WHAT NEXT, AMERICA?

We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss—we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink away from the danger. Unaccountably we remain.   

    --Edgar Allan Poe

 

Last week Hillary Clinton lost the election, to the horrified surprise of millions around the world. In two months Donald Trump will become the president of the United States. Though I’m tempted to cry “Not my president,” of course this is one reality show I can’t avoid. Thanks to the people H.L. Mencken called the “booboisie” long ago, we are stuck with Trump for a few years.

Better informed observers than I am will long debate how this atrocity happened. The consensus seems to be that Trump simply capitalized on the unemployment, expensive tuition, skyrocketing medical costs, and other national problems we are suffering, and persuaded millions of voters that he could somehow “make America great” again.

Perhaps some actually believed that the fifties were a golden age to which we should return. Certainly it was a good period financially for the low-skilled white male workers who could get good jobs on auto assembly lines, for instance. There were other high points, too. Thanks to Sputnik and the National Science Foundation, it was even a good time for science education. However, most women were still confined to traditional low-paying jobs as secretaries, nurses, and teachers. Black men and women, as always, suffered discrimination in housing and jobs. We were all polluting the environment and quickly using fossil fuels and other natural resources.

During the sixties and seventies, enormous progress was made in civil rights and environmental concerns. Many of those who had been left out of the postwar boom began to share in the wealth. Even teachers’ salaries began rising. The EPA was established, and the National Parks Service was expanded. Thanks to the Pill and to the Roe v. Wade decision, women were freed of what biologist Garrett Hardin called “mandatory motherhood.”  For the first time in history, they could have children if and when they wanted to.

Eventually, though, greed has won over benevolence. The income taxes that were never onerous in comparison with those in Europe have fallen steadily, and most of the country’s wealth is now held by a small percent of individuals and corporations. Our middle class has become a lower class, earning less while working harder, and paying  far too much for health care and other needs . Those at the bottom of the ladder are pushed even farther down in the struggle for survival.

As a citizen and voter, I have two major concerns that affect everything else: the environment and education. During his campaign, Trump pledged to eliminate the U.S. Department of Education or to cut its influence greatly, giving more power to the states. If he makes good on his campaign promises, the public schools will be greatly harmed, leading to an even less educated citizenry. As to the environment, he has made the ridiculous claim that human-caused climate change is a hoax. Under Trump environmental quality will decline, because the EPA will lose its capability to establish and enforce environmental protections. Our beloved national parks will be overrun by developers and ranchers.

In addition, women and minorities will lose their hard-won gains. Violence against immigrants and native-born minorities will increase. (Since the election even children are being targeted by bigots; some are afraid to venture out of their classrooms, or fear deportation.)

One group will come out well, though—Trump and his cronies, self-satisfied rich white guys. I can imagine them now, relaxing on their yachts and laughing gleefully at the stupid voters who were taken in by their promises. We can only hope that in 2020, the Republicans have not yet destroyed the planet, and can be voted out of office.

 

Text copyright © 2016 by Carol Stone

 

 

DEATH PENALTY

On November 8 we Californians will vote on two conflicting propositions about the death penalty. Proposition 62 would repeal it, 66 would accelerate the process. I plan to vote for repeal, and not because I’m a “bleeding-heart liberal.”  I have other reasons:

The older I become, the less I fear death, and realize it is probably not an effective deterrent to crime anyway. The sort of monster who is a serial killer, a rapist of children, or other horrific person may be filled with self-loathing and actually welcome death. Why should we enable their suicide? If someone has committed a crime so heinous that the death penalty is appropriate, then a quick execution is too easy on them. Instead of receiving the death penalty, anyone deserving that punishment should be locked away from the world for their lifetime, where they can slowly contemplate the enormity of their actions and suffer mental anguish.

