University Follies: Jewish Roots in a Jesuit University

By Paul Warren

Follies is a tale of sea change; A Boston dean's move from East coast to West coast ; from Greenwich Village childhood in an American Labor Party, theatrical, professional and religous skeptical family , to culmination of a career as Managment in a Jesuit university,
Following a fall-out with Boston University administration, a Dean's Search Announcement in a professional chronicle provides an opportunity for a brief escape from Boston winter. Youth memories of family political anger at the Catholic Church set aside, university visits evolve to the unplanned and unlikely invitation to serve as dean once again. After many conversations with my Jewish wife, the decision is made to trade in my uncertain Boston professional future for visit to a city we both love.
There was no clue that in less than a month on the job as new dean my mission to foster change would be distracted by a Marx Brothers-like performance of a trio of professors, casualties of Labor-Management battles storming into my office; a Sister extolling the sexual appeal of 'Father what-a-waste' when I sought to enforce class size limits for his class, and shower confessions of a naked University president who earlier had shared concern over Christmas tree condom ornaments in the School of Education, almost a year ago in now - my School. On sharing my unsettling first San Francisco month with the President standing buck-naked next to me in the University Health Center shower in the new University Health Center and indicating I was tempted to keep a log he garbled, " Tell it as you see it." Follies tells it as I saw it.
Personal tales of Greenwich Village days, McCarthy years' impact on our family, departure from Boston University complement humorous and poignant tales of Jesuit priests provide an added dimension to events as the dean seeks to adjust to his new environment and simultaneously overcome School resistance to change. Tension between faculty union and management plays out, celebrations and grievance over promotion and tenure decisions reverberate, celebrations of faculty accomplishment and pain of disappointment affect School climate. Camaraderie of deans and personalities of presidents shape the social climate and the majesty of special events is celebrated as the memoir unfolds. On the decision to retire as the dean realizes role of Sisyphus can't be played forever, the dean is reminded by the Provost at his Management , as opposed to the earlier faculty or Labor dinner, the good he has accomplished is irremediable. He is not as certain as he and wife decide to return to New England comforted in the knowledge their time in San Francisco was well worth the trip.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350943535

Book preview

One

So It Began

It was in a dark, smoke-filled Fado house hidden in narrow cobblestone streets of the Alfama district of Lisbon where I first sensed that my career as dean at Boston University would be drawing to a close. I had been at my best earlier in the day as I delivered an invited presentation from the Portuguese minister of education for educators selected to staff Portugal’s first Normal Schools for the training of teachers. I would pause every few paragraphs as I worked from a paper I had prepared in Boston to permit a translator to convey my message to attendees not universally proficient in English. The luxury of the unexpected time had provided an opportunity for me to elaborate on thoughts and insert humor into the emerging script at the risk of producing a work which in length would rival Eugene O’Neil’s Long Day’s Journey. True to the history of my theatre family, I was seduced by the opportunity to play the lead actor in my own production. Compliments from the minister and applause from the audience on delivery of my closing words left me on a high that can only be felt by an actor receiving rave notices for a leading role. The high only lasted until that Fado evening in the Alfama with Jon, special assistant to the Boston University president, and his wife who had joined my wife, Janet, and me on the US AID sponsored trip.

A briny fragrance of sea and age drifted down damp narrow caverns between ancient mortar dwellings as a Portuguese American graduate student in Boston who had assisted my School of Education receive the grant from US AID led the four of us through a maze of cobblestone streets to a Fado bar of his choice. Save for an occasional streetlamp and light from a window to break the night’s dark, the district was hardly different from that of 1775 when an earthquake had leveled Lisbon leaving only the Alfama intact. Once the bar of our guide’s choice was located and we were seated, he wished us a good evening, left directions for return to our hotel, and departed to join friends.

