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By Eleanor Benelisha '70, MLS '71 The dog, a German shepherd, watched me approach the first row of seats, where he lay at the feet of his blind master. This was the third meeting of “English 125E: The American Novel” and, so far, the dog’s attendance record was as perfect as mine. At the other end of the row, a slight young woman, disabled by cerebral palsy, lowered her trembling body into a seat. Soon two wheelchair-bound students joined our ungainly group. My disability? I was a 46-year-old mother of three who had gotten the notion that a return to the tranquil “groves of Academe” might help heal the ravages of recent widowhood. Just one year earlier, in the spring of 1969, I had entered Cal as a junior. That April, when students occupied University property they had named “People’s Park,” police were dispatched to oust them. A violent clash ensued. Demonstrations against the Vietnam War were taking place almost daily: protesters pelted rocks at police who retaliated with tear gas. A helicopter rained skin-and eye-stinging powder on people in Sproul Plaza, and Governor Ronald Reagan dispatched the National Guard to control the campus. It was a far cry from the tranquil groves I had hoped to find at Cal. I was gnawed by misgivings and a pervasive guilt for having dragged my children out of the placid suburbs and into the chaos of Berkeley. My doubts were compounded by the fact that the campus, at that time, was not a hospitable place for anyone over a certain age: “Don’t trust anyone over 30,” the well-known phrase counseled. To avoid the disdain that grew out of this admonition, I habitually sat in the front row of classrooms--far from all the “groovy” students. And that’s where I was now, in the front row, as students took their places in this large, amphitheater-like classroom. We were awaiting the arrival of English professor Henry Nash Smith. I had long admired Smith’s writings and felt fortunate to be a student of this world-renowned and highly respected scholar. Smith soon arrived, a tall, sixtyish, cadaverous-looking man. In his world-weary, slightly bored tone of voice, he started his lecture with an anecdote about Henry James. I was immediately engaged; this was why I had come to Cal. Suddenly, a loud shuffling was heard from the rear of the hall. A student rose to his feet--short, thin, wearing a tie-dyed shirt, torn jeans, and a rolled kerchief headband, he pointed an accusatory finger at Smith and yelled, apropos of nothing: “Well, fuck you, you establishment pig!” Then he shoved his books under his arm, scampered up the steps, and left. The lecture hall fell silent. Smith gathered his papers and, without a word, exited by the door to the right of the lectern. The rest of us filed out soon afterward. Just two days later, four young people were killed in protests at Kent State in Ohio. Irate students across the country were poised to demonstrate their anger, and Governor Reagan ordered all UC campuses be shut down. With no possibility of holding class meetings, Cal’s English professors handed out assignments to be completed at home. I climbed the stairs to Smith’s office in Wheeler Hall to hand in my completed blue books. I entered the small office, where desk, tables, and chairs were all piled high with books and papers. He sat in the midst of this wonderful clutter, carefully filling a porcelain cup with hot water from a battered tea kettle. He extended his free hand to receive my contribution to the study of American literature. I mumbled my regrets at what had happened and expressed disappointment at not being able to complete a class I had been looking forward to for so long. He brushed aside my remarks and, in a measured monotone that was meant, I think, to keep his voice from betraying the dejection and anger that were evident in the deep lines of his darkening face, he stated: “In four years and one month, I retire from teaching. I wish it were sooner.” He said no more. And since there was nothing more to be said, I left him to his tea. That was the the nadir of my Cal experience. The campus eventually returned to (relative) normalcy. However, throughout the turmoil that took place in those years, professors like Henry Nash Smith never ceased to demand the highest degree of academic excellence from their students and from themselves. I am grateful to them for a peerless education. Today, some 30 years later, I smile when I think back to that young widow from suburbia who naively sought the quiet “groves of Academe” and found, instead, a great University. |
We invite alumni to write about their Cal experiences for “Recalling Cal,” California Monthly, Alumni House, Berkeley 94720. Contributors will be paid $100 upon publication.
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