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Remembering President Bragdon I just read your piece on Paul Bragdon [Reed President 1971–88], and want to thank you for it. As a freshman in the fall of 1974, I had, of course, not the least notion of the perilous straits that Reed was steering through. I did have, however, an awareness of Bragdon. Tall, with Paul Newman–esque good looks, calm, genial, and nearly always smiling, he was very present on campus without being in any way obtrusive. In later years, as I learned more about the man, I simply thought of him as the man who saved Reed College. And that is how I have referred to him for many years now. When my current students become aware of my own long connection with the school, they are often curious and amused at my responses to their inevitable queries about “Old Reed.” I tell them that my student days were marked by a certain vigorous intellectual scrappiness; a feeling of “Here we all are, come hell or high water, out to get an education, damn it!” Being at Reed back then had an edginess and excitement. This was perhaps a sign of those times, but probably also a response to being at a school we students did not even know was teetering. And though I admit to missing some of those qualities in present-day Reed, I am still grateful to Bragdon for directing the school onto safer and sounder footing. John Vergin ’78 Portland When I arrived at Reed as a transfer student in 1983, I quickly became friends with Florence Lehman ’41, who was then the director of alumni relations. She knew I was spending Thanksgiving on campus and invited me to her house for dinner.
She didn’t mention who else was going to be there, so I was surprised when I arrived to see Paul and Nancy Bragdon among the assembled. I had seen Paul on campus, but had never spoken with him, and I assumed the dinner would end up being stiff and formal. But Paul didn’t roll like that. When I mentioned that I was from New York, he told stories of his time at the mayor’s office and the blackout of 1965. Paul sat in a rocking chair, a drink in his hand, and was so relaxed and engaging that I forgot he was a college president. Over my years at Reed, Bragdon always said hello when we crossed paths. When I passed through the registrar’s office during the thesis parade, he had a big smile and handshake for me. When I worked in the admissions office after graduation, we talked shop on more than a few occasions. He remained personable and accessible despite all the troubles on campus during those years. Ken Belson ’87 New York City Never had a lot of contact with President Bragdon, but he definitely had a sense of humor. I had to make an appointment with him my senior year when I was applying to law school to see how high I could aim. I wore my best tie (my only tie, if truth be told), ironed my nicest pair of jeans, and even wiped the dust off my Frye boots. He welcomed me into his office, opened my file, looked at it, smiled, and said, “You can apply anywhere you want.” Still wouldn’t tell me my actual grades, but getting into Berkeley Law was good enough for me. Norm Vance ’74 Berkeley, California
“Howl” at Reed I was one of a small group of Reed students (plus a few friends of Gary Snyder ’51 from his time at Reed) who attended the 1956 reading of “Howl” that was described in the Reed Magazine. The only other fellow student that I can remember from that event was Art Stone ’60, a math major with wide cultural interests. My memory is that Gary Snyder also read from his recent work, but I may be confusing that with a later event at Reed.
President Bragdon, “the man who saved Reed College.”
There was also a rowdy party afterwards at an off-campus apartment (on Southeast Powell Blvd., if I recall correctly). I am sure I accurately recall holding a working mss. of “Howl” in my hands, and noticing that some of the more daring language (judged by the standards of that era) had been written in with pencil on the original typescript. Students with cars were a rarity then. I wonder how I got there and back from the Reed campus? A few weeks, perhaps a month, later, I was sitting on a grassy knoll behind the Greyhound bus station in San Francisco during spring vacation. Looking up, I recognized Allen Ginsberg, who was on his lunch break from his job humping baggage at the station. I walked up to him. “Allen Ginsberg? The poet?” This must have been one of his first experiences of public celebrity. He was clearly pleased. We talked briefly. As in several chance encounters over the years in various venues, Ginsberg was cordial and modest. William Bernhardt ’60 Staten Island, New York
Reed Magazine december 2021
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