The hum of muted Portuguese conversation and unfamiliar sweet fragrance of a hovering blanket of cigarette smoke from closely clustered tables reminded us that we were foreigners in a sea of locals. When a waiter drifted to our table, asked in English what we would like to drink, and glasses of Campari were soon set before us, any discomfort quickly dissolved. We had time for a first Campari and follow-up before the hum of conversation in the room abruptly faded when a wraith of a woman, black shawl over her shoulders, emerged from behind a black velvet curtain into the haze of smoke. Proximity to one another and guests at other tables evaporated. We sat alone in cigarette smoke, candle-light, and silence.

Mournful laments filled the space for the next hour. We were consumed by the haunting melody and singer’s plaintive words—not one of which we understood. Mesmerized, we were lost in our private thoughts and emotions. We sat silently swallowed in a wave of melancholy until broken by the waiter’s Another Campari, following the final lament of the set. On a nod of consent and the waiter’s departure, Jon dulled by earlier drinks, couldn’t wait to lean across the table and slur, Paul, I learned more from the minister’s remarks in twenty minutes this morning than I learned from your day-long presentation. The evening drew to close with silence and emotions of another order.

Less than a year later, any doubt as to the imminent end of tenure as dean ended. I had found joy and a sense of accomplishment over the years in the facilitation of projects and programs to assist underserved populations whether as a teacher in the New York City public high schools, administrator or staff on urban government and university projects in the South and New York, or professor and dean at Boston University That was until John Silber, the controversial Boston University president decided that his university would respond to the opportunity to adopt the Chelsea Public Schools.

Chelsea schools in the 1960s were buried in the poverty and decline of a city of approximately 35,000 residents shoe-horned into less than two and a half miles directly across the Mystic River from Boston. Chelsea schools, historically a gateway for immigrants, were a case study in failure with only half of its students, mostly from low-income families, graduating from high school. The opportunity to enter into a Boston University–Chelsea Public School partnership in which the university would be responsible for the day-to day management of the schools was too great for Silber to resist. I was soon to find out that the opportunity was also too great for him, a skeptic of education as a field of study, to trust a dean of a school of education to play a major role in the project.

After only a few meetings as member of the University team of administrators with little or no professional experience in public education selected by Silber and his special assistant, Jon, who had drawn my Portugal Fado evening to an abrupt end, it became clear that my advice wasn’t wanted. There was no receptivity to recommendations drawn from my years of experience with underperforming public schools and lower-income students. With each succeeding meeting of the committee, I felt more and more like a student whose observations fail to capture the attention of a professor than the dean of a school of education. It was time to negotiate my retirement.

At least some momentary pleasure was provided by a bittersweet moment with President Silber before my departure. At a friendly farewell meeting requested by the president to thank me for my years as dean, I was asked what I thought about his appointing a National Endowment for the Humanities officer in D.C. and former New England public school superintendent to manage the Chelsea project and serve as dean of the School of Education. I couldn’t resist responding with sparkle and a smile, John, I know Peter. He received his doctorate from the School of Education a few years ago. We must have done a great job. The president who had frequently criticized the School of Education and its too frequent hiring of its own graduates acknowledged my Gotcha with a slowly stretching grin. I’m not sure my response answered his question, but in 1988, a year after my resignation, Boston University formally adopted the Chelsea schools with significant foundation, state, and City of Chelsea financial support—and Peter was named as dean.

After almost twenty years of service, the past seven as dean, I looked forward to an extended escape in our summer Vermont home followed by a sabbatical leave for the upcoming academic year. There would be time for Janet and me to relax and travel free from the day-to-day distractions and tensions that went along with my responsibilities as dean. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a dean again—anywhere. All I knew for certain was that my past work with education colleagues seeking to make a difference for populations who had gotten the short end of the stick had been rewarding.

