Volume 16 - Issue 6

April 20, 1984

Deo...r Pres; der1 t Reo-.cf3"/ .

Vfi \I 'lou pleo.se s fop Y"''~'1<1V1~ !) U.c, 1&1"" bo..,la5 r1 h u-V\f:' j0Ll o,._,., ittn T re.. vor- 6l~e 7 1

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"It Wonies Us Too" Children's Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament

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Publisher Hilary Callahan Editor-in-Chief Tina Kelley• Busi~ess Managers Peter P hleger Marilynn Sager• • Mana.t~ing Editor Tony Reese• • • Designer Andrea Fribush • • Photo.l(raphy Editor Christine Ryan Associate Business Managers Katie Kressmann Vanessa Sciarra Associate Editors Anne Applebaum Laura Pappano Paul Hofheinz Jim Lowe Art Editor Beth Callaghan Associate Designer Katie Winter• •

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•ei«kd Feb. 15, 1984 ••etecud Mareh 7, 1984 • ••etecud Apr. 4, 1984 Monlnrs and Directors: Edward B. Bennett • Henry C. Chauncey, Jr. • Peter B. Cooper • Andy Court • Brooks Kelley • Peter Neill • Michelle Press • T!10mas Strong Board of Advisors: John Hersey • Roger Kirwood • Elizabeth Tate Friends: Anson M . Beard, Jr. t • Edward B. Ben· nett,Jr. • Blaire Bennett • Jonathan M. Clark • Louise F. Cooper • James W . Cooper • Peter B. Coopert • Jerry and Rae Court • GeofTry Fried • Sherwin Goldman .-. Brooks Kelley • AndreW J . Kuzneski , Jr. • Lewis E . Lehrman • E. Nobles Lowe • Peter Ne ill • Fairfax C. Randallf • Nicholas X . Rizopoulos • Arleen and Arthur Sager• • Dick and Debbie Searst • Richard Shields • Thomas Strong • Alex and Betsy Torello • Allen and Sarah Wardwell • Daniel Yergin fhas given a second time (Volu""' 16, Number 6) n. N<WJoonwl il Jl'lblished lix ,;_ durins <be ochool year by tbe Newjovmal at Y&k.lnc. • Poot(}(• f~« Box S432 Yale Sation. New Ha~n. CT 06.520. CopynPt 1984 by the New Journal at Yak, hac. AU rishts ,....,.d RcproduttM>n eitM:r in whole or iD pMt ..Utbout writtm pc:,_,. sion of tbe publisher and editor i&-cbicf is p<ohibited. T1oit mapso~ il publisbed by Yale ~ studenu, and Vol< Uni"-ersity is not retpOtLSible lor;,., contents.

F..kw:n thousand c:opiet of c:ach issuo a.rt distnbutc:d rm 10 RKmben of the Yale UniVersity community. n. Nnt~Jaonwi il ~ by the Charlton Press or New H•-.

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The .. _.NewJournal ---

Cover illustration talcen from an actual letter sent to President Reagan by the CCND.

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10

Between the Vines Where the Aesthete Eat

An a.ftmwon of tea and talk at the Elizabethan Club, Yale's stronghold of literature and greaJ tradition. By Tina Kelley

Features 12

The Secret Link For four decades Yale has influenced the Central Intelligence Agency more than arry other institution, giving the CIA the atmosphere of a class reunion.

By Rich Blow

18

"It Worries Us Too" A<Wltscent activists in New Haven operate the head chapter of an international network of children expr.ess ing their fears of nuclear war. By Katie Kressmann

24

Separatism or Support?

15 Years at the Afro-Am House Thirty years after Brown v. Board of Education the issue is no longer segregation but separation. At Yale the debate centers on the role of the AfroAmerican Cultural Center. By Scott Fletcher

32

The Faces of 34 Three pink collar workers discuss the strike that wasnt and the human implications of Yale's clerical and technical union. By Anne Applebaum

38

Sports The Force Behind the Punch Karate instructor Patrick Eaglin explores the metaphysics behind martial arts as a way of life. By Laura Pappano

42

Profile Emotional Healing "When you spend time with people wlw literally rould die tomorrow but go on living, you begin to learn why they're waking up each day. • By Peter Zalws

4 6

Letters NewsJoumal In -c-,/Jtl•Kns of IN NWJ SoUi~n"" (TNJ , Mardt 2, /981)JDiut Knry's opfxmmljor IN U .S. &n4U wasnnmetn~S/y idmli.fod as a RtfJubltean. Edward Marky is Q

DmtocTtll

The New JoumaVApril 20, 1984 3

Letters Tlw Nt•" Journal thrwk1 lkrnad IIW Con ncllv J.p;a Chan!{ lkrt h.t ( .ooml" '\nl\ Da' Hl..,on '\t'.tl l )olan Carlo' D1•Rosa Paul l·o-.r Anrw I lallliH'r Pam Koffll-r ' (a mar I .d1ri<·h Arr J.in~ Tom 1\1< Nultv Torn t\.1< Quillt'n S1•th 1\lol{kn Laura Podal,k y Liz R ourk1· Pat Santana lkqwr S< hiavorw H aery un~ Shin W II a 111 pton Sidt•s 1-.lt•na Si~man Ri<hctnl So 1);1\ rd Sh•rn Frt'cl Srnht·il{h Pam ' I IHomp ...on

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Seize the Time

hdl a rc you people? We made man' crr·ors born of excess and im maturity - errors which can bo recognized a nd avoided- bur we nevr failed to fight. Mr. Sides, seize rh time.

To the Editor: It is oddly gratifying but fundamentally distressing to ohservt• the extt·aordinary way the Sixtics Myth "in- S incerely , rimidatcs" you "ronsciou sly" and "sub- Barry C. Scheck '71 consciously." This period of "student Director of Clinical Education protesr" was not "a frivolous and Cardozo Criminal Law Clinic misguided affa ir." Our essential problem was losing.

J olted hy assassinarions (Malcolm X , M a rtin Luther K ing, R obert Kt·n- Delivering H 0 Whole nedy) and disruptcd by illegal wiretaps, informt•rs. agt•nt provocate urs and government con- To the Editor: spiracies (Operat ion COI NTELPRO, As a foreign scholar drawn to Yale bl Operation C HAOS), we lost the l ar~e the Norman H olmes Pearson collecrior battles to tra n sform Amt•ritan socit·ty. in the Beinecke Library, I was pleasec We did not end the war fast enou~h. that you gave space to K athcrin< we did no t fundamentall y redistribute Scobey's substantial article ' H .D .: th< wealth, we did n ot stem rhc arms race, Making of a Poet' (TNJ, Fe bruary 3 nor did we end a n imperiali~r foreign 1984).

Precisely because information abou policy that still sides with oppressive dictators against movements lor social this poet has been slow to surface, \\t justice, most evidently rhese days in should be sure that it is accurate. M~ Scobey's account of H . D. is highh Central America.

Yes, Mr. Sides, it was a glorious era; resourceful, but I should like respectful· free marches on Washington, May ly to correct its heterosexist assumpDay, and all the other protests were tions.

It is not true to say that H.D. 'turned not primarily social events (despite admitted overindulgence in sex, drugs, to bisexuality' after separating from her and rock 'n' roll), but glamorous, ex- husband or to imply that h e r 'lesbian and ultim a te ly important impulses' were in some way occasioned citing historical events-even at Yale! It re- b y 'male rejectfon .' mains a mystery to me and others in thC' H .D.'s love for women as well as for "Big Chill' gen e ration \'ho have not men was already evident circa 1910. a bandoned the causes \' hich i~nited when her intimacy with Frances Gre~ our bright college year s, whv you and displaced that with Ezra P ound. Thi< your colleagues do not r ise ~ith pas- episode is fictionalized in HERmionr. sion to the issues of you r time. Surely which describes the heroine's doubl~ Reagan's policies toward El Sal\ador , about her engagement to 'Ceo~ Nicaragua, H onduras, South Africa, Lowndes' and her deep sense of Grenada and Chile must raise your sisterhood with ' Favn e R abb.' Far frortl ire? How can new escalations of being followed to London by 'a smitttll nuclear madness o r the e\'er mort' Hilda,' Pound found himself introdu· d eadly threats of toxic waste, a<·id rain cing two young women to the capitalUnfortunately Barbara Guest , in htr and other impending cmironmental disasters not inspire a passionate biography of H . D., trivializes this affa•r anger? And finally. how can }·ou between the 23-year-old Hilda DooJitlt stand for the human mist•n R eagan and 25-year-old Frances Gregg as •g~rl· malevolently inflicrs upon working love' and is reluctant to take on the full people, the poor and the clderlv with implications of her later relatio nship< his evanescent "safety ncrs"?Where the with women.

Anyone wishing to understand more fully the resonances between H . D.'s life and her writings should also turn to two essays by Susan Friedman and R achel Du Plessis: 'Romantic Thralldom in H .O.' in Contemporary Literature 20 (1979) and 'The Sexualities of H .D.'s Her in Montemora 8 (1981).

T hese writers point out that: 'Virtually all ofH.D.'s ... works . . . drastically underplay her status as a companionate woman and her connections through Bryher with homosexual and lesbian circles in Europe. At the same time, the narrative of heterosexual attraction, betrayal and victimization was a recurrent feature of her writing. Both her fiction and poetry frequently express her need to be delivered from the cultural scripts of romantic thralldom in wh ich she repeatedly immersed herself.'

As women readers who share that need, we have a special responsibility to deliver H.D. whole.

Yours faithfully, Diana Collecott New H aven, Ct.

I , for one, applaud the approach of the Yale Students Against Violence by Yalies. They call upon the community to acknowledge that any behavior harmful to others is wrong, and to act accordingly.

This is not a giant step to take, nor does it cram adulthood down our throats. We are fortunate that Yale offers us so many opportunities to revel in our immaturity as it is.

The arrogance lies, I think, in believing that since we are young and sheltered, our acts of violence (of whatever degree) should be tolerated as "blowing off steam," and that the victims should tend to themselves.

Be seeing you, J effrey W. Clark Saybrook '82, Graduate School '86

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Congratulations The New journal is pleased to announce the election of Peter Phleger, Silliman '85, as publisher effective April 20.

EDUCATED BURGHER N o w Open For

Toward Perfection

In Appreciation

To the Editor: I do not share Mr. Sides' v iew that it is arrogant to think that Yale should be a perfect place ("Shaving Cream on the Floor," TN], February 3, 1984).

Personally, I think the whole world should be a perfect place. At the same time I don't cross the Green at 3 am. I realize that the world and the Yale community, as a part of that world, is not populated with people totally sensitive to the needs of each other. (If Philadelphia can not live up to its name, how much worse the rest of the world must be.)

Having faced that realization , what shall we do? Accept the situation and harden ourselves to the reality of the cold, cruel world out there (i.< ~uffalo)? Is it not better that we try t tmprove the situation?

As graduation approaches, the magazine will be losing a hard-working and dedicated group from the Class of 1984.

We extend our thanks to Nicholas Ch r istakis, Paul Hofheinz, Katie Kressmann, Tom McQuillen, Morris P anner, Laura Pappano, Vanessa Sciarra, Katherine Scobey . Sally Sloan and vV. Hampton Sides for the talent and enthusiasm they brought to the magazine. Ed Bennett, who stepped down as publisher in September, will also be graduating. Ed refounded The New journal in 1981, and with rema r kable energy developed the editorial and business policies which have shaped the magazine. We wish them all the best of luck in the fu ture.

7lw Nn11J..,.j ~ncoungn letters to the edttoc. and com~nt on Yale and New Haven i.ssun. Write to Tina Kelley. EditorialJ. 3432 Yak ScatM>n. New Ha-.n, CT 06520. All k<ters lor publieation must include addrns and Slgnatu~

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The ;-.;,."Journal/A pril 20. JQ84 5

NewsJournal

Scholar of the Boat Steve Kiesling '80 set himself apart from his fellow Yale students and oarsmen when he made the US Olympic crew team four years ago. Although his interests have led him in other directions since graduation, he has now returned to his first talent and is trying to make the 1984 Olympic team in a pair with former Yale teammate Matt Labine '81.

Ironically, Kiesling thought of quitting crew during his junior year- "Its all-absorbing nature became absurd," he recalled. Instead, Kiesling applied to the Scholar of the House program, hoping tO gain some perspective on athletics and academics. Specifically, he planned to make the US Olympic crew team in 1980 and to write a book about it- a large project, especially for someone who had been rowing for less than three years and had never "written anything longer than a ten-page term paper." It took Kiesling months to write his prospectus, and because of its main requirement-making the Olympic team -he calls the proposal "his best selling job ever." It was accepted and his "entire being became absorbed" in his goals.

