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1
CHOICE
On a stormy day in November
1973, I walked back across the campus to Simcoe
Hall, the University of Toronto's administration
building, which nestled behind the dome of
Convocation Hall, looking out across a spacious
circle of green, toward the amazing Victorian excess
of University College, the gentler lines of Hart
House, the men's union, and the nondescript
international style of the overcrowded humanities
library. The tout ensemble symbolized all the
contradictory things I loved about the University.
The scale and classical façade of Convocation
Hall spoke about the national aspirations of
Canada's oldest university. The aggressively
Victorian mien of University College announced the
weight the founders gave to its secular leanings,
which opposed the church-affiliated colleges that
made up the rest of the University. Every outrageous
gargoyle and buttress proclaimed Darwin and Spencer.
Hart House's graceful arches showed the Oxbridge
loyalties that had shaped the university's
intellectual aspirations, and the overcrowded and
nondescript library announced the wave of expansion
that had swept over the university in the baby boom
years. I never looked at them all without an
affectionate pleasure for the three-dimensional
representation they provided of the frustrations and
challenges of running part of this large and untidy
institution.
But this afternoon my usual
pleasure was replaced by exasperation at the day's
interviews. I'd been reviewing the budgets of
University services all day, telling everyone the
unwelcome news that there would have to be severe
budget cuts and personnel layoffs in the next fiscal
year. Everyone knew the reductions were caused by
declining Ontario government support for the
University, but nonetheless the bearer of bad
tidings always has to hear out the complaints of the
victims, complaints I sympathized with even though I
had to be firm about the cuts. It had been painful
to tell my old physician friend that in his last
years as head of the health service, he must scale
back its quality. And the offbeat countercultural
types who ran the best counseling service for
youthful drug users around had looked at me
knowingly as though they'd always expected that it
was inevitable that I'd let them down
someday.
So I didn't climb the stairs to my
second-floor office at my usual pace. Still deep in
thought about finance and politics, I came in the
door to find my secretary poised by my desk. Petite
and dark, with eyes that flashed, she was, to me, a
kind of muse, her arms forever laden with mail and
folders, her dazzling smile always urging me on.
Though easily fifteen years my junior, she treated
me with affectionate firmness, as if she were my
mother.
As I signed the mail, she began
rattling off details of my flight to Ottawa, who was
to meet me, where the evening's dinner meeting was,
all the while stuffing things into my briefcase. As
she rammed the last folder in, she gave me a
brilliant smile. "There's another letter from a
search committee in there," she said, gesturing
toward the bulging briefcase. "It's an American
one. I hope you don't do it."
I was
heading out the door, laden with luggage, when I
stopped to ask the usual question. "Any
news?" She broke into peals of laughter.
"He's still there," she said, "and no
one's got cholera yet." She was giving me
the daily bulletin on the determined emeritus
professor who had barricaded himself in his office
in the University library, refusing to move to the
new space allocated to emeriti. He'd survived in his
old office for six weeks, apparently without benefit
of plumbing, using most of his time to bombard my
office with wonderfully crotchety memoranda, which
we all loved to read.
I was, as usual, late
at the airport, necessitating a sprint through the
elongated terminal for the Ottawa gate. So by the
time I collapsed, puffing and sweating, into my
seat, I'd forgotten the conversation. Then, as we
waited for the obligatory deicing required by the
early storm, I came across the letter from the Smith
College Presidential Search Committee. Something of
an anticlimax after being inspected so transparently
almost six months ago. It contained an invitation to
meet with them as soon as possible, signed by Robert
Morgenthau, who I knew to be the much-respected
Manhattan District Attorney. I glanced down the list
of committee members, spotting the noted art
historian we'd met in May at the MacLeishes', and a
Harvard professor of Tudor history, who was an old
graduate school friend of my husband's.
Once
the plane took off, there was no more time to think
about it, because I had to read the papers for my
late-afternoon meeting and collect my thoughts for
the dinner speech I was to make. Later, when I
called John in Toronto to say good night and
mentioned the belated appearance of the letter, he
was instantly alert and said I must definitely meet
with the Search Committee. I didn't want to change
my life or the job I loved, but to please him, I
answered the invitation affirmatively and set my
disapproving secretary to work making arrangements,
her cheeks pink with indignation, and the
straightness of her back a powerful
reproach.
The night before meeting the Search
Committee at the Century Association in New York, I
dined there with John's and my old friend and
confidant, Stephen Graubard. Steve was a friend of
John's from graduate school days, a historian of
modern Europe, someone who'd known me since my
teaching fellow days in his and John's course at
Harvard. He was an enthusiastic advocate of thinking
seriously about going to Smith, or some institution
like it.
"Look," he said over the
Century's bad dinner and excellent wine,
"you've begun working in academic
administration. I doubt that you'll settle for just
a history department again. You should come back to
the United States. There's more to be achieved here
in the private system, much more than you'll be able
to do in Canada."
Steve's advice and
concern with my career, and John's and my happiness,
recalled our years together in Cambridge,
Massachusetts, years among the happiest of my life.
After dinner, we slipped easily into talk about our
circle of mutual friends. His affection and
friendship made it seem easier to move
again.
The next day, back in one of the
private dining rooms at the Century, I enjoyed the
initial interview. It was a welcome change from my
role as budget cutter for all the parts of the
University of Toronto that reported to me. The
group was pretty much what I'd meet on a Canadian
governing board, but their mood was different.