Landscape projects, fly fishing, writing, and evenings with friends in the Green Mountains of Vermont over an extended summer provided a healthy antidote to simmering anger that I carried from my final year at Boston University. But summer suddenly morphed into a vibrant symphony of fall color and it was time to return to Boston. Alone during the day in our Boston loft with Janet back at work, I had to begin to seriously consider post-sabbatical plans. Writing projects became secondary to conversations with colleagues, work on a professional portfolio, and detection of career possibilities in Boston and New England. Autumn, too soon, was swallowed by December winds. Janet and I found ourselves deep into winter with career plans for the next year not much clearer.

One February Sunday morning, relaxed in the warmth of our Fort Point Channel former Molasses factory loft, stretched out in a comfortable couch, conscious of the hiss of sleet on our windows and whistling gusts of winds outside, and leafing lazily through the pages of the Chronicle of Higher Education, the announcement Search: Dean School of Education, University of San Francisco caught my attention. The temptation of a San Francisco winter escape should I be invited to interview was great. I wasn’t totally surprised that the announcement’s prominent celebration of the institution as San Francisco’s Catholic and Jesuit University triggered memories of how early suspicion of Catholics and Catholicism had crept into my life. Maybe I should apply anyhow.

* * *

I had felt so grown up at ten in 1948 when my mother asked me to walk alone with my younger sister Jennifer on the fifteen-minute walk from our duplex in Greenwich Village to progressive Little Red Schoolhouse on Bleecker Street. The southwest corner of Washington Square Park exited to MacDougal Street, where once one block down, row houses formerly noble homes on one side, were now partitioned into apartments occupied primarily by Italian-American residents. Small shops, coffee houses, and hang-out bars across the narrow street were shut. The early morning sun that had bathed the park was lost in shadows. The street was asleep. Its pulse would pick up later in the day when folksingers, writers, jazz musicians, and local residents and tourists would bring the neighborhood to life. Rienzi’s The San Remo and smaller coffee shops, The Blue Note, and hang-out bars would be packed. But now, all was quiet.

Jennifer and I walked alone on the sidewalk until we passed a cluster of children roughly our age whose school uniforms let us know that they were on their way to Our Lady of Pompeii, just across 6th Avenue from our Little Red. We stopped to watch the cluster of girls in ironed white blouses and plaid skirts, boys not far behind in dark blue long pants and mandatory white shirts and ties. We didn’t acknowledge them and they ignored us. We were school neighbors but aside from an occasional afterschool exchange of words, we never talked with one another. I was only ten years old and I already suspected there was something different about Catholics. I was sure if I could quietly sneak into Our Lady of Pompeii, I would observe our uniformed passers-by seated at desks anchored to the floor, disciplined not to speak until requested by a nun who oversaw the silence. I was sure Bible readings, cursive writing, rote learning, and raps of a ruler on student knuckles filled the day. I assumed at the front of every room hung a cross with statues of saints nearby. We worshipped our own god at Little Red but it was the progressive educator, John Dewey.

Memories triggered by the Chronicle announcement were not limited to innocent childhood walks. Years later, when I was a senior at Stuyvesant High School, I recall walking home from school one afternoon, pedestrians and storefronts invisible. I was on a mission: get home as quickly as possible. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother of the meeting with New York’s Cardinal Spellman.

Classmates and I, imprisoned in our bolted-down, graffiti-etched seat-desk classroom desks, had spent the period with the Cardinal whom our sociology course instructor had somehow managed to have visit the class as a guest. Visits of a rabbi and minister earlier in the term had contributed to discussions on the influence of religion in New York City history. But to be visited by a Cardinal. That was something special. I only vaguely remember the discussion about the role of Catholicism in the life of Irish and Italian immigrants who emigrated to the city and the prejudice they experienced as a result of their faith, but I vividly remember arriving home that afternoon and the response of my mother to my proudly sharing an autograph the Cardinal had given to class members.

Murmurings of Ms. Kidwell’s guinea pigs behind the wooden door of her first-floor residence and laboratory welcomed me as I rapidly climbed the creaking steps to our second-floor flat. A lot had changed for my sister, Jennifer and me since my dad died my freshman year. There was no longer a smiling doorman to greet us or any small-talk with Tom, the elevator operator, as I took the elevator to our duplex apartment. I unlocked the well-worn wooden door to the apartment and followed the long hallway with its creaking floors to the kitchen where I suspected Mom would be nursing a cup of coffee.

