Volume 16 - Issue 2

ourna October 21, 1983

Inside: John Knowles' Newest Novel Winks in South Africa The One-man Ministry of Parson Paul

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Publisher Hilary Callahan• Editor-in-Chief W. Hampton Sides Dtr~~ner Tom McQuillen Photography Editor Christine Ryan Busintss Managers Robert Moore Peter Phleger• Mana~in~ Editors Jim Lowe Morris Panner Associatt Business Managers Katit· Krl·ssmann Vanessa Sciarra Maril}nn Sagt>r

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Excellence

in Continental Italian Dining and in our

Bistro Eduardo Light Continental Dining Nightly Entertainment on weekends

A rrocialt Editorr Paul Hofheinz Tina Kelley Mike Otsuka

Laura Pappano K atherine Scobey

Anociate Production Managers Lauren Rabin T ony Reese Christianna Williams Sta.ff Jim Ayer Larry Goon Anne Applebaum Sally Sloan J oyce Banerjee Amy Stevens Dave Hanson Corinne Tobin Eduardo Cruz Lelia Wardwell Darren Gersh Lisa Yun Nicholas Christakis• Extcutil!t Board Hilary Callahan Paul Hofheinz Jim Lowe Tom McQuillen Robert Moore

Morris Panner Peter Phlcgcr• Christine R yan H ampton S ides

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(Volume 16, Number 2) The New Joumal is published six times du ring the school year b y the New Journal at Yale, Inc., Post Office Box 3-.32 Yale Station, New Haven, CT 06520. Copyri ght 1983 by the New J ournal at Yale, Inc. All rights reserved . Reproduction eith er in whole or in pan without written permission of the publisher and editor-in-chief is prohibited. Th is magazine is published by Yale College students, and Yale University is not responsible for its contents.

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Cover ~~~ T om M cQuillen

TheNewJournal Features Tina Kelley

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October 21, 1983 Volume 16 Number two

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The One-m an Ministry of Pa rson Paul A crusade against AIDS in New H aven.

Peggy Ede rsheim

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The Yale Entrepreneurs Free enterprise comes of age on campus.

Anne Applebaum

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Life and D eath a t the Grove Street C emete ry Tales of an old New England graveyard: An October story.

Interview Kathleen Cleaver

26

Apartheid in Black and White R obin Winks discusses his summer in South Africa.

Books Paul Holheinz

34

A Separate Peace at Yale John Knowles looks back, again.

Mnnim-sand Dir~clors: Henry C. Chau ncey, J r. • Peter B. Cooper • Andy Court• • Brooks Ke lley • Peter Neill • Miche lle Press • T homas Strong 8odrd Of Advisors: J ohn Hersey • Roger Kirwood • Elizabeth Tate FrinuJ.s: Anson M . Beard, Jr. t • Edward B .

Bennett, Jr. • Blaire Ben nett • Jonathan M .

Clark • Louise F . Cooper • James W. Cooper • Peter B. Cooper t • Je rry and R ae Court • Geoffrey Fried • She rwin Goldman • Brooks k elley • Andrew J . Kuzneski, J r . • Lewis E .

Lehrman • E . Nobles Lowe • Peter Neill • Fairfa>c C . R andall t • Nicholas X . Rizopoulos • Dick and Debbie Sears t • R ichard Shields • Thomas Strong f • Alex and Betsy Torello • Allen a nd Sarah Wardwell • Daniel Yergin

t Aou givm a s«tJnd time ··~kckdJune 5, 1983

4

Letters

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Between the Vines

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NewsJoumal

38

Afterthought

Letters

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TheNew.Ioumal

J onathan Bogan Scott Fletcher Andrea Fribuab Mincly Kotler llob Lindemann Gloria Loc:ke

Mi.dulel Manland Sally McKee Seth Mopen Betsy Nix Steve lle~1v

Judith A. Schift' Jlwisht Smith Alex and Betsy Torello Ed Vilp AmyWeil Katie Winter

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More than Money To the Editor: Though genuinely intrigued by your point of v iew in "Troubadors, Inc.: The W h iffenpoofs of 75 ," I wish to contest several aspects of the art ide in the h ope of contributing to a broader evaluation of the nature of the grQup. First of a ll your presentation of the size and composition of our annual budget (th e numbers for which you attribute in quotation to me) is incorrect.

G iven that our group ('83) performed over 200 times during the year, had we averaged S 1000 a concert and had private donors supplied us with an addition al "six figures," our revenues would have been well over $300,000 for the ·year. In fact our budget was well under $90,000, and only $10,000 of that was the result of private donations. Record sales made up another $ 15,000.

Secondly I contest the dramatic importance you place on 'the group's being an incorporated non-profit entity.

This step was initiated by the 1982 group to insure that the WhifTenpoofs' income was appropriately earned and spent in th e eyes of the IRS. Having been a Whiff business manager whose obsession it was to always keep us out of the red, no one should have taken our "business" more seriously than I, and that is why I am so troubled in gene ral by the tone of your anicle. I feel that your misleading portrayal of both the numbers involved and of our incorporation causes one to lose sight of wh at I perceive to be the real nature of the group.

Having been in existence now for 75 years, the WhifTenpoofs have gained a reputation which in turn means the group is sought out very often. But I don't think we're the "lingering anachronism" you would make us. The mere fact that there are so many other very business-like singing groups on campus doing the same kind of thing we're doing is proof enough that our style and our music are a contemporary reality.

S incerely, R ob Carter '83 Whiffenpoofs

4- T h e New J ournal/October 2 1, 1983

Clarification · To the Editor: I note that the lead article in the September 9, 1983, issue of The New journal contains the allegation that a letter wr itten by me on behalf of th e Whiffenpoofs of 1983 was "forged." I would like to assure all those concerned that I did indeed write the letter in question, and no forgery of any kind was involved. In addition, the secretary responsible for forward ing the letter had at that time the initials R.M.C. With best wishes, Sincerely yours, A. Bartlett Giamatti Editor's note: Business Manager Rob Carter still claims he wrote the letter in question. H e says he showed it to Giamatti for his signature and approval bifore it appeared in the ·Whijfenpoof 74th anniversary album.

Humanism's Reprise To the Editor: Mike Otsuka's article "Beneath The Liberal Facade" is a sad example of the extremist rhetoric that preoccupies those on both enos of Yale's political spectrum. He states that "it will still require a fair amount of ingenuity for thoughtful liberals to preserve their ideology and the sincerity of their beliefs while at Yale." It may come as a surprise to Mr. Otsuka that not everyone has a fixed conception of the world before arriving at Yale. Some of us are searching for and exploring ideas rather than trying to preserve intact some ideology miraculously handed down from the mount.

Mr. Otsuka ·l!mbarrasses himself when he generalizes that "in the classrooms, the Old World overshadows the New World and the Third World." His Blue Book is either missing a few h u ndred pages, or he is consciously denigrating professors like Morgan and Spence and the countless cou rses dealing with the New and Third Worlds. H e continues that "much of what is considered worth teaching and remembering was produced decades or centuries ago on a small plot of land which extends from G reece to France and north to Britain." You're dam n

right it is! Understanding that small plot - Western civilization- is the key to understan ding tht> modern world, New a nd Third Worlds included . To deny the importance and re levance in 1983 of European culture a n d history may be chic with Mr. Otsuka's friends , but it is a rather narrow and ignorant viewpoint.

The fin a l idea I must dispute is Mr. Otsuka's assert ion that we are "indulging" ourselves in a liberal arts education "at a sign ificant cost to society."

Obviously he missed a few crucial Econ 11 5 lectures on cost-be nefit analysis. Although not easily quantified , the benefits of turning over to society every year more than 1,200 well-trained minds, each with about 60 good years o f u sc left, is a priceless legacy to the future.

Sincerel y, Lisa CrC:an Calhoun 'R5

Artistic Radicalism To the Editor: While reading "Beneath the Liberal Facade," (TN.f, September 9, 1983) I was struck by one major omission Mike Otsuka made in his attempt to define Yale as a purely conservative institution . Any reference to the fin e a rts as a radicalizing innuem·c on culture was glaringly absent. Beyond politics, b eyond accusations o f eli tism, the university h as always p romoted fn:t·dom o f expression in music, 1n art, 10 literature.

To ignore the impa< t of <reat ive renegades (the arti<>t i< mavericks who cuatt fads and tre nds, instead of passive ly following tht.•m) I S to misunderstand the -.cry nature of society.

Yale as an institution bu ilds character, g room s leaders- <tnd the leaders in art , musi< and lite rature are those who da rt> to be different, those who stand apart from the crowd. Our university h ac; never em·ouragcd conformit y. Rather it is internal pressure, a psychological fear of n.· jection, that breeds conformist behavior. That , to me, is true consl·rvatism -a compulsive need to cling to the p ast, a fear of change . Viewed in this respect, Yale

is one of the most radical places on earth.

Sincerely, Bird Brenner '82 Rock Springs, Wyoming

Vapid Propaganda To the Erlitor: Laura Pappano's "Beasts of Burde n" (TN] 9/9/83) typifies the unquestioning approach of mainstream journalism to the thorny issues- scientific, moral and political- that atten d animal experimentation. As such, it stands as a vapid propaganda piece that trumpets the value of animal models to medical researc h and fosters the myth of researcher concern for the pain and d eath of the animals in question.

Regarding the value o f animal models, we must n ot assume their use has been an unqualified benefit to humankind. After all , we have been plagued by the horrors of thalidomide, DES, TRIS , Deproprovera and dioxin, to name only a few , precisely because their manufac turers were able to show safety in animal models. Since humans are not dogs or cats or rabbits, the tests on these animals weren't in truth applicable to the human condition. T he fallibility can also cut the other way: If for example the use o f pen icillin h ad to depend on animal tests to be p roven safe a n d effective , penicillin would never have entered the market, for it is toxic to the prime species of test animals.

Is there an alternative? Non-animal tests such as computer and mathematical models of biological systems and human cell and/or tissue cultures offer a sensible one in many cases, as they do not require data derived from o n e species to be applied to another.

Take Outs: 777-8010 ofxnmon · <al 7a .m -llp.m. wn Ram · II p m

Sincerely, Bill M annetti Animal Rights Front The opi nion~ expres~ in thi s ~ction are chose of the individual writer'~ . n,, Ntw.fouTMI c.-nc:ourages leuers to rhe ediror, and <Ommen! on Yale and New H aven issue1 Wrire coW. H ampron Sides. Editorials, 3432 Yale S1arion, New Haven. CT 06520. All leuen for publicarion muse include address and signarure .

The New Journal/ October 21, 1983 5

~tween

the Vines/Eric Dissection versus Delight:

Forgetting Why Wa Read Literature

Teacher: (Reading lines from A Midsummer Night's Drtam) For ere Demetrius looked on Hermia's eyne, He hailed down oaths that he was only mine; And when thif hail some heat from Hermia felt, So h' dissolved, and showers of oaths dtd melt

Now class, what do you make of this? Anyone? Eric?

Student: (Gulping). It's . . uh just . . . PRECIPITATION. This is a transcription, recorded to the best of my memory of an exchange between a professor and m e in English 129 my freshman year. This and similar best-forgotten experiences convinced me to leave Yale after one year and enroll in my home state school, the University of Kansas. It was only there, in a program called the Integrated Humanities, that I was reminded of what I had been missing in my courses at Yale: that ticklish vibration touching the heart, mind, soul or some combination thereof.

I was missing the humanities themselves.

My professor wanted to hear: "Snow and other forms of precipitation are a recurring motif in the play. Shakespeare's use of snow here is probably meant to contras 's pure white love with the more watery love of _ _ _ _ _who uses the metaphor of rain." To which he would have replied, "Good. Do you see the thunderstorm in Act III fitting into this pattern?" The culmination of such a line of analysis would be the construction of a huge schematic of the play, preferably in three dimensions, showing the plot, subplots, c haracters, symbols, metaphors and themes in all their inter-relationships-a chart much like the anatomist's fold-over transparencies of the human body.

The temptation to analyze great art in this fashion is understandable. If art's workings seem as complicated and 6 The New Journal/October 21, 1983

intriguing as life itself, it's because they are. Shakespeare is living literature.

Editions of the great authors have periodically come out as pocket "companions," and the epithet is appropriate.

