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Cohen’s comsummate folly pays off
by Joseph Cohen
Dan A. Oren’s “Joining the Club:
a History of Jews and Yale” (Yale
University Press; $19.95) in itsdes-
cription of the blatant anti-Semi
tism which marked the Yale Eng
lish Department during the early
middle years of the 20-century, has
brought back into focus the resist
ance 1 encountered at Vanderbilt
Universtiy in 1949 when 1 sought
admission to its English Depart
ment to undertake graduate study.
Back then it was not merely unfa
shionable for Jews to apply for
advanced study in English litera
ture anywhere in America, it was
an act of consummate folly, given
the rigidity of the barriers which
had been erected. At the time 1
sought to acquire the training to
become an English professor there
probably weren’t 10 of Jewish origin
with Ph. D.s in the entire country. I
had never seen nor heard of one
when I filed my application.
But to me the absence of role
models was no deterrent, if I even
thought about its implications. Talk
about naivete! For it was my inten
tion not only to become an English
professor but to remain a practic
ing Jew. 1 did not know that the
few Jews who had gained faculty
appointments, particularly in the
humanities, had either voluntarily
or under coercion become the
“conversos” and Marranos of 20-
century academic life. All I really
had going for me was a genuine
love, nay, a consuming passion, for
literature. I couldn’t even be cer
tain 1 had “the right stuff.” So for
tickets, gornish helfen! “But that’s
the life for me,” I said.
“That’s not the life for you!” 1
was told a short time later by
kindly, congenial, well-intentioned
Walter Clyde Curry, the renowned
Chaucerian scholar who was head
of the Vanderbilt English Depart
ment. Embarrassed, he declined to
admit me because he couldn’t pos
sibly get me a job, once I gradu
ated, at any university in the coun
try. “It would be,” he said gravely,
“an exercise in futility.” Unbiased,
he became even more embarassed
when 1 asked him why. Hemming
and hawing and wanting to let me
down as gently as possible, he
finally came out with it, explaining
that Jews couldn’t be expected to
know Christian theology and that
as English literature was over
whelmingly grounded in Christian
ity, Jews couldn’t teach English
literature without doing violence
to their Christian students and to
their own religious convictions.
Rearing back in his swivel chair
and sucking on his ever-lit pipe, his
vest strewn with its fallen ashes, he
asked me almost in a whisper, “How
much New Testament do you know?”
“A little,” I whispered back. He
began to question me about origi
nal sin, immaculate conception,
the trinity, the Eucharist, messian-
ism, salvation and redemption. Not
wanting to offend or humiliate me,
he assumed the interrogation would
prove conclusively that 1 would
lind greater happiness clerking in
my Uncle Harry’s ready-to-wear
store. He knew I had done that for
a while. He was in for a surprise.
Jo his amazement and to mine
as well—1 didn’t even know to
anticipate the interrogation — I
answered each of his questions,
adding comments wherever I could
think of appropriate ones. When
we concluded the question and
answer session he offered to admit
me but added that I'd have to take
my chances about getting a job.
Then he inquired how I came into
possession of so much information
about the New Testament.
My explanation was simple
enough. I had been reared in Clarks
ville. Term., then, in the 1930s, a
small Southern country town full
of devout Christians. From the
time 1 was in the second grade on
through primary school 1 was regu
larly assigned roles in the annual
school Christmas plays. In retro
spect, I think a couple of my teachers
had larceny in their hearts, hoping
to steal me from the error of my
parents' way, but their solicitations
didn’t take. By the time I was in
high school it was a town-county
consolidated unit — most of the
friends I had made were the sons of
farmers. We visited in each others’
homes frequently. Especially in the
summertime.
In the long hot summer nights,
our principal amusement was to
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attend every evangelical meeting in
the myriad of satellite farm com
munities surrounding Clarksville,
then go raid the nearby watermelon
patch afterward. Before I was 16 I
had brimstone theology coming
out of both my ears. For hours
after those meetings, the hell-fire
and damnation sermons would ring
in my head, especially in the still
darkness of the watermelon patches
where we remained motionless,
seeking to avoid the occasional
blasts of buckshot fired by irate
farmers over our heads to warn us
not to come back.
1 have long been convinced that
had it not been for those hot, dusty
and noisy nights of exposure to
Christian evangelists preaching and
thundering away, there would have
been one less Jewish English pro
fessor in the halls of ivy today! Of
course, the presence of Jewish Eng
lish professors is now taken for
granted, but back in 1949 it took a
combination of naivete, love of
literature, chutzpah and luck (pro
vided for me by a multitude of
unsuspecting Christian evangelists)
to make it happen.
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PAGE 19 THE SOUTHERN ISRAELITE May 16, 1986