I still recall the framed photograph of my dad sitting on the leather-topped desk squeezed next to my mother’s bed as I passed through her alcove bedroom. Photographs of Broadway, Off-Broadway, and national tour productions in which she had performed covered the walls and kept her theatre memories alive. True to form, she was seated at the kitchen table, sipping her coffee with the requisite Marlboro cigarette resting in an ashtray and the daily crossword puzzle waiting completion before her. Age had blurred the lines of her once-prominent cheekbones and dulled her striking beauty, but her large frame, red hair still long enough to be pulled back over her broad shoulders, and the commanding voice still made the statement, I’m here.

How was school today, dear?

Cardinal Spellman visited our class today. Look what I got.

I proudly placed the autographed study sheet from class on the table next to the emerging crossword puzzle. Mom slowly put on her reading glasses, picked up the study sheet, seemed to read it forever, and returned it to the table without saying a word. I wasn’t prepared for silence. I certainly wasn’t prepared for the words to follow.

May I vomit on it? she finally erupted.

I should have remembered that Cardinal Spellman had a special friendship with Roy Cohen, then-closeted legal counsel to Senator McCarthy. I should have remembered the roles Roy Cohen, Cardinal Spellman, and the Catholic Church played in support of Joseph McCarthy’s search for Communists and gays that had badly scarred the lives of close family friends. Howard, a Tony winning Broadway set designer had been forced to design department store window displays rather than Broadway sets to support his family. John, a Broadway director, save an occasional summer stock job, couldn’t find work. His companion, Bill, had been fired from a Decca Records executive position and eventually found work in a Brooklyn flower shop.

I’m still not sure what contributed to the reaction of me and my sister to Lady of Pompeii students we had passed on our way to Little Red. But I have little doubt what had triggered my mother’s response to the Cardinal’s autograph: the unholy trinity of McCarthy, Cohen, and the Church.

The Chronicle announcement awakened ghosts from my past but it also provided a catalyst for us to talk about the part religion had played in our quite different childhoods. I didn’t know much more about Janet’s religious childhood than she had grown up as a member of a religious Jewish family, had a bat mitzvah, and attended synagogue as a child; she knew little more about mine than that I was the son of an Episcopalian mother disowned by her family for marrying a Jew, neither attended synagogue or church, and considered myself an agnostic. The true religious conversation between the two of us had taken place over our wedding ceremony plans not so long ago—and Janet’s desire for a rabbi to perform the services.

Should I apply? There was agreement. There was little to lose by indicating an interest in the position. Should I be invited to visit the university, it would serve as a dress rehearsal for future opportunities—and might even help me decide whether I wanted to be a dean again. A not unimportant additional benefit might be that it would provide an opportunity for me to confront the religious ghosts that intruded on my sense of who I am and what I believe. I also had to admit, relief from New England cabin fever, albeit short, would be unequivocal.

A week later, I submitted a letter of interest and vita. A few weeks later, I was invited by the University of San Francisco Search Committee to visit the campus. The Nor’easter had long gone to sea, but winter still lingered. The position of dean in a Catholic university across the country far from my children and family friends was the last thing I had in mind for a new job, but it was reassuring to be wanted. I looked forward to my university meetings. I looked forward to visiting a city I had loved as a conference attendee and tourist.

