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Caps and gowns An address to the Class of 2000 By Jerome Waldie Fifty years ago, I was sitting in the middle of Edwards Field on a hot afternoon along with thousands of my classmates, awaiting remarks from our ambassador to the United Nations, Dr. Ralph Bunche, and the presentation of my own diploma of graduation from this great University. In my hands was a can of cold beer that I had concealed under my graduation robes and from which I was contentedly sipping while the celebration proceeded. I suspect that several graduates, even this day, might have decided to similarly enhance their afternoon. I had initially thought I might ask a question from this podium testing that suspicion, but I decided that would not be consonant with the academic dignity demanded of this important occasion. In a sense, though, the mere fact that I entertained such an impertinent thought perhaps suggests a characteristic of the Class of 1950. We really were different from any Class that had preceeded us. We brought a new and healthy diversity to the student body. A substantial majority of us were veterans of World War II. Because of the generous benefits of the G.I. Bill of Rights, ours was the first University Class to have a significant number of sons and daughters of families who never before had been able to send a child to the University. We were also older and, with World War II experience, probably more mature than most classes before us. And we were less subject to the uncertainties that a younger student in those times might have experienced upon first entering the University. Not that we weren’t impressed by Cal’s incomparable reputation for excellence and by its world-renowned faculty; actually, those were the very reasons most of us came here. But we also had some unfinished business to complete, and we were in a hurry. Our hoped-for careers were, by that time, already three or four years behind schedule. Many of us were married and had children, and we lived in Vet’s Village in nearby Albany. The University had converted some World War II barracks into individual apartments, and we were able to rent them for $28.50 a month. As a result, numerous veteran students had a social life that was not campus-oriented, but centered on our family life in the village. Strangely, strident political activity among the students was almost non-existent during my years at Berkeley. We had no Free Speech Movement, no People’s Park. Because of the regents’ infamous Rule 17 prohibiting political activity on campus, we were not even allowed to have tables advocating political causes at Sather Gate. Incredibly, Rule 17 prevented President Harry Truman, General Eisenhower, and Governor Adlai Stevenson from appearing on campus as presidential candidates. They spoke off campus at West Gate. Such political demonstrations as did occur in those days, even off campus, were generally quite modest. For example, Richard Nixon appeared outside Sather Gate campaigning for the United States Senate against Congresswoman Helen Gahagan Douglas. I recall students at that rally wearing handkerchiefs over their mouths as gags, protesting a Nixon bill that allegedly constrained freedom of speech. I wasn’t very impressed that afternoon with Mr. Nixon. And my indifference toward him, you might say, peaked a quarter of a century later, in 1974, when, as a member of the Judiciary Committee of the U.S. House of Representatives, I joined in the unanimous and bi-partisan vote to impeach then-President Nixon. In retrospect, Rule 17 seems so bizarre, so inappropriate to any great university, and particularly to Berkeley, that it is hard to fathom both its imposition and our subdued toleration of its insulting premise that we needed to be sheltered from controversial political ideas. But those were the dark days of a national anti-Communist hysteria and shameful state-compelled faculty loyalty oaths questioning their patriotism. The incomparable Golden Bear football team played most Saturdays in autumn at Memorial Stadium, and we were there. That was the era of Rose Bowl victories under legendary coach Pappy Waldorf. The all-men’s rooting section, though most certainly politically incorrect, was terrific: the complex card stunts superbly executed; the obscene middle finger, 12 to 15 feet high, tauntingly waved at the outraged Stanford rooters across the field; the mocking chants, following any penalty against the Bears, questioning the paternity of the referee; and the capture and passing from man to man and up the stands from row to row of any innocent passerby who unwittingly wore even a hint of Stanford red as he or she walked past the rooting section – all these marvelous memories come flooding back as I speak. The lovely sound of our beautiful anthem, “Hail to California,” filling Memorial Stadium still moves me deeply. During a fairly long and active political career, I have received numerous certificates and awards. A few of them were even merited. But no award, no certificate that graces my walls, is as important and meaningful to me as is the precious diploma I received 50 years ago in Edwards Stadium. The intense pride I felt that afternoon so long ago is as constant today as I stand here in the Greek Theatre as it was then. It is my sincere hope, this day, that each of you is experiencing a similar pride in your own personal accomplishment. Jerome Waldie ’50, Boalt ’53, delivered these remarks to the Class of 2000 at its graduation ceremonies. A California State Assemblyman from 1958 to 1966 and U.S. Congressman from 1966 to 1975, he is now retired and lives outside Placerville. Back to Top |
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