But how do you get to know your friends? Do you say, "My, it appears you have a healthy underlying bone stratum"? Or do you simply share insights and laughter? We have potential companions in a ll the g reat authors, but at Yale we line them up like cadavers in anatomy class.

At KU my professors often simply read the passage slowly, savoring every word, bringing out the poetry, majesty and mystery of the lines, perhaps adding a relevant illustration from life.

For Shakespeare did not write and l}rt•sent his plays for listeners to analy?.c' and categorize afterwards. Rather, he wrote them for 1tsteners to h ear the words one after the other and he moved by them, touched by some fresh facet of eternal truth or new inkling of the delights and woes of man's lot . ( How else was the playwright to mt•t•t his payroll at the Globe?)

Helena's lines are great and are studied and remembered bentusc.· thc.·y are beautiful. People customarily think of music as being confined to the 88 notes of the A-440 scale, but tht• sou nds of ~poke n language have thl'ir own mu~ic as well and can be arrangt•d in ways that arc equally pleasurahlt• to the human ear:

At Yale we line them up like so many cadavers.

For t•rt· Dt'llll'lrius lookc·d on H..rmia's t•ynt·.

Ht• hailt-d down oalhs 1ha1 ht· was onl y IUIIH',

A11d wlwn 1his hail '"""' hc·al from Ht•rrnia li·h.

So ht• di"uh·c·cl. a11d shuwc·rs of o;uhs did 111<'11 .

And WI' study IIH' lim·s ht·caust• they an· 1nil' . I .e 1\'t' can ht' Ii kc 1hal.

Can't it?

The first time my humanities proft•ssor at K U pointed out truth in art, I was stunned. It was the place in the Odv.r.rry where the old nurse tucks the n.·iur~ing Tckmachos into bed. After n.•ading tht· passage in a slow somber way, he askt·d us if we remembered wht•n our mothers used to tuck us in with tht· same "gentle fold" of the hlankt·t.

If a Yalt• professor were to say such a thing on tht• record, he would he brought hdim· the Committee of UndcK·umt·ntt•d Citations and asked to explain himsl'if. Rut at KU the pastures an.· gn•t•n and tht• <·ows t•asygoing, so tht" proli.-ssor got away with it. And to h<· sun·. his point was not a sentimental um• at all. hut simply this: that many lint•s fr-.•m gn·at books, often the most inant· <It-tails or dign·ssions, depict a part of our common human experit'nt·t·.

I ntn anticipatt· tht• following o~jec­ tion: "Grantl'd that appreciation of truth and ht·auty is the main end of art.

Rut dol'sn't analysis play a role in art criticism. and isn't that at least partly what wt''n· ht·rc at Yale to do?"

Analysis dot's play a role. You can't ht·lp it. Al'tt•r tht' elt•c·tric moment your mind inst incI ivl'ly got•s back and pores nvt•r tht• qm·stions w~y and how.

Rut in tht' end the· purpose of doscr !ltucly should not ht• simply to dissect: quitt• tht• t·ontrary. Analysis must highlight the truth and beauty of the art just as the art itself attempts to highlight tht·sc <lualities in human exJlericnn~. Wt• should strive for a pullin.~ lo~lrfT rather than· a pullin.~ apart-a

union of art with the human· experience .it depicts.

In presenting, for example, the above passage from Shakespeare, my professor at K U would not have assumed that the words reflected reality for the class. Rather, he would have ·encouraged us to test them against our own lives. In what ways had our experience of love been as Helena described it in her metaphor? In turn, the professor might have consulted the standards of Plato or St. Paul: maybe Helena isn't talking about love at all, hut rather infatuation. Such comparisons of art to life greatly enhanced not only our appreciation of art, but also our understanding of life. In the humanities, the integration of the whole is greater than the analysis of its parts. ~Hut is this analysis at all?" Indeed it is. It is the analysis that is partner to synthesis, the inductive analysis of the visionary who hrings together seemingly unrelated areas of reality and says "Aha!" In this sense Walt Whitman and Albert Einstein were equally great sdentists.

Wht·n. howt•vt·r·. a professor simply dissects art (or history or philosophy), whl'n he analy7.t's tht· part of humanity in isolation from the whole, he does what t•vt·n t ht• scientist tries to avoid: he conducts an "in vitro" examination.

H r treats the su~jt•t·t as if it were its own universe devoid of significance outside its complex interior relationships. He docs so whether he applies the disse<·tion to individual works or whole genres. In either case the result is the samt•: tht' work or gt•nre is made relevant only to itself, not to the human beings who arc studying it.

To do justice to Yale, I should note that many professors recognize the deficiency of analysis divorced from human f<'<·lings or experience. When I finished my two years in the program at KU, I returned warily for a weeklong visit. One professor I spoke with

sympath ized with my views but asked, "How else can we know whether students have understood what they have read?" Another, concurring, added that lack of student preparation made for much of the pointless connections drawn in English 129 discussions and that teachers were being pulled into the web. Another professor said she was surprised by my concern over lack of true appreciation because, as she put it, "That's just assumed."

These professors would do well to heed the words of Robert Frost: "The figure a poem makes . . . begins in delight and ends in wisdom." By emphasizing the intermediary stage of analysis and assuming prior delight,' teachers can leave us aimless wanderers of the grey neuro-synapsis network somewhere between Frost's two psychic ideals.

I finally decided to return to Yale not for these demurra ls, but for certain practical considerations: it was the only p lace open to me with all the opportunities, resources and varying stimuli of a high-powered university. Based on these criteria, my decision was a sound one.

Nevertheless, my enjoyment of courses over the last year was seldom enhanced by active encouragement of delight on the part of my professors.

This is the area where a small change could precipitate a renaissance. Yale students, realizing the problem, could make their desires and dissatisfactions known to great effect. Faculty in turn could reassess their role in undergraduate humanities courses. Is the teacher the head anatomist or a catalyst of delight. friendship and the integration of the humanities with the human experience they depict?

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Erir Rrmdr, an En,~li.rh mqjor, is a senior in Jonathan Edwardr. *lhe• upiniun-c

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The New Journal/October 21, 1983 7

NewsJournal

Picture This .•r.J

H e d oe.sn't expect to m a ke so much a d ent mto the pro fits of a commerct~·­ m ovie industry do mina ted b y G iaths. But D avid .Lee '85, c?· fo~nd e r, , r 1 the newly established Untversu y tures, would like to surpass the g ra in , , wobbly, self-conscio us products whi h j are the tradem a rks o f so m a ny ama tei '(J ~ home film m a ke rs. Lee is no t yet a ticipa ting a n y o ff-cam pus releases b t h e would like to screen som e o f film s a t the Law School Film Socie t . l University Pictures has a lrea y begun pla nning its first p rojects i~- _ eluding a numbe r of sho rts entitl c( ] "Man in the S treet." Bob S imo nds '8 • another co-founder, pla ns to le nd Supe r-8 cameras to in tere sted stude nl. and set them loose on the streets b N ew H aven .

Other ideas in cl ud e a v iddo documentary o f the G ro to n an~i-:J Trident subma rine demo nstra tion a '1d a 16mm sho rt e nti tled "The H a n gC!d M a n" which is a ten minute "futurist~<QThe adventure" currently in production . ' • · The biggest obstacle University Pit- dary Hart is no front ruruwr in th(· tures must face is fund ra ising. It takfs__Demorratic ran· f(H· Pn"<idt·nt. hut his a care ful film m a ke r to keep the cost of 1 \apporters at Yak hope• to ('h;trl~t· that. a ten minute, 16mm mov ie undt"r 'Jihcy'vt• laurwhc·d an .1!-;grt· ~'ivt• t·am$1 ,000. U niversity Pictures will cora- paign in tlw dining halls and mt·e·ting sider using less expensive v ideo t ape .f:P~an~s of Yale· to org.mizc• sllldc·nt But a s Lee puts it , "Video is like tissue 1nrkers 10 help tht· Colorado sc·n;uor's pape r , a nd film is like can vas." WHy faltt•ring c·amJMign not the best?

Many of thc·ir c·Oorts have• bc•t•n At its first o rgan izatio n a l meeting. n·< It'd tcl\'l:arrl the· nul'ial Ne·" University Pic tures attracted over lQO ampshirt' primary tn lw hdd in stude nts. "The best thing was that mq\st IJ:-•bruarv . H :1rt hopc·o; to sc on· .m up-.c·t of them were n't asking fo r mo ney, f this key r.u·c· v.ith tlw lwlp of .1 laq.{t' said Mark H a rris. anothe r co- fo undey. rt·tinue of -.tu<lc•nr .. oluntcc•r.; . TrmliThe recruits were eager to ta ke on t~e tic"mally stwl'"•nt" flock tn thi" sm.tll ungla morous tasks of fundra isin~. ~c·w Enl{land "tatt• in the• wc·c·ks publicity a nd technical su pport .

Jaclinl{ up ro rhc· prinMr) to kucw k on Eve ntu a lly Lee wo uld like o dnors and distribute· lirc•r:tturc· li•r thc·ir develop a true "film community" at r1voritt" c.mdidart·. Rut Hart's sup· Yale. H e a nd o thers have con side nfc portt·rs haH' startt·d unw,tsnnahlv c•,•rsponsoring a stude nt film festival la th I)·· In the lir·st wc·c·k of 1his month nvt•r this year . If they can ra ise the money. :ipO students clt•sc·c·nclt•cl upon tlw statt· University Pic tures pla ns eventually tT o work for tht>ir candiclat~. 35 of tht•rn subsidize stude nt film m a king venturts - vfert' from Yale. on a regular b asis.

I The· Yalt.· group was or!o{anizc·cl hy • I [_lRetcr Henkc•l, a sophomoH' in Trum-

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0 hull whosc· 11ulwr is runuint.: I Iart's pa · t·ampait{n . Thc·y hope· 1o n·t ~rn to Nc·w Hampshir·e , •., e·1 al rime'i ~IQ btll . "( )tht·r Conrwcr inti t olk :c•s 11'1' lookin~ to Yale• ltlr suppon lor rl c·ir c·;mlpail{n"." Hl'nkd said "Jr',. imJ 1 tant that our !-{roup "'""' wc·ll -on{ tn· I ional

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l\fotlwr Yalt· and t·.mtlidatt· Ha11 •o hac k a long- w.av. t\ ftn t{t.lcluar r from Yak Di\'i.;it\ SdltHll in JCI ,, , Hart c·anwd ll ~.t~-.· dc · ~·t·t· at Yale 111 l~Jti4 . His campaiJ,!n n1anagc'1 , ( >li 1 Hc·nkt'l. is anothc·r 'n4 Yale• I . m 1-{ra<lulllt'.

Most ol tht· lltht•r Pn·sidc•ntial clidatt•s have• clt•'il-!n~lft•cl • .1111p11' c c • tlinators at Yall· hut h.l\ t' not 1)('~111 to t':unpaign "' a~~n·s,ivc ·h ,,, Hart . 111 canditl;~tc·s like• l\·1oncl<tle· and ( ;J, 1 n h,l\'t• 1 ht' ''(" anta~c · ol gn·.ttc·• n. lit' Jt•c·ognition. whi< h is p1n i,c·l~ \ hv c andidatt• Hart m•t·tls to c.tpitalizt• • his popularitv with """"'"'' hd;11·c • I r.rn: n·allv l><·gins.

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PLAYBILLWILBUR THEATRE

Doonesbury: The Musical Doonesbury is back. After having abandoned their 6-by-2 inch rectangle in m·wspapt•rs across the country. in Dt·n•mbt·r. Roopsie. Zonker, Make and R. 0 . will make their first flesh and blood ap1warance this month.

Gary Trudeau, Yale class of 19_70, has turned his taknts to musacal thcatn· . The Pulitzer Prize-winning C'artoonist has writtt•n both script and lv rits li>r a -.how t•ntitled , not surprisi.ngly , Doonrrbury, which will open . on Rroadwav in Novt·mher after makang its dd>ut ·at Boston's Wilbur Tht·att·r.

Th 1• mu-;ical. in whic·h Truclt•au Jinallv Jets his characters COnH' OJ' agt•, takt·s· place in Walden. an oil oil~ caanpus houst·. during commt·m·t·nw~11 cc·n·monit·s . Oukt• and Hom·y wall n·tu rn from China and.Joanit• from tht• Congn·ssional rat race in orck~ to Sl'l' the gang graduate . Tht· show h-atun·s sut h lutun· musical dassics as "It's tht• Right Timt• to Re Ric·h." "Rahy Room Roogat• Hoy" and "MuiTy and tht• Topsidt·r,."

Ononr1hnrv the musical is not Trudt·au's first foray into show hu.,int•ss. His animated lilm "A Doom·sl>u rv Spec·ial" was nom i natt·d li>r an AC'adt·my Award. And he is c·u rn ·ntlv at work on om· scret'nplay about tlw WhiH• House pn·ss corps and <nwtlwr about tht· Nt·w Right.

An· then· political ovt•rtom·s or cryptic social stal<'lllt'nts hiddt•n within tht• latt·,t Trudc·Hu creal ion? Trudt·au's pa·c·ss agt'lll thinks not. Hut ht• hdit•vt•s "it might havt• a special HJ>pt·al to collt•gt• .,tudt•nt., , It's ahout facing the n ·al world."

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Newsjournal written and reported

by Anne Applebaum , Joyce B a n erjee, Scott Fletcher, Darren Gersh, Paul Hofheinz, Betsy Nix and Mike Otsuka.

lf•rlc, Doonesbury, Boopsle, B.D. •nd Zonlcer pose for a graduation Picture.

The Nt'\\ .Journal/October 2 1, 1983 9

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'.

The One-man Ministry of Pars.on Paul Tina Kelley Paul Keane takes a drag of his smoldering cigar as he sits in Patricia's Restaurant. "You are unfortunately sitting in the presence of a heretic," he says, smiling. Parson Paul is no t a typical Yale Divinity School graduate.

He is an agnostic who operates a oneman ministry from his apartment in one of the city's low-income housing pr~jccts, the Seabury Co-op. The patrons at Patricia's know him as The Bishop of Broadway , an activist who deals with the seam ier sides of life in New Have n.

For the past few months Keane has been preoccupied with the local problems surrounding Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS), the much-publicized disease that has spread at a geometric rate in the last three years among gays, intravenous drug users, hemophiliacs, Haitians and the sex partners of these groups.

One day this summer Keane discovered a discarded hypoderm ic needle in the parking lot of the Seabury complex, where he is the building superintendent. He had reason to believe that prostitutes who frequent the area had discarded the possibly contaminated needle and that children playing there might be in danger of infection. He also accidentally punctured himself once with a needle he found in the garbage chute. But it wasn't until an acquaintance died of AIDS that Keane decided to take action. "The best ministry for me is in areas people won't touch with a ten-foot pole," he says. "I love a taboo, so this was for me. I knew no one else would do it."

Keane looks onto Whalley Avenue now, more intently than usual. and lowers his voice. "Someone died o f AIDS in Connecticut recently," he says. "This was a person who had had dozens of sexual contacts with Yale gay and bisexual males in the past three years. There is also an I . V. drug user in New Haven who is a presumed AIDS carrier and who continues to share needles every day with unsuspecting strangers."

As a concerned clergyman. Keane is facing a problem. Although he knows the identities of the victims he mentions. he cannot legally reveal them.

No tests have yet been developed to prove that sonwont' has AIDS. whid1

Xerox machine, there are a few things I can change without needing 100 activists. Doing nothing is immoraL" The pamphlet was designed to teach methods of avoiding the disease, such as taking precautions when having sex with members of high risk groups and boiling hypodermic needles for 20 minutes before sharing them. Produced by an unlikely combinatio n of a street minister, a Yale professor, several physicians and a philanthropic printer, the pamphlet was distributed to the Y.M .C.A.'s drug program , Columbus House, the University Chaplain and the Chief of Police. Keane wanted to inform and warn the entire community. "The news media has gone wrong in this area," he says.

"AIDS is not a gay plague but a public health issue. No one deals with the other victims: I . V. drug users or bisexual males who have sex with gays, or females" (who make up eight percent of the AIDS victims).

"People are now In a state Keane is concerned about the syndrome's threat to Yale students, both - of ethical confusion about gay and straight. He brought the issue AIDS." to the attention of the Yale administration in September and wrote President takes up to three years to surface. Thus Giamatti a letter warning him about it is possible to carry and transmit the the potential risks. Keane is currently syndrome without knowing it. If so- working with Peaches Quinn of Unimeone is suspected of having AIDS, versity Health Services on another nothing can legally stop him o r her pamphle t , "A.I.D.S., Sex, and You," from continuing to transmit it. "They designed for Yale students. He worries can't take your rights away without due about what he calls "a profound process of the law," Keane says, "and naivete" at Yale about who's in danger. there's no proof with AIDS. "Anyone who's had sex with people "People are now in a state of ethical whose biographies they don't know confusion about the disease," he says. back at least three years may be at "The medical advisors of these victims risk," says Keane. "People who frespoke to me in confidence as a clergy- quent prostitutes may be putting man about their ethical dilemma. themselves in danger, as prostitutes They have a professional obligation, might either use I. V. drugs or have sex but they also feel that society has the with those who do. We often think I. V. right to be protected. They didn't know drug users are bums, but we're naive if what to do, and I didn't either." we think Yale students don't use He believes education is one of the recreational needles." best ways to approach the ethical Since so many people could be in dilemma over AIDS. With the help of danger, Keane feels it is crucial to inYale biology professor Or. Alvin form the general community about the Novick, Keane produced "Needles, disease . "The people who get AIDS are Sex, and A.I.D.S." a pamphlet written subject to persecution," he says, strokin stn¡ct language . "Writing this was a ing his beard thoughtfuiJy. "People like compromist' between violating tht' to hate gays, prostitutes and drug rights of the presumed AIDS victims users. But everyone has a right ,to be and doing nothing," explains Keane. healthy, to be informed that they're at "With a typewriter. some stamps and a risk.

NEEDLES, SEX and A.I.D.S.

The New Journal/October 21,

"The news media has gone wrong In this area. AIDS is not a gay plague, but a public health Issue."

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"The public is susceptible to gossip and fear," he says. "Without facts, we're likely to become witch-hunters, but with AIDS there are enough facts around so we don't have to surrender to the animal instinct to hate. We can let people hear the facts and become less afraid. It's like applying salve to a wound. I believe you cure fear with facts."

What Keane fears most is a recurrence of the kind of uninformed lynch-mob mentality he saw while he was attending Kent State University. Keane was a graduate student at the Ohio university when National Guardsmen killed four student protesters on May 4, 1970. "I was close enough to see the smoke from the guardsmen's rifles," he says. "Then I heard somebody shout 'They killed him!' I looked down and saw Jeffrey Miller on the ground. His head had been blown off. I remember seeing the mother of a Kent State stu-

dent on a document.ary film. She said, 'If my son had long hair and sandals, he sh ould have been shot, too.' That was a quality of human fear I'll never forget."

Keane remained at Kent State for fou r years, studying and working to obtain a federal grand jury investigation into the incident. "After the shootings I couldn't concentrate," he says. "I kept taking courses and dropping them, and it took me that long to get a two-year degree."

After the k illings Keane became more and more politically active, forming a liaison between the university, the White House and the parents of the victims. He helped collect 50,000 signatures calling for federal investigation into the incident. As a result the National Guardsmen were required to testify under oath, a national precedent. Keane later coordinated the Center for Peaceful Change, which commemorated the deaths at Kent State.

H e a lso secured the largest collection

of p apers on th e killings a n d gave them to Yale. "Kent State University was a puppet of Ohio," he says, "and couldn't be counted on to protect those documents. It would give me n o guarantee that they would be kept safe. Having the archives here is an irritation and embarrassment to K ent State and Ohio, a constant reminder that justice has not been done."

The K e nt State e pisode left its scars o n Parson Paul, including the beginnings of a drinking problem. "Drinking was a way of escaping the tremendous a n ger I felt a fterwards. I was a victim of a cultural prejudice that smart people can't be alcoholics. I thought I was too intelligent to have a drinking problem." With the help o f Ako holics Anonymous, h e stopped drinking several years ago. " It was one of the most powerfully spiritual experie nces of my life."

Ih 1976 he enrolled in the Yale Divinity School "to find out if God could be responsible for events like Kent State. I wan ted to find out the truth. The truth is that no one knows it, and that's a tremendous relief. I'm relieved of the burden of n ot having found it. There's no knowledge, just faith. I've received a tremendous gift in learning to see that I'm free, that I'm not a prisoner o f anyone's creed and neither is anyone else."

While at the Divinity School he established the First Church of Synergy in 1977, founded on the theory of R . Buckminster Fuller that the whole is more than the sum of its parts. K eane's Congregation of four graduated with him in 1980. A year later he published Holy Smoke, essays collected in a biblical parody that depicts M ae West in term s of ministry and sp irituality and includes a Book of Lennon. Said Divinity School professor R owan A. Greer in his introduction to the work: "It is as a gadfly that Mr. K eane serves us best.

Someone has to observe the emperor's new clothes for what they are. It is a voice worth hearing."

Parson Paul's creed is closely tied to h is activism. "I just can't stand the way things a re sometimes. I don't know where that comes from. Maybe it's a higher power that gives me a drive to do something, a drive fro m beyond,"

he says. "But when you narrow it down and call it God or J esu s, it's unfair to those who don't know about them. I see J esus as th e ultimate pantheism.

Everyone has his own. Oral Roberts has one. Norman Vincent P eale has one. It's almost like the pantheon of Greek gods, but they're all Jesus. The result is a grotesque monotheism.

"I believe somehow I was carried along .by an energy higher than my own to be useful to the community," says the life-long New H aven a rea resident. · .

H e g1ves the example o f h1s AIDS r work. The pamphlet came together effortlessly requiring only two and a half mon~hs to bring it to the atte ttion ' of the highest auth o rities, where it could change the politics o f the disease.

"People would come up and tell me information I couldn't have found out ifl were a triple agent," he says. "It's no t a coincidence to me. It couldn't be.

"I understand all the arguments against the existen ce o f God," h e quickly adds, "and I'm the hardestbaked agnostic there is. But I do believe in th e spiritual aspect of life.

The power g ives you energy and compassion that you wouldn't believe you could have, simply given the chemical components. of your body. I really believe it can make you more than the sum of your parts. That's not something you get through prayer, n ot something you get through sitting in a piece of real estate called a church." Instead K eane ascribes to th e idea of "a church without walls" and calls his work "an unauthorized, unacknowledged a nd unsolicited ministry. No big shot can tell m e to shut up or h e'll take my church away."

Keane doesn't believe in bowing down and worshipping this power. "I believe you worship when you revere something that is sacred," he says. "I believe human life is sacred, and between K ent State and this AIDS thing, I've spent a good deal of my time paying homage to the sacredness of human life."

•

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The New Journal/October 21 , 1983 13

The Yale Entrepreneurs:

Free Enterprise Comes of Age on Campus Peggy Edersheim Take Bill Funderburke, for example. Here was a,. fairly unassuming student who needed to make some money for the parties he was throwing last year in Morse. One evening when he was working on a three-page paper for an investment banking course, Funderburke struck upon the idea of the Beer Glove. "I was holding a beer at a party one ¡Tuesday night," he remembers, "and my hands were freezing because the beer was so cold. I could have used a Beer Glove then, something insulated to keep my hands warm and ¡the beer cold."

So Funderburke got $300 together, bought a few dozen gloves and located a silk screener to print a big blue "Y" on the back. He made plans to sell the gloves at keg parties, festivals and tailgates, and he even tried to get the name registered as a trademark :' After he graduated, though, Funderburke got involved in other things, and his Beer Glove died an untimely death in a cardboard box.

Funderburke is only one example of a growing number of Yale students who are turning to free enterprise between classes. Whether they are successful or not, these people have an idea, and the idea is to make something out of nothing-for a profit. They are the Yale entrepreneurs.

There's Dana How, a sophomore in Stiles, who used his computer skills to pay for his senior year at Exeter and his freshman year at Yale. How formulated a small data base program for the Apple Computer which impressed a distributor so much that he had it licensed. There's Jack Meyers, a senior in Davenport, who found an original way to make his commercial pilot's license profitable. He hired a professional photographer to fly with him in one of Yale's planes and take a series of aerial shots of the campus. l\1eyers enlarged the photographs and will soon be selling them as posters for $5-20, depending on size. He'll a lso be flying over the Bowl during the tOOth Anniversary of the Harvard-Y al4! game, taking shots to sell to alumni, parents and students.