Two

Confessions

The roar of back-thrust and bounce of the 707 on San Francisco airport tarmac jolted me from a half sleep. Timing the extraction of my carry-on from the overhead compartment and folding into the impatient line of tired passengers in the aisle waiting to exit took precedence over university thoughts. Strategic placement secured, suitcase in hand, it wasn’t long before I flowed into the terminal along with other passengers. A fireplug of a man in suit and tie, wearing tasseled highly polished loafers and waving a USF placard, couldn’t be missed amidst the casually dressed greeters. As we approached one another, he broadcast with the gusto of introduction of professional wrestling combatants, Al Kagen, chair of the University Search Committee, it’s good to meet you in person. Welcome to San Francisco. We shared a firm handshake and with my reciprocal, It’s good to be here, suitcase in hand, we set off double-time to the airport parking garage. It felt good to stretch my legs after the long flight as I kept up with the man who had extended the invitation for my visit to the university.

He placed my suitcase in the trunk of his recent model Toyota convertible, opened the passenger door for me, and trotted around the car’s rear to join me in the obvious new car aroma. With almost a simultaneous lowering of the convertible’s hood, turn of the ignition key, and pronouncement, Let’s enjoy the ride to the city, we were off. Foot heavy on the pedal as he maneuvered through the maze of roadways leading from the airport to merge onto Route 101 toward The City, Al’s transformation from academic title holder to tour guide once on the freeway was immediate: landmark identification, geographical features, weather patterns, all rolled from his mouth like those of a tour bus guide I had listened to years earlier on a visit as a tourist to ‘The City.’ Car top down, I was transfixed by stars that shone only to disappear in the dark sky before reappearing through chains of fog in the temperate weather. I was immersed in a new world. This was a far cry from Boston. Once we entered the city proper, Al assumed the role of Assistant Vice President for Labor Relations. A Readers’ Digest history of university-union relations poured forth as we wound through deserted streets until we reached the Stanyan, a small hotel on a street bordering Golden Gate Park, walking distance from Lone Mountain and the university. The Stanyan was to be my home for the next two nights. Al accompanied me into its dusky reception area and with confirmation of my reservation by an unenthusiastic receptionist, a shake of hands, and a wish for good luck, he exited for his trip home to Marin. I was alone.

The grinding of a sanitation truck, slam of empty garbage cans on morning pick-up run and screaming seagulls fighting over scraps of garbage woke me too soon from a restless sleep. There was solace in knowing that it was already 9:00 back in Boston and I had time to freshen up with a shower and take advantage of Mr. Coffee before I pulled myself together to go down to the lobby. I felt rejuvenated as I took a seat at a chair and table in a cozy corner with a second cup of coffee downstairs and pulled the typewritten agenda for the day from a glossy green and yellow folder—the University’s colors, left with me by Al. I was no less puzzled by the agenda this morning than I had been when I had given it a cursory reading before going to sleep. The first appointment was with the University president, Father President Lo Schiavo. And, I was on my own to walk to the university and find his office. That wasn’t the way searches were carried out in Boston.

Towering spires of St. Ignatius Church that were visible long before I reached the university campus provided a North Star for my walk. Several blocks later, a parched lawn plaza bordered by adjoining buildings was suspiciously like urban campuses I had visited over years as professor and dean. The impressive spired Gothic church left little doubt I had found the Jesuit University campus. On entering the plaza, the words Pro Urbe et Universitate carved in granite above the entryway to a dominating structure in the constellation of buildings left little doubt I had located the administration offices.

The maze of hallways that branched out from the entryway to the building reminded me of my attempt not so long ago on a trip to New York City to negotiate corridors from one subway line to another to reach a destination when visiting the city—save the silence and polished floors of my current search. After a flight of steps and a few wrong turns, the words Office of the President on a door identical to other doors strung down the corridor provided relief. On entering, I hoped I was in the right office. I couldn’t be sure. There was no one to greet visitors. The reception area was empty. Fortunately, a lean turnip of a priest dressed in uniform must have heard the door open and drifted toward me from an adjoining office. With a firm handshake and warm smile, Father Jack, with whom I had previously spoken many times on the phone, introduced himself and greeted me as if we were long lost friends. He was to be my escort to Father President.