In California, most of those who have received the death penalty promptly appeal it. The appeal process may continue for years and is extremely costly to the state. Currently we have 741 prisoners on death row. According to a 2011 study by U.S. 9th Circuit Judge Arthur L. Alarcon and Loyola Law School professor Paula M. Mitchell, abolishing the death penalty in California would save about a billion dollars every five or six years.[i]

 

Perhaps most important, juries are sometimes wrong,  for a variety of reasons. They may have relied on incomplete evidence, or been swayed by emotional arguments. Since 1973, 156 United States prisoners on death row have been released after DNA or other tests have exonerated them.[ii]  (Others’ sentences have been commutated for other reasons, such as irregularities in their trials.) Those freed lost years of their lives, which is bad enough, but they were able to salvage some time; they might have been executed if there hadn’t been a delay after sentencing. If the death penalty is repealed, some innocent lives can be saved.

There are other reasons for repeal, of course. Many people consider the death penalty to be a barbaric practice that should not continue. Though I consider lifetime imprisonment a more fitting punishment, I can sympathize with that viewpoint. Deliberately killing anyone, even the most evil person, is abhorrent in a civilized society. We need to repeal the death penalty.

 

Text copyright © 2016 by Carol Stone

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[i] http://articles.latimes.com/2011/jun/20/local/la-me-adv-death-penalty-costs-20110620.

[ii] Staff Report, House Judiciary Subcommittee on Civil & Constitutional Rights, 1993, with updates from the Death Penalty Information Center.

KAM WAH CHUNG

Beginning a tour of the Kam Wah Chung shop

The unpretentious little building on a side street in John Day, Oregon, doesn’t look like a major tourist destination, and many visitors to the area pass it up. That’s a mistake. We recently visited Kam Wah Chung and found it to be a highlight of an Oregon trip.

The name is not that of a person, but of a shop and gathering place for the Chinese immigrants who came to the West Coast in the late nineteenth century. (A loose translation is “Golden Flower of Prosperity.”) China at the time was unstable politically and financially; in the United States, immigrants could find work in the gold fields and on the railroads. Thousands of men came in the hope of making a living and sending money back to their families in China.

Even here, their life was far from easy. As in some communities today, the Immigrants faced great resentment and cruelty. When we toured Kam Wah Chung, we saw bullet holes that had been left by local residents in the metal doors. Though the Chinese were generally safe during the day, at night they had to find safe places to stay, and Kam Wah Chung was one of those places.

Two remarkable Chinese men owned the shop. Ing Hay, known throughout the area as “Doc Hay,” was an expert herbalist who cured some patients Western doctors had failed to help. After Hay’s death, the steamer trunk under his cot was opened. It held many grateful patients’ checks that had never been cashed. Though he lived modestly, he felt that he did not need their money as much as they did. Because the shop was sealed up during the forties and not reopened for decades, Hay’s apothecary is still there, just as it was long ago. The shelves hold a huge collection of herbs and tonics, some of which have not been identified.


Doc Hay's tiny bedroom



The other shop owner, Lung On, was a good businessman who helped the immigrants in other ways. Well educated and fluent in both Chinese and English, he provided translations and managed Ing Hay’s practice.  

Lung On was looking out for his partner's interests when he posted this sign.

In addition, he became a labor contractor and owned an early automobile dealership. Both men became respected members of the local Oregon community, and unlike many of the Chinese immigrants, never returned to China.

Kam Wah Chung is a museum that brings the immigrant experience to life. Stepping through the front door, we saw what might be called a “great room” today;  though the crowded room is tiny, it was a shop, post office, clinic, site for worship, and library. Side rooms were bedrooms for the two men, a small dormitory (where each bed held four men!), a kitchen, an altar with offerings, and storage space. Shelves contain utensils, food tins, dry goods, and small items for sale by Lung On.

I couldn't resist this souvenir teacup.

Remarkably, admission to Kam Wah Chung is free. (A gift shop and donations provide some income, and it is a State Heritage Site.) At the interpretive center across the street, visitors can see videos and displays and sign up for ranger-led tours of the shop, which  begin hourly.  Because the fragile artifacts must be protected and the building is small, each tour is limited to just a few visitors. This has the additional advantage of allowing visitors to inspect everything closely and ask questions of the ranger. We left greatly impressed by her knowledge and by the museum itself.