Kiesling made the Olympic team and wrote his project. The committee thought his work was "illiterate" and gave Kiesling a B. In fact several times during his senior year the Scholar of the House committee had tried to throw him out of the program. "They felt like they'd turned a jock loose to do nothing more than train athletically," says Kiesling. Instead of complaining, he revised part of the draft and got it published as TilL SIILII Gam~, which sold 20,000 copies and received favorable book reviews, including one in 1M N~w York Ti1114S. Kiesling then joined the staff of the new magazine Ammcan H~alth, where two years later, he has become senior editor. His work on an article for Ammcan H~alth inspired him to his next project: a video exercycle. From his research Kiesling concluded that video games are the "mental equivalent of sport" because of the stress they induce.

When experimenting with a blood 6 Th<- Nt·" Juurn.tiiApril 20. 1984

pressure monitor he claims he found them to be even more stressful than being with his girlfriend.

So, with the help of electrical engineer Dave Potter, also a former Yale oarsman, Kiesling decided to hook up video games to exercycles. The result, the "aerobics joystick," required its user to peddle a bicycle to manipulate the video game's joystick.

Although Kiesling went around the country on a promotional tour which included spots on Th~ Today Show, CBS N~ws and PM Magazin~. he was too late.

The video game craze had peaked and the public showed little interest.

After these various projects, why has

Kiesling decided to row again? He states, "My girlfried was transferred to Paris. I had nothing better to do."

Labine, his partner, attributes their attempt to make the Olympic team to an "improbable combination of bizarre coincidences," adding a barely audible comment of "right place at the right time," without elaborating. As for their chances of actually making the team on what at first was little more than a lark, Kiesling playfully statt'S, "They're getting better all the time."

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W~s

Boyd

Mail Stuffing We have to admit it. We were wrong In "Basketball Bounces Back" (TN) Dec. 7, 1983) we all but handed Y.U basketball an Ivy League champion ship. The team's subsequent 4-10 h1 League record (7 -19) overall) landed Yale dead last in the league, disappoint· ing both players and fans.

Apparently some people were mort disappointed than others. A recent let· ter sent to Yale alumni across the coun· try attributes the team's poor season to !;econd-year coach Tom Brennan. CaD· ing Brennan "an embarrassment to

YALE," the writers charge Brenna' with intolerable behavior on the court exploitation of the team's black playr~ to win a coaching job at a larger scho<• and all-around bad coaching. 11tf authors say further that Brennan is·~ internal problem, one we would like! take care of within the Old Blue Farnt· . . . before Brennan and his condt1 become a public issue." The pro~ solution: concerned alumni sho bombard President A. Bartlett Giarnatt and Athletic Director Frank Ryan y,i letters demanding the immediate lin of Coach Brennan.

Who wrote this letter? A lot of people would like to know, but no one really seems to. The authors sign off with the cryptic "Yours very truly, Bill and jack Elis," and though the letter's postmark reads Houston, Texas, the writers do seem 10 have a better than long distance knowledge' of Yale basketball.

Instead of gettin g Brennan sacked, however, the letter has had just the opposite results, sparking a burst of support for the ftery coach. Frank Ryan called the letter "one of the vilest pieces > of defamation I've ever seen," adding that it is the.only negative input he has l received concerning Yale basketball since Brennan became coach. Carl Ek, Vice-President of the Yale Club of New Haven and a recipient of the letter, said that the anonymous authors reeked with "the stench of hypocrisy."

Giamatti would not comment on the letter.

And Tom Brennan? Busy working ,on improving his team, he said, "Of course it hurts, but I don't have any fear of losing my job. I can see how my style could offend some people, but it's hard to take this seriously when they don't sign their names. What can I say? As the team gets better, my behavior will ~et much better. I'm just doing my job."

-Rich Blow

Beautiful Perspiration

"People go to be identified with the people there," said one freshman male.

"There are a lot of Beautiful People who are concerned with being beautiful from the neck down." Who would have thought that the hottest social scene at Yale right now would be the Payne Whitney Gym? The chic crowd is only one faction of Yalies who, joining a , growing national trend, have found a new way to unwind: an aerobicise class taught by sophomore Liz Pitts.

At 3:45 every Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon, 80 to 100 people , cram into the largest room on the fifth floor and spend an hour stretching, lifting, pulling and pumping their ~ies

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into hard-earned shape. "It's the whole Jane Fonda aerobics syndrome," said Liz Massey, Davenport '86. "It'sjockish but not too jockish. You know-'1 can sweat and stilr wear make-up, too!'"

Yale's answer to Jane Fonda is 19-year-old Floridian Liz Pitts. Tall, blonde and physically fit. Pitts provides a role model for her peers. Hannibal Hodgson, Timothy Dwight '86, claimed, "She's our goddess of pain. She's a symbol as much as a teacher. She has the Tom Sawyer effect of making something difficult look so easy."

Pitts feels that the music she plays -everything from the Go-Go's to jazz- is a big reason for the popularity of the class, and students agree. "T'd say the class is definitely a turn-on, both doing it and watching it being done,~ said Hodgson . "It centers around rhythm.

There's a constant beat; it tantalize<; your primordial need for pulse.~ The sensual appeal of a room full of highly charged, exuberant bodies cannot be denied, and the cla'>s has been called everything from "sexercise~ to "the body discovery of the century . ~ "I

know gids who've gone out and bought new leotards and stirrup tights just to be seen in the exercise class," said one junior woman, "and the guys who stand in the last row are there to scope. There are some exercises that I'm really embarrassed to do because there are always at least five guys looking in the window."

The "guys in the back" for the most part deny these accusal ions. "Guys stand in the back because they're embarrassed. I neve•· went to scope on girls," football player Paul Spivack, Timothy Dwight '85, said indignantly.

"I don't see how you could do the exercises and scope at the same time.

Besides, I think that the girls are overconfident as to how attractive they are."

Wrestler Jirn Tannenbaum, Timothy Dwight '85, added. "You're so tired you can barely think. It's not the place to meet people."

H owever, many refute this noble claim. "People go to sec and be seen," said one sophomore male. "They go out and buy jumpsuits together and talk about their D anskin colors." Brooke Runnette, Jonathan Edwards '87, said, "It's not so much that people get skinny doing it: they get skinny .for it.~ Some find the social aspect of the class annoying and disrupting. "I've gone from the bcl{inning," said Sarah Hutt , Calhoun '86, "and now I recognize a large contingent of BPs. Frankly, I don't get my kicks from aerobics. Sweaty. exhausted people aren't all that sexy. At this school JX'Ople are ah,ays searching for some artificial construct of status. and this is just the latest thing."

But whatever the social motivations, football players. swimmers, crew jocks, sailors. hockey players and other athletes "do Liz~ and take the workout very seriously. As one runner put it.

"This class rakes you over the coals.

You feel like jello afterwards." Head football coach Carm Cozza commented wryly, "Anything that will make tbe pl~-ers a little more graceful can onl>• help us.~ Skeptics say that once the hype from the national fitness trend diminishes, so will the enrollment of Pitts' class. "Sure.

Tht· :'>:t•" .Journal April 20. t'IIH 7

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it's a fad," she admits, "but it's a fad that is beneficial. When people feel beuer they're going to keep coming.n Fad or no, physical activity and social interaction combine successfully for Yale students. "I think the class is really a fantasy," H annibal Hodgson speculates, "an escape into a world or rhythm and intensity. There's a strong dichotomy between the personal chal· lenge and the social pressure you're dealing with. You play the two tensions off one another, and your body does awesome things." + . Christina

Baker

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Plato Goes Video One sunny afternoon, Socrates and Meletus attack each other in a Yale Law School classroom. Fists and togas fly· ing, they wrestle to the floor. Then the camera stops filming, the fighting ends, and scene three of Ken Goldstein's movie Apology is complete. The motion picture, wh ich marks the first use of videotape in the Theater Studies department, synthesizes Goldstein's ex· perience as a Theater Studies/Philosophy major.

Goldstein, Timothy Dwight '84. came up with tpe project several yea~ ago when enterrng his unique major.

Initially planning to film Plato's Apolo!J• Goldstein later decided to adapt the work to college life. "I want to show hoW great literature and philosophy affect students' thinking," he explained.

"P hilosophy becomes viable in people's lives but they often abuse the wisdorn they find."

"The D ialectics of Youth," as Apolo~ is alternately titled, focuses on four students who seek direction and mean· ing in their college experience. Senio~ pre-med Brett Rosen discovers Socrates ideas and haphazardly applies them to his own unsatisfying life. I n the process he loses his girlfriend Michelle Barr>:· but gains freshman John Peters as h•s friend and protege. Enter Tripp Mar· cus III , who dislikes both philosophY

8

Th~

Ne" Journal/April 20. 1984

RICHTER'S and Brett. Their enmi ty-and the movie -climaxes in a modern day reenactment of Socrates' trial, with Brett as Socrates and Tripp as Meletus the accuser.

Though the film is based on classical philosophy, Goldstein does not believe the material will intimidate an audience. "The movie is gear路cd for anyone, not just philosophy majors," he said. "The philosophy is watered down to make it understandable."

Additionally, Goldstein thinks Yalies can easily identify with the characters.

"The students in Apology are all based on real observations," he pointed out. "I figure everyone at college is either a Brett , Michelle, john o t路 Tripp. They are just the archetypes."

Goldstein created the characters last fall when writing the screenplay, and he has devoted spring term to the casting and production of the film. In making the movie Goldstein uses videotape rather than the more widely used 16mm film; he believes that video has great potential in the performing arts. "There is a general snobbery at Yale against video," Goldstein said, "because people don't consider it to be an art form like theater. But they have to realize that video is here to stay."

G o ldstein plans a May 3 debut for Apology, and he thinks the film should be well-received. "It's a student film. We have no delusions of grandeur," he said.

"But a high energy level will definitely come across."

New H aven's only genuine tur n of the century bar is once again open a nd se r v ing drinks, sandwiches and ligh t m eals, as well as half-yards of b eer.

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Between the Vinesrrina Kelley '·----·--~"------------------------~~

I

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Where the Aesthete Eat A Visit to the Elizabethan Club If you have a key or a friend with one, you can come for tea in the very old Clubhouse at 459 College Street. A key is $1.50. Lifetime membership is $10, if you have friends with keys who will write kind letters about your ability to part1npate in "free and unaffected disrussion." Over tea and sandwiches from f(>ur to six, members of the Lizzie talk about literature and the finer things in life. And their theses and their novels and their trips to England. And philosophy. And the sandwiches, which vary fr-om cucumber to peanut butter and jelly. · R oger Pardo-Maurer, Branford '84, is sk(·tching archangels on a blank postcard back in the tea room. He laughs at the result. They are pulling a bedraggled man out of an ocean. H e writes a caption beneath them in an awkward, tO Th,·

·.-w .Journal/ April 20.

tq84

childish scrawl. "It's from the 34th psalm," he says in his Costa Rican accent. "But I found it on a bridge while I was traveling this summer in Czechoslovakia. It sounds much better in German." H e demonstr·atcs. His favorite poems are Rilkc's Duino Elegies. H e is memor-izing them in the original German. It wouldn't be worth his while to do it in English, he says. "I think we should have ostrich egg and seaweed sandwiches instead of those!" He points to the linen-draped table with its teaservice, Peppcridge Farm cookies, and deviled ham sandwiches, which he dislikes.

The living room, the first on the right, is painted a chalky forest green.

The table lamp lights the stacks of Punch, London News and Country L ift magazines, and the picture of Alex-

ander Pope, a lo..,ely portrait , the frontispiece for many fine editions. The elderly man in the leather chair beneath it looks like P ope, except his hair is greyer and he has fewer wrinkles. He very well may have lived his entire life indoors.

"Look at this, isn't it beautiful?" He points to a picture of a sixteenthcentury Tudor mansion in the issue of Country Life he is reading. "And only £80,000." H e doesn't pause to calculate.

"That's only $120,000 for a lovely manor house in the country. You've been over , of course?" H e has crossed the Atlantic forty times. His eyebrows arc long and grizzled.

The ·vault is open only on Fridays. If you leave your tea, cookies and pipes outside, you can browse among priceless first editions of Paradise Lost, rare

Shakespearian folios and a 1558 copy of Tk Quenes Maiesties Passage through the Citie of London to Westminster the Daye before Her Coronation. But today is Sunday and you must satisfy yourself with The Quenes Maiesties portraits in the tea room.

There is a knock at the door. Someone has forgotten his key. Matthew Lopes answers. He wears a mustard waiter's coat severaJ shades lighter than his skin. He takes small steps and has served the Lizzie for over 25 years.

"Hello, hello," he says to Elizabeth ArchibaJd, a graduate student, who likes the Lizzie's food and fellowship so much that she once gave up the Club for Lent. Matthew goes back to the kitchen, where he keeps a short-legged, long-haired dog that growls at everyone.

Dan Duffy '83, according to one member of the Club, has the face of a macho cherub, a perfect face with green eyes. He aJso laughs extremely loudly at public poetry readings. He directs a series of them at Timothy Dwight College and is· starting a press to publish New Haven poets. Dan Duffy can write a page in his head and see it aJl at once.

"I can tell . . . where the words repeat ... and how they look . . . in relation to each other," he says in between long exhaJations of pipe smoke. "It's kind of like . . . the electric signs they have in Times Square. You know . . . the kind where the words come out . . . aJJ in a line . . . in letters made of green dots? . . . That's how I see my thoughts . . . when I write."

No one interrupts Dan Duffy. No one's ever sure when he's done taJking.

His pauses are profound and thoughtful. It would be terrible to interrupt those strings of green dots.

The vault room is sunny. King Lui Wu, vice-president of the Elizabethan Club, sits by the window. He teaches a course entitled "D aylight and Architec~ure." "When I design a building I want tt to be human- to be concerned with people," he says. "I design modern buildings but I build with the view of the past and the future, from the substance of the past, and though you can't see any of the past in it, it is in there."

Wu likes to study philosophy and

poetry, disciplines he likes because they also build on tradition. "I urge my students to read poetry," he says. "It humanizes them and their architecture." Wu writes verse of his own. H e looks aside and leans his head back. "I write in Chinese, I do not think my . . . command of English is good enough to write English verse," he says, smiling. "I only show it to a very few friends who speak Chinese. There are two ways of creating art, the analytical way which is more with your head, and then the intuitive way, with your heart. I get more pleasure from the creative way, and here we are lucky in an academic setting to just be able to enjoy it."

"What's going on in the kitchen?"

Tim Cone, a law student, is upset. H e brandishes his deviled ham sandwich at Elizabeth ArchibaJd. "It's Sunday, isn't it? Whv isn't this date nut and cream cheese?" Elizabeth Archibald does not know. Maybe Matthew would. "Well I'm not sure if cream cheese and date nut made sense with Sundays, or if Sundays made sense with cream cheese and date nut," Tim Cone explains to

"You can imagine my profound dismay when I bit into this!" anyone who will listen, "but you can imagine my profound dismay when I bit into this!" Tim Cone is going to be a corporate lawyer. He makes significant eye contact. Rumor has it that h e made an innocent Newsie kiss him before he would tell her where Matthew keeps the teabags for the Lizzie's brew. Matthew doesn't use teabags.

Matthew takes empty tea cups ofl' the tables in the vault room . H ow are you?

"Oh fine, fine." His voice is deep but wavering. This place is aJways pretty busy, yes? "Oh yes, yes."

What have you been up to, Matthew? "Oh, the same old thing. And you?" The answer is always much longer.

King Lui Wu loves poetry because it is so precise. "With just a few words you can capture what in a novel would take up perhaps four pages," he says. He

studied poetry in China, where he grew up. After studying English there for a summer , he enrolled in Yale. "My tutor wanted me to go to England, but the war in Europe was approaching then and my father thought it would be better to go the United States. But I traveled to England later, seven or eight times. And to ltaJy too. There are many beautiful architectural styles there." He smiles. "The Pantheon has one tiny hole in the ceiling, one very small hole, and it is only about 4 percent of the area of the floor, but it lets in a beautifully diffuse light, like old wine, instead of whiskey.

"I've designed everything from !1 house to a bank to a church. In China. now they have different ideas, so it is a very different chaJlenge to build there.

When I designed a church in New Haven I had to learn about the religion."

He gets up to leave. The sun has left the vault room.

"I think the best profession in law is that of a tax lawyer," says Tim Cone.

"You see, when you reach my stage in life (and you will) you'll find yourself looking for that speciaJ person." Tim Cone makes significant eye contact. "A tax lawyer spends aJl of his time finding shelters. A woman loves a shelter. A corporate lawyer settles down in a position of financiaJ security that women admire." (Meaningful glance.) "As I said, my views aren't terribly compatible with feminism. But after I'm settled down and married, then I can go into public advocacy and that sort of thing."

The old grandfather clock in the living roo m strikes six . Matthew turns ofT some lights in the tea room. The old man who looks like Pope hopes the sandwiches will be date nut and cream. cheese next Sunday, but he says this quietly, so as not to offend Matthew.

Dan Duffy is going to hear one of his friends , "the sensitive poet," read new work over old tobacco. Tim Cone must leave now; he is meeting someone for dinner. Soon Matthew is left aJone with the Shakespearian folios and the dog that growls. And a plate full of deviled ham sandwiches.

•

Tina Kelley, a junior in Morse, is Editor-inChief of TN].

1M opinion~ f''-P""ccd '" tht~ M"Ction •"' thowo of1ht- indivKtwd "ritf'r.

Th~ N~w

.Journal/April 20. 1984 I I

The Secret Link Rich Blow Steve Kohn came to New Haven this fall to hire Yale's most talented seniors, men and women who were extremely b r ight, were proficient in a foreign language, knew how to use a computer and loved their country. In return for their skills Kohn could offer them careers in one of the world's most powerful institutions. But Kohn does not work for Morgan Stanley, nor were the 40 seniors who heard him talk interested in working on Wall Street.

Steve Kohn is a recruiter for the Central Intelligence Agency.

Kohn's visit to Yale is an important part of the CIA's largest recruitment drive in three decades. With the strong support of President R eagan, the Agency is vigorously looking for new blood and turning to universities across the country to find it. At more than 400 schools nationwide, including the entire Ivy League, the CIA is busily searching for th e spies of the ¡so s.

C IA advertisements can now be found in newspapers and magazines from coast to coa.st, from the Los Angeles Times to the Wall Street Journal.

Students are responding: as many as 2000 resumes reach the C IA m Washington every week.

National recruitment is only a recent inn ovation for the C IA. During its beginning years the CIA sought its agents almost entirely from just three schools: Yale, Harvard and Princeton.

Yale graduates in particular would come to dominate the Agency, giving it the familiar tone of a class reunion.

Since the formation of the C IA in 1947, Yalies have found the world of intelligence an exciting alternative to the slower pace of academia or the dangers of front-line fighting. Once established within the CIA, Yale graduates sought out their old friends and classmates to work alongside them, creating a network of Ivy League connections that would control the Agency for decades. ¡ Gaddis Smith, Larned Professor of History, now says, "Yale influenced the CIA more than any other institution did. The Agency was very much an Ivy elite. It was thought of as roman-

tic and mysterious and it attracted the Big Men on Campus."

Some of the names are familiar: William F. Buckley, George Bush, William Sloane Coffin. However, there were many other Yalies who entered the CIA whose names and stories are not so well known. James Angleton, J ack Downey and Richard Bissell were part of this group of men, creating a world of spies where you could still fraternize with your Yale classmates.

James Jesus Angleton '39 was a brilliant but eccentric man. After graduation from Harvard Law School Angleton took the advice of his old English professor at Yale, Norman Holmes Pearson, and joined the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), the war-

flushing out Soviet agents, constantly intent on discovering KGB "moles" within th~ CIA. His critics, howeve r, thought h 1m paranoid (Angleton considered them probable Russian agents) and would by 1974 get him fired , casting Angleton out of the intelligence community .

The habits of a spy are deeply ingrained in Angleton, and he refused to talk about his career when questioned.

His speech reflecting a lifetime of suspicion, Angleton would only say, "I've never heard of your magazine. I don't know what political slant you may have, or what you may be trying to prove. A n d I don't like talking about my personal life. I'm sorry, but that's all I can tell you."

Ex-CIA agent Jack Downey, now

"Yale influen ced the CIA more than any other institution did. The Agen cy wa s very much an Ivy elite ." time predecessor to the CIA. Pearson, himself a former member of the OSS, later said that Angleton took to the intelligence business "like a dog to water."

It was in 1943 that Angleton joined the OSS; b y late 1944 he had assumed control of OSS counter-operations against the Axis powers in Italy. For the patriotic 28- year -old, known as "The Poet" because of his fondness for Ezra Pound , it was an astonishingly fast rise to power.

Not surprisingly, Angleton moved on after the war to the CIA, a fledgling organization which desperately needed his expertise, his connections and his natural aptitude for intelligence. In 1951 he created and headed the Agency's counter-intelligence division, the first of its kind in America. For the next quar ter-century Angleton would reign as the American master of counter-intelligence, maybe the best at his job in the world. H e was obsessed with

Chairman of the Connecticut Public Utility Control Authority and a former candidate for the U.S. Senate, is not so secretive. At Yale Downey was a selfdescribed jock who played on the varsity football, wrestling and rugby teamsas Gaddis Smith put it, a Big Man on Campus. He was an English major who had the bad luck to graduate in 1951 at the height of the Korean War. On the advice of Political Science Professor Arnold Wolfers, Downey attended a CIA recruitment meeting in the spring of his senior year. He still remembers it clearly: "Everyone was looking for the best deal he could get, and the CIA was a glamorous option.

Unlike the situation in the Vietnam War, it was taken for granted that you'd serve in some way. It was either the CIA or fight in Korea."

Downey chose the C IA. Unlike Angleton, the ex-athlete moved into the operations side of the Agency rather than work in intelligence analysis. H e The New J ournaVApril 20. 1984 13

recalls that in tratntng camp "half of my class was from Yale, Harvard or Princeton." Despite his decision not to join the military, Downey was not uncommitted, nor unpatriotic. "My attitude," he said, "and that of my Yale classmates was that the war was a direct result of a Communist probe that had to be resisted. We really believed that the free world depended on the United States. Today , that must sound a little naive, but I still think it's basically accurate."

Downey paid for his convictions with the loss of 21 years freedom. In November of 1952 he was captured by Chinese Communist troops in Manchuria. He had flown into the country to meet with a CIA agent working there, but the rendezvous had gone wrong; the C IA's plant had been discovered, and Downey and his crew were ambushed. Until 1973 Downey was held captive in a Chinese prison, cut off from the outside world. Finally, as Cold War tensions were receding and Richard Nixon was normalizing relations with China, J ack D own ey was allowed to return home. Eleven years later he has the humor and strength to say, "I'd planned to take some time off after college, but it turned out to be a lot longer than I had p lanned."

While Downey was languishing in a Chinese prison , another Yale graduate was working his way up the C IA lad der. Confident, brilliant and ambitious, Richard Bissell came from a background familiar to the intelligence community: Groton '28, Yale '32.

After teaching at Yale and M IT Bissell helped formulate the Marshall Plan.

The C IA was a logical next step, and Bissell joined the Agency in 1954.

With surprising understatement Bissell now says he joined the CIA simply because he thought it would be "an interesting job."

With in a year Bissell had assured his success at intelligence-gatherin g.

Almost single-handedly he developed the U-2 reconnaissance plane, a tremendous breakthrough for an intelligence service which, nearly a decade 14 The New .Journal/ April 20, 1984

J oh n D owney

"It was taken for granted that you'd serve in some way. It was either the C IA or fight in K orea." after its inception, still knew embarrassingly little about the Russians. For four years U-2 flights boldly took pictures of the Soviet Union until, as one of Bissell's contemporaries said admiringly, "It was impossible for the Soviets to lay a sewer pipe in Siberia without CIA knowing it." Though the U-2 program would come to an abrupt end with the shooting down of Gary Powers in 1960, Bissell's reputation was untouchable. By that time he had already developed the satellites to replace his plane.

Bissell's extraordinary talents were quickly noticed by CIA Director Allen Dulles , who in 1959 made Bissell the CIA Deputy Director for Plans (DDP). After less than five years as an agent, Bissell had become head of the covert action arm of the CIA. "At the

time," B.issell now says wistfully, "the political climate for the job was very favourable, probably more so than at any time since."

For Bissell covert action often meant covert assassination. In 1960 he ordered the death of African Jead~r Patrice Lumumba through the injec· tion of a lethal virus into Lumumba'S toothpaste. The plan failed. I n that same year Bissell woulrl supply guns to the political opponents of Rafael Tru· jillo, brutal dictator of the DominicaJl Republic. Some of these guns would later show up in the hands of the rnen who killed Trujillo.

But because of pressures from John and Robert Kennedy, Fidel Casu{) became the CIA's main target. Work· ing with old schoolfriend Tracl' Barnes, also a graduate of Groton and

Yak. Bissell on h<'SI ra1ed llw Ba\ of P il{s invasion of Cuba. Tlw m crl hrm'l. a u emp1 was a humili:uing failure.

Nt'\Trtheles<;, Bi<>sell and his assot·ialt''> drew up new and somewhat b izar re plans to rid the US of Castro, induding p<Jisoninl{ lilt' Cuban\, cigars, planling an t•xplosivt• seashell in a n a rt·a where lw scuba-dived, poisoning his wetsuit, injecting him will1 a let ha l h ypodt•rmi< hidden inside a ballpoint pen and using Mafia hi1-mcn 10 gun down 1hc Cuban leader. Though carefu lly designed 10 avoid any possible implitation of tht· United States, these unlikely plots were all either discarded or unsuccessful. Bissell's career beu1me markt•d '"' ith these failures, and to avoid being fired, he resigned from tht• C IA in 1962.

The former agent now lives peace-

fullv tn Farmingwn. C:oruwc·li< ul. where he works as a busint"'' <orhultant. Although it has bt·cn ov<•r 20 vears since he kf1 the Agt'IH'\. Bi ....dl slill n·· 1ai ns his passionaH· coni 111 i1llH'JII 10 coven action. H e claims. "Anvorw \'~ho takes that job [of DDP] kiH.>ws wha1 sorts of things he will bc involved in. I had very few doubls of tht· righ11wss of wha1 I was doing."

"My values have ncH fundanwn1ally changed," Bissell adck "01)\ iously there were mistakes made, but if I had 10 do it all 0\·er again, I would onlv change a few small 1hings."

Like Angleton, Bissell will only tdl you as much about his years in llw C IA as he thinks you need to l..nm"' .

"From my point of vie'"'. the kss ptlhlicity concerning the C IA. tht• bt'tl<: r .

Though I feel some obligation to talk ., ~ ~

• -;;5 z

10 the· pn·<.,s. I also strongly lwlie\T thai 1hc·n· are ar-eas of governmcm which require dilfnt'lll slandards of morali1v and priva~·y 10 perform 1heir fumlior{.

And llw fum·1ion of the CIA is very imponanl indeed.~ Angkwn. Downey and Bissell were only lhree or dozens of Yale ~raduall'S who joim·d 1he C IA in the lalt' 1940 s and 1hroughou1 lht• 1950 s. Ovn 1he <·ourst• of the next two decades, hov.:evcr, Yale students' enthusiasm for C IA car-eers vanisht·cl. One reason was ... implv thai 1he Agency had by this lime become an cstablish<:d orl{aniza1ion whi<h needed fewer employt' t's than in its early ears. In addition, the Arm·ric·an public increasingly opposed 10 ami-Communis! intervention as tht· Vietnam War dragged on, gre'" hostile to the CIA, which was dedicated to anti-Communist activities. What Agency recuitment there was came more and more from Catholic universities in the m idwest like No1re Dame. Yale itself chanl{ed from being a center of C IA recruitment to a center of CIA resentmem. During the war years and beyond, 1he number of students attending C IA recruitment mee1ings dropped steadily. In 1975 - the same year P resident Ford formed a Senate committee to inves1igate 1he legality of CIA activities-student pressure forced tht· Agency to hold its recruitment mt·elinl{s at the Park Plaza Hotel rather than on campus.

Yalt· Associate Hiswry P n>fc:ssor Gre~~ Herken inlt•rned wi1h lh<· \ lA in 1he summt•r of 1971. wht'n he "'''s ,, graduate student at Princeton . ~~~ "'as bad enough to do that," H erkcn rec:alls. '"bul if i1 was k nown th,tt \'OU wt•n· rt·l· ruilin~ for 1he CIA. \'Ou '~c·rt• li,thk 10 gel nx·k.., thro'"'n lhroul.{h \'Olll windows .~

H erken, "'ho left the CIA ahcr thai summer, adds that"in the 1950s the , wholt• lOntepl of 'For God. for Counlrv and for Yalt•' ""'as a \Tr\" 'olrong- infl~ll·nn· on students here. · Ba< 1.. 1hen llwrt• '""' no question that if) ou \H'rt' '"orkinl{ for the I{O,·ernmt•nt you \H'II' doing God's work. T hai idea had c t'l'· 1ainly changed by the 1970s." llw ' ''" Juurn.tl \prtl '211. I<IIH

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Bissell agrees. charging 1970s America with "an alienation from post-war values and a suspicion of government" that crippled the effectiveness of the CIA. "All the anti-CIA publicity of the 1970's was very bad for Agency morale," he said. "The C IA just gave up on a number of important operations, and its rt'lations with other intelligence organizations were severely damaged."

By 1980 stucknt attitudes had changed and the CIA returned its ITcruiling operation to th<· Yale campus.

Since then the number of stud<'nts interested in a career with th<· Ag<.'ncy has risen over 300 pcrc<·nt in just four years. What has sparked the C IA's rejuvenated appeal at Yale? Political Scientist H. Bradford \\.'cstcrfield, Yale's leadin~ expert on the CIA, attributes its renewed appeal to a "New Conservatism."

"This is the C IA's second great

•

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Th~

N.,w .Journal/April 20, 1984

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recruiting era," Westerfield said. "In thr 1950s there was a sense that we had our backs up against the wall. In the 1970s there was indifference, if not revulsion, to that sense of mission. And now, there seems to be a sense of excitement, a ne" concern for world affairs." john Dohr ing, a former Yale student and now the C IA's Deputy D irector for Employment, agrees with Westerfi eld.

"We find that there's a growin g na· tionalism among today's students,· Dohring said. "Back in the early 1970s we had bad luck at colleges. Now, students are again recognizing th e im· JXlrtance of the US role in world affairs."

One of the students who went to hear Steve Kohn speak was David Wecht, a senior in Timothy Dwight According to Wecht, "I interviewed with the CIA for several reasons. I'm interested in international affairsBrad Westerfield is m y adviser - I'd like

••

Bissell ordered the death of African leader Patrice Lumumba through the injection of a lethal virus into Lumumba's toothpaste.

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"Trying to settle working for the CIA. with my own code of ethics is not somethmg fd want to do." to work for the government and I have no deep moral qualms about wor king for the C IA." Fred Anscombc is another senior interested in working for the government H t•'s alrcudv interviewed w ith the Nattonal Set~rity Agency but hopes to get a job with the CIA. Accordin~ to Anscombe, "my main interest is in the cliflcrem political situations in var ious countries. \Vhatever I do, it'll probably be with the government, but my main auraction is to the CIA because I'd have a<:<:ess to information that I wouldn't be able to get otherwise -which '"ould give me great personal satisfaction."

Another of \'\'ester£ield's students, Peter Davies, dtd consider interviewing but decided that he would have moral doubts about '"orking for the C IA. Davies savs that "my interest in the C IA "•as mostly academic. I think

it's something you ought to know about. Though I did think about interviewing with them, I ckrided that I wouldn't feel comfortable wtth somc of the CIA's activitit's in the past . Trving to settle working lor the C IA "•ith my own code of ethic~ is not sonwthing I'd wam to do." \Vhat kind of student docs tht· C IA wan t? John Doh ring claims '" ith obv ious pride, "\\'e look only at tht' bt•,t schools. \r\'e have a \'ital mission w perfor m: to get the best information to tht· President. Consequently \H' han· to have the best intelligence a~cn< yin the world. And that means hiring only the very best this country a" to o lfcr.ft

•

NEW HAVEN TERMINAL NEW HAVEN TERMINAL NEW HAVEN TERMINAL 30 Waterfront Street New Haven, Ct. 06509

R ich Blow, a sophomorr m Branford, 1\ on the staff of TNJ.

203- 469-1391 llH' :-.;,." .Juuoll.ti iApnl

. :?0.

I'IIH

17

''It Worries Us Too:'' Children's Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament Katie Kressmann The meeting was an exercise in con- flicking small o~je<.ts at people who trolled mayhem. Ahhough only seven weren't watching. people showed up, the clamor of their "You have grown-upc; <>aying, 'Let me voices and laughs easily filled 13-year- out of here. I don't want to think about old Katie Janeway's lan~e. brightly it,"' said Moira. decorated bedroom. It seemed in"If we all have these nuclear weapons congruous and unlikely that this group of around when we grow up the problem allracti\'C and lx>isterous adolescents will still be there," said Josh. "There are should be gathered to discuss strategies people who say that you don't have to for opposing nucl<'ar war. Fourteen- worry about it, that you should just live year-olds Karen Gt•rsten and Jessica now and enjoy the world, don't think Williams, co-founders of the t ew about it . . . " Haven Children's Campaign for "But that's wrong," cut in Sara emNuclear Disarmament, sat with Karen's phatically. "By pushing it aside you are 12-year-old sister Sara on the floor. The just procrastinating until there's troutwins Moira and F'anya Cutler, also 14, ble, and then you'll wish you'd done cha11ered with tlwm from the bed and something." beanbag chair. Thirteen-year-old Josh The Children's Campaign for NucBloom wandered restlessly around the lear Disarmament (CCND) is an antiroom, examining Katie's things and nuclear activist group made up entirely -. ~

!

~ ~

S ...~¥ 2

pf children. In the last two years tht New Haven chapter has appeared oa local and national television, spoken to classes, written letters and organiztd rallies to educate people about the issu< of nuclear arms and to promote l nuclear freeze. It is also the hea:: chapter of the international CCND. which has over 70 chapters in countritl including France, England, Swedt11 and Japan (but none in the Sovicl Union). Although the group provic:ks children with a way to work out thc:ll' feelings and fears about nuclear war most meeting time is spent doin( business- reading petitions and letter!. organizing smaller groups and plannin( fund raising and rallies. Currently tht group is working on the "Students fora Future" rally to be held on the New Haven Green in early May. The membelos, ranging in age fro!11 12 to 15 , are extraordinarily self-pOl· sessed and outspoken, verging oD precocious. They are smart arJI generally do very well in school: "tht top track kids," said one teacher. Tht group is diverse. "We have everythi!l! from prep to ultra punk," said Jessica, Are they cutesy? "Not at all realhj said Donald Jouchin, 13, one.

CCND's most punk members. "I thtol that everyone sees it as more cut~ than it is, and we get a a lot of n~~ coverage because of that. We've been' Nigluline, Channel 8 and The T~ Show. We get written up in all sorts~ magazines we don't even know about The group often meets in membt~ bedrooms and living rooms, but has tl' main office in the basement of Donald> Karen Gersten and Fanya Cutler

Donald Jouchin and Jessica Williams

"We simply say this is the state of things and this is what you can do."

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Jnurn.oi/ Aprol

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11 1

house, 14 Everit Street in New Haven.

"We get 100 letters a week," Don ald said, the heavy steel chains on his wrist jingling as he shook an impressive three-inch thick packet. "People write in from all over to ask about CCND," he explained. "They ask how to start a chapter, how to introduce their children to the issue of nuclear arms or what the group is doing."

Some people send in donations, others write to cntlc1ze, accusing CCND of being a Communist organization. The group does not worry about the people who already oppose disarmament. "You can't get through to them," said Karen. "Even if you do there is no way of knowing; it is like working against a concrete wall. You can only convince the ones路 you can talk to. The kids arc hearing."

One of CCND's most successful activities has been class presentations on the topic of nuclear arms. "It was strange to find out how many people didn't know about what was going on and how much we could teach them," said Karen. The fifth-, sixth- and seventh-grade audiences they address are usually completely uninformed.

Few know that nuclear weapons have 20 The New .Journal/ April 20. 1984

ever been used, much less that the bombs were dropped by the United States. Generally working in pairs, members go through the 11-page CCND pamphlet explaining the history and use of nuclear weapons from the first use on Hiroshima and Nagasaki to the modern arms race and peace movement. Each has his own approach. "If you can find someone who is pro-nuke, the best way to get into it is by arguing

enthusiastically. "We don't try to scaJt them, and I think we succeed in nol scarin g them. We give them the fa<.15 and we don't really force an opinion: \It simply say this is the state of things and this is what you can do," said Donald.

Sara, who became a CCND member just this year, confirmed the influence of CCND's talks. "I was in a class last year, and you guys came and talked, and I know that all through lunch and

..

"I think that it is really likely that we will have a nuclear war soon, if we don't keep pushing harder." with them about it, and then you can bring up points," said Josh.

Their talks have a strong effect. "At the beginning of class you come in on a bunch of sixth graders all babbling at the top of their mouths. They don't pay any attention to you, but 15 minutes later they are all sort of staring at you, you know, and by the end of the class they have so many questions that it's impossible for you to leave," said jessica

all through the next day everyone ~路~ like, 'Wow did you hear those k1dsj They sure know a lot about it. Maybe should get involved.' It did start to rnaJ<e people think about it."

The students learn more than histon路 from CCND's presentations. "It is io路 teresting to them because they arc scared, and they see that as kids we arc talking to them and we know whll1 is happening," said Karen. "rm sure '

t of them realize that there are other roups made up of adults. They don't alizc that they have a voice and can se i1. The kids are not ignorant, but hey art• surprised that they can have an mpan." itt ing in her living room on a quiet estvillc side street, Karen seems more ike an average, even conservative, 4-year-old than the co-founder of an ctivist group. Her short brown hair is lean and neatly brushed, and she ears jeans, a turtleneck and a lilac hetland sweater. Her speech is free of a rgon, and her voice is even, although t speeds up slightly when she says mething she feels strongly about, as if he were t'mbarrassed by the force of er feel ings.

"I think that it is really likely that we will have a nuclear war soon, if we don't keep pushing harder. If I just sit back and let it happen then I am being really ... " she pauses while she searches for the right word,". . . pitiful.