Father President, John LoSchiavo, S.J. (Society of Jesus) in form fitting, tailored, and crisply ironed priest’s uniform slowly rose from behind his desk, bare except for a lonely telephone, as we entered his office. Father Jack with a formal, Father President, Dean Warren, succinctly introduced me and with a departing friendly nod, followed by a silent about-face, he drifted from the office. I was left alone with Father President. With a prayer-like wave of his large hands, Father President invited me to take a seat on an antiseptic couch in his Spartan office. His conditioned athlete’s frame seemed to morph to over six feet as he approached and settled down on the couch next to me. He pivoted his torso toward me, adjusted his wire-rim glasses on his dominant nose, and smiled broadly, revealing large, ivory-white teeth. I was uncomfortable. I had never before sat so close to a priest. My distinct impression that the same person who designed the church pew must have designed the couch didn’t help matters. And to boot, I was unsure whether to address my couch-mate as Father, President, Father President, or John. Fortunately, concern over nomenclature immediately evaporated on Father’s opening words, Paul, we’re proud of our Catholic and Jesuit heritage and take the Jesuit commitment to social justice seriously.

I certainly didn’t need to address him as Father President. A polite, but informal Father, would be appropriate. But Father’s openers had a way to go before I would have a chance to comment. The social justice introduction gained momentum.

He continued, Our students take the commitment to social justice seriously. I bet you didn’t know the university had a football team that became known as the team that was ‘undefeated, untied, and uninvited.’ He would have won that bet. I had no idea the university had had such a team. I also had no idea how the history of a football team might relate to a university’s social justice mission. I would soon learn that in 1950, the University of San Francisco had fielded the nation’s first National Collegiate Athletic Association racially integrated football team and that the team, ranked among the nation’s top college teams, and although undefeated, hadn’t been initially invited to a bowl game. Controversy over the failure of a bowl invitation to USF ultimately led to an Orange Bowl invitation being extended. As late as 1950, teams with African-American athletes weren’t invited to compete in bowl games.

Preamble to the story provided, Father’s voice became stronger, his eyes sparkled, and he slammed his hand down on his knee with a clap of pride, The team was invited on the condition that the university leave its two black players at home. Team players refused the invitation. The link between the university social justice mission and football had been established. I was impressed. I was aware football plays a major social, financial, and recognition role for many universities, but this was the first time I had heard a president speak of football as the primary conveyor of university mission.

Father wasn’t finished. He abruptly jumped to the topic of USF basketball. Other than providing let me-make-you-comfortable small-talk, I couldn’t guess what compelled Father to turn to a tale of basketball.

Paul, you must know of Bill Russell and K. C. Jones. I finally had a chance to say something. Father, you can’t live in Boston and not know of K. C. Jones. He is the coach of the Celtics, I replied with a smile. And Bill Russell is worshipped in Boston. He retired a year after I moved to the city. At least I had a chance to establish some basketball bona fides. There was no point to share that I wasn’t much of a basketball fan, and if asked to claim allegiance to a team, I would have named the Knicks—a vestige of New York roots and fellow Princetonian, Bill Bradley’s contributions to the team. Father proceeded to inform me that Bill Russell and K. C. Jones were basketball stars at the University of San Francisco who brought two NCAA titles to the university in the mid-1950s. This time, notation of the team’s accomplishments was followed by a slow nodding of his head as he took me into his confidence. He was to speak of justice of quite another variety.

You may already know, I had to discontinue university basketball in 1982.

I had no idea of Father’s suspension of USF basketball and only vaguely remembered occasional televised USF basketball feats while I was finishing high school. He got right to the point.

There were too many infractions inconsistent with the university’s obligation of moral leadership and its leadership role in the city for me to permit the program to continue.

Father provided no detail about the nature of infractions but shared with me the anger of many university trustees at his decision and confessed that there were probably some still angry at him for the decision, despite the reinstatement of the university basketball program a few years later. I’m glad I hadn’t asked him to elaborate on factors that led to his decision. I later learned that the program had been suspended in 1982 after probation penalties