Text copyright © 2016 by Carol Stone; photos copyright © 2016 by Thane Puissegur

 

 

A TIME TO MOURN

When my father-in-law died soon after our marriage, I was introduced to the Jewish custom of a family’s “sitting shiva,” or staying home for seven days of mourning. Like most Jewish rituals, it can be quite elaborate, with a widow sitting on a low stool and with other traditions. My mother-in-law was too rational to wear herself down unnecessarily, but she did stay home to mourn and to welcome many visitors. They brought tons of comfort foods—lox and bagels, kugels, candy, and so on. Though the atmosphere was sad, it was also supportive and hopeful. Some of them brought children, which surprised me at first.

My father-in-law’s funeral itself was very sad. For the first time I heard the long Jewish prayers that years later would be used for my husband and other Jews. There was the Mourner’s Kaddish, a eulogy, and psalms; some were in Hebrew, others in English. It was very simple, with no flowers or music. Having grown up as a small-town Protestant, I found the austere Jewish ceremony a stark contrast to the funerals I attended as a child, with screechy sopranos singing along with poorly played organs, and with the sickly sweet odor of carnations overpowering everything. Sad as this funeral was, it seemed more comforting and appropriate.

In recent years I have attended all too many ceremonies I think of as “happy funerals.” Yes, they are called “celebrations of life,” with an emphasis on the dead person’s achievements and on the mourners’ love for them. Most people today seem to prefer these rituals. Too often, however, they seem to become performances.  Mourners arrive ready to read long eulogies, and to gather with other mourners, almost in a party atmosphere. There seems to be little grieving, as if people are obliged to be happy.

I don’t always object to these rituals, of course. When my friend Joani Blank learned that she would die soon of pancreatic cancer, she sprang into action and scheduled her own celebration of life, to occur before her death. And so one day in July, hundreds of people who loved Joani and had benefited from her generosity gathered at the First Unitarian Church of Oakland to thank her and to say farewell. I was unable to attend, but saw a video that make it look like a truly joyous occasion, for Joani and everyone else, though surely some tears were shed.

 

Still, in general when I attend one of these modern funerals, I find myself feeling resentful and wishing to hear the Kaddish.  I think how much better it would be to weep openly, to feel the pain of losing a beloved family member or friend. First there must be a time to mourn. There is much time later to heal the emotional wounds and return to an ordinary life, even to joyous rebeginnings. (Another Jewish tradition is to name the next baby born in the family for the person who died.  L’chaim!)

 

 

POSSESSED!

The younger generation—Millennials, Gen X, or whatever they are currently calling themselves—may have it right. They rent homes instead of buying them, move around the world as needed for their work, travel widely as students and volunteer workers. They concentrate more on having experiences than on buying possessions, and so they avoid accumulating a lot of heavy furniture and other stuff.

Most of us older people did just the opposite. We bought homes at the first opportunity, happily inherited things from our parents, maxed out credit cards to buy cars and electronics that sometimes lasted only a few years. As a result, at some post-retirement point we are likely to find ourselves burdened with too many belongings, such as large homes that no longer suit our needs. They are hard to clean (or expensive to have cleaned by someone else), have too many steps, require too much outdoor work, and so on. Instead of enjoying retirement, we may spend our days simply taking care of our possessions.  This is hardly “the last of life, for which the first is made”[i]!

Several years ago I downsized from a large home that had an in-law apartment. I loved the house, but couldn’t manage it physically or financially after being widowed. It took a couple of years (when I could have been traveling or otherwise enjoying myself), holding several sales, and becoming an eBay seller, but I finally got rid of a thousand books, my late husband’s various collections, much heavy furniture, and much more. What a relief! My current home is tiny, but has the basic paraphernalia I need, along with some pictures and other things I am saving for sentimental reasons. I am no longer owned by goods. I must confess, though, that I still have a lot of books. There are limits.

When we travel in the RV, life is even simpler, because everything on board must be a much-needed item. Occasionally I miss some of the comforts of home, such as the bathtub. I don’t miss having to clean the tub.

One group of Rvers, the Escapees (SKPs), is composed largely of middle-aged and older members who have gotten away from being held in thrall by their belongings. Many are full-timers who live in their RVs much or all of the time. (I suspect most of them have some things stored in their children’s garages or in storage sheds, though.) The Escapees can be nearly free within our consumer-oriented society.

 

Copyright 2016 by Carol Leth Stone 

 

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[i] From “Rabbi Ben Ezra,” by Robert Browning.

WATCHING FOR METEORS

We lay back lazily on our chaise lounges and gazed at the northeastern sky, enjoying one of the many perks of the RV life: When the Perseid meteor showers are at their peak each summer, we can drive forty miles to a campground and view the meteors in comfort, little hindered by tall trees or air pollution. In 2016 astronomers had forecast an especially spectacular meteor shower.



The Silver Lake sharks are always friendly.

The campground is at Silver Lake, a reservoir at 7300’ in the Sierra Nevadas. We go there often for quick getaways, where we can walk, kayak, or rent a canoe. (I do fewer of these activities now, but still enjoy easy walks and campground life.) At one spot along the lake where the view to the northeast is completely unobstructed, there is plenty of room to set up a camera on a tripod and arrange our chaises.

Around midnight, we began to see the occasional meteor streak across the sky. One huge fireball was more spectacular and rewarding than anything we had expected. We continued watching until about 2:00 A.M, when we grew tired and returned to our RV. More persistent or younger stargazers no doubt saw many more--the display was greatest in the hours just before dawn, when we were fast asleep.

The annual meteor showers appear from Earth to emanate from the Perseus constellation, named for the mythical Greek hero Perseus. As his main claim to fame, Perseus severed the head of Medusa, an especially fearsome Gorgon whose hair had been turned to snakes by the goddess Athena. Perseus rescued and married the princess Andromeda, daughter of Cassiopeia and Cepheus,  who had left their daughter to die in order to mollify a sea monster. (I'm not making this up!) The ancient Greeks named some neighboring constellations in the northeast sky Perseus, Andromeda, Cassiopeia, and Cepheus. It’s easy to imagine someone pointing out the figures and telling a child the gruesome story they represent.

The Perseid meteor showers are actually displays of comet dust entering Earth’s atmosphere. From late July to the middle of every August, and peaking around August 11, Earth is in just the right position to be showered with the remnants of the Comet Swift–Tuttle. The comet gives off a cloud of debris, made of particles (meteors) that burn up as they streak through the atmosphere and provide natural fireworks.

Though the Perseus myth and the scientific aspects of the meteor showers are absorbing, to me the best part of watching the showers is their awe-inspiring beauty. Walt Whitman said it far better than I can long ago, in his “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer”:

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide,

   and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with

   much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Text copyright 2016 by Carol Stone, photo copyright 2016 by Thane Puissegur

RV LINGO

Almost ten years ago, we bought a Winnebago View and have made it our home for weeks or months at a time. Though my partner was familiar with the RV (recreational vehicle) life, it was all new to me. By talking with other RVers, and reading magazines and online forums on the subject, I’ve picked up a lot of information and learned much of the language.

The special RV lingo mystified me for a long time. Why would anyone pull a “toad” behind an RV? Isn’t that animal cruelty? Is a “genset” a person’s gender at birth? And so on. I had a lot to learn.

Towed

Now at least I know some basics: a “back-in site” is a campground site that has to be backed into. Carefully.  In contrast, a “pull-through site” can be driven into at one end, exited at another. Pull-throughs are more desirable because of their convenience, but campground managers tend to reserve them for the large RVs that need them more than we do. Luckily, the View is very maneuverable.

As on a boat, the kitchen in an RV is called a “galley.” Thank heavens, the bathroom is called the bathroom rather than the head.

Hookups are not what may first come to mind. They are connections for electricity and water in campground sites. Some campgrounds also have hookups for cable TV.

RV resorts are campgrounds with an attitude. They are likely to have a lot of expensive extras that seem antithetical to the informal RV life.

Boondocking, which we do often, is camping where there are no hookups. Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management campgrounds, for instance, are usually in the boondocks, though some of them have water available.  RVers often refer to staying at Camp Walmart, a specialized type of boondocking.

Like a truck, an RV is often called a “rig.” It may be a “puller” (a trailer that is pulled by a truck or other vehicle) or a “pusher” (rear-engine diesel rig that doesn’t have to be pulled, as opposed to a front-engine rig). “Duallies” (the spelling varies) are those pairs of tires at the rear of an RV. They have valves that are hard to reach and cause a lot of the cussing you hear in campgrounds.

There are tons of other terms used in manuals and conversations. Googling for RV lingo will bring up many I have not mentioned.

And finally, a “toad” is not an amphibian; that’s a pun on “towed,” and can refer to a trailer, small car, or other towed object. A “genset” is a combination of a diesel engine and an electric generator.

Language can unite groups or divide them. In some cases those who have a common language feel superior to others, or to feel alienated from them. That doesn’t seem true for RVers, though. Even those who don’t know much terminology can be quickly included in the fraternity. Some aspects of RVing will always be out of my reach, and I don’t care to know about some others. I do feel comfortable with the lingo, though.

BRING BACK THE NEW DEAL!

A poster created by WPA artists

In our travels, especially those taking us through the national parks, we often see buildings and roads dating from the thirties, when FDR’s administration  established many conservation projects as part of the New Deal. Always interested in conservation of natural resources, FDR cared deeply about human conservation as well.

The Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC ) provided work for more than 300,000 young men who were unemployed during the Depression. Those were the Dust Bowl years, when soil blew away from farms, and families lost their livelihood. In addition, the stock market crash of 1929 had led to massive unemployment in rural and urban areas as well.

The CCC jobs were tough; the men were not given much training, and performed manual labor. They stocked streams with fish, fought wildfires, built highways, and did other difficult, important work. Sadly, after beginning as integrated programs, CCC programs soon became segregated, and blacks were prevented from moving into supervisory positions. [i] It was also limited to men, who at that time were considered the breadwinners of their families.

When World War II began, many young men were drafted or joined the military services voluntarily, which provide employment for them and reduced the pool available for the CCC. Within a few years the CCC had largely disappeared, though even today many states have smaller programs based on it.

Another popular New Deal program, the Works Progress Administration (WPA), provided needed income for many writers and artists.  Artists supported by the WPA’S Federal Art Project (including Jackson Pollock[ii] and Thomas Hart Benton[iii]) collectively created more than 100,000 paintings and murals and over 18,000 sculptures.[iv]  Many can still be seen in places such as Coit Tower in San Francisco.

Perhaps it is time to bring back these New Deal programs. Many people who lack computer and other specialized skills are unemployed. Most writers and artists receive notoriously low compensation for their work.  If unemployed or underpaid men and women were able to make a little money while contributing to the infrastructure, they would be paying taxes instead of collecting welfare. The heavy physical labor of the CCC workers would not be possible for everyone, but most people could work in some capacity. We can, in the words of a prominent politician, “make America great again.” Not by building a wall along our border or deporting Muslims, but by investing in all our people and in projects that benefit the environment.


Text copyright 2016 by Carol Leth Stone

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[i] African Americans in the CCC - New Deal Network

newdeal.feri.org/aaccc/ (July 23, 2016)

[ii] Jackson Pollock Biography

www.jackson-pollock.org/biography.jsp (July 21, 2016)

[iii] The Art Story: Works Progress Administration (WPA)

www.theartstory.org/org-wpa.htm (July 21, 2016)

[iv] The Art Story: Works Progress Administration (WPA)

www.theartstory.org/org-wpa.htm (July 21, 2016)

 

TRAVELING WITH DOGS AND CATS

When I began traveling about the country in an RV, I was surprised to see how many RV owners had pets, especially dogs, with them. On second thought, it made sense. If you are traveling for more than a week or so, boarding a beloved animal companion seems heartless, and most campgrounds are pet-friendly. Why not take Fido or Fluffy along? Besides the other advantages, having a dog along can easily lead to meeting other RV owners. A friendly dog is almost as useful as a cute toddler in that respect.

Certain breeds are better than others for RV travel. A terrier or Chihuahua doesn’t need the space that a larger dog does, eats less, poops less. Gentle, friendly breeds are also indicated—hopefully, you’re not using the dog as a watchdog!

Some traits can make a pet less suitable for the RV life. I have seen cat owners spend hours vacuuming cat hair out of the upholstery. Cats need to have a litter box, too; and they can escape from a vehicle in an instant.

Campgrounds often are crowded, and so having a dog that barks often or is aggressive is out. (Here I must add  that I would never own a pit bull or other notoriously aggressive breed, whether at home or on the road. I had a terrible experience with pit bulls years ago, so I’m more frightened of them than most people are, but it’s not just me. The web site www.dogsbite.org gives many stats on the subject.) Some campgrounds even refuse to allow certain breeds.

Lest I sound like a dog-hating grouch, let me say that I do like dogs in general. In fact, for 32 years I helped raise a series of wonderful Scottish terriers. Though in principle I think it’s preferable to adopt a mutt from a shelter, in practice my late husband and I bought pedigreed puppies because we knew exactly what to expect. We never had an RV, but Scotties would have been ideal for the RV life I have today. They are small enough to adapt to the limited space, but big enough not to disappear easily into a moving slide. Loyal and protective, they always made me feel safe when alone at home or walking them at night. They are cute! (Older people who remembered FDR’s Fala were especially attracted to our dogs.) All these traits would make them ideal for RV campgrounds.

Much as I loved our dogs, today I prefer not to have one. Thirty-two years of feeding, walking, and cleaning up after them was enough! Also, many of the places we go in the RV—museums, many hiking trails, visitors’ centers—don’t allow dogs for good reasons. We would have to miss out on those places altogether or take turns with dog sitting. Leaving a dog unattended for more than a short time is usually a bad idea, and in hot weather it is simply impossible.

If I were a solo RV traveler, I’d take a dog with me in spite of these disadvantages. (Perhaps I’ve read too many of Sue Henry's mysteries about Maxie McNabb and her miniature dachshund, Stretch, who travel in a Minnie Winnie. Invariably in those books, some evildoer tries to break into their RV.) In addition to making me feel safer, a dog would be a fine substitute for a human traveling companion. Scotties can be stubborn, but I’d win any arguments!

KALAMAZOO COLLEGE

The tower of Stetson Chapel.
(Photo provided by Kalamazoo College.)

Last week I returned to the small liberal arts college in Michigan where I spent four of the finest years of my life. Happily, the main quadrangle looks much the same as when I was in school, with a picturesque chapel at the top of a hill.  I felt at home immediately.

Launched in the early nineteenth century as the Michigan and Huron Institute, Kalamazoo’s fledgling college was officially a secular school, but with its first trustees and many faculty members being staunch Baptists, the denomination’s  influence was unambiguous, and remained so for a long time. [i] Kalamazoo College (“K”) has steadily produced Baptist ministers and teachers for many years.

During the years leading up to the Civil War, “K” acquired a heroic couple, President James Stone and his wife, Lucinda Hinsdale Stone (who ably taught women students for twenty years with no salary). Abolitionists and supporters of women’s rights as well as being good liberal Baptists, the Stones were admired and beloved by their students, but had many enemies on and off campus. They were thought to be far too liberal—Lucinda read The Atlantic and expected her students to read Byron’s poetry!—in a town that even today is very conservative. Finally, faced with financial difficulties related to a national depression and with accusations of personal immorality (which were  fabricated by their enemies), the Stones resigned.

A long, dark period in the college’s history followed. Along with the rest of the country, the school suffered through the Civil War. Though Baptist churches and benefactors continued to support it, there never was enough money for the expansion that was occurring in many colleges. “K” seems to have slogged valiantly through the end of the nineteenth century, steadily providing a classic education to a small number of loyal students.

In spite of many difficulties, over the years a dedicated faculty became extremely successful in producing graduates with strong liberal arts backgrounds. Many of them went on to become scientists; in the 1952 book The Origins of American Scientists[ii], the authors stated that “K” was third among the 50 top-ranking schools whose graduates went on to earn Ph.D.s in the sciences.

Like most colleges and universities, “K” has had both excellent and poor leaders. One of the outstanding ones was President Allen Hoben, who originated the phrase “a fellowship in learning” during the twenties to describe “K"'s collegial spirit, in which faculty and students thrived by a sort of symbiosis. Hoben and most of the faculty actually lived on campus, creating a familial atmosphere.

When I matriculated in 1954, the Baptist relationship was still obvious; many of the students I knew came from Baptist families. We even were required to attend chapel services three times a week. My first job on campus was counting  chapel-attendance slips, under the hawk-eyed supervision of the dean of women.

Following a temporary influx of students on the G.I. Bill just after World War II, the school had shrunk somewhat in size and reputation, but that would soon change. We had a brand new president, Weimer K. Hicks (covertly but universally known as “Beaver,” because of his intensity), who was determined to build the school up in every way, and he succeeded. I first realized his determination early in my freshman year, when he literally backed me into a corner and suggested that I join the marching band that would be needed for Homecoming. He had checked every student’s records to find out which of us had played in high school bands, and of course he knew all our names and Achilles’ heels. There was no escaping Dr. Hicks, especially for those of us who depended on scholarships. I joined the band.

Majoring in biology, I was greatly influenced by two great teachers, H. Lewis Batts and Frances Diebold. Batts taught an excellent freshman class as well as advanced classes in ornithology and ecology. In later years he would found the Kalamazoo Nature Center. “Dieb” was already an institution herself, having taught at the school since the early twenties.  She tried to keep abreast of the latest scientific findings (Watson and Crick had just published their seminal paper on the DNA helix) and to impart them to us, but what I remember most from her classes is her emphasis on the history and philosophy of biology. That has stayed with me through the years, while I studied and forgot many of the more specialized aspects of biology in my graduate work. Batts, “Dieb,” and many other teachers gave me a fine education.

Under Hicks’s aegis, during the sixties a foreign study program was inaugurated—how I wish it had been in place when I was a student!—that has led to a year abroad for most “K” students. Foreign study was a third of what was dubbed the “K Plan.”  All students were expected to spend time abroad, to become interns in fields where they might want to pursue careers, and to plan and carry out a Senior Individualized Project. The K Plan, now renowned and imitated nationally, has resulted in students’ greater self reliance and readiness to begin years of work and service. As one example, “K” produces more Peace Corps volunteers per capita than any other institution.  Even today, there are some trustees and other Baptists involved with “K,” although officially it is not affiliated with any religion.

Though the original campus still looks very familiar to me, it is obvious from alumni publications that much about the school has changed, and mostly for the better. For the past ten years President Eileen Wilson-Oyelaran, a dynamic African-American woman, has led the school. The student body now comprises a wide variety of races, religions, and nationalities, in great contrast to the nearly all-white Christian group I knew in the fifties. The Arcus Center for Social Justice Leadership was opened to great fanfare a few years ago; in keeping with James and Lucinda Stones’ heritage, some townspeople have judged the architecture too modern, the philosophy too liberal. Today “K” is known as one of the most outstanding small colleges in the United States.

When I left to return to California, it was with great pride in my alma mater. I may never be on the campus again, but will always stay in touch with my old friends and read alumni publications. “K” was a good school in the fifties, is even better today, and no doubt will continue to grow in excellence in the future.

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[i] Much of this historical information is based on A Fellowship in Learning: Kalamazoo College, 1833–2008, by Marlene Crandell Francis. Kalamazoo: Kalamazoo College, 2008. Any snarky comments, mistakes, and misinterpretations are my own.

[ii] Knapp, R.H. and H.B. Goodrich. The Origins of American Scientists. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1952.