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Congressman Robert Matsui George Maslach
Congressman Robert Matsui Congressman Robert Matsui, of Sacramento, died Jan. 1 in Bethesda, Maryland, at age 63. He was best known for his successful effort to secure an apology and reparations from the government for the World War II internment of thousands of Americans of Japanese ancestry, among them his own family.
A 1963 graduate of Berkeley and a 1966 graduate of UC’s Hastings College of the Law, Matsui was first elected to the House in 1978 after serving seven years on Sacramento’s City Council and a year as vice mayor. In November, he was reelected to his 14th term as the Democratic representative from Sacramento with 71.4 percent of the vote.
The congressman was recognized as an expert on Social Security and was expected to be a leading critic of President Bush’s privatization plans; he was also known for his efforts on issues of civil liberties and economic opportunity; and for his pro-trade stand, including his work to win passage of the North American Free Trade Agreement. The third-ranked Democrat on the powerful House Ways and Means Committee, Matsui was able to work with Republicans to get things done and was well-respected on both sides of the aisle.
“I hope that Bob Matsui’s words, his deeds, and his commitment will guide us to the better America that was his dream,” said Rep. Nancy Pelosi, a San Francisco Democrat. He is survived by his wife Doris, son Brian, and a granddaughter.
George Maslach Early Impressions on a New Graduate Student and Faculty Member
George Maslach, former vice chancellor for research and academic affairs, died Nov. 11 in Richmond. Maslach, whose parents immigrated from Poland, was an aeronautical engineer and expert in the field of rarefied gas dynamics, and contributed to the development of national space programs. He earned his B.S. at Berkeley in 1942, joined the faculty in 1952, and then served as provost for professional schools and colleges before becoming a vice chancellor. A lifelong advocate for education, he fought for innovation on campus and against racial segregation in the public schools. Survivors include his wife, Doris Anne Cuneo; sons Steven and James; daughter Christina Maslach Zimbardo, who is vice provost for undergraduate education; and five grandchildren. What follows is a remembrance by Rick Sherman, professor emeritus of mechanical engineering.
I came to Berkeley in the fall of 1949, just when George was returning to Berkeley from his years in the East. We met soon thereafter on the Low Pressures Project, I as a newly recruited graduate student, and George as a research engineer. In the beginning, he was to me just one of a vaguely perceived stratum of bosses. But George quickly showed that he was not a distant boss, but a hands-on guy who designed some of the instrumentation that I used for years around the low-pressure wind tunnel. The most famous piece became know far and wide as the Maslach manometer.
He was also not an aloof boss, but one who mingled freely with the troops, both during work and after hours. As I remember it, perhaps somewhat romanticized by the passage of time, there was an amazing camaraderie on the Low Pressure Project, although the researchers were drawn from several different departments. George contributed significantly to that feeling, with his obvious appreciation of fun and jokes, and with his enthusiasm for hobbies that many of us shared.
We were enormously dependent on the departmental machinists and glassblowing experts in those days, because many of the devices we required for our research were novel and one of a kind. I credit George with the wonderful cooperation we got from shop personnel. Perhaps because his dad had been a master machinist, George got along splendidly with people who actually made things.
Later, when George and I were both teaching courses in mechanical engineering, I occasionally dropped by while he was preparing a lecture and was impressed by the passion and thoroughness with which he tackled that rudimentary task. Few of my colleagues could match his enthusiasm for classroom work and the resulting contact with students.
George soon found his niche in campus administration. First, he went off to help the College of Engineering deal with the government sponsors of its burgeoning number of research contracts, helping Commodore Schade to run what was later known as the Office of Research Services. This was a mixed bag for the friends he left behind. When he went on to become dean of engineering, it became more obvious that his old interests had become only a small subset of his new, and that a balanced view of his overall responsibilities would occasionally force him to take positions that his old buddies didn’t particularly like. But George was not one to forget his old friends. I recall one summer when he was dean and I was a scoutmaster. I returned from a 50-miler with my troop in the High Sierras to learn that George had been urgently trying to contact me to join him on a Canadian trout-fishing trip.
Old friends have occasionally puzzled over how George rose so high in the university hierarchy and served so effectively. A partial answer may be inferred from his oral history in the Bancroft Library. It seems that he always stepped forward to meet life, saying “You’ve got a job that needs doing? I can do that!” And so he could!
—Rick Sherman, Prof. Emeritus of Mechanical Engineering
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