Carolyn was also active in the community. She was elected PTA president for the Annie Fisher School, which all three of our children attended. She also became the organist at the Horace Bushnell Congregational Church in Hartford, which had just welcomed a new, dynamic pastor. Our whole family joined this congregation, which was committed to maintain its interracial membership by embracing both neighborhood and suburban residents. A social action committee was formed at the church, and that became another forum for me to address community issues and act upon my convictions. Once, to mark our solidarity with victims of police brutality, members of the committee carried a coffin draped in black down a main avenue to City Hall and left it at the entrance to visually illustrate our message.
These activities in which I took leadership roles led to my increased visibility and resulted in my nomination by the mayor in 1974 to the city’s Human Relations Commission. I served on the commission for more than twenty years, several years as chairman. The Human Relations Commission’s mission is to act to improve racial and social conditions and advocate for economic justice for all Hartford residents. Serving on the commission provided an excellent vantage point from which to observe and sometimes influence city politics and policies. Police brutality was not the only issue on the commission’s plate. We dealt with discrimination in housing, employment, education, and other situations as they arose—all issues that I cared about and wanted to help address.
While Carolyn was the organist at Horace Bushnell Church, a young black man, new to the area from Baltimore, went to speak with her one Sunday. “Could I sing in your choir?” he asked her. Never one to turn down someone who wants to sing, she welcomed him and so began our lifelong friendship with James R. Reed Jr., and later with his family. Jim and I worked together on many social justice issues. Recording the details of his life would fill another memoir, but suffice it to say that he and his bride prepared for their wedding ceremony from our house, and later we celebrated together the births of each of their five children and hailed subsequent successes. Jim and I have supported each other during the ups and downs of life.
In summertime I sometimes filled in for vacationing ministers. These substituting jobs helped the churches and supplemented my income. I enjoyed the variety, but sometimes when I was at the altar, I heard an inner voice—What’s a “nice Jewish boy” like you doing here? The messages reminded me of unwanted pop-up ads. When later I formally resigned from the ministry, the voice died away.
At Trinity College I began to work closely with students. While those in the Students for a Democratic Society showed disdain for me as a tool of the administration, there was another more supportive group that organized as Trinity College Action Center (TCAC). In discussions among students, faculty, and administration, we concluded that the most lasting changes would come only through impacting Trinity’s institutional structures. Two changes led the way. To begin with, women were admitted for the first time starting in the fall term of 1969. I noted from the outset that women were more interested than men in all types of community service. Secondly, a new curriculum went into effect that fall. Many course requirements were reexamined and some were eliminated. In addition, students became able to design their own studies for credit under a faculty member’s direction and approval.
I was excited about the changes. The more flexible curriculum gave me an opportunity to develop internships in the community where the quid pro quo was the student’s contribution to an agency that had been evaluated for quality and commitment; and, on the other side, achievement outcomes by the student of defined learning objectives derived from the experience. Each internship required a faculty sponsor. At first I was able to identify only a few faculty members willing to supervise independent studies, which included a field placement, but that changed as internships became more accepted. I first developed the program by identifying suitable field placements and then published a handbook that described internship opportunities available primarily in social agencies, in schools, and in government. The initial step was to interest students and convince a faculty member that there was academic merit in field learning. I liked working with students to develop internships, knowing that we were building a worthwhile program that hopefully would continue into the future. And, indeed, over the years the number of students in internships has grown at Trinity College so that there is now a permanent multi-staffed office to help students find suitable placements.
A further objective of TCAC was to create an interdisciplinary program in Urban Studies that would provide an academic focus on the city. After two years of work, the Urban Studies Program became a reality and an economist was chosen as director. Shepherding the proposal through the college’s curriculum committee gave me insight into how colleges work, and this was a much-needed learning experience for me. From a modest beginning, the Urban Studies Program blossomed into a full-fledged Center of Urban and Global Studies, and I felt rather like a feathered father pleased with his fledgling that was starting to function on its own.
Another role Trinity played vis-à-vis the city was to provide a much-needed meeting space. The campus was viewed as neutral turf, which proved very useful in arranging citywide meetings and conferences. The community forums on education my office sponsored in the early 1970s are an example. These gatherings held on Saturday mornings featured nationally recognized speakers followed by small discussion groups led by Trinity faculty members. Educators, parents, and residents from all parts of the city attended.
From the community forums on education that I started was formed an alternative high school named Shanti School, a placement choice for students unable to cope with a formal curriculum in a large setting. I recall several Irish colleagues who worked with me as effective community organizers and in education positions where they were caring and sensitive—and, like Gene Mulcahy, they were great fun. I was a board member of Shanti and Gene served as principal. Once when Gene and I were scheduled to meet with an executive of a large downtown department store in Hartford, we brought along one of our students, Theresa, a dark-skinned, well-built senior. On the way back down the escalator we passed the bridal shop and Gene had a sudden idea. He gave us roles to play—Theresa was the bride-to-be, I was her father, and Gene took the part of the prospective groom. We told the saleslady we were looking for just the right wedding gown for Theresa, the implication being money was no object. I hovered over Theresa telling her, “Pick anything you like, dear, nothing is too good for you.” As I warmed to my persona I added comments like, “Take your time, remember this is going to be the special day you’ve always dreamed of.” Theresa inspected several gowns, cooing appropriately, while Gene hovered close by nodding approval now and then. We were able to stay in character for about fifteen minutes but finally, still pretending to be shoppers, left disgruntled, taking the escalator to the main floor where we burst into uncontrollable laughter. We all felt a bit sorry for the saleslady, but at least we had provided her with dinner conversation that evening.
I remember Gene as not only irrepressible and spontaneous, but also as a brilliant and dedicated educator. On another occasion, Gene, along with a teacher in the school, visited me at home in full academic regalia and with great flourish presented an “honorary” diploma that bestowed on me all the rights and privileges of a Shanti School graduate. Gene left Shanti in 1980, and the school closed shortly thereafter.
Other Trinity College facilities were largely unused during the summer months, so I offered them for community use. The college’s athletic center became home for a city-funded recreation summer program and later also the NCAA National Youth Sports Program. A professional repertory company was formed with my assistance and support at the Austin Arts Center and performed under the name Summerstage for several seasons. The Trinity College Chapel became the venue for a summer chamber music series to precede the established Wednesday evening carillon concerts. All these efforts strengthened the bond between the college and the community. I was busie
r than ever engaged in these and other projects.
As funds from the Hartford Foundation for Public Giving were about to expire in the spring of 1971, I had anxious moments but survived the crisis. After much vacillation, the college finally decided to make the Office of Community Affairs and my position a permanent one, without foundation support. That commitment lasted only four years. Facing financial pressures, Trinity decided to transfer me to another post and made me the director of Graduate Studies with the understanding I should continue all my community activities. It was an odd arrangement. I was now to report to the dean of the faculty. My one lasting contribution to the graduate program was to help create a master’s degree program in Public Policy, a cooperative venture between Trinity College and the University Of Connecticut School Of Law.
When Carolyn and I moved from our house into a condo, I began to notice the blank wall opposite my computer in the new study I had set up. How to decorate it? Then it struck me, why not mount some of the plaques, certificates, and awards presented to me over the years? These citations on the wall would represent for me a summary of my working life and as a group remind me of the struggles to achieve past goals. On the few occasions when I take note of these mementos, they bring to mind accomplishments I feel most proud of.
Yet it occurs to me now that what I consider my most significant achievement at Trinity College doesn’t show up on that wall at all. This was working with a federally funded program called Upward Bound, designed to help high school students, and bringing it to the campus. The purpose of Upward Bound appealed to me the moment I heard about it. As a national program, it was designed to prepare low-income, at-risk high school students for entry into and successful completion of a post-secondary education they otherwise would most certainly have been denied. I recall long working sessions alone that took me away from many holiday activities during the 1971 Christmas break. But the outcome of my researching and writing a grant proposal enabled the college to undertake an Upward Bound program. I turned to state elected officials to secure their support in advocating for the proposal. The program consisted of a six-week summer residency on campus with students attending small classes led by experienced teachers. I especially liked the provision that continued academic support for the students throughout the school year. Working with the overseeing board, we selected a young African American man to be the first director, but unfortunately he had to be terminated two years later on grounds of sexual malfeasance. Trouble ensued. The man hired a white lawyer to contest the firing decision, and at a community meeting I was accused of being a racist—definitely a new and unhappy first for me! But the board supported me and the outcome was positive.
After that turmoil subsided, the next two directors of Upward Bound, both representing minorities, led the program successfully for twenty more years until the Federal Department of Education ceased its funding. But the legacy of this farsighted program remains significant. One need only look at the twelve hundred Hartford participants who enrolled in the program, 70 percent of whom graduated from college. As adults one became the police chief in Hartford, one the mayor of the city, and one was elected Connecticut’s state treasurer. Other graduates of Upward Bound left their marks by assuming a wide variety of leadership roles. When I left Trinity, the Upward Bound director started reporting to the dean of the faculty, and it pleased me that the position was now fully integrated into the structure of the college.
I continued my involvement with the Frog Hollow neighborhood immediately adjacent to Trinity’s campus. In 1975 the Roman Catholic diocese brought in professionally trained community organizers who began to meet with residents and organize them into block clubs. The members of these block clubs then went to City Hall to demand improvements to their neighborhood, such as better garbage collection, eradication of rats, and cleaner streets.
I welcomed the opportunity to work with grassroots neighborhood residents within the new organization called Hartford Areas Rally Together (HART). A memorable moment occurred when the lead organizer came to a meeting with college officials and declared proudly, “I now have you surrounded with block clubs.” What he meant was that on many blocks around campus there were groups of people from that block who met regularly to discuss the needs of the area and how to deal with them. A fruitful dialogue started.
With HART’s assistance and a group of neighborhood businessmen, I was instrumental in forming a real estate development company to address the housing deterioration in the Frog Hollow neighborhood. At the same time, a report issued by the Greater Hartford Process, a business-funded planning agency, recommended the three major institutions in the South End of Hartford—Trinity College, Hartford Hospital, and the Institute of Living, a mental health institution—play a more active role in improving the neighborhoods around them.
These developments, underscored by the continuing deterioration of the Frog Hollow neighborhood, provided me the context for proposing that Trinity College form a coalition with its next-door healthcare institutions—Hartford Hospital and the Institute of Living. Trinity’s president, Theodore Lockwood, took the lead in presenting the idea to these institutions; and by 1978 the Southside Institutions Neighborhood Alliance (SINA) was formed, incorporated, and hired its first director, Robert Pawlowski, on a part-time basis. I had met Bob a few years earlier when he was a young social studies teacher at Northwest Catholic High School in West Hartford and with a group of his urban studies students researched the underclasses of Hartford and published their findings in How the Other Half Live. I was very impressed and recognized Bob as an up-and-coming personality. I was the Trinity representative on the board of SINA, and when Bob left in 1979 to pursue other ventures I was asked to become its full-time director. I accepted eagerly.
My early assumption which led me to Trinity College in the first place was that colleges and universities were altruistic institutions. I learned, however, that self-interest is a major factor in institutional decisions. Trinity College’s commitment to its surrounding neighborhoods grew and in response to continued pressure from neighborhood residents and city leaders, the college administration acknowledged that community involvement benefited it as well. I felt a sense of accomplishment as I ended my first decade at Trinity. I was ready for a transition to head a new organization, SINA, with a broader institutional base but still addressing the same problems and challenges.
Chapter Twelve: Being a President and an Activist, 1979–1999
I HAD ARRIVED! At the Southside Institutions Neighborhood Alliance I attained a distinguished new title—president and CEO. Granted, the nonprofit corporation I would head had but two employees, my secretary and myself, but at SINA I had a broader mandate to represent three major institutions rather than just one. My focus also expanded to include citywide activities. I relished being involved in new spheres, and I often registered amazement at being paid for work that directly reflected what I believed in—working to improve conditions for people in the neighborhood, standing up for civil rights, and guarding against police brutality while supporting better policing of the area. My work seemed to be leading, finally, to authentic fulfillment; my accomplishments would serve a purpose and have meaning outside of my immediate circle and beyond myself.
In the SINA position I became involved in multiple new challenges that did not always work out as I hoped. In the early 1980s the Linkage Project in Hartford sought to channel a portion of the profits from the booming downtown development to a fund to improve the neighborhoods. I supported the project’s goals, but the efforts of this all-inclusive coalition of neighborhood representatives, the business community, and the city failed when support from the Chamber of Commerce was withdrawn. The failure to create this linkage was disappointing, but a few years later many of the same people formed the Hartford Vision Project to achieve similar goals. Unfortunately, this effort was also doomed to failure when the business sector withdrew and the comprehensive final report, for which I played a significant role, was shel
ved like so many other studies.
There were also developments emerging across the country that were engaging to me. In 1980 the Nuclear Freeze movement began and quickly started a national push for nuclear disarmament. It was an issue I had actively supported since the mid-1950s, and I became immersed in it—organizing a strong Connecticut contingent to participate in the 1982 rally in New York City at the United Nations, which brought more than a million people together. But the animosity of those opposed became evident as we marched through the streets where we were showered by missiles, some containing human feces.
During the 1984 presidential election season, I experienced political power firsthand. As a result of a hard-fought battle in the caucus of the First Congressional District, I was elected a delegate to the Democratic Convention in San Francisco supporting the candidacy of Gary Hart, a Yale graduate and US Senator from Colorado. At the caucus it was determined that the Hart delegation was entitled to one more delegate. As the leader of the Hart delegation, it fell to me to select the person. I recall standing in the hallway surrounded by several potential delegates, all of whom wanted to be the one chosen. For the first time ever, I felt the rush of adrenalin and power—this was up to me. I knew I would make enemies of those I rejected and would curry favor with the person I named. The situation had the kind of peril that politicians dealt with all the time and it filled me with a strange exhilaration. Finally I put all trepidation aside and made the choice then and there.
The Connecticut delegation was led by Governor William O’Neill and the Hart delegates were assigned rows of seats in back of the majority Walter Mondale supporters. When our candidate was nominated, we erupted with appropriate volume. Sitting immediately in front of me was another Hart delegate, Kingman Brewster, a former president of Yale. When he began waving his Hart banner vigorously and shouting, I overrode my reserved tendencies and said to myself, “If Kingman Brewster can make a fool of himself, so can I!” I found it satisfying to let off steam even though we realized that the establishment candidate would be nominated and our effort would fall short.
My Train to Freedom Page 11