Then there's Brian Hammerstein, a Silliman senior who took the year off to run a small computer software operation out of his apartment in the Taft; senior Rob Morrow and Victor Caston who managed a small printing business in New Haven last summer; Mario Verdolini and Peter Phleger, two Silliman juniors, who started a bakery in Boothbay Harbor; and lvor Benjamin, '83, an MB&B Major and a Yale rower who somehow found time to establish ~d manage Yale Audio, a highly successf~l student agency.

14 The New Journal/October 21, 1983

This is not to mention the dozens of students who work for the other more-or-less lucrative agencies and organizations on campus-like the Yale Ring Agency, Yale Student Laundry, Yale Cap and Gown Agency, Yale T-shirt Agency, Yale Appliance Agency and the seven film societies.

It wasn't long ago when most students at Yale frowned upon this kind of home-grown capitalism, thought it was crass and silly and exploitative. It wasn't long ago when "going into business" was taken as a sign of selling out. But now attitudes are beginning to change. "Business as a profession is perceived far less negatively now than it was five years ago," says Ted Noyes, last year's director of Yale Career Advisory and Placement Service (now called University Career Services). "Two years ago, the number of seniors participating in the recruiting process in the private sector jumped by 30 percent. About 50 percent of the class of 1983 applied for jobs in the business world."

Another indication of the new attitude towards business on campus is the recent popularity of two organizations: The Yale Student Investment Group (an organization of some 70 students who manage a portfolio of S 100,000) and AISEC (an international business exchange network for students). Initiated in 1948, Yale's AISEC chapter was one of the most successful in the country throughout the 1950s, according to the organization's president Alex McCredis.

"But student p¡articipation petered out during the Vietnam years when business was taboo," explains McCredis. "Then AISEC faded away completely. Last year, though, the programs' resurgence began, and now AISEC is as strong as ever." McCredis himself is something of a student entrepreneur- he runs a year-round sailboat 'rental business that he coordinates with a partner living in Greece.

But it would be a mistake to call the new attitude toward business a sign of increased pre-professionalism on the campus. Susan Hauser, the new director of University Career Services, thinks the changes extend beyond Yale.

"Attitudes have changed clearly and markedly toward business," says Hauser. "It has become acceptable for students to want to be comfortable, to quite a different degree than it was 10 years ago. It's orice again acceptable for students to wish to espouse their parents' lifestyle."

We've selected a half dozen profiles that we think document the turn toward free enterprise at Yale-six stories of student entrepreneurs who, like Joel Goodson in the nowclassic Risley Business, put their ideas together and made a buck . . .

DAN SLAVIN KEEPS A POSTER of red Ferrari on his wall in Morse.

"A Ferrari is the ultimate toy," Slavin grins, "hut I don't think I'll buy one yet." H e doesn't think that a 19-ycarold like himself should he able to afford a Ferrari. Rut he can.

Acting as a middleman between a few computer product suppliers and a handful of large customer s (including the Yale University Pun·basing Department), S lavin has managed to gross $10.000-$15.000 since .June.

And now he is working on a computer deal whi<·h could earn him over a quarter of a million dollars this year.

Not had for a colkge junior who spends his afternoons punting footballs fi1r Yak. But Slavin is the kind of p erson who is full of su rprises. An dectrical engineering m~jor, Slavin is founder and ow ne r of Ryt<· Computer St•rvin·s. which he operat<·s singlc-handt•dly out of his 1"<10111 in Mors<·. His hottest it<·m is the Maxdl Disk<·tte. which he sells li1r $29 (box of I 0) almost exdusivt·ly to hulk huv<·rs like univ<·r·sities and large firm~. Sinn· Slavin is selfnnployed- and sinn• ht• has almost no ov<·rhead- he can un<krsdl even t ht• largt• mail orde1· Sl'rvin·s which adve•·tize tht• lowt•st pr·ices on t he market.

Slavin's higg<·st t'XJH'rHiitun· is the 20qstamp ht• puts on tht• onkr· fi1rms. H t• doesn't even pay salt·s tax on his purchases-t'V<'l'Ything he buys conH·s from tax-fn•t· Pennsvh-ania.

"Now l'n1 in the .right plan· at the right time. and I'm capitalizing on that." ht• says. "Wht·n l'lll not, I'll stop and find sollH'th ing else to do. I'm going to milk this li1r all it's worth and tht'll mm·t· on. Most peopk think I'm full of it when I talk about how nnrch money I'm making. Sonw peopk think I'm obnoxious. and 1hey'n· right. I 0)>1'11 II IV n111111 h too llltJ('h."

Slavin was aln•ady an entrepreneur when h1· got to Yak. In his senior· year of high school lw made a I idy li1rllllll' -SOI\H' $4000-fixing lawn IIIOWel'S and small t'ngines lin· honH'OWIH'I'S in suburban Philaddphia. Slavin has always ht'l'll a fixer. "That's what I n·<tlly do," ht· says. " I fix things." Hut Slavin's love for tinkering didn't st•em to fit in so wdl with Gianwtti's Yak. "I 1didn't comt• ht·n· f{,,. liberal arts." ht•

a

says. "I came here for electrical enginening. History is secondary.

Humanit ies courses will make me a better person. but I don't have a great nt·ed to karn the stuff."

S lavin gets the most pleasure out of learning how to fix things- how to take things apart and put them ha<·k togetht•r. For him possessions-likt· the Panasonic phone machine he just bought himself or the Ft•rrari on the wall- arl' like toys. " I was reading an a1·tide in Plavhov last month about not going out a~d .buying evnything you want at once. hut spreading it OVl'r a (>t'riod of ti111e . It's silly to wastt• S!lO,OOO on ;1 nt·w sports car unkss you're rl'allv making a lot in the first i>lacl'. It w<;uld be,; typically 19-ycarold thing to do."

HIS CASUAL MANNER DOESN'T u·iggcr the imagt• of a high-intensity stucknt cntn·pn•nt·ur. H is curly blond hair and his pink cheeks don't fit tht• hig-husim·ss mold. Rut .Joe Gromat·ki, a fn·shrnan who gn·w up in the rural Midwest, has gmssl'd ovn $10,000 in tht· last few yt•ars - poultry farming.

I t · was st•ven years ago when

Gromacki went out and bough t his first two hens and a rooster. From this initial investment, he cultivated a successful business of raising and breedi.J.!g_ ch ickens out of his g randmother's barn in Sussex. Wisconsin.

Although he scaled down the operation before coming to Yale this fall, Gromacki has invested in a new $2500 barn and has built up a flock of birds worth $6000 that includes some 45 different breeds a nd varieties.

Like most businessmen, Gromacki advertises extensively but his medium i!; a little different from most. He plan·s ads in commercial yearbooks and trade magazines throughout the year- among them, a publication . called Th,. Poultry Pun. Aside from keeping the business goin g, Gromacki has also served as the Wisconsin State director for two national poultry clubs and as a membt·r of the board o f d irectors for the Wisconsin Poultry Breeding Association.

Gromacki conducts most of his business, however , at the numerous poultry shows that are held i'n the Midwest and the South, particularly in K ansas and Missouri . He attends The New JournaUOctober 21, 1Y83 15

about 15 shows a year in Ame rica and Canada. At one show last year, he sold a national champion White W yan Dotte Bantam hen for $200 and another 160 chickens for a total of $700.

Gromacki's already thinking about law school these days, but he is obviously devoted to his llock. "I'd like to keep the busin(!SS go ing so that I can come back to my birds after college," says Gromacki . "My grandmother says · I have poultry farming in m y blood ."

EVEN IF SKIP KLEIN DIDN'T know the ingredients in a cinnamonraisin bagel, that wouldn't have stopped him from trying to sell it. When he was at Yale, Klein was always theorganizer. He was the idea man , the entrepreneurial · spark behind such ventures as Boola-Bagels and The Great American H e roes Film Society.

He worked with R ob Glaser a s the marketing wizard in Ivy Research, a computer sofiware company at Yale.

Although his 100-page economics thesis on Yale's endowment portfolio has served as a useful and original document on Yale's investment policies, Klein had a rocky time as an undergraduate entrepreneur.

NoWhe is earninR a Ph. D . in Business and Economics/MBA and making big plans for a future in inve stme nt management. In a few years he wants to form a small investment management firm with five other Yalies tha t will handle individua~ portfolios rather

than pension funds . "It's a pipe dream , he admits "but it's certainly within the realm of possibility."

As freshmen , Klein and his room mates engineered the construction o f the world's largest bagel as a publicitygarnering event for Boola Bagels, a bagel dC"Iivery service. Ne ithe r 60 pounds of dough nor clever slogans like "Lox et veritas" could save the faltering venture. The business had only managed to pay its masterminds a wage of $1.00/ hr.

Klein's next venture was no more successful. Seeing the success of the James Bond Film Society, Klein a nd his roommates created The Great American Heroes Film Society, which showed Clint Eastwood and W ood y Allen films. After netting only abo ut $1.00 an hour Klein le ft the film society business once and for all . The following year, howeve r , n e w managers took over Spectrum Films and it began to turn a profit.

Whe the r or no t Kle in was successful as a stud e nt en trepre neur a t Yale, he was a lways a kind o f spo kesma n for the cause of free e nte rprise o n campus. o fte n wearing a suit o r a bow tie and ta lking the la nguage o f big b usiness. In tha t respect , Klein hasn't changed a bit. "Whe n you start a business, you find a need and address it ," he says. "In this sense, you are serv ing a positive social fun ct ion . Capita lism, really, is llnothe r fo rm o f altruism .

"Du r ing thl· sixties people loo ked d o wn the ir noses on someone who hustled to m a ke a buck . No w it's sort o f respec ted . It's not a crime a ny mo re.

S till , the re an· a lways people who look d o wn the ir noses a t bu siness. ' H e re he is,' they say, 'trying to play his little gam es. H e's tryi ng to be a big businessm a n .' But people began to realize that it's a n in teresting thing to d o, som e thing more and more respectable . N o w they're saying, 'I wish I had d o ne som e thing like that.'"

"YOU C AN'T WRITE A GOOD pop song unless it's marketable," says Scott Yo ung, lead vocalist for the fi vepiece, a ll-Yale gro up, Busload of Nuns. "That's the who le po int o f rock a nd roll .'' A jul')io r in Pi er<~on C ollege, Young plan·s a hig h premium on the a rtistic integrity o f his m usic. But he a nd the N uns a rc al-;o q uite serious a bo ut breaking into the music business afte r they ~radu att•. Young realizes tha t tht• clays are gone wht•n all a successful rock a nd roll band had to have was a m c<;sagc.

The N uns. who bt"~a n playing st·riously last !'pring have alrl·ady recorded two a lbu ms, " Busload of Nuns," a nd " R ed All Over ," a nd pla n a third . Along with recording effo rts, the Nuns a lso set up an extensive tour of the N o rthl·a<~t t·olle~t· c ircuit for this fall. "At the collt·gcs, we ask f<lr

$600 to $600 per concert," explained Young. "Rut we have enough faith in our drawing power to ask for h<;tlf the money made at the door in addition."

On O<·tober 29th, the Nuns will return to Berkeley College where they played last spring.

Rusim·ss and art, however, don't mix easily for the Nuns. "You go through periods of moral dilemma," admitted Young. " I feel like I don't wan t to ht· bothned about the money part of it, hut tht·n I realize that it is important. I want to makt• a living at this someday."

Alt hough they are admittedly prepmf't·ssional in their approach, the Nuns ft·el that they havt• an <·dge ovt:r tht·ir dassrnatt·s who will line up at Universit y Cart•t•r Services this spring.

"Students do a lot of things here be<·ause they are s<·ared that they won't have anything to do when they leave school," said Mike Deneen, DC '85, the keyboard plavt·r for the Nuns. "I'm doin'g what I like to do."

To dat<'. the Nuns have reinvested most of their profits back into the h and. taking advantage of the cushion of collt•gt· and building a strong base fi1r 1he fu t 11 re . Rut, as the band het·on H·s i ncn·asingly successful, the artistic sa<Tilin·s l)('nmw gn·atcr and gn ·ater. "()w· new songs are absurdly pop-<'mharassingly pop." admitted Young. "Sometimes, I feel like Shaun Cassidy when I'm singing."