Faculty, the student member, and trustees alike
wanted to talk about achieving greatness. How did I
think Smith's pioneering history and mission
could be restated, redefined, enlarged to make it
the outstanding leader in women's education for the
next quarter century? I was talking to a group of
energetic and affirmative people about building
academic excellence and serving the cause of women,
the things closest to my heart. They seemed to take
it for granted that resources could be raised for
any program of excellence.
It was seductive
to talk with people for whom education was the
highest priority, rather than one in a competing set
of interests politicians traded off. I began to
sense the contemporary energy and drive of an
institution I knew mostly from its history. The
interview hummed with vitality. They were easy to
talk to about my historical work, and startled by my
outsider's perception that it didn't matter in the
least that all the Ivies were going coeducational. I
knew there were enough bright women needing an
education to go around. Besides, I thought that a
women's college that drew from the best high schools
around the country might be a more interesting place
to attend than one peopled by graduates of exclusive
prep schools who might now be lured to Harvard and
Princeton. We got along well.
As is always
the case, a headhunter's beguiling call or a meeting
with a search committee interrupts the breakneck
flow of the present and sets one musing about past
and future. So I went back to Toronto puzzling about
where I was in life, and where I ought to be going.
The question of leaving Toronto required not just
the superficial check we make in a busy life to see
where a midcourse correction to the current plan
might be necessary, but the deeper wrenching kind of
examination that goes with the decision to pull up
roots and start again somewhere else.
If
invited, I'd be facing a decision that would change
my life course and John's. For someone thirty-nine,
a move from Canada back to the United States would
be more than just another academic move. It had
political ramifications at many levels. I'd left
Australia for the United States thirteen years
before in search of wider opportunities. When I'd
met and married a Canadian historian at Harvard, it
had closed the circle for me to move back to the
British Commonwealth world. I loved the United
States and its dynamism, its intellectual drive, its
passion for getting things done, but I valued the
old British sense of fair play that infused
Australian and Canadian political values. Stephen
Graubard was right that one could have more
influence from within the American private
educational system. The question was one of service.
Where did I belong?
Certainly the British
world wasn't my only political commitment. I was a
feminist, and that was a universal cause, to be
served wherever the environment offered the greatest
opportunity for leadership. It was a heady time in
the feminist movement in 1973. But I knew feminism
was a cyclical phenomenon, so one could have the
greatest impact by strengthening the institutions
that kept it alive in all environments, and I knew
they were in the United States.
When I looked
back on my life, the story of my coming of age was
easy to tell. It was the story of the bright rural
child carried by education to graduate school at
Harvard and the academic profession in Canada. I'd
met the ideal mate at Harvard. A teacher of genius,
a fellow historian, a man with deep roots in my own
British Commonwealth world, a quicksilver character
of such charm and wit that people of all ages and
backgrounds came under his spell. He was also a man
of deep spirituality, for whom, as for me, art,
music, and literature were important routes to
understanding the human condition. I loved his
effervescent humor, his extraordinary talent with
words, and the gaiety that went with seeing life as
ultimately tragic. And it was important that he
wasn't exclusively an academic. He'd been an
infantry officer in the Eighth Army in
1939—1945, and he'd grown up working summers
in logging camps in remote parts of British
Columbia. We'd begun our life together with high
hopes and the absolute commitment that the marriage
would be arranged so that I could fulfill my dream
of full-time professional work as an
historian.
We'd done all that. But a look at
where I was in midlife called up a much more complex
picture. For one thing, there had been painful,
bruising losses as well as gains in the decade since
I'd married and begun my absorbing academic career.
The life plot I'd had in mind at marriage to a
brilliant academic husband had stubbornly refused to
materialize. There weren't the dreamed-of children,
because I could get pregnant but not carry a fetus
to term. Each set of hopes soon dashed was like
having a stone where the heart should be.
And
then, as my brilliant but mercurial husband's moods
collapsed into long, profound, heartbreaking
depression, I had something more serious to worry
about than infertility. In the urgency of struggling
for maturity to handle these somber chapters, I'd
scarcely noticed the many possible paths opening in
my professional life. But they were substantial, and
the invitation from Smith's Search Committee brought
them home to me in a concrete form by presenting the
choice between the United States and
Canada.
I could see that the Smith Board's
interest was logical. I'd made my reputation as an
historian writing on the history of women's
education in the United States. I'd studied the
historical circumstances and motives that produced
the characteristic American pattern of coeducational
higher educational institutions and elite colleges
for either a male or a female student body. So I'd
had many years to reflect on the ways educational
institutions could foster or impede equal treatment
for women.
And more recently, I'd become
involved in academic administration. At
thirty-seven, I'd surprised myself by setting aside
the book I was enjoying writing and becoming a Vice
President of the University of Toronto. While in
that role, I could still pretend that I'd soon be
back in my office in the History Department, getting
ready to teach again. But to decide to become a
college president would be to permit such fudging no
longer. If I became president of an American liberal
arts college with a distinguished feminist history,
I'd have to commit to do it for a reasonable period
of time, and that would involve a decision that
would change John's and my life
permanently.
I knew from observing the people
I most admired who were a generation or so older
than I that an adult life can be made a work of art.
It's a slowly emerging design, with shifting
components, occasional dramatic disruptions, and
fresh, creative rearrangements. I thought of Archie
and Ada MacLeish tossing away professional successes
in the United States to live in Paris in the 1920s
as poet and singer. Or some of my favorite members
of the Harvard faculty, who'd changed countries for
political or scholarly reasons. Now I'd arrived at a
moment to scrutinize my life's design, and to decