaganda. A wife publicly complimenting her husband is stating fact. Pickles that aren’t sour are worthless. I see little joy in collecting stamps. An essay’s clarity is inversely proportional to the number of footnotes. Nothing robs a sandwich of its taste more than a few slices of lettuce in the middle. Few people know the difference between jelly and jam. Folks who work in their gardens generally seem content. I’ve never encountered a roll of toilet paper that started smoothly. An ugly city is simply ugly. An ugly small town is horrendous. No constellation looks anything like its name. As long as players can foul out of a game, basketball will never quite satisfy. Pigeons don’t seem nearly as dirty as they are. Every time I see the movie The Ten Commandments, the parting of the Red Sea looks less impressive.

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The problem with tissues is that they’re useless after the first sneeze. Homes with porches look inviting. Is there a significant difference between squash and racquetball? Sailors in their dress whites look as if they belong in a musical comedy. Rare is the man who can get away with a vest that doesn’t match his suit. Football in the rain is dull. Football in the snow is hilarious. I’ve never been inspired by a parade. Airline attendants seem to snicker at all the passengers. I’ll think of myself as “old” when I no longer get a kick out of riding an escalator. Desserts never taste as good as I anticipate. The best song from any Gilbert and Sullivan operetta is “Poor Wandering One” from The Pirates of Penzance. If a picture is worth a thousand words, those are the wrong thousand words. Fashion has never had a trend sillier than platform shoes. I’m not a great hockey fan, but the possibility of sudden scores makes overtime periods among the most exciting events in sports. My favorite algebra problems concern the fluctuating prices of candy and the matter of how much we are supposed to buy at each price. When the opportunity presents itself, I usually walk under a ladder. I’ve never met a trombone player who didn’t have a good sense of humor. I love card and coin tricks, but I’m bored by magicians who work with birds. Nobody’s ever written a better short story than Stephen Vincent Benet’s “The Devil and Daniel Webster.” What are weather forecasters talking about when they mention “degree days”? And why do they bother? Female runway models strut as if they intend to overpower us with their beauty. Male models in the same locale saunter as if they want to seem preoccupied with something else. The most stimulating book of the Bible is Ecclesiastes. The hop, skip, and jump strikes me as the most inane of Olympic events. Does anyone care who wins the North-South Bowl? I assume that during the Middle Ages it always rained. I become nervous trying to work my way into a revolving door. Most ideas conceived in the middle of the night turn out to be duds. The most cheerful music is Dixieland jazz. Even the dirges sound happy. Parents who speak of themselves in the third person when talking to their children are preventing the kids from growing up. Every time a police car charges on the highway, I figure it’s after me. The funniest and saddest of all the Muppets is Fozzie Bear.

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Were we to know other nations by only their folk music, we could never dislike another country. Those bawling loudest at the funeral are the least affected. Grading on the curve is the recourse of instructors unable to compose a fair exam. After eating two peppermints, I can’t taste anything. Dull people are always at their best. The bantering in men’s locker rooms is innocent compared to the commentaries in women’s restrooms. I cannot grasp the thinking of parents who bring small children into an elegant restaurant, then dawdle over a fourth cup of coffee while the kids scream and squirm. It’s impossible for a girl with a ponytail not to look cute. To read novelists for their ideas is like hiring lawyers for their honesty. One of the best things about being a child is a box of crayons. The charm of autumn is not only the colors, but also the brevity of the season. No man looks well dressed unless his shoes are shined. The most glorious of all aromas is that of a freshly mowed lawn. You are entitled to your opinion. I am equally entitled to ignore it.

C H A P T E R

S I X T E E N



Curtain

At the end of the day, my life has been devoted to teaching and learning. At the end of the year, my efforts conclude at graduation. What a strange experience that occasion is. It leaves me, and most faculty, I think, lost in reflection. All year long we see ourselves as the hub of school life. We order the texts and assign the readings, we correct the essays and exams, and we hold forth regularly before collocations of students. We like to think that our standards determine the quality of the academic environment, and that our enthusiasm stimulates the level of intellectual energy. Students work to satisfy us, then await our evaluations. On commencement day, though, we drift to the side. True, we are adorned in academic regalia that create a dazzling collage of color. We may even receive generous applause as we march to our seats. Nonetheless, we know that we’re essentially decoration, because our job is complete. We’ve given students whatever we have, and all that remains for us is to watch them exult in triumph, then share handshakes and hugs. Many of them know that they will never sit in another class or take another test, and they are delighted to begin jobs that will at last mark them as “grown-ups.” Their sentiments will be especially vivid when one speaker proudly reminds everyone within earshot that “commencement” means “beginning.” At the same time, more sensitive graduates will recognize that this occasion signifies an end as well: they are leaving behind school desks, chalkboards,

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exam books, and other trappings of institutional life. That regimen may have imposed restriction, but it also provided stability. Now along with the freedom of adulthood comes responsibility. Thus as students pack bags, close dorm rooms, exit buildings, and stroll along familiar paths for the final time, as they say good-bye to friends and drive from campus, the “foreverness” of the day is powerful. No matter how difficult their school years may have been, and no matter how eager graduates are to start a new phase of life, mortality looms. To borrow from the great novelist George Eliot, “In every parting there is an image of death.” What about parents? Their delight in their children’s accomplishments is augmented by relief that the burden of paying bills has ended. Yet they, too, have regrets, for they must acknowledge that as their children have matured, so they themselves have aged. As they rush forward to videotape their child receiving a diploma, they cannot but reflect on how twenty or more years of such films have now concluded. How do we teachers feel? Discomfited, to an extent. I always feel students looking at us, as if to say, “We’re going out into the world now. How about you?” Perhaps that’s why some of us regard spring with so little enthusiasm. Naturally we’re happy to see temperatures rise, while leaves and flowers blossom, and we certainly anticipate our upcoming weeks of holiday. But for everyone else, spring is the beginning of the year. For us, it’s nearly the end, another cycle rounding out. As long as we’re in the dead of winter, everything is fine. Time stands still. But when the snow melts and nature comes to life, we realize that another class will soon leave, and we are older. Everyone is conscious of age, but teachers’ lives extend so clearly. They have a predictability, an inevitable winding down. We know what’s coming, and each commencement is another signpost. Some of us take comfort in that knowledge. We relish the certainty and order. Yet at the same time, commencement represents a finality that is almost singular to academic life. The students who leave us that day are not departing temporarily. Unlike the rest of our acquaintances, who will meander in and out of our lives, we shall never see most of these graduates again, and if we are honest, we acknowledge that their faces will grow fuzzy in our memories. On the other hand, we wonder if they will also forget us. Soon we may seem as distant to them as many of our own teachers appear to us. The great concepts we have declaimed will fade with the first fall, while the details will disappear even faster. Still, we hope we might be remembered: perhaps by a little joke or an idiosyncratic phrase or gesture, a difficult question or a unique approach to a sub-

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ject, a casual piece of advice or a singular scheme for organizing a research paper. Ultimately, though, we hope we impart more fundamental values: a spirit of inquiry, an appreciation of quality, a sense of proportion, a sense of humor, a sense of justice. If our students leave with these, aware of them or not, we are content. A few students will revisit and tell how much we meant to them, and at their words and the memories they invoke, we shall glow and talk over old times. The rest of our students will always be part of us, but they will never tell how much we are part of them. What we gave and what they pass to others, we shall never know. At graduation we always wonder.



About the Author

Born in New York City, Victor L. Cahn received his A.B. from Columbia College and his M.A. and Ph.D. from New York University. He has taught at Mercersburg Academy, Pomfret School, Phillips Exeter Academy, Bowdoin College, and Skidmore College, where he is currently professor of English, and teaches courses in Shakespeare, modern drama, and the history of drama. He has written several books, including Shakespeare the Playwright: A Companion to the Complete Tragedies, Histories, Comedies, and Romances (named an Outstanding Academic Book by Choice); The Plays of Shakespeare: A Thematic Guide; Beyond Absurdity: The Plays of Tom Stoppard; and Gender and Power in the Plays of Harold Pinter. His articles and reviews have appeared in such diverse publications as Modern Drama, the Literary Review, the Chronicle of Higher Education, the New York Times, and Variety. Dr. Cahn is the author of numerous plays, several of which have been produced Off-Broadway: Sherlock Solo (a one-man show that he performed), Roses in December, Fit to Kill, Embraceable Me, and Sheepskin/Bottom of the Ninth. Eight of his scripts will be published in “Roses in December” and Other Plays. Fit to Kill has been published by Samuel French, Inc.

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