I might as well do something about it because othenvise it will be inevitable."

Her exuberant puppy tries to clamber o? to the couch, and Karen gently puts h tm down.

K aren got involved in CCND when her best friend j essica told her about the group and what they were doing.

"T~ere was a letter-writing campaign gomg on, and she said that we could start a chapter. So first she asked me and all my friends to write letters. It took her about three weeks to get me to ~nall_y write the letter, 'cause I kept puttmg 11 off, but finally I wrote it." That was when the reality of what they were protesting began to sink in. "We started th inking about what would happen.

We're a mile away from the Green, and t~e target is the Green, and that was kmd of scary," said Karen. "It just kind of hit me. After that I think I was ~?tivated to do something. Maybe that IS JUSt how I am-when I see something wrong I have to try and fix it. It makes me feel better, and I think it would help a lot of kids."

Members are proud that they run CCND tht'm~t>Ives, explained Karen.

"We've had a couple of problems with people saying '"ho's the director, who's running things, who's the adult here," "he said, ..except there's no adult- it's just kids, and we can tell you a few things that we have done, and what is happening here if you want, but there is

no adult here. and wt" run it. E\(·rvcmc else has tht•ir m' n peace ~roup.~ · s.tid Jessica. ~In a group ''ith adult' tlw adult. takt• O\er. you're their lillie nmners."

Karen feels that the problem of nuclear arm · thn:att"ns all ag(' groups.

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"Nuclear war is a big thing," said Karen, "and I think that's why so many kids are starting to think about it, and saying, 'H ey we've had these weapons for 40 years and the adults aren't doing anything about it, maybe we should start speaking up- it worries us too.'"

A Russian girl to whom Karen spoke by satellite when she appeared on The Today Show echoed the same sentiment.

"I asked Tanya what she thought when people said 'You're only a kid, why are you doing this?'" said Karen. "She replied that she thought that maybe the leaders were getting senile, and of course we should be working on this- it's our world too.'"

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22 Th t' ;-.;,." .Journ,ti/April 20. 1984

The parents and many teachers of the members of CCND are the grown up children of the sixties. M any were involved in the activism o f that time, something their children are very aware of, sometimes more than they are. "I have trouble convincing him that I was not a hippie in the sixties," said Donald's mother.

M ost parents agree that they have more respect for their children's opinions than their parents had for theirs. "I think taking children . seriously is something new," said D r. Kim Janeway, K atie's mother. "Absolutely, hav-

ing a parent from· the sixties has hada big influence on these kids."

"It is important that they aJt respected as people, not treated as another species- sheltered, ignored, or contro lled," said Liz Gersten, Kartn and Sara's mother. "You want to listen with respect. Our respecting them frees them up to work with us too, it ern· powers them not to feel like an oppressed minority- that they must ?£cept or rebel. They are responsible about their a~tions."

The kids fe;l that they have come 1° their opinions on their own. "I was influenced by my parents, by the fact tha1 I was educated by them," said Katie. '1 wasn't told how to think. T hey told roe what they thought and I could objecl 10 it if I wanted to. I think if my paren15 had been pro-nuke I probably wo~ have objected to it, and then I wouldn l have been influenced by them." "I w~ brought up to disagree with my morn~ said josh. "It was 'Do what you want: .• you agree with me it is a coincidence The parents have another equalh powerful legacy to pass on to tht'r childre n . They have g rown up with a knowledge and fear of nuclear weapOil' which has been reinforced by each riC" bit of information. Most remernbtf hiding under their desks during air~

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Their feelings have deepened. "I have a fear that is like falling off a bridge," she said. "It is a rt•al f(·ar to me ... that this will hurt me physically and in many other ways." That same feeling, a concrete imagining of the effects of a nuclear war and a conviction that one <:ould happen in tht'ir lit(·tinws. is shared by most of the nwmbt·rs of CCND. Th<·y ar-e not pt'rpctuallv haunted bv it. hut tht· conviction in their voi<·e~ wht·n tht>v speak of war is unmistakable.The parents d id not need form al lt:ctures to tell their children about their fear of nuclear arms; the strength of their feelings has come across in casual conversations over the dinner table.

The parents see the issue of the nuclear arms race as one which cannot be eluded and must be dealt with in a responsible manner. "What they are doing is the best possible response. They are facing up to the problem rather than escaping or ignoring it," said Dr. Charlie Janeway. "I think that it would be atrocious for them not to know that the issue exists, not to have a clearheaded picture of what the realities are, and having that picture I don't see that there is really much choice how you stand on the matter ."

"It is so important to have some action one can take," said Ms. Gersten. "It is helpful for all of us, particularly the kids, since they are more likely to feel helpless in terms of their whole lives. If you have control over a little piece then you don't despair."

It seems to work. "I think a lot of people have nightmares about nuclear war because they have no hope at all," said Karen . "It helps if you are doing something. Of course I think about nuclear war more than the average kid w_ould, but it helps a lot. I don't have mghtmares about nuclear war."

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Tht• Nt•w Journal/April 20. 1984 23

Separatism or Support?

15 Years at the Afro-Am Center

In 1969 women first time, Richard the White House and .1.1~:--u;::tion approved the Afro-American Culturalltf.Jtri~'"6.111~1Jpf'~ accommodate black enrollment history. Today Yale longer "coeds" and .................. ''"'" a~~:iii~\l~!ifl!= in Manhattan, but in the AACC find still face many of that led them to fou , years ago. · When black alumnJ;:~at House for the Center's iversary'tru month, they celebrate the estabfis ment of one of the s~l ••.-·f~. organizations of its kind ill~ :~·. ~ The House began in the fa.IIPflMasa ~;-· student-run operation in ~ , · -~ conspicuous building on Cha~l . · . '(~~ dependent on a single grant fq~its Clay- ~iF; to-day survival. Now it has a budget of ...- · · $55,000, a full-time staff and the large, stone Chi Psi frat house at 211 Park Street.

About 200 of Yale's 330 black undergraduates pay yearly dues of $30 to join the Center. The AACC is at the center of a web of the University's black organizations. It houses the Black Church at Yale, the offices for the magazine Ritual and Dissent and student and non-student groups ranging from the Heritage Theater Ensemble to the Black Pre-Professional Council to the Yale Gospel Choir. On a given night 50 to 100 people use the Center, and the Center's parties are something of a legend on campus_.

Yet in the midst of the AACC's sue· cess, some students have argued that a separate social center for black students at Yale may contribute to racial pro· blems while attempting to solve them.

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The very Cultural raison d'ttreCenter of theescapes AfroAmerican white students. After all, the Board t?f Education decision to public schools became law 30 this May. Yale is presumably most open universities in the complete with hardworking ~""""'"-~"missions recruiters and of black and white students in Master Robert Thompson's iiil!~i~:=;~~ct~rlt:.\i!ltural course "The Structure of York Mambo" and Richard frican drumming courses. candidate Jesse Jackson, ted last month, was by all ac•.,..._.."P~ , one of the most well-received !Siilali~1rs at Yale in years. Hasn't racial --""'"'"., made great strides here? If is the point of the AACC and minority organizations like Yale , the Asian-American Student's """"IR.O'""~~·ation and MeCha? Do these segregation

me people may have been a bit sur• for instance, by the appearance ast year of Ritual and Dissent, •A Journal of Black Arts and Letters." Yale already had the Yale Dai!y News (YDN), its Magazine, The New Jour1UJ1, Tlte International Forum, Yale Political Montlrly and several literary magazines and other periodicals. There would seem to be plenty of room for black writers and issues in the existing campus media.

Five or six blacks work at the YDN, but there are no black staff writers at Tlu Nav Jour7UJI and very few anywhere else.

What's more, complaints about campus coverage of black issues have a lon g history at Yale. For example, Ritual tnttl Dissent editor Elizabeth Alexander '84 has strongly c riticized the YDN for its Th,· N,·w .Journal/April 20. l'lft4 25

failure to cover a conference of black perception that they don't want to write women writers at Yale in the fall of for white people? You can't know that.

1982. Among the speakers was the For me it's a combination of all three of Pulitzer Prize-winning Alice Walker, · those things and the excitement of author of The Color Purple. wanting to do something myself."

I f coverage of b lack issues on campus Whatever the reasons for the low black profile in Yale publications, Ritual has been poor, then why haven't more black writers worked within the existing and Dissent staff members vigorously publications to fill the gap? Even Alexargue the need for the magazine. ander is unsure why many black writers "There still is a need to address issues shy away from mainstream publicapertinent to black Americans in a forum tions. "Is it after they've submitted that is devoted to that end," said AACC something and it's been rejected? Is it director Caroline Jackson '74, founder of the magazine. "There is a difference after they've worked with an editor who between just trying to get more black hasn't really understood what they were trying to say? Is it just this huge general students writing, which is a sub-goal,

"I don't feel that I should be carrying the burdens of the past around with m e, because I think that m eans you're bringing them into the future."

The issue of black representation recently raised by Ritual and Dissent t>xtends to all areas of black life at Yale The question is, how can any predominantly white organization treat black issues with the same integrity and depth as issues that are of more direct interest to whites? Jackson says it is the racism permeating all American society which gives rise to institutions like the AfroAmerican Cultural Center. "If we accept the fact that America h as been a racist and segregated society for more of its history than not, then I think one has to look carefully at what happens when you suddenly introduce large numbers of formerly excluded people into an institution, people w h o have presumably some shared cultural background that is in some way distinct from the majority ~ group. Alice Walker said this about go~ ing to a white college: 'I found it im:t possible to go where my mother couldn't come.' She was saying it ~ metaphorically- 'I'm not gonna go • alone and chop myself off from ~ ., everything else I've known.' The Center has been a support mechanism for black students and it has made sure that certain cultural activities unique to the Afro-American experitnce are present on campus for anyone who wants to enjoy them.''

But if Jackson is worried about black students being expected to "chop" themselves ofT from their cultural pasts, others fear that they may be unnecessarily excluding themselves from the activities of their white fellow students. Kim Westcott, a black Ezra Stiles sophomore from New York, explained that the reason she has not participated much in AACC activities was that she fears cutting herself ofT from her wide circle of friends. "I feel that the Afro-Am Center is really good for security reason s: for feel ing that you've got people who've experienced the same kinds of things. You'll know they can understand some things that other peo-

!

6

A service o f t h e Black Church at the AAC C 'Zh

l'lw Nt·" Journai!Ar>ril 20. 19114

and trying to establish a mechanism to talk about black issues, which is sornl·thing that no other publication should be expected to do."

C aroline J ack son p ie simply won't. But I also think it's easy to fall into a niche. You don't end up learning as much and "hitt•s don't end up learning as much about vou."

Letitia Moore, born in the C~ntral American nation of Belize but raised in Los Angeles, offered other reasons for not attending Center activities. "Usually I don't feel comfortable in a group of b lack people who are espousing how black they are and rights for blacks and how we've been discriminated a~ainst." aid the black Calhoun sophomore. "I can relate to it on an intclkuual level. but I just don't feel like I've been discriminated against. I don't feel that I ~hould be carrying the burdl·ns of the past around with me, because I think that means you're bringing it into the future. I guess as a result I just make a point not to hang around wuh them and not to be associated with bc.-ing black at Yale. · "I think part of it is because I am from Belize. I still have lots ofverv Belizean rclauvcs. \1\'e have cliftcrent values . Just as you have ,,bite racesGc.·rman, Scandanavian, whateveryou have black people from diftercnt

areas. I don't feel because black people have been put down and have suffered that I should dassify myself as a black person. The human race should stick together, shouldn't I><• broken down by colo•·."

Some white <,tudents fear that organizations like the Afro-American Cultural Cemer promote a detrimental racial separatism , not by intent but b y effect. J. B. Schramm. a white Stiles sophomore, attended a half-·white, halfblack Denver public -.chool and said that integration thc.·n· worked even on a social level. "You "ouldn't find a group of over five or six JX'ople gathered in the school where it wouldn't be interracial."

He's been disappointed by the segregation he's found at Yale ...The bigotry I've heard here is JUSt «o much stronger than at home Pn~judi'c is blindness, and you can't he.· blind about blacks when \'Ou'rc ,,ith thc•m all dav long. I think it would be.• worth the t~ubl~ of reallv tn.·in'{ w work blacks in rather than' sa,·ing. 'OK. we'll give blacks their Afro·A·m House -let 'em stav in their own neighborhood.'"

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"The minority students have always b een asked to be bilingual in a kind of m ental and emotional and linguistic sense." member, pastor of the Black Church at Yale, jazz saxophonist and music graduate student, defends the House against accusations that it · promotes separatism. "The white students are more than welcome at the AACC. There's never been any kind of move to exclude them. What we've tried to do is to make sure the Afro-American her itage had a voice on campus, and that's not simply for the black students, but for the benefit of all. The same is true for the Black Church at Yale. We have white studen ts who are members, we have white faculty members who come, white students who are in the choir. Those people have elected to come in and take seriously whatever the black spiritual and religious agenda is and J:>ecome a part of it."

Ezra Stiles senior Kori King affirmed Andrews' views. "It never was the Center's purpose to serve as an instrument of segregation," she said, "and there is no conspiracy to limit the services of the Center to blacks. Only the individual is at fault for failing to seek out 211 Park Street."

Through most of Yale's history, there were never more than one or two black students. In the late 1950s the college began to admit more black undergraduates, but by 1964 there were still only 20 on campus. The class of 1968 included 14 b lacks, the class of '70 had 33 and the class of '73 contained a record 96 black men and women. Many of those students weren't entirely satisfied withc_yv~at ,they found here. A historical paper at the AACC notes that

blacks fQund campus mixers not to their liking and were even hassled by university police who mistook them for unwanted townspeople. In the mid-sixties the Black Student Alliance at Yale formed to address such problems. According to Jackson, b lack students had four primary concerns: to monitor Yale's interaction with the New Haven community, increase the number of black students and faculty, insure that the curriculum reflected black history and culture, and promote student activities that reflected their heritage.

Working with President Kingman Brewster's receptive administration, black students lobbied to introduce the Afro-American Studies major in 1969 and convinced the Corporation to charter the AACC, two gains which came without the violence and building seizures that occurred • at colleges like Cornell in the late sixties and early seventies.

"I think that this university has been extraordinarily careful to do what it can to meet the needs of its minority students," said Jackson, "but I do think there are certain kinds of things inherent in being a white, male, elitist institution for 300 years that just can't be wiped out in 15 or 20. I don't think anybody means for these problems to be there. What you hear most from the black students are things that occur because of the reality of being a minority. For instance, if there are only 300 black students, you better believe that there are a lot of people who are still the only black students in their classes.

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Dwight Andrews of the black person who gets into a room and the parent of a white roommate is there and says, 'Oh, you're my son's roommate?' I mean this really does happen. At least once a year I hear that."

Black students also find themselves having to explain the more mundane characteristics of black culture to curious whites. "There's always the weigh t of the things people don't know about," Jackson explained. "How you do your hair- the fascination with every little thing that you take for ~ted. Sec. the thing about being b lack in America is vou know even:thing about what ,~·hitc people do ~cause it's everywhere. It's on TV. it's tn the m agazines. The opposite is n()t true."

The problems b lack students experience at Yale can sometimes be more "erious. "There are subtle things and

there are not-so-subtle things," said Alexander. "Subtle things like, 'Oh , you're not really black You're p reppv.' as if one cancels out the other. Or, '\Vhat do black people think about ... ?'

Or, 'You just got in here because you 're a black woman.' Now this is subtle. I'm quoting things that all have been said to me. Then when vou think of notso-subtle things . . . . There was a college seminar that I actually had to withdraw from because the teacher was very uncomfortable when I wou ld w r ite about 'black things.' Now that was very interesting tO me because I wasn't always \Hiting about C.'\plicitly black things. I was writin g about me. A nd he threatened to kick me out of h is class if I didn't stop \Hiting about 'black stufT.'" This difficulty in finding common cultural ground at Yale extends to the graduate level as '"ell. 0\... ight Andrews

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still recalls his first meeting with thcDirector of Graduate Studies at the School of Music. "He apologized for not having any courses in black music for me. He said, 'Well you know. Dwight, I mean basically all we study is Bach and Brahms here. Are you sur<> that's going to be of any interest to you?' This is my DGS P.Uestioning if any of these incredibly important European composers would be of interest to this black person who had already gone to graduate school at the University of Michigan and to Divinity School. I wasn't a person off the street."

This sort of Eurocentrism is a persistent problem for blacks at Yale, Andrews said. "Yale is an institution which in a sense lifts up Western European culture. Yale has not yet come to the place where it treats all other cultu res with the same reverence and depth that it treats the history of Western Europe.

I don't know that it could. But minority students already know the mainstream culture. Many of them are interested in pursuing and uplifting, further developing their own ethniG backgrounds as well. The minority students have always been asked to be bilingual in a kind of mental, emotional and linguistic sense. They don't want to give up one language, one heritage, for another.

"The white student fails to understand that for blacks to simply merge into the mainstream culture would be in a sense to capitulate to it. This on the surface might not seem so problematic.

But the cost of that merger for the black students often means that they have to deny who they are. And with the stakes being so high, many blacks resist being just simply Yale students. Because the u ltimate reality is that they are still black and the Yale connection will never in their lifetimes override their cultural background, which we can see immediately. So for that reason we have

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As the Afro-American Cultural Center enters its fifteenth year these questions of black identity and the best means of remedying the problems of racism will continue to be debated.

"Racial progress presumes that all the parties involved will have to acknowledge the fact that racism still is an issue," said Andrews. "Much of our community would like to think that is no longer true, and that denial in a sense impedes any kind of progress. I think the more the white students transcend themselves and look at other peoples' concerns and issues, the more progress will be made. It is possible, I'm sure of that, because we've already seen it in reverse. There are black students here who know Sartre and Camus and all of these guys as well as anybody else.

I mean, this is part of our culture. This is part of the dominant culture. We learn the languages. Now this must happen in reverse. You see it's very interesting from the standpoint of what a black American might say to Camus, given the black American's status in this country. It's also very important that the white American look at those aspects of Afro-American culture which have their own validity and standing, that he might bring to bear whatever he might have to say about it. But first of aJI you must do what the black students have had to do by necessity, which is to transcend their own station. That's very important."

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&ott Fletcher is a sophoTTWTt in &ra Stiks.

194 YorkSt New Haven¡ on the Yale wmpus ¡ 562-3800 The New .Journal, April 20. IQ84 31

The Faces of 34 Anne Applebaum "I am not an activiSt, I am an in- union's presence has brought only dividualist. Rut the quality of my life dissension and division. The decision went up the day Ijoined.".Jane Krieger whether or not to join Yale's newest did not vote for a union when she was union forced many to rethink their atfirst offncd a ballot in 1977. "I titudes about their jobs, their careers associated unions with truck drivers and and their roles in the University commen smoking cigars," said Krieger, an munity. Behind the strike publicity the employee of the British Art Center. union has quietly brought about many Four years later she had changed jobs changes in the lives of Yale's clerical and four times. Each change, billed as a technical workers.

Krieger's pro-union shift was not unipromotion, brought with it the same salary classification. Feeling trapped in que among Local 34 members. Ata dead-end situation, Kreiger saw two tempts to organize a clerical union alternatives: accept the status quo, or failed in 1968, 1971 and 1977, although leave. Her voice rim~s with intensity as each time by a smaller margin. John she states, ~Joining the union gave me a Wilhelm, chief negotiator for Local 34, whole new set of options, ways to interprets the success of this union as the reflection of larger national trends. change my situation."

For Kneger and other active mem- "As our economy shifts more and more bers of Local 34, the Federation of towards services and away from heavy University Employees, the events of the industry," he said, "I think the labor past fewweeks have been an all-absorbing movement will have to shift with it." preoccupation. the culmination of four However. these ser.·icc or "pink colyears of work. Other workers feel the lar" jobs are usually held by women who '!2 Tho '\;,•" lnurn.ol \nril

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are new to organized labor. Susie Eyzaguirre, a clerical worker in the Medical School,explains, "We've always been 'profes~iomtJ.s.' We bought business suits and went to night school.

And there's this traditional prf>judice against 'professionals' organizing.''

Eyzaguirre came to Yale from Barnard as the wife of a graduate student and began working part-time. Now a divorced mother of two, she says, "I kept thinking I was going on to do I don't know what. But at some point I guess I grew up. I thought, if I don't take my job seriously now, when ·will I?" She joined the union and became a member of the negotiating committee.

Like Eyzaguirre, many women in Yale's new union are slowly coming to the realization that their "temporary" jobs are not going away. The union has given these women a forum for their ideas about on-the-job training programs, day care for their children and

Susie Eyzaguirre at home with her childre n.

salary raises. It gives them control over their careers to an extent not possible before. Eyzaguirre smiles. " I don't mean to wax poetic about all this 'community' stuff, but this union has given women I know the courage to stand up for themselves, to say 'I'm important' in a way they never could before." She pauses. "When I joined, 1 met all o f these terrific people, doing interesting jobs all over Yale, and affecting the Yale community in important ways, none of whom I ever knew existed before."

For its members, union meetings have served as the basis for a w hole new network o f friends and associates.

Eyzaguirre laughs. "The University probably should negotiate to keep us on campus. They have no idea how much better things run." Krieger points to some subtler advantages. "Now, if you wam to know <~omething, say about a job transfe r , you know who to call. It wasn't that we weren't trying to get ahead at Yale before the union , it was that we had to do it alone. There was this feeling that you could make it at Yale, but only if you looked out for your own interests."

Local 35, the d ining hall and maintenance union , has for the past decade sh own Yale's clericals what a union can achieve. With a tight organization and a series of very effective strikes, they h ave gained salaries and benefits superio r to those of th e clericals. To Eyzaguirre the connection was obvious. " It wasn't that Yale valued its truck drivers and dishwashers more than its secretaries and librarians, it's just that the truck drivers h ad a voice, but the secretaries didn't."

Sitting in her office on Ashmun Street, Lisa Huck is on the other side of the campus and on the other side of the union controversy from Eyzaguirre and Krieger, but she speaks with equal conviction . "Unions take away initiative and drive," she said, "and are not conducive to a working atmosphere, which some people seem to forget is what this is supposed to be." Huck, a former Yale Divinity School studen t, now a computer operator in the purchasing department , becomes increasingly

"I don't mind paying fifteen dollars a month to get the union off my back."

Lisa Huck '1 hl¡

N~"

.JoumaiiApril 20. 1<184 33

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"We've m ade a com mitm en t to talk to every worker , so that everyone h ad a p art to play." agitated as she lists incidents of unioninspired antagonism. Huck claims 10 have overheard personal abuse directed at non-union members, has seen papers overtur ned and moved on co-workers' desks, and recou nts that co-workt•r Ann Fiore received a packa~c of dead fish in the mail. Alo ng with Fiore, she rcC'cntly formed a group of anti-union de ric al a nd technical workers (C&T-.). an organizatio n sh e says '"ill c·ontinut•, although the threat of an imminent strike h as disappeared. She explains, Mit can be very isolating to feel like you're the only one who doesn't buy the union line, who likes her job a t Yale." Hm·k, Fiore and the a pproximately 400 workers they reprec;ent see the umon's success as the result of c·oc•·C'ion and "strong-arm"' tactics. not c-ommunal effort.

Howeve r, union proponents a t· tribute its success in ovcrc.ominl{ traditional stereotypes to its unique o rl{<mizin'{ methods. Like most unions Loc·al 34

began with a small grou p o f 30 "ch arter members," led by a representative from the International. From there, instead o f immediate ly trying to get a quoru m for an election, the group d ecided to develo p a real gr;i~roots base a nd to educate employees about the issues.

This meant a lot of talking-or "arm· twisting," according to L isa Huck. Ann Brocker, o n e of the union's paid organizers, simply shrugs ofT such accusations. "The premise behind the drive was that if someone wan ted to stick her head in the sand. we wanted to pull it out and tell he r to listm. • Organizing from the inside also meant employing organizers who knew the Yale comm u nity. Local 35, Yale's dining h all union, was already here, a nd its or'{anizers, including Wilhelm, were crucial in getting Local 34 ofT the ground. Brocker , a 1977 graduate, exemplifies the kind of person involved.

She first worked in a union while she

was a student, and since then has had various kinds of organizing experience.

She explains, "my job is to organize myself out of a job. The people in the offices have really done the work themselves. We've made a commitment to talk to every worker, so that everyone has a part to play."

Once a final contract has been signed, none of the International's organizers plan to work at Yale. I nstead, the leadership positions will all be filled by union members. Spokeswoman K rieger explains, "We will never ~top organizing, because with every change in the workplace, our union has to change too. A union has to be what its workers want it to be." She remembers that in 1977, "I bought the whole thing-'Yale is your family' and all of that. I didn't realize that a union could also be a democracy." The "grassroots" organizing tactics slowly changed K rieger's and others' opinions.

Democracy did become a very important issue for many members when the decision was made not to strike.

Some left the vote early, threatening to resign, claiming the union capit'ulated under pressure. Wilhelm believes dissatisfaction comes from workers who are unfamiliar with the contract, which as far as he knows is the only one of its kind. Although it does not raise salaries, it institutes grievance procedures which will allow workers to have their job classifications changed and their salary classifications raised without impossible paperwork. It also guarantees job security if a clerical is fired because of funding cuts or department reorganization.

Finally, the interim contract does not contain a no-strike clause. "This contract is extremely unusual," says Wilhelm. "I don't know of any others like it.

I'm just tickled at the tactical opportunities it opens up," alluding to the possibility of a short strike. Eyzaguirre points to the positive side of the dissension within the union. "There's a lot of energy out there, and it can be channeled. People were ready to strike.

Believe me, if no contract has been signed by graduation, you'll hear from

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us again." Should a short strike occur, the union will retain the concessions it has already achieved.

Lisa Huck isn't convinced that things will calm down so quickly. "Community? The arrival of Local 34 on campus broke more bonds that it forged." Tensions in many offices still run high, and accusations fly back and forth on both sides. According to Eyzaguirre, "[Huck and Fiore] are still buying into old stereotypes. And it sounds to me like a lot of antagonism means wearing buttons and talking about the union at lunch. Sure we don't sit with them anymore. We have nothing to say."

Huck remains unconvinced. She produced a copy of an account of Senate hearings at which .the International Hotel and Restaurant Workers Union was accused of leadership corruption.

Jane Krieger simply counters, "Every member of this union is well aware of those charges, and is also aware that those accused were acquitted." Krieger points out more subtle forms of antiunion propaganda, noting that the University stiJl calls the union "Local 34 of Hotel and Restaurant Employees International," although its official title is "Federation of University Employees."

She explains, "They¡\vant to stress that International connection, as if we weren't also an autonomous organization." Huck raises an eyebrow skeptically. "Who do you think pays for all of those buttons? And who collects union dues?" Yet she is not unhappy with the "agency shop" clause of the new contract, which requires all members to pay for the union's operating expenses but leaves them the choice of paying traditional "union dues," parts of which go to the International. "I don't mind payingfifteendollars a month to get the union ofT m y back."

The controversy may continue, but in many ways the clerical union has already become an intrinsic part of the lives of Yale employees. Now that some of the pressure is ofT, Susie Eyzaguirre 36 The New .Jounlai/ April 20. 1984

has a few minutes in the afternoon to sit at her kitchen table and recall some of the frustrations of union bargaining.

One night she was forced to choose between a negotiating session and a longstanding promise to take her children to the Icc Capades. She chose the Ice Capades. Negotiations had been taking place during the afternoons, time she usually spends with her children. "It was only fair," she says.

She laughs. "Here's what happens.

We sit down. They sit down. They usually talk first. They propose something. They go into another room, we talk about it. They come back and listen to what we have to say, and then their lawyer runs over to 451 College Street (the Yale Administration Offices) to ask the big boy<; what to do. We wait." Eyzaguirre lights a Marlboro. "I would call the process cumbersome. I also think there is something inherently wron~ with proxy negotiations. It seems to me that they might understand us better if we spoke face to face."

In general, Eyzaguirre claims to be satisfied with the gains made so far. "I think we're all feeling a bit let down-actually, I think my children were the sorriest that there was no strike. They thought they might see me more often if I didn't have to go to work." Now that negotiations will be taking place during work hours, she hopes the pace will slow down. "Mommy's getting boring," pipes up her daughter Claudia. "All she talks about is the union."

Eyzaguirre has to leave. Claudia is going with her to Steering Committee.

As she puts on a raincoat, she relates one last anecdote. "Two days ago, after we signed the interim contract, a doctor who used to work at Yale came into the office. I don't think he was pro- or antiunion or anything. He asked a few questions, looked around, and said, ' H mmm ... the University had to sign a comract with the clerical union.' I don't know- to me, that somehow summed it up. We're here now."

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17

Sports/Laura Pappano ---------~--------~------------

The Force Behind the Punch

~

"I kno .., vou're gomg to love mt• in a minutt',~ "ays Patrick Eaglin, foundt•r and instructor of Yale's Show-Kan Karate Club. H is voice is like an amplifier. lt fills the fifth floor ext:rcise room at Payne Whitney Gym, prt•ssing against lht• walls and rebounding to tlw front of the room where he stands.

Eaglin is tall. strong and wdl-built.

"Sit-ups. Ll•t's count twenty around the room " His students tighten the bdts around their laundered v~ohite uniforms.

Thev hook their bare feet undt.•rnt.•ath the ~ungs of wooden do ...,.efs fasterwd 10 the walls of room EF. Patrick Eaglin has been instruning a nd inspiring students of Shoto· Kan Karate at Yale since he founded the pro· gram in September of 1982. The class is small a nd nl·ws of it travels solt•ly by word of mouth. It is not listed in Payne W hitnt•v Gym's leaflet of da'lses and a<·· tivities: the onlv martial arts classes of· ficially offered ~re those taught b\ I nsoo H wang Eaglin, 40, took up the art 17 years ago when he saw a demonstration grven by a fourth degree black belt. "The serenity that came from that man was phenomenal," he recalls. "It was the ~auty of it that got me." What followed m Eaglin's training was not always beautiful or serene, but always intt·nse.

While teaching classes and training under Kazumi Tabata, the grand master of Shoto-Kan Karate, Eaglin PU~"'<m·d his studies. He received a Ph .D. from Harvard, V~.ent on to be a professor of English at Michigan State and then entered Yale Law School. This spring he will complete his studies and exams, and will join a Ia"' firm in Colo rado. Leaving the program he has begun and the students he has instructt•d will be especially difficult becaust• of tht• nature of his approach to the art T he Shoto-Kan Karate Club is not a n O\ er-e ro" ded grm class of undergraduates tl") ing to learn tht• moves of a Thursdav-night television star. It is not kung-fu. haiku. thop. hi f. hi-va and all of that. It is karate-do.

"Do" ~t·ans ~way of life" in .Japanc'>e.

and 10 those \'\ho practice the art it is just that. Then· is a spirit in the art that becomes ins<.'parable from the martial artist. "In the Wt•st they call it charisma." says Eaglin. It is invisible control, power; it is what he has spent years cultivating in himself.

Eaglin has a power and a presence that is gripping. In room EF he starts thl' count with an unintelligible cry.

Everyone knoV~.s that it means "one." A <;in~l~. drivin~ '>yllablt• marks c·very motion that follows. It is the force and the un~ing behind the count, not the count itself that matter.,.

Riccardo Fre~gi, a brown belt in Morse, is one of thost• student<; inspired

by Eaglin's intensity. "I saw this huge crazy black man," says Frcggi, rccaJiing his fir·st impression of Eaglin. "H e was knocking people around and he was yelling and I said to myself 'this guy's crazy'-but I stayed." Frc·~~i. v.·ho has

sound. "Ewry sin~le time I fought them I would ~ct hurt. Then Sensei would stand 0\ cr me \••hc·n I was down and he would say. 'pain good, Patrick, pain good.' And at some point I accepted it."

The· n ec·d to physicalize intense emotions is what initiallr draws many people to karate and the other martial arts.

"P eople who become fighters have urwesolved life anger- they arc· pl'ople who can ckal with pain.'' says Eaglin. "I like being hit-not in the masochi'lti< wa\ -but I associate it with manhood anil lwroi<;m." In tht.· beginnintt Eal.{lin did not hold any respect for those• .., ho could not ovc·rnmw him phvsicall~. For him tlw most important part of karate· bc·nmw tlw ac·tual fighting: sparring.

Eaglin auend<:d Special Training sessions. 48-hour physical workout<> led by tlw master. For the duration of the trainin~ s<.'ssion, no one could leave· the building. the "do jo." Students would

"Sen sei would stand over m e when I was down and he would say, 'pain good, P atrick , pain good." And at some point I accepted it." bt·e•n in martial arts training for the past four yc·ars, credits Eat.tlin with "getting him out of the armcharr. We stopped playing patt\-·Cake· in class," says Frc•ggi. "I had the armchair point-ofview. \\"e would \'<.'ar thc·.;e cute-looking white pajamas with colored belts and have lots of fun. Aftc·r a few months with Patrick I startt·d changing my mind."

Eaglin's teaching '>tylt.· comes from a fusion of his personal insi~hts and h is tratnrng directly under Sensei ("Teacher" or "Master") Kazumi Tabata. Eaglin v.as one of Tabata's five original black belts, an achievement that demanded an almost blinding intensitv during training. "Tabata put me agrun~t people that I wuldn't possiblv beat. \\'hen I wa-. a gn:en belt I was fighting black belts-1 ~'as always fighting uphill,~ recall-. Euglin, his voice winding 10 a low. penetrating thread of

train for thn·t· hours. then rest fclr two, around the dock. These training c;c•s· sions st.•t JX'Ople on edge mentally and phy-;ic'ally During one se-;sron Eaglin reached the· hnnk that made him rc·c·nn'lidt.·r his approac·h to the art . In a <"Ompt'tition .... ith another studc·nt. Eaglin pul"'<lJt·d hi-; opponent around the· do jo.

Hrs Sc·n,ei -;purred him on. His mind was on the edge; he was readv to kill.

He threw his opponent again.,t tlw wall and prc•ssc·cl up against him. dra~,·ing his hand hack to strike. "At that moment I n·.tlize·d that ifl h it him, I \'l.ould kill hrrn." Eaglin's eves regi.,tt•r a c laritv of ret olkc tion that his "ords c-;mnnt ,,[. tain. "Thc·n· \H'rt• a few seconds VI. lwn• he kne\\. and I knew. that his life VI. as in danger." H i-. \oicc be<.·omc' dilut<.-cl with air. ~ 1 "''" ashamed." ht• "·""· •J startc:d apnlngiLing-1 felt I h.td iailed the• ll'at·hintts: Thi., was a very confusing c·\ent for

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Eaglin. Fo r him there was no sq>aration between what happened in tlw do jo and what happent·d in tht· outsidt• world. He had always pern·ivt·d himsl'lf as a gentle man, yet he was liv ing in a world of total violem:c. He dropp<•d out of the a rt. H e had been teaching at the YMCA in Cambridge. "I walkt·d 10 the Y a nd tOld my students that I quit," he says. "I told them that karatt' is neither good no r bad. but simply what you choose to do."

Eaglin felt diffused- he wasn't training- he didn't have a center. There was a void in his life. "Trainin~ scoops it all up and says 'straight down that road,"'

"I am seeking to perform th e perfect act ." he says. "There is an ugly fet'lin~ that comes from people. w h o think tht•y're in an art to hurt people." After much thought, he returned to the art. Now, he says, "The sparring is n:duced. I'm more interested in perfection of form and moving into different states of mind."

M editation is an important part of karate. Zen. "M y perception is that the 'spirit' in the mystical sense is tht· soun·c of all things," says Eaglin . The st>nse of spirit relies on the disc-ipline and maturity of the martial artist. One must get rid of the excitement to practice: the art requires control. It is not a physi<·al vent for frustrations. "You have to be able to act without emotion,,~ ht• savs. '"If you are acting in a deta<:hed fa,hion. it is the same thing to put out your hand to kill and to put out your hand to tout"h and love. If I am successful. I withdraw from the frui ts of m\- labor and att for the joy of acting- I am '-t'l'l,in~ to perform the perfect act."

R oom EF feels e mpty. "I "ant to hear you breathe," sa>·s Ea~hn Side by side his students stand as if on horseback . They look like J apanese cowboys; they are strong, silt"nt and under control. Eyes dosed. tht•ir fates 40 Tho· ;-.;,."

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are stern and cool. In turn Eaglin moves i:>ehind each of them and touches his finger to a spot on their backs "Get power out of my fingertips," he says.

The sound of breathing builds. The room sounds windswept; it seems vacant. "Okay, your hips should be lifting as you push." The rhythm of his words matches the slow motion of punches analyzed through practice. H e guides them into a karate-do state of mind.

"This is not a muscle exercise. When you're doing it slow, your mind carries it through." His voice ascends to another register. It could be speaking from above the skylights. "Make you r punches feel like they're going through me. Touch me."

•

Laura Papjmrw. a rmior in E::.ra Stilr1, an A' wciatr f:ditor of T .J.

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The ;-.;,."Journal Aprtl 'll). JQ84 41

Profile/Peter Zahos

Emotional Healing ofT a leg, producing a physical loss, the Dr. Bernie Siegel walks briskly towards response is the growth of a new leg. Our the orange elevator doors. They're not losses are not physical, but the body opt·n. hut he has faith. At the last possi- responds in a physical way- as if it had hlt• moment they part, and he steps in- to generate something new. One patient sick· without lookint:{ up from his chart. told me, 'It's a lack of love. There's a "That\ the eighth time today," he space inside of me that's empty, so I laughs. {{row something to fill it .' T hat space can be filled with love. If people grow, the cancer doesn't. When patients 2 Few men have the right face to support become new people, they don't need the " bare <;kull , hut Bernie Siegel, a old illness." sur~{·on ;11 Yale-New Haven H ospital and H bdicver in miracles, is clearly one 4 of those men. H is gaze is kee n, almost H is healing practice is based on lesson s pil'r<'ing, but he has even features and learned from his parents. From his an t•asy -.mile. His haldness gives him a mother, he learned the power of love tlwrapt·utit advantage. When he first and the will to live: "She was hyper-.havt·cl his head. patients he'd known thyroid, weighed ninety pounds, and f(lr yt·ars '>Uddenly confided their life was told that if she became pregnant, histories to him. H e re was a doctor she would most likely die. She fou nd an <lcarlv dificrcnt from the rest. A" he obstetrician who was willing to take a

"One patient told m e, 'It's a lack of love.

T h ere's a space inside of me that's empty, so I grow something to fill it.' If p eople grow , the cancer doesn't." '" It was like saying, 'You're now handi< aprx·d. maimed, or disfigured, so now I <"an talk to you about m y dislii.{UII'IlH'nt."' Some doctors were cllsturlX'cl hv his choice at first and ~dkd at hi~ publicly for it. That con' in< t•d Sit·~cl to keep the hair off. That, and his clau!{hter, who claimed it made him \o much easier to find in a crowded tlwaH·r '<tT., 11,

3 han• a li:dinl{ that cancc1 is more of a rt'\JXII1'W to loss and despair than anything d't'.~ said Sie'{el. who has treated -.ton·-. of <·anccr patients. "The time and pia< t' a dt<.case strikes is not a coincidt•mt· With a salamander, if you cut

~1

t:.! ' llw Nc·vo, (uurnai!April 20. 1984

chance with her if she gained thirty pounds. Her mother literally fed her on a couch for three months until she t:{ained the weight. Then she became pregnant, had me, and the hyperthyroidism disappeared . The message I got from that was, 'You can't do anything wrong. Your mother's well and here you are. You're a gift."'

From his father he learned the acceptance of death: "At age 90 plus, my father's grandfather told everyone that he was going to die that night, and to get his friends and a boule of schnapps.

Of course they humored him. H e had his party and afterwards wen t upstairs and lay down and died."

Both his parents are still alive. "I'm

still somebody's child. That's very importan t. It a llows me to do a lot of things, as a child ."

5 Graduating from Cornell Medical Colege in 1957 and setting up a surgical pra~tice in New H aven, he found it difficu lt to harmonize h is parents' legacy with his new role. "I wasn't trained to see m y patients as people. I saw them as rlisease, as machines I had to repair. I started having a conflict over the lifesavi ng image. I had to take care of people w ho were d ying, but m ost of the p hysicians who were my teachers couldn't handle it." They dealt with death by denial a nd a belief in their own invulne rability. A nd that's a reason they don't often worry about preventive medicine.

"I felt I had to make myself vulnerable, and begin to learn from my patients. I redefined my roles. I became at different times a healer, teacher, caregiver or student. My relationship with my p atients became one of shared responsibility. People w hose lives were threatened were a ble to teach me the how and why of living."

6 Siegel, an associate professor at the medical school,_ decided to set up a mutual support group for cancer patients after attendin g a 1978 workshop on "Psychological Factors, Stress and Cancer," which explored the usc of meditation and v isualization as tools for healing cancer. On the first day there was;mexercise in w hich each participant was supposed to meet an inner guide.

"I went into the experience with a very negative attitude: I will not meet anybody, nothing will appear, nothing's going to happen. Then I thought, well, since I'm a surgeon, who else would dare appear in my head but Jesus o r Moses? And then along came

doctor, so she stayed at home, waiting, until the pain began .

Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, the author of On Death and Dying, taught him a drawing technique that a lso adds to the overall diagnosis. The method assigns certain meanings to colors and the placement of images o n the page.

Siegel would have his patients draw pictures of themselves and their suspected illnesses, then review them after the patients became ill and try to map the correspondences.

He notes, "The drawings allowed me to deal with symbols that were truer and more revealing than spoken language.

As a surgeon, having both the minds and bodies to work with, I was able to train myself. I am now able to predict future events based upon unconscious beliefs and a ttitudes."

George-my inner guide with a beard and a \\.hite gown, This was an incredible experience because I never thought it would happen. I found I could talk to George and get very honest answers, some of \\.hich I didn't neccssaril>· like."

The power of this and other mental exercises impres<.ed him. He asked George if he should go back to school and become a psvchiatrist. "He told me, 'Don't forgt.·t, S it·gcl, you're a little vain.

You don't want to giv<.· up something you're good at. And you can open doors being in a hospital, do things like death and dying counseling, talking with patients, kissing them. hugging them.'

"So I remained a surgeon."

8 H e has the e nergy of a man who gets the governor's pardon moments befo re they strap him into the chair. Bernie Siegel is ionized almost beyond belief.

His is not nervous energy; he has no trouble sitting stilL His words a re rapidfire, his gestures sharp and sweeping.

H e gives o ff the glow of the born-again.

His mission is wide-ranging: surgery and sermo n , probing with scalpel and scythe. His medical practice encompasses end-stage care, preventive strategies and mental heahh. His spiritual practice draws on all of the<.e and more. H e says he feel mo t at home in a church or temple. H e sull finds time to consult George and u e his advice. H e does so many thing . but shows no outward signs of doubt. ;\lone at all.

7 He started reading enormous amounts, especially Carljung. H e learned to use dreams to diagnose physical illness and illustrate the mind's awareness of the body. He was astounded b}' the precision of those diagno. es. One of his young patients dreamt that his teddy bear was on crutches and had one leg missing. 1-i'e woke up and told his brother: "M y leg has cancer, but don't tell mommy." A year later his leg had to be amputated above the knee.

9 A woman dreamt that the top o f her Between bites of a club sandwich. ht• head was shaved. and on her scalp was talks of doubt. "I'm not floating abon· the word "CANCER " in b i<Xk letters. the ground all the time. If l've got my There were no svmptoms to show her hands in someone's belly, it's scan .

Th~ New .J ournaVAprol 20, 1984 41

One of Sieltcl's stude nts, whe n asked to draw a boat, drew this picture. "'What's w ro ng with your breasts?" h e ask ed .

The stud ent was diag nosed as h aving a h o rmone p roblem wit h h e r b reasts.

They <ould die. I'm involved in it. But if the patient does die.·, I still have a role: to hdp heal those.· who have had this loss, to shan· their pain. I wish more doctors would do this, bn:ause the feedback ir positive. Pt•oplc know we aren't perfc<:t. ~

help,' and if you say that's accc.·prable, then \'lle're a team. We do it togetht·r.

We operate, and you wake up and f(:d great, and I walk out f<.·ding great because we're a ream. The kl·y is sharing. T hat's how I save my life."

10 faith in a particular therapy can determine ih sun css. Siegel uses the drawings to divim· his patients' attitudes.

"If JX'ople draw their cht·motherapy as a bum h of arrowo;. but not one single arrow poiming to their cancer, then you kno'' that their unnmo;cious is sayinlt, 'This \tuft is totally int>fTcctive and it huns me' Paric.•nto; . who sav yes to the d<Ktnr bur sc.·c.· the c·hemotherapy as poison will n·m·r as if poisoned. The picture c.·an reveal this and help the patient avoid rhe problem by dealinlt with it consc.·iously."

H e repeats a favorite quotation from Albert Schweitzer's writings: "It's supposed to be a professional secret, but I'll tell you anyway. We doctors do nothing. We only help and encourage the doctor within."

12

II

.. 1 don't

depressed bec.·ause I don't do rhin~ts to patic.·nts anymore. If you come 10 me as a patient and <>ay, ' Help me get well,' I 'iay, 'Thc.•sc.• are the ways I can l{t'l

44 Tht• ;-.,..... Juurn.ti/April 20. 1984

13

Siegel sent out a letter 10 about one hundred cancer patients, telling thc.·rn he had discovered something whic·h could probably improve the quality and extent of their lives. H e expc.•ctcd at least five hundred replies and wondered how he'd scat them all. H~ got twelve respono;es.

"This was when I began to understand that nor all patients want to g<>t well. It made me really begin to wonder what we as physicians arc doing."

14 fifteen to twenty percent o f people who arc seriously ill would prefer to die: if given the opportunity. F ifty to sixty percent of patients are willi ng to get better as long as the docto r does the work and the medicine doesn't taste too bad. The final fifteen to twenty percent sa)', 'I'll do anything I have to do to get well. Just show me."'

People from the last group came to form Exceptional Cancer Patients. He slows his voice to add weight to his words: "When I be~an to meet these people, it was the beginning of my education. They began to teach me what people who want to live have to do. \\'hen you spend time with people who literally could die tomorro'" but go on living, you begin to learn why they're waking up each day.~About

15 He explains the four questions he asks each or his exceptional cancer patients: Do you want to live to be I 00 years old? .. A positive response says I am in control of my life and enjoy it. I do not fear

the futurt' and I have a will to live. l n an audience made up of physicians, fewer than five percent will respond positively."

What has happened in you•· life in the year or two prior to the illness?

"I do not believe that it is a coincidence when a m~jor illness strikes an individual. Some examples: an individual having a desultory love affair may develop cancer of the cervix or uterus. A mother losing a child may well develop cancer of the breast."

What does the diagnosis mean to you? .

"Doctors must deal with negative expectations, theirs and the patient's.

Since they do not know the future, they must give the patient the chance to be the exception. Statistics can kill, emotions can make you well."

Why do you need this illness?

"Sometimes it provides the patients with benefits that can be achieved through more positive means- attention, love ,control- the possibilities are limitless. One patient of mine entered the hospital after her remission fromcancer for other reasons, simply because she had no one to tell her triumph to at home."

16

On love: "Love is the most powerful immune stimulant in the body. Not only that, it feels good."

17

Last year a woman came to him and said, "I want God to heal me. But I want you to monitor it." "I'm very unassuming," he notes, "so as a surgeon I don't mind monitor ing God's work.

"I'm a believer, I'm open. I see things. I believe in the concept of a God, as the primal force, as the beginning of our collective unconscious, what have you. I'd be willing to label those things God. And when I meditate, I open myself up to God's presence. to his message, in order to do his work. Our work, actually."

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18 O ne year after he shaved his head, Siegel used the drawing technique to fi nd out why. He drew himself with a rainbow-colored b ird on his right sh ou lder and George counseling him at his left . T here was a pond with a fish out of water, and mountains whose tops were filled in with white crayon.

K ubler-R oss helped him interpret it.

T he first thing she asked was "What ar e you hiding? You don't need white crayon on white paper." Combining this clue with the fish symbol, he realized that he had been hiding his love and spirituality, because of the way he was taught to practice medicine. And he r ealized that all along he had been gettin g messages in his meditations to uncover som ething. H e had taken that message literally and shaved his head.

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19 On his office desk are a few ANTIC IPATE M I RACLES bumper stickers and a "Bald is Beautiful" mirror stand with a fat baby figurine inserted in to its wooden base. He wears a rainbow "Bernie" button and belt buckle.

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20 "Elizabeth told me"- he imitates Kubler-Ross' Swiss accent- "'that the spirits, the healing spirits, need a lot of energy to materialize, and music provides that energy.' She likes Hank W illiams, so in the operating room I play Williams, Willie Nelson, baroque music, 'Amazing Grace,' a lot of things.

I realized what a powerful effect the music had on the O.R. when I forgot my tapes one day. Everyone missed it, especially the nurses. One of my associates, Richard Selzer, a surgeon and writer, made me realize that when they took the windows out of the operating room, they took out God. I want to bring God back in."

21 "Years ago, I was giving a speech and found myself torn between my planned outline and the unplanned things that were coming out of my mouth thanks to who-knows-what. I fmally decided that 'the other guy' was doing a better job and I let go of the outline and let him

give the speech." He spoke for 90 minutes without notes. "Afterwards, a woman came up to me and said th at she'd heard me speak before, but I had never been this inspirational. Another woman stood before me and said 'I'm a medium, and in the middle of your speech, this figure appeared before the podium. I drew a sketch of h im for you.'

I looked at the paper and cried ou t, 'My God, it's George!'"

22 Possible epitaph: "You don't have to be afraid of living. Because you can stop when you want to."

'

23 This is one of his favorite stories: "Son ny, one of my excep tional patients, went to Hospice to die. Surrounded by love, she didn't die. After many months Sonny's husband asked how to help his wife. I told him, 'You have to tell her that you and the boys love her and will be okay and she can go if she wants to.'

He told her Wednesday morning while shifting her breakfast tray. Wherr he turned to look back at her, she had gone. Later that day, I was praying for her in the hospital chapel. A plaque on the wall began to shake. and being the scientist that I am, I looked at it dispassionately. The plaque read, 'In the midst of life, I am with you.' It was Sonny's way of saying goodbye."

2.4 He recently spoke at the annual convention of the American Medical Student Association. "Think of what I could do to the practice of medicine if every year I talked to 1000 students!

I've converted a lot of people in New Haven already."

25 "It hurts me to know that everyone is not living the way I know they can live.

I see people who won't listen to their inner needs, including my own family.

When I feel or sense conflict, I lzaue the answer. But many people just don't want it."

•

Peter Zahos, a smior in Branford, is a former ediwr of the Yale Daily News Magazine.

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