WHEN ROLLIN RIGGS AND Bruce .Jacobsen got together in Calhoun two years ago and decided to put together a student guidebook to spring break in Florida, the two juniors knew next to nothing about the publishing business. But after completing the manuscript and submitting it to Arbor House in Manhattan, they realized that writing a book isn't all its cracked up to be. Amon g other things, they learned that once the contract is completed, it's the publisher not th e writer who tails the shots. "We gave them an 'R' rated book and they turned it into a 'PG'," Riggs compla ined.

So when the two student journalists got together a year later and decided to put out another guidebook, this time about Europe, they chose to go about it a little diiTerently: They formed their own publishing company.

R.J publications in New Haven may not be the most prestigious publishing house on the planet, but for a fledgling firm run by two members of the class of 1982 it is off to a impressive start.

Riggs and .Jacobson already have three books under contract. A guide to bars, discos and off-the-beaten-track spots in Europe called Europe: Where The Fun Is will appear this spring. It was compiled last summer with reports written mostly by Yak students on tour in Europe.

The Cnmpltle Book of Beer Drinkin.~ will appear sometime next year. It promises to give complete instructions for over 50 drinking games, including Whale's Tales, Slush Fund, Beer Hunter and th<· infamous Thumper.

You too can be a Dmzocratic Candidau for President is slated to appear next spring as well.

Riggs had already distinguished himself as a successrul stucfent entrepreneur of sorts even before he a nd J acobsen produced The R ius of Spring: A Student's Guide To Spring Break . in Florida. As a well-known campu s photograph er , Riggs m anaged to sell a large number of his photographs to Time, ~ewsweek and the New York Times · when he wasn't shooting photos for the Yale Daily News and The New Journal.

He made a small fortune off a series of pictures he had taken of Jodie Foster in the weeks followingJohn Hinckley's a ttempted assassination of P resident Reagan. Between his photo work and the book, Riggs missed a lot-of classes, but by that time academics had become a second priority for him. "It's easier to blow off classes when you're paying for them," he explains.

J acobsen, a reporter who worked for the Har~ford Courant and the Miami Herald, doesn't understand the qualms th at many students have had ab out the idea of turning a p rofit. "People who make money aren't using a gun to hold up a bank," he says. "They are supplying a product. And everything costs money- how do people think their tuition is being paid for?"

Riggs agrees: "I think people are just now waking up to the fact th at m oney in the checking account is not n ecessarily a bad thing. It's what you choose to do with that money that you can apply a moral value to. Making money is not n ecessarily exploitation. The best thing I can do for the world is to be a productive person."

W H EN ROB GLASER GRADUated last May, he had most of the Yale campus fooled. Just about everyone had him pegged as Glaser, th e arch liberal of Yale's already decidedly libera l politics , the prolific author of "What's Left" in the Yale Daily News, the guy who wore a p u rple ribbon for the oppressed people of America and El Salvador. Glaser was the one who organized a student march on the Green against Reaganomics in 1980.

In his four years here1 he debunked just about every vestige of conservatism and big-business at Yale. ~u re­ ly th e last thing people expected from Glaser was the spirit of capitalism.

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But Glaser was also the co-founder of Ivy Research Inc., a student-run computer concern which grossed well over $10,000 in the space of a year. Ivy Research sold two arcade game programs-Viper and Slync-for $15 and $17 .50 wholesale . Computerland, which bought the programs and sold the games nationally for $30 and $35, ordered over 650 of G laser's programs between September and .January last year.

Glaser is still every bit as outspoken and as opinionated as he was when he left school. One m ight find !t unusual, though, since he is now working for Microsoft Computers in Seattle, the largest m icrocomputer company in the country. "I'm learning about myself now. I'm learning how to be a selfsufficient, autonomous human being.

A lot of people don't know themselves enough. They can't fight the revolution without knowing who they are. What I am doing here is an extension of my education. I'm not here forever . If you refuse to have anything to do with the System then you can't even drink the , water. You have to draw the line somewhere."

"My political values arc against just making money," Glaser explains. "But in our political and economic system, that is what you're supposed to do .

Giamatti wants to create a sphere within the University in which students are out of the world for four years, so they can go back to the world with a pluralism of ideas. This proposal is un realistic, and it's dishonest to pretend otherwise. Whether or not you are making money doesn't matter. It depe nds on what you're trying to do.

I'm not selli ng out by working for a computer company."

So what is he up to? H e says he's simply biding his time until his financial status and his level of experience allow him to reach a non-monetary goal: "The creation of a telecommunications network with microcomputers linking the broad left of the United States." What he wants to do is to "link personal computers to large compute rs in a network. I see this as a means to an end. The underlying principle is to integrate my values with my technical abilities . The idea is to spread the base of people who have access to technology, and then to connt'ct the dots."

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Life and Death at the Grove Street Cemetery Anne Applebaum Across the street from the Law School's back door stands a massive stone gateway. The slogan over its archway seems to forbid entrance: "The Dead Shall Be Raised." Yet if you gather the courage to walk underneath, you enter another world. You have no more deadlines, no appointments to keep, no people to see. You have left Yale.

You have entered the New Haven City Burial Grounds, the Grove Street Cemetery.

If you walk past the cemetery chapel, you might run into a small man raking leaves or trimming hedges.

Bill Cameron is as weather-beaten and grizzled as the stones he cares for. Yet he wears a peddler's cap tilted at a surprisingly cocky angle for a cemetery groundskeeper. When he speaks, his voice reflects a cheerful absence of morbidity.

"I like working here. It's peaceful, and I have a lot of time to think."

Cameron gathers a few stray sticks. "I remember once we had a man heretemporary help. After three days he said he'd made the most important discovery of his life. Said he'd d iscovered that r ich or poor, everybody ends up in the same place. It's true too. No o ne here can pretend he's better th an anyone else."

But the Grove Street Cemetery does contain a disproportionate number of the wealthy. Anyone familiar with New Haven geography could recognize more than a few of the names on the gravestones: H illhouse, Ashmun, Woolsey, Farnam, Bingham. It was James Hillhouse himself, Yale class of 1773, who made the original decision to build the cemetery in response to the "many inconveniences the citizens of New Haven have experienced from the small portion of ground allotted for burial of the dead." Until that time New Haven had buried its dead on the ·Green in the center of town. Children and d ogs could play freely among the gravestones there, and because no one bothered to care for them, the stones had become crooked and unsightly. So like the good New England Yankee that he was, James Hillhouse called a town meeting in 1796, took up a collection, bought two farms on the outskirts of town, sold plots and established the New Haven City Burial Grounds.

Ceremoniously, the remains of the more prominent citizens buried under the Green were moved to the c-rypt of Center Church. A few still remain unmarked and forgotten beneath the Green.

The Grove Street Cemetery was one of the first American cemeteries to sell family plots by contract, making it also one of the first corporations in America. "Back then it mattered that you were near your family," says 20 The New Journal/October 21, 1983

Cameron. "No one wanted to be left without his relations. I ff'el the same way, a nd I h ope my children will, but I don't know whether young people today still do." Cameron walks over to one of the larger family p lots and smiles. "Now there's someone who cared who remembered him ." H e points to Henry Trowbridge's tombstone, a 40-foot obelisk that towers over the other graves. Cameron shrugs. "Competition. Keeping up with the Joneses."

The most famous graves in the cemetery are often the most modest .

Nothing but a name a nd date appear o n Noah Webster's grave. Another tombstone reads simply, "Charles Goodyear- Inventor." Most of the modern graves are also very plain, but Cameron says that's for another reason. "It costs too much," he explains. "P eople just don't care enough anymore."

A few of the plots at Grove Street still have iron ra ilings around them originally built to keep the cows out.

But the citizens of New H aven had most of these railings removed during World War II . "The iron has to be converted in to munitions of war to be hurled by the allies at the .Japs and Hitle r ," explained the New Havm Register. "Lots of uses for a few pieces o f iron ," says Cameron.

Cows had ceased to be a problem on G rove Street by 1845 when the city of New Haven a nd its Volunteer Ladies Charity Fair pooled together enough money to erect the stone fence a round the burial ground that stands today. A compromise between various religious groups resulted in the "Egyptian-style" gateway, a seemingly incongruous choice for a Puritan New England town. Yale History of Art Professor Vincent Scully notes the "machine-like interpretation of the originally graceful Egyptian columns. They are ridged like gears, not a surprising phenomenon in the industry-minded 19th century."

Less explicable is the strange motif crowning the gateway. The symbol combines the hawk wings of the Egyptian sun god with the intertwining serpents emblematic o f the p h aroahs of the Upper Nile. The symbol appears in one other place at Yale: over the

fireplace in the old fraternity house of • OKE, now the AYA huildin~ on York Street. OK E ~"as founded at approximately the same time as the gateway's n 111'-1111< 1ion Tlw i n'icri pt ion aho' <' I ht• symbol. "The Dead Shall I:Se Rai<>ed," inspired Yale Prel>ident Arthur Hadley to comment in 1845: "They certainly

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· He too j., hurit·d lwhincl tlw l{att· hav<' bt•t·n all Yalt• prt·sidt·nr... sim t• 17. fherc art• two plots t•xdusiq·ly for eat Grcwt' Stn•t·t clin•ctlv alonl{siclt· Plots gi"t'n to tht• New Havt•n rt·hes. Yale Historian Loomis

Havt-rmeyer suggested that the proximit}' of these plots proves that "acaclt:rnic and spiritual blood now through tht• same veins. Churc·h and 1 ollt•l(t' an· IOI.(t'IIH"r· in lilt- and in death not divided."

Ont• inridcnt in 1824 almost did r·upture Yale's amicable relationship

â&#x20AC;˘

6

Von Staden: "If there were a ghost, it would be benign. And isn't it the non-benign kind we hear from?" with the cemetery's management. A desperate sh o r tage of cadavers a ppears to have driven Yale medical stude n ts to grave robbery. In the ensuing furor, New Haven rioters broke every window in the Medical School, which stood where Becton Center is today.

According to legend the Med School had constructed a series of tunnels underneath Prospect Street into the graveyard to facilitate the fresh flow of cadavers. But the details of this early 19th century scheme still remain, if one will pardon th e expression, shrouded in m ystery.

Currently Yale's major interaction with the cemetery occurs once a year when variou s secret societies conduct initiation rites. "They always ask permission, though," says Cameron.

"Sometimes they leave a few candles around. We don't really ask them what they do." During one initiation scandal in the 1860s stories were told of several freshmen who were forced to lie buried 22 The New J ournal/October 2 1, 1983

in the graveyard. Nothing was proven, although the popularity of freshman fraternities began to wane not long afterward.

H einrich Von Staden, M aster o f Stiles College, regretfully n oted that despite a rededication of Stiles's g ravestone two years ago, no rumblings have been heard from Stiles's grave. "If there were â&#x20AC;˘.a ghost, it would be benign," h e commented. "And isn't it usually the non-benign kind we hear from?"

It does seem that the Puritans and worthy citizens who popula te Crove Street must have died almost uniformly at peace with themselves because most of the time ghosts are not a problem at Grove Street. Bill Cameron should know. He sometimes has to spend the night there on Halloween.

"Have to keep a lookout for vandals.

You know, kids who want to come a nd knock over tombstones becau se it's October 31st." Cameron isn't scared o n

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those nights . "I only feel a little tense at first. All that stuff they tell you when you're a kid sticks with you. I don't think I'd be scared if I did see a ghost.

I'd be more afraid of someone who was a live."

Vandals do pose a more serious problem for the cemetery groundskeeper than ghosts. It is not uncommon for Cameron to find a pushedover gravestone or a broken statue on a Mond ay morning. Aside from grave desecration of th is sort, there have also been a number o f muggings and one attem pted rape reported within the last several years. While no incidents have been recorded recently, the cemetery is still not considered safe after twilight, and most Yale students tend to keep away unless they're looking for trouble or a late-night adventure.

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"It's all from the same source- the vandals, the people who don't care about cem eteries any more," complains Malcolm Munson, the cemetery's superintendent. "They've all lost a sense of history that people back then had. If you love history, you love your l~t mily and vour past. Mmlt-rn lift' got•s too f~tst. Fmnilit·s hrt'ak up. Childrt>n kavt•. No ont' stays." Tht' sunlight gkams ofT Munson's glasses. Ht', at least. is staying.

