THE WORLD OF “HUSH”
Knowing as I do the economics of our plutocratic empire, I had a general
idea of what I should find in my tour of the colleges; but I had little
idea of the details, and went with an open mind, prepared to follow the
facts where they led. After I had visited a dozen colleges, I began to
be struck by a peculiar circumstance; not merely was I encountering
similar incidents—I was hearing the same phrases over and over! Certain
expressions became familiar, and I would wait for them; if they did not
come, I would suggest them, and note the instant response: “Yes, that’s
it exactly!”
I go over my note-book and cull out these phrases: “It is a slow
strangling.” “It is the wearing away of a stone by drops of water.” “It
is an intangible thing, an atmospheric pressure.” “It is a question of
good taste, of loyalty to the institution, to one’s colleagues.” So ran
the story, over and over, all the way from California to Massachusetts
and back again. I came to realize that the important fact about academic
freedom in America is not the extreme and dramatic cases I have been
narrating; it is the whole system of class prejudice and class
repression, which operates for the most part without its victims being
conscious of it.
I quote other statements from my note-book: “Our young instructors are
weaklings, selected as such. They seek a comfortable berth, sheltered
from the storms of the world.” “They find that promotion depends upon
conformity, and they conform.” “There is a tremendous absence of
freedom, but the victims don’t realize it; they think they are merely
being polite; before they know what has happened to them they have
become small men.” “No man who thinks can tell just when he will become
a victim, or how he will be tripped up.” “I can count an indefinite
number of friends to whom I would express myself—up to a certain point.”
“You may stay in the place for years, and then some day discover one man
to whom you dare to talk.” “Those who go out have adventures, but pity
those who stay.” “The plow-horse does not feel the rein until he tries
to step out of the furrow.” “Yes, our men are free; they are horses that
stand without hitching.” Such statements, with varying phraseology, were
made by scores of men, in as many different colleges and universities.
I sat in one group of faculty members discussing this subject, and the
conversation took a humorous turn; they started making a list of the
various offenses for which a man may be fired from an American
university. You may be fired if you don’t like your wife, or if your
wife doesn’t like you. You may be fired if you use the word revolution,
referring to anything since the eighteenth century. You may be fired if
you get into a fight with the janitor. “That happened to a very
distinguished botanist of my acquaintance,” said one professor. You may
be fired if you go to church too little, or you may be fired if you go
to church too much. I asked how the latter could be, and the explanation
was that there are aristocratic universities like Harvard and Princeton
and Pennsylvania, which follow the Episcopal tradition, and an excessive
demonstration of piety would be highly offensive. You may be fired if
you are near-sighted, and also if you are far-sighted. You may be fired
if you are discovered to have Negro blood in your veins—an incident
narrated by Alvin Johnson in the “New Republic,” under a thin veil of
fiction. You may be fired if you undertake to prove that a candidate of
the Republican party for President has Negro blood in his veins—the
singular experience of Professor W. E. Chancellor of Wooster. Of course
you will be fired if you are discovered in any irregular sex
relationship; also you may be fired if you discover the president of
your university, or one of your prominent trustees, committing a similar
offense. In general, you may be fired if you depart in any way from the
beaten track of propriety—and this whether your motives be the lowest or
the highest, whether you are subnormal or supernormal, a crank or a
genius.
And here is the all-important fact; the decision in this difficult
matter lies not in the hands of your colleagues, who know you, but in
some autocratic individual who is too important to know you, and too
busy. Says Professor George T. Ladd of Yale University, discussing the
position of the college professor:
“His whole career, and the reputation and influence which he has won by
a life of self-sacrificing labor, may at any moment be in peril through
the caprice, or cowardice, or ill-will of a single man, or of a little
group of men who have influence with that single man.”
There are many college professors who have learned to adjust themselves
to this situation, and make the best of it. They will call this book
exaggerated and even absurd; but can they deny the statement of
Professor Ladd above quoted? Can they deny that this is the situation in
ninety-five per cent of American colleges and universities? The
professors have no tenure and no security, save the kindness and good
faith of those who hold the purse-strings and rule their lives. Says
Professor Cattell in his book, “University Control”: “In certain
departments of certain universities, instructors and junior professors
are placed in a situation to which no decent domestic servant would
submit.” If you will look up this book in your library you will find in
it overwhelming evidence of the discontent of college professors with
their status. Three hundred leading men were consulted, and out of
these, eighty-five per cent agreed that the present arrangements for the
government of colleges are unsatisfactory. Says James P. Munroe, for
many years a professor at Massachusetts Tech:
Unless American college teachers can be assured that they are no
longer to be looked upon as mere employes paid to do the bidding of
men who, however courteous or however eminent, have not the faculty’s
professional knowledge of the complicated problems of education, our
universities will suffer increasingly from a dearth of strong men, and
teaching will remain outside the pale of the really learned
professions. The problem is not one of wages; for no university can
become rich enough to buy the independence of any man who is really
worth purchasing.
Or consider the testimony of Professor E. A. Ross, of the University of
Wisconsin, in the “Publications of the American Sociological Society,”
Vol. IX, 1914, p. 166:
I agree with Professor Nearing; academic asphyxiation is much more
common than is generally realized. President Pritchett’s paper is, I
think, far too optimistic. The dismissal of professors by no means
gives the clue to the frequency of the gag in academic life. We forget
the many who take their medicine and make no fuss. There, indeed, is
your real tragedy. Don’t waste any pity on the men who, despite
repeated hints and warnings, go ahead until they are dismissed. They
will generally prove to be able to take care of themselves. Pity
rather the men who, without giving sign or creating scandal, bow to
the powers above and cultivate a discreet silence. There are very many
of them. I know it, for many of them have come and told me with
bitterness and rage of the gag that has been placed in their mouths.
Remember, too, that the source of danger is not endowment, at least if
the donor has kept no strings upon his gift or is dead. It is not what
has been given but what is hoped for that influences most the policy
of university authorities. When a sizable donation is trembling in the
balance, when an institution has been generously remembered in the
will of some conservative gentleman who takes an annoying interest in
the details of its life, how the governing board of the institution
caters to the prejudices of the potential donor and how intolerable
and unpardonable appear untimely professorial utterances or teachings
which put the gift in peril!
I have before me a letter from Mr. Arthur E. Holder, who is not a
college man, but a labor leader who had four years’ experience with
college men, as representative of labor on the Federal Board for
Vocational Education. Mr. Holder writes:
My conclusion after several years’ contact with college professors and
public school teachers is that the environment of school and college
life is degenerating to the male species. Outside of a bare half
dozen, these men seem to be afraid to say that their souls are their
own. They apparently admire boldness in others, and they applaud when
another exposes the economic evils surrounding them. They do not
hesitate to whisper as to their experiences; but it almost always is
followed by a caution, “Don’t say I said so,” or “This is on the
square,” or “This is just for yourself alone,” etc.
My experience in collecting material for this book brought out the
academic situation with startling vividness. To begin with, I had the
idea that if you wanted information on any subject you had merely to
write to the people who had it. I collected from various sources the
names of one or two hundred college professors who were supposed to be
sympathetic towards social progress, and I printed a little circular
outlining my proposed book, and asking them to tell me their experiences
and conclusions. I mailed these circulars, and waited for replies; I
waited two or three months, and the number of replies I received could
be counted upon the fingers of one hand!
Of course, that might be because all these professors were satisfied
with their position, and had no information to give. But I doubted that,
and decided to travel over the country and talk personally with these
individuals. I laid out a schedule and wrote again to arrange for
interviews. Taught by experience, I explained that everything would be
strictly confidential; but even on this basis I failed to hear from
two-thirds of the men to whom I wrote. In various ways, through friends
or colleagues, I would learn that this one or that one had thought it
best to be able to say that he had never met me!
Still further insight came to me on the trip. I visited some thirty
institutions, and met men and women who had taught in two or three
hundred. Out of all these I should estimate that ninety-five per cent
accepted my offer to consider what they told me confidential, and some
even accepted my offer not to mention to their colleagues that they had
talked with me. I would not need but one or two fingers to count the
number of men and women now teaching in American colleges and
universities who told me their experiences frankly, and stated that I
might quote them by name.
Still further evidence: I came home after my seven thousand-mile
journey, and sorted out my notes, and made a list of new names and new
sources of information which had been suggested. There must have been
four hundred such names, and I wrote a letter to each one, again
enclosing my little circular and making careful promises of secrecy. Out
of these four hundred I may have heard from one hundred, and I should
estimate that three-fourths of these told me about the experiences of
other men. There are eight or ten who profess themselves fully satisfied
with the conditions under which they work, but even most of these do not
care to be quoted. A number avail themselves of my offer, not merely to
consider their communications confidential, but to send back their
letters after I have read them!
Another detail, even more significant: there would be places in my notes
concerning which I was in doubt, some statement for which I wished
additional verification, and I would write to the people I had met. I
recall them now, one after another—men with whom I sat at luncheon or
dinner in a quiet corner in some restaurant, or in their homes; some of
them talked to me for two or three hours, telling me their experiences
and the experiences of their colleagues, some shameful, some grotesque
and absurd. Many of these men promised me additional data, a clipping or
a letter or confirmation of some sort; and I write to remind them of
their promises, or to ask some new questions—and there comes no reply! I
write to some of them two or three times before I realize what is the
matter; these men are dead so far as concerns the mail! As matters now
stand, they can deny that they ever met me—many of them told me that
they would do that! But if they should send me so much as a line of
their handwriting, some day the Black Hand of the plutocracy might raid
my home and steal my papers—and then there would be ruin for them and
their families!
Can you think of stronger evidence of terrorism than this? Out of not
less than a hundred men who welcomed me with every courtesy, who
expressed cordial interest in my project, and complete agreement with my
view of the academic situation—out of these hundred men I need just the
fingers of my two hands to count the ones who have been willing to write
and answer my questions under the strictest pledge of secrecy! I take
this occasion to send my greetings to the others, and assure them that I
do not blame them too severely.
While preparing my proofs, still more evidence comes to me. In two
different cases I sent a chapter of my book to university professors for
them to revise, as they had offered to do. They dictated to their
secretaries cold and stern letters, stating that they did not care to
comply with my request; and along with these letters they sent me the
manuscript, carefully and minutely revised! They understand that I will
get the point; they have done what they promised to do, but at the same
time they have protected themselves, and have a letter which they can
display to college authorities, proving that they had nothing to do with
my nefarious book!
Another case, still more significant: the liberal professors in one
state university in the Middle West banded together and sent me a
message through a former colleague, imploring me not to tell the story
of their experiences in my book! The details of this controversy have
been given full publicity in the press, and are public property;
nevertheless, I am implored not to mention them, because it will stir up
the reactionaries once more! Another professor in a great Eastern
university, who told me how he took a public stand on an issue of
academic freedom, telegraphs forbidding me to mention his name—and this
though the story of his action has been publicly praised in the bulletin
of the American Association of University Professors, and in several of
the liberal magazines! A former professor in one of our largest Middle
Western universities begs me to omit his name in telling his story—and
this although I have newspaper clippings telling every detail! What am I
to do about cases of this sort? Whom shall I consider, the individual
professor or the public welfare? Read the man’s pitiful words:
I realize the value to you of specific instances, and am well aware of
how much I am asking when I request the omission of my name. But it
means my livelihood! If I am again kicked out of educational work I
shall never be able to accomplish such educational reforms as I have
in mind for the future. Please don’t put me in jeopardy! Sociological
investigation often, of course, sacrifices the individual with perfect
equanimity; but in this instance the individual is perhaps worth
saving. Please let me know that you will spare me.
And here is another letter from a professor at another great state
university in the Middle West:
I am greatly interested in the subject of the book which you are
preparing, and I gladly give you my answer to the questions contained
in your circular, with the definite understanding, however, that you
will not mention my name as the source of information, or in any other
way disclose my identity. The mere fact that as a matter of
self-preservation and of protection to my family I feel compelled to
make this proviso—disgusting as otherwise it is to me both as a man
and a scholar—is proof sufficient of the control which special
privilege exercises over educators in this country.
And here is one more letter, perhaps the most significant of all. The
writer is a young scientist, who got his training at the University of
Wisconsin, where for two years he took part in the activities of the
liberal students. He tells me the effect which these two years have
produced upon all his later career. Read his analysis of “academic
freedom” among scientists; it covers the case completely, and every
fairminded scientific man who reads it will be forced to admit that it
is as exact as it is painful.
My position was student assistant, a half time instructorship. I
stayed at Dr. P——’s house two years, and my relations with all the
faculty of that department were intimate and cordial always, and still
are. I was known as a rather harmless and intellectualized radical,
and as rather a hard worker, one who spent long hours in his
laboratory and applied himself assiduously: being especially useful
around a scientific department by reason of ingenuity with apparatus.
A sufficiency of all the technical virtues, you see, and the result
was that I was very well thought of. A taste for sociology and radical
discussion was looked upon as an amiable and altruistic weakness,
which might serve to give my biology a humanistic turn....
No specific thing has ever happened since which I could lay against
any of my professors at Madison. They have backed me cordially and
enthusiastically whenever the occasion demanded. However, my
reputation as a radical, still re-echoes through my career as a
scientist; almost overshadows it. My chief professor, though he said I
was the best man he had ever turned out, when I wanted a job, said
also privately that he didn’t think I would ever make a scientist, I
was interested in too many other things. Another Wisconsin professor,
when asked about me, questioned whether I would ever “settle down to a
scientific career,” though I had done absolutely nothing else for
three years since I left there. A third expressed doubt, to me
personally, that I would ever “accomplish anything.” My reputation has
followed me through two jobs, so that when considered for the one I
now hold, the question of my radical proclivities was again raised.
All these things, and many others, are hard to get at objectively; but
they sum up to a condition in which an activity incidental to three
years study on a Ph.D thesis appears still to be of more weight in the
eyes of the men who pride themselves on being unbiased and
liberal-minded scientists, than anything scientific that I may have
accomplished. Every one of them would unhesitatingly state that a
man’s radical opinions were of no concern to them “if he did his
work”; and no one of them would admit that any man would be “doing his
work” if they knew he held these opinions. My own reaction is to
pretend that I have lost interest in unconventional affairs, and to
sedulously avoid any appearance of such interest in them in my
professional capacity; in effect, I am one thing as a scientist, and
another as a human being; I have dissociated most of my private
concerns from my official ones; and the barrier between my school
activities and any other intellectual interests is complete. I have
two sets of ideas, two sets of friends, two modes of behavior, a
regular double standard of morality, and I suppose I am only half a
man in either capacity.
This is something of a tragedy to me personally, though that is not
the interesting thing in general. The aspect of this that has struck
me is, how perverted the whole unconscious thought of the academic
institution is. As I have said, this is not evidence for a book. I
might have trouble in demonstrating that my professors were not right
about me. But one thing is certain; that I could have spent more than
the amount of time and energy I spent on radical activities, on any of
a number of more or less creditable things; on Wine, Women and Song,
on student activities, golf, poker, or just plain idleness, and never
have attracted any discreditable attention scientifically. Those
things my professors and colleagues would disregard, provided I kept
up a reasonable show of professional proficiency. There is only one
realm of relaxation or dissipation which is recognized academically as
a vicious incursion into scientific singlemindedness and assiduity;
and that one is an intellectual interest in social unconventionality.
That one distraction, and that alone, is recognized as an inherent and
incontestible enemy of _scientific_ right thinking. And the amusing
part of it is that the scientists themselves fail to realize their own
bias. For that is what it amounts to, even in the best of them; about
one whole set of data, if they are not positively reactionary, then
they not only have no positive opinions, but they impose upon
themselves and others a negativity of opinion that amounts to a
condition of positive prejudice.