A quiet gentleman in his 70s, Malcolm Munson has worked at Grove Street for over 50 years and claims to know everything about it except the exact number of people buricd there.

He sees to the financial and ollicial side of the cemetery's operation rather than its physical upkeep. His offke is sparse, functional. On one wall hangs a large map of the cemetery with each plot owner's name on it. In tht· corner stands a wooden cabinet containing the remains of the cemetery records.

Munson explains that running a cemetery involves a certain amount of flexibility. Two weeks ago, for instance, then· was a wedding held in Grove Street. A wedding in a cemetery? "Actuallv it was quit(' nit·e," recalls Munson. Even a simple burial can involve complications for Munson.

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his own way. They all have their own traditions. I suppose at bottom they're all the· -;am<'.n While- Grovt' Stn·c·t'o; in· habitants are mostly white Christians. there are several Jewish graves and even a few blacks . "We had a .Jewish burial last week," said Munson. "It was no different. Only different words."

Funerals today are drastically different from those held in Grove Street in the 19th century. "Wine or spirits" were customarily served until 1826.

The deceased were carried to the grave on the shoulders of several pallbearers, and bells tolled for every burial until 1830. Funerals were also much more likely to be important social occasions.

"People died younger then , so death was much more a part of daily life," explains Munson. "You see many examples of husbands with more than one wife simply because women were much more likely to die in childbirth .

You can also tell which were the plague ' years because whole families will have died within a month of each other."

One of Bill Cameron's favorit e places is the cemetery's northwest corner where the tombstones from the original buriaJ ground on the Green lean along the waJI. The stones were first moved by YaJe students and set up in order of prestige outside Center Church. When they were again moved to Grove Street around 1800. they were a r ranged in alphabetical ordl·r.

"See what 1 mean?" Cameron shakes his head. "After a while everybody ends up in the same place."

Changes in lifestyle and values from New Haven's earliest years are particularly evident in these older stones.

Very few modern day druggists c·njoy the locaJ fame of Daniel Atwater, who died in 1777. He was a "noted Apothecary, "a valuable member of society, just and upr ight in his dealings, generaJiy beneficent to the poor, a kind and honorable husband." Mrs. Sarah Daggett's descendants said simply, "Her character is found in Proverbs XXXI : 10: 11." That's the verse that reads, "Who can find a virtuous woman? Her price is above rubies."

Few women did not contain some measure of"virtue," "amiability" or, at the very least, "resignation." Yet most women were bur ied in the plots of their husbands and under smaller and less ornate tombstones.

Cameron is surprised that no one has come looking for Martha Townsend. "She died in 1797. First burial in Grove Street. Usually fem inists are interested in stuff like that."

The· ornat<· graves in the: cemetery sometimes do get passed over by tourists looking for the resting place of Eli Whitney, Roger Sherman, Noah Webster o r the dozens of other Revolutionary, Civil and Spanish-American War veter ans who lie there. One popula r site is the large statue, complete with axe a nd helmet, of J. T. Hemingway, New Haven's first fire chief. During the C ivil War the grave ofTheodore Winthrop, the first Union officer killed in battle, received over 10,000 v isitors. The French General Lafayette himself paid a visit to the cemetery in 1824 to honor its many Revolutionary War heroes.

Yet walking through the cemetery, one wonders why it is so deserted.

Most Yale students know nothing about it oth er than that it is probably dangerous and that they should stay away. "Not that I blame you," C-ameron savs. "You've probably got better things to do. But remembering the cemetery reminds you of lots of other impo rtant things too."

Cameron is walking throu gh the cemetery and pointing o u t his favorite gravestones in the late afternoon sunlight. "The re's Ashmun, that one in front. H e was th e United States Ambassador to Liberia in the 19th century. There's a pair of twins right behind him , and we've even got one dog." T h e dog, "Albert : 1845"1848," is buried beside his mistress, H arriet Braun Smith. Albert's statue sits atop the stone with his name carved on a banne r a long the side.

Cameron does have one epita ph which he is particularly fond of reading. It is on the stone o f Mary Louise Meyers, a poet. The carving consists of several verses she wro te in 1884. It beg~l)S, L ~ghts and shadows as they fall, Ltavt thtir mark upon tht wall.

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I·~ Robin Winks, Master of Berkeley College and professor of British history, spent last summer in South Africa teaching at the elite Afrikaner University of Stellenbosch. A decision to go to South Africa is a controversial one. For many years various intellectuals, entertainers dnd athletes have r~fused to visit the country as a w~y of prote.rtin.l!. its open(y racist policies.

L!fe in South Africa is dominated kY a rt~ffid system of racial classifications known as "apartheid" which means "separatene.u" in Afrikaans, one of the three main lan,l!,uages spoken in South Africa. Or~l!,inal(y imposed by the South African govemment in 1.948 to protect the he,l!,emony of the small white minority, the system has grown into a rz:l!,id social framework which cons(l!,ns the overwhelmin.tf African majority to a /ffe f!{ ' economic slavery devoid of legal or political r(l!,hts. Since the 1960's the country has com~ under increasing international pressure to change its policies.

Winks was invited to teach at Stellenho.rch

by Herman Guillome, a leadin.l!. Afrikaner historian who during several visits to Yale found that Winks shared his interest in the moral problems posed by teachin,lf history in a count~y like South Africa. But when Guillome was denied tenure at Stellenbosch lor speaking out a,l!,ainst discrimination in 'his country, Winks found his invitation to teach history was not valid without his sponsor.

H e went to Stellenbosch a~yway, but on(y qfter a,l!,reein.l!. to teach Amm'can economic history.

Winks also traveled extensively throughout southern Africa on a lecture tour sponsored by the United States /~ormation Agency. He spoke on Amvican fore(l!,n policy and race relations, black· history and literature and occasionally on detective fiction. One of the places he visited was Zimbabwe, a ne~l!,hhor­ ing country which achieved black mqjori~y rule in 1.980.

Kathleen Cleaver, who interviewed Winks, has been inter~.rted in international race relations all of her l!{tt. In 1.967 she joined the Black Panther Party and r"v~d a.r its communications secretary: In 1.96.9 she and her husband Eldridge Cleaver went into exile in A~l!,ert'a. The Cleavers returned to America in 1.975, and Kathleen enrolled at Yale in 1981. She is now a senior in Calhoun Colle,l!,e.

26 The New Journal/October 21, 1983

The Master in South Africa TNJ: It's not easy for everyone to get into South Africa. They have a rather restrictive policy. Did you have any difficulty getting there?

RW : Nothing that could be called serious difficulty because I was being invited by the university. After I applied for the visa, however, the issuing officer asked me to sign a statement that I would write nothing about South Africa at any time. I said I wouldn't sign that statement , but I would undertake not to write while in South Africa hecause historians didn't work to that pare. I wasn't goi n g to produce some instant journalism and file stories while moving around in South Africa. But I wouldn't undertake a statement that would prevent me from commenting freel y and writing about South Africa if I wanted to after I returned. And that was all right after I said that. They removed the need to sign that statemt·nt .

TNJ: How are the students that you

reading the book. There's a national film board so that the students never see the more radical films or film s that contai n sexual references. T he atmosphere is very much that of the 1950's . in the sense that they dress in what I would call the bobby sox tradition. The height of the social occasion would be to have at the student union building what they call a "sockie," which is a shoeless dance. This was lelt to be quite daring .

TNJ: How did you, approach the subject of apartheid in your lectures?

RW: There have been American lecturers who have gone in and on their first lecture insulted everybody in South Africa, told them what a hateful system it is, and of course the students stop coming after the second lecture.

So you have to be relatively gentle in the way in which you try to challenge people.

It is very commonly believed in South Africa that the United States is

very much like South Africa. I felt the most productive thing I could do was demonstrate to them that while certainly there had been slavery and a long tradition of racism in the United States, that the roots of that were often different, and it produced a different result, and that there really was hope for them to bring change. One of the deep problems, I think, in South Africa is even the liberal Afrikaners w h o would like to ch ange keep saying th ere's no way for us to get out of it. It's important, I think, for the outsider to say, "No, there are ways to get o ut of it." Otherwise a kind of fatalism sets in, and they just sink deeper into apartheid .

TNJ: How do you think, in retrospect, the students v iewed you? H ow did they classify you in terms of American positions? · RW: They pretty clearly saw that I was an American who very instinctively as well as intellectually disapproved of

taught at Stcllenbosch different from th<· students that come to an American public or private university?

RW: I was teaching the American equivalent of seniors and M.A. can didates. These students are in the narrow sense of the term quite · well educated. In South Africa you begin specializing the m inute you walk through the door. There's no general liheral education. This meant that they knew very little history, even the most fundame ntal simple references such as Woodrow Wilson and the e ntry into World War I - that would often be meaningless to them so that the level a t whkh one would teach fa<·tually had to he relatively simple.

Students in South Africa generally do not work very h ard. The atmosphere of South Africa's unversit ies, a t least the white universities, is very reminiscent of the 1950's. Films are censored; books are censored . The book won't twin the university library, or it will be kt-pt under lo<·k a nd key for spe<'ial study so the univer sity authorities can control and know who is The New Journal/October 21 , 1983 27

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thought it was going to bring utter disaster to c::veryonc in the country, black and white. I was trying, in a sen se, to outline for them as the nexf generation of leaders altern at ivc scenarios for South Africa. And they are the next generation of leaders at S tellenbosch. Every Prime Minister of South Africa hut one has come out of that university. It's like being at Harvard or Yale in the United States or at Oxford a nd Cambridge in England.

TN.J: What issut·s were you outspoken on?

RW: I was convinced that the most serious matter in South Africa is the attempt o n the part of the military, whichhas farmorepower in the current administration , to destabilize their n eighbors. They are systematically trying to undo the governments of Zimbabwe, Lesotho, Angola, Mozambique and probably Botswana. Theya re certainly n ot doing anything effcctivt' to stahilizt• Namibia. And I verv often and very pub.licly kept saying that the South African government must stop this if it declares itself to truly be a bulwark of capitalism in southern Africa. The capitalists couldn't care lesS; about the ideology of the neighboring states if those states will deliver high quality goods on time. And the military therefore is deeply anti-capitalist in South Africa and is, in fact, the most subversive influence in South Africa, far more subversive than any alleged left wing or liberationist movement.

That's a pretty sh arp message to be delivering, and I delivered it very o ften. It appeared in the press. And yet the students kept sitti ng back waiting for somebody to slap my wrist, and nobody d id.

TNJ: I take it no South African professor could stand up and say that in class? Or could they?

RW: Yes, but they would be immediately identified with what's now called the "overexposed enlightened" faction. Certainly that group is saying exactly what I was saying. They can say so certainly without being arrested in the night. It's not a police state. One shouldn't assume that because you speak out against the government that some gestapo is going to show up in the

middle of the night and cart you away.

To that extent there's freedom of spt'e('h. Though what will happt•n is that pt'opk will lind that thev are hlockcd in their a('ademic progn:ss.

TNJ: Like the McCat·thy JWriod he:>re?

RW: Yes . H <'l'lll;tll (;uillome !who invitl'd \!\'inks tiiii'OII'h in South 1\fril'al is a member oft his so-called ovt·n·xposed enlighten ed group. H e's not going to be arrested, and he won't lost• his job.

On the other hand ht· didn't get pronwtcd to full proft'ssor. tlwugh lw is widely regarded as t ht• most distinguished Afrikaner historian in the countr y.

TNJ: Would you tell us about your visit to Fort Hare in Ciskt·i?

RW: Fort H are is the oldest and most distinguished of the black univcrsilit·s.

It was founded by the British in tlw 1 19th century to train, according to the terminology of the timt'. bla<·k kadcrs.

Many of the black nationalist kaders of other countries arc Fort H are g raduates. It's n·rtainly the liveliest of the universities that I visited in South Afrit·a, white or black, in the sense that students do discuss matters, ask their visitors quest ions sharply and challenge everything that they hear.

Whether they challenge their own professors, l don't know. Rut I had the most exciting intellectual experience at that university. I gave a good lecture on race relations in the United States.

Immediately the questions started to flow. And they very quickly and skillfully turned the questions toward South Africa, knowing perfectly well I was pt·epared to speak on that su~ject but had not Qt;en invited to speak on that su~ject. The questions went on for over an hour afterward.

Ten years ago I lectured at every university in South Africa. Fort Hare University was decrepit, under threat of being closed down. I gave a lecture to the enti re assembled student body ten years ago. We met in an old missionary hall in which the Bureau of State Security were present quite consciously, quite physically, standing at the back of the room taping my lectures and insisting that a ny students who asked a question had to stand and identify them-selves by name so they

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could be recorded on the tape which, of course, would have an enormously intimidating effect upon any questions. I said that they could tape my lecture, but I would not permit any taping of the questions. The lecture was delayed about an hour and a quarter before they would agree finally to that. So the Bureau of State Security rather osten tatiously, as soon as I'd finished my lecture, undid their tape recorders a n d left. Now we all knew they were setting them up somewhere else. I said to the students that while it may be that the questions are being taped remotely, do not state your n ame. I have no need to know what your name is for you to ask the question. And a couple of days after that lecture I and my escort were stopped on the road a nd delayed to such an extent that I wasn't able to give my next lecture at the University of Zululand because they weren't about to have that same scenario played out there.

The difference between ten years ago and now is enormous. This time there was absolutely no evidence at any time that anybody was taping this lecture. There was no hint that people had to identify themselves by name in order to ask a question. The facilities were brand new and very handsome.

And it clearly is meant to be not only a showplace, but also a place that is educating a new black leadership group.

TNJ: But educating black leadership in a context of apartheid.

RW: Oh, absolutely.

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RW: Oh, I think there is. The very circumstances of society teach the black student to question authority. And the circumstances o f society at the Afrikans- medium universities in particular lead the Afrikaans students to be intense respecters of authority. I had the feeling that I could tell the Afrikans students tnat the Umted States doesn't consist of 50 states; there arc 53. And they would write it down without someone saying he'd heard diflerently. Or I could tell them the moon

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was made of green cheese. They would . booming city. I felt I saw mainly signs · immediately know that was a lie, but of stability and of good interracial h~, they wouldn't tell me they knew it was m ony. As you walk about m the streets . a lie. They . would just say quietly in of Harare, which is a modern clean citheir minds that he's lyin~ to us. They ty, I think that one sees very little sense would feel no need to contradict me. of tension. I think it's a mistake for the Whereas the African students would black African governments to bar tell me, "We know you're lying to us," South Africans from v isiting b ecause or "Aren't you making a mistake, the press in South Africa, while not aren't the facts the following?" It's m massively censored, is a very restricted the culture. press. Most white South Africans, including those who see themselves asTNJ: How pervasive is apartheid in liberal, really believe that all black South Africa?

African governments are dreadfully As to how pervasive apartheid is, it's mismanaged, that every country in the on~ question that any conversation black Africa is in chaos, that murder is comes to. Let me give you an example. occurring on the streets daily, that it's You'll often be served wine, and the unsafe to walk about. They have a conversation will turn to, "Why don't totally distorted image of what life is you drink our fine wines in the United · lilcP. in black Africa States?" There is only one conceivable reop•e m tne united :::ncuc::s who · answer. And that i~ "We don't wish to say "w••y uv11, chose being discri~: drink them. It's not because they are , inated against in South Africa simply bad . wines. It's not because you act as those who were discriminated couldn't deliver them to us cheaply.: against in the United States?" d on't But it would be a political act to drink understand the situation. It's illegal for them." Now time and time again I en- . more than three people to meet togethcountered folks who didn't understand . er for political purposes in South. that. That is, they don't understand Africa. You can't have a group of prohow the apartheid system is related to testers m eet and carry placards everything else. because· they will be immediately removed by the police. The system exTNJ: Do you believe that the erts very sharp punishments against Atrikaner mentality I S rather those who for political or any other apolitical? reasons step out of line. And most proRW: I'm saying it's rather naive, yes. tests develop some violence ultimately.

They think of themselves as very tough-minded, but they can be easily TNJ: There's a tendency to compare led by the government to believe that South Africa with the United States atry protest is Communist-inspired. that obscures some very fundamental They accept whatever the press prints differences. For unlike the South about the -United States, and what is where blac ks were imported as slaves, printed about the United States is in South Africa the Africans were over grotesquely misstated , even factually: several centuPies the target of assaults references in the press to the city of by the whites who attempted to destroy Montana in the state of Missoula. 1 he their independence, destroy their selflevel-ot igno-rance, even on the· factual sufficiency and force the Africans to level, let alone being able to interpret work for them. And to this d ay it is the and understand, is quite absolutely ap- control of African labor that is a basic palling. component of the South African system. For unlike America, South TNJ: I'd like to hear how you con- Africa's whites are entirely dependent trasted your visit to Zimbabwe with upon cheap black labor for their your experience m South Africa. economic advantages.

RW: Zimbabwe is a country that RW: There is a presumption.that there seems to me is working rather well are elements that are parallel in the two given the persistent efforts of South ,histories. There certainly are not many AfricC\ to destahilize it. Harare. the elements that are parallel, but it is capital, the tormer Salisbury, IS a quite commonly believed by white

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South 'Africans that there are. They are inclined to say that you · did what we did. Give us time to work through our problem in the way you worked through yours.

In my mind the most important matter where there must stop being any kind of comparison is that the basic thrust of the federal government in the United States has almost always been toward enforcing civil rights: ' lt was the central governm ent that u ltimately forced the Southern states to abandon segregation. The thrust in South Africa is exactly the reverse, Whenever a local community wishes to desegregate, w h en a prov ince would like, in fact, to change the law, the federal government forces them to adhere to the basic canons of the Afrikaner 'ideology.

Don't forget, in a population of 30 million, 23.5 million are black and another four million are Indian and Colored. So the whites see themselves as enormously threatened by any concepts of "one m an, one vote."

TNJ :. In m y opinion the Afrikaner ideology seems far closer to that of Nazis than that of th e American slaveholders and their segregationist descendants. While slavery in America was in conflict with our national ethos of equality and liberty, in South Africa whites have portrayed th emselves as ordained by God to rule blacks. They see themselves as a m.~ster race, blacks . as a subordinate race, and that's the way God intended it.

RW: I'm not really happy in comparing the South Africans to the Nazis, though it's a nearer comparison .than to the plantation South. But the Nazi ideology was for the removal of the Jews and the other people defi n ed as undesirablP. . It was not to create a nredlclalm~. depc::ndable, qtueS\.t:nl, cheap labor force. And in South Africa that's the goal. They want p redictive capacity over a labor force by controlling the price of labor, its productivity levels a nd its residence. And that's really a different goal than that of the Nazis. They may be using Nazi methods for that goal, but it's a different goal.

I'm not sure that a great number of white South Africans any longer would

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·d efend apartheid on the grounds that God ordained it. One of the differences I think I detect in these ten years since my first v isit is a shift toward more h ard-headed secula r defenses. There is a movement, for example, in the D utch Reformed Church which has produced a book called Apartheid is a Heresy. These church leaders are arguin g th at there is nothing to be found in the Bible that suggests that apartheid was fixed by God. What they are arguing is that it was brought into being for par ticular social goals, and to some extent those social goals h ave already been achieved, and therefore there is no basis for apar theid.

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TNJ: What is your com ment on the effect or desirability of boycotts by artists o r professionals in pressuring South Africa- its government and its 1 ·citizens- to change their practices?

RW: I think by and large the boycott is not very significant. To begin with a fair num ber of white performers go to South Arrica anyway. Secondly many pe r formers who do not go because of the bovr.ott are the kind that at least the Afrikaner community feel they don't wish to h ear anyway. They play loud noisy music, they're living Godless lifestyles and the boycott is simply playing into the hands of the right wing a n d fundamentalist religious elemen t who would wish to find some other means to bar what th ey like to think of as und esirable artistic influence.

I think the one area where the boycott has had real effect is athletics.

There's no question that the politics of sports is much m o re significan t in South Africa th an in most countries.

O ne of the e~~ouraging breakthroughs that occurred while I was there was when, as a prelude to an international soccer match, o r rugby match, the main all-white h igh school of the Cape Town area played against the · main non-white high school. There h ad never been an interracial match on the high sch ool level. What is significan t is that not only was there a hu ge crowd, inter racial, but though the press antic ipated th at this white team was going to wipe these much smaller peo ple o ff the field, the Indian and C olored team won the game. As th ey began to win the game with a more

daring style. of play, th e entire au die n ce began to root for them. T h ere was no sense of racial antipathy, no sense that the whites fundamentally felt that the white team had to win, becau se what they were seeing was a better style of play. As a good friend o f m ine remarked, "Maybe the fundamental politics of apartheid in this country will turn on sports."

TNJ : Yale students are o rganizing a new committee to combat aparth eid on ca mpus, and they are going to reconsider the issue of disinvestment of university holdings in South African ente r prises. In your opinion what is the value of disinvestment as a tactic to express disapproval o f apartheid?

RW: I think it makes those who join in su ch committees feel good. So I thin k su ch committees are a good thing. I a lso¡ think that they don't have any effect whatsoever on apartheid. If such com mittees are formed on the assumption th at they're going to bring apartheid crumbling to the ground, then I think that the people involved in them will be very frust rated. I t's rath er like the liquor store dealers of Connecticut tak in g Russian vodka off the shelf. I a m sure this is a good public relations gesture toward the consumers, but I do n ot think that the Soviet Union is going to worry that because they shot down a Korean airliner, we're not going to drink their vodka.

As I said at the outset, I think the historian must go and see for himself.

It's very wrong to condemn a society wh ich you've' never examined. So when I said I was compromising m yself, I didn't mean to say that I felt d irty because I had gone to South Africa, but there is no doubt as you look out a streamlined train at the shanty towns you're passing by, you have to recognize that you are in a streamlined train because there are sh anty towns out there. There is a real cause and effect between the two. So it was good to es<"ape from that sense of moral discomfort.

â&#x20AC;˘

Kmhlun Cleaver, a senior in Calhoun, is a ./rtquenl contributor to TN]. She was interoimled in TNJ in the December 5, 1981 issue.

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Books/Paul Hofheinz

A STOLEN PAST

A Separate Peace at Yale A Stolen Past b y John Knowles

1983 Holt Rinehart Winston 242 pp.

I read John Knowles' A Separate Peace as a freshman in high school. I don't remember much about it except that it had one of those sentimental endings where someone dies and the reader is supposed to reflect on the frailty of life and the traj;~;edy of youth cut off in its prime. I remember finding Knowles~ reminiscences of his life as a student at Exeter (renamed the Devon school in his novel) to be especially tedious. The students were so smug a nd happy, and the author treated them so reverently.

I can still recall the disdain I felt as a freshman at a small high school in Texas for this East Coast prep school mentality which seemed to think so much of itself and to be so remote from life as I knew it.

34 The New Journal/October 21, 1983

Now I am a senior at Yale, a nd I've just finished reading A Stolen Past, Knowles' most recent novel, which came out in July. I enjoyed this fictional memoir about Knowles' days as an undergraduate at Yale. I found myself identifying frequently with the characters in the novel as they tried to make sense ¡eut of Yale. I recognized their insecurities; I saw their vulnerabilities. I knew their pleasure and I felt their pain. fve changed a Jot since I read A &paraU Peace in high school. Yale a nd all of the things that an Ivy education once meant to me are no longer something foreign and elitist. They are a part of me now, for better or worse. I enjoyed A Stolm Pait, but I'm left wondering what they'll make of it back in Texas.

Much of the arrogant idealization of the East Coast establishmt>nt is still there. Knowles occasionally writes as if

Yale were the New J erusalem. The campus he desqibes is adorned with a sense of destiny. The buildings are monumental a nd the people are effervescent. Even swimming practice takes on an aura of great importance: Late in the afte rnoon five days a week we practiced in the echoing, c hlorin c-undhumidity-laden air of the Exhihition Pool in the Payne Whitney Cymna~ium. The cry~· talline hlui~h water of the pool itself. thc gleaming whiten~·ss of the t ik dcd under 1he hright lights. tht• gun·nwtal- grccn ~cats ri~­ ing ~tecply nn all sicks, this rather spectacular st•llinfo( !t-nt a ht•ightcnecl ~ignifintnce In ~hat Wll, aftt•r all just a group nf young men pnu·tic·ing. Of t·nur<t· we wt•rc mcmhcrs of not just an~ swimming tt·am . we wen· tht· Yalt· Swimmin.l( Tc•am. argual'll~ the lx-st. ~Tar in and vt·ar out. in chc: t·nuncrv

As one friend of mine remarked when I showed him the book I was reading, "This is the kind of thing that makes people want to firebomb Yale ."

But if you look past these heavyhanded descriptions, you'll find A Stolen PtlSl is a finely crafted a nd compelling novel about a writer·trying to come to terms with himself. Knowles wants to tell us who he is a nd how he got there.

His narrative is full of paralle ls with his own life so that the author is never very far from the story he is telling. His penetration into the mind of an undergraduate at 'Yale is remarkable if only for the clarity and elegance of his prose and his mastery of the complex multiple narratives with which he tells his story.

Knowles writes in the guise of Allan Prieston , a middle-aged and highly successful writer who returns to Yale in 1980 for the first time since he was a student there in the early 1950's.

Prieston has been asked to give a lec!ure on one of his popular novels which •s taught in high school curriculums across the country (much like A &parau PNCe). Once he is settled into his room in the Pierson Slave Quarters, he meets an old friend named Millicent MoncrieiT. She remarks upon how much he has changed since his days as an undergraduate and asks him what he_has given up as he has grown older . ~r•eston is unable to answer the question, so he resurrects the memories of his days at Yale in seart·h of an a nswer.

His thoughJs first turn to his roommate Gregory Trouvenskoy, the son of

Russian aristocrats and a relative of the deposed Czar Nicholas II. Tro uvenskoy is haunted by his family's former wealth and privilege. H e find s himself uneasy about the prospect of trying to be a successful American when his family heritage is so deeply rooted in an aristocratic past. Once at the pinnacle of Russian society, the Trouvenskoys were forced to sell everything they had brought with them

from Russia to put Gregory through Yale. Now all that remains of their former wealth is a large diamond given to Gregory's mother by the Czar himself.

But one day that diamond is stolen, and the Trouvenskoys' life is thrown into disarray. They had been saving the diamond to provide some security for the future and to serve as a tangible link with their past. Its theft was a

An Excerpt of A Stolen Putfont.us.,.. IN Jmltagortist A.l/4n PrUsllnl's ~ as a Mucll

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I recall one sentence &oat that lee· ture, one I have in ~t Jiv~ ..: '"Destiny aids and belpa .... aboM! who recognize her,• he powled signifacantly at us, qoebrowa up, eyes alive with the imponaoce f1l :What he was saying; a taut .,_....; chen. in a ~r. more porteatoua ~ "'the blind - . - she drap • 'That day. sitting b.f6 'I'Uit oa the left in the packed -~. ..... rounded by other stuclencW~were m •pile of themaelves tu. pdf, beginning un•wiDiiNW.liO this c:ompcllins and words, I simply kaew were important l of my mind them ever .......... _...~...

me

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break with that history, a "stolen past" if you will. Now Gregory will have to support the family himself without the help of the money they had counted on from the eventual sale of the diamond.

A large portion of the novel revolves around Prieston's development as a writer. W hen he isn't telling us the story of the diamond theft, he is reminiscing about Reeves Lockhart, his o ld English teacher and mentor.

Lockhart was a forceful personality and a dramatic lecturer in addition to being a world famous author of several plays and novels (see side bar). The character is at least loosely based on Thornton Wilder, the Pulitzer Prizewinning author o f Our Town and a professor o f English at Yale in the 194,0's and 50's. Knowles has acknowledged his indebtedness to Wilder elsewhere.

Through the use of multiple narratives, Knowles also gives us some in• sights into the various stages of awareness that an author goes through at different points in his career. The young Allan Prieston is timid and insecure. His p rose is self-conscious and overly introspective. The middle-aged Allan Prieston is wise and in control of his craft. He is learning to understand himself and those around him. The aging Reeves Lockhart, already acclaimed and world-renowned as he nears 60, has refused to publish any of his later works. He has run out of things to say and has turned overly critical of himself. He warns Prieston that someday he too will run out of things to say.

Lockhart gives Prieston much valuable advice on his writing which he shares with us. He tells Prieston "there must be an eie.ment of play in all good writing," adding that "it's hard to imagine Shakespeare feeling playful while writing King Lear but on a certain level he must have been." He advises Prieston to be less indulgent in his prose and to try harder to understand other people.

Perhaps the most encouraging advice that he gives to Prieston is that as he grows up, his work will also mature.

Prieston takes that advice to heart by waiting to write the story of his days at Yale until he is mature enough to understand how they have affected him. When he does do so 30 years

RICHTER'S late r , the narrative shows the depth of his greater understanding.

The passage of 30 years has, in fact, given Knowles a perspective on Yale he did n't have as an undergraduate. As an alumnus returning to Yale, he sees p rivilege that he had not realized existed when h e was an undergraduate.

H e describes this new awareness quite _su btly by juxtaposing Yale ard the American elite with the fami ly of the fa llen R ussian aristocrats. At o n e point G regory makes fun of the Yale insignia o n Allan's bathrobe, '"What if I wore the R omanoff double eagle,' he scoffed, 'on my ski parka?'"

Maturity docs bring a greater awareness of who we are and where we've been. I was as green as Alla n P rieston when I read A Separate Peace in h igh school. I've g rown up a lot since then, and I now understand that childhood does, in fact, end. I signed A Separate Peace out of the library recently, and I found that I really liked it. The tragedy of youth's passing is no longer incomprehensible to me . But only with the passing of time and the gaining of maturity could I recognize the power of this book's simple message .

I n the end Prieston realizes th at the transition from young student to accomplished writer has hardened him.

H e finally answers the question that M illicent Monc·ricff asked h im: What have you given up to get where you are today?

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"l'nl f;n;tr"'t'r. lnuJ(ht·r. nlurt· in\pltlil·nt. I chink 1 c·uuld c•vc·n h.- dt•-.·riht•d in my "udt•nc day~ a~ full nf kindnc·.. and c·nmpa~· "'ion. Nn" l'n• ruuc ·h nlur,· hru~qut·. nne ~o kind . I'm nne a l(t•nch•m;cn I'm dc•dinoct•d . l'n1 a mi~t hit:\'ous. connh inK ra'< ttl and a c·ht"at: a wriu:r."'

K nowles offers this final insight into h is craft: Writers te ll stories; sometimes their own, sometimes someone else's. They are not afraid to steal.

They are not afraid to rummage through the past and resurrect unpleasant memories -like the theft of the T rouvenskoys' diamond . They are not afraid to take these stories and claim them for their own. After all, what is a novel but a stolen past?

FREE DEUVERY ..

•

Paul Hojheinz, a senior m Silliman, zs Associate Editor of TN.J .

T he New J ournaVOctober 21, 1983 37

_ fterthought/~ohn

McQuaid

SWimming With the Big Fish A Yale Intern Adrift in Washington •'

·'

On the· second-to-last wee_k :I was living in Washington, I experienced an epiphany: I found myself at an early evening publication party for a,n editor I knew, sipping chablis. out of a fishbowl-sized 'wineglass, blinking every five minutes at the array of oysters and crab legs. Surrounded by colleagues from The New Republic, the magazine wh<:>re I was interning, I chatted with the Washin.f!lnn Pnst reporter covering the event, a friend who like me had just graduat<·d from Yale. Everyone was at case and at home in the social scene. Suddenly a wave of tension swept over the crowd, causing many of us to stifle a gasp. Henry Kissinger had arrived. · I d idn't speak with him. After all, he was monopolized by two congressmen, an editor and the White House correspo~dent for The New York Times. But even so, there we all were hanging out at The Palm on 19th Street NW. I n a strange way, for two hours we were all equals, drinking the same wine and chomping on the same seafood. At that point I began to understand just how much, as a Yalic Washington I ntern (YWI), I was living a dream. And after recovering from the wine in the fishbowl, I decided that it wasn't necessarily a good dream either.

Washington is itself a fishbowl- everybody's looking at everybody else, looking for leverage, for a chance shou lderrubbing which could pay off later· on. Interns are statuscon scious; for YWI's, status is obtained usually with no more discernible effort than the legwork it takes to get a resume typeset at Tyco. One soon learns that credentials and connections are everything, and Yale provides you with a ready-made set. My Georgetown housesitting arrangement, for example, a cushy deal with a car and a phone answering machine, was procured by my YWI roommate through friends of friends of friends.

Upon moving into the plush surroundings, among the first things I discovered was a document called the Social Register-essentially a listing or rich people, whom they married, the clubs they belong to and the schools they attended. I immediately began searching for Yalies I knew, found a few I expected to be in there and a few I did not.

My name, alas, wasn't in there, but for some reason I almost wished it were. Once you feel yourself being consumed by the "Washington scene,". it's hard to face the fact that you really may not belong after all. Many hunger to overcome this self doubt.

"Interns are carnivorous creatures," wrote Robin Davis (herself an intern) in a piece in The New Republic last September, "and in the summer Washington is crawling with thousands of interns hell-bent on devouring everything in s-ight." Each June an entire intern sub-culture springs up with its own social life and its own rules. Proximity to power is the most valued commodity, what provides you with a name to drop and, many hope, the knowledge to climb Capitol Hill later in life. An internship spent running errands for your congressman far outranks doing research for the Congressional Quarterly.

Yalies are led to believe they'll own the world within a given time after graduation- say 20 years, maybe 30 for the less ambitious. Upon arrival in Washington, suddenly you find yourself at cocktail parties with Henry Kissinger, 38 The New Journal/October 21, 1983

and the 20 years conn·ptually ('()llapst> to nothirtg. Obviously you an· more lowly than Ht•nry . Kissingt·r, but t•veryone surrounding you is on a paralld track to a hight·r position, hobnobbing with people like him. Being an intern wht·ts your appt·tite f(>r more oysters ancl crab legs down th<· line; you start to exaggerate your own sizt' in tht· fishbowl.

Anyom·'s initial r<'aetion, mine anyway. is. "Oh wow. Isn't this amazing." After the starry-eyt·d shock wears off. the st·condary rt·action might as well be, "I belong hen·; these arc my pt•opk."

Rut somehow all these pt•ople, in Georget<.>wn at kast st>em to he blonde and wearing khaki shorts. Thne is a disturbing provincialism about this place. a cit-y that afl'<Tts so much of the world. A qm·stion arises: is it possibk to g<>Vern cflcrtively if you hav<' nt'vt•r left tht· Eastern Establishment's Boston-to-Washington corridor? Is Washington in fact the natural tnminus of the universe. the plat·e where all roads kad? And if so, is tht•n· nothing wmng with taking the short t·ut from New Hav<·n and falling in loY<' with tht• place since toughing it out at Yak f(>r four years seems to land a lot of people there as it is?

Like Yale, Washington is a meta-reality. I t is an artifi<·ial world whnc tht· path~ pf the powerful intersect. Evt•rything has a sheen of importance, that of politics and power instead of academia. Ytiu can st•t• it burning n·stlessly in the <'yes of many intans and stallers on Capitol Hill : a hungry look of pious self-importance based ultimately on not much mort· than brains and a few months' experi<·n<'<' in a local law firm.

When you're exposed to constant committee lwarings and prt•ss <·overage, important ckcision-making and q~o­ massage. how hard it is to t'<'IIH'lllht:r that I ht..-e is indeed Sonlt'thing Ebw. Yak, ckspite its atmospht'IT of privilege and compt·tition, stresses ahovt• those things the valut•s of learning, of the "liberal education." In Washington the mission is to govern, and that means different ground rules.

Sclf-;nterest is the motivating fon-c of politics. Values are largely an individua l matter, and if you're pushing 20 they're espec-ially hard to find in a place dominated hy political buzzwords.

When the staff writer at my magazine, who was a yntr older than I, decided it was time to move on, he had a t·hoicc between two job offers. The first was with a newspaper in New Orleans, the se<"nnd as a spt•echwriter for Walter Mondale. Both paid the same. Evt•ryhody in tht· office urged him to go with Frit z. After all, working on a national political campaign that could land you in the White House is nothing to he tossed off idly. After days spent agonizing, he decided to abandon the fishbowl and the haunts of Henry Kissinger a nd "go south and do honest work," in the words of another adviser. He may eventually return to Washington, hut in the meantime thert• is something to be said for the "honest work" of the circuitous route.

•

John McQuaid '83 is a former editor of the Yale Daily News. He is now a .free-lance writer living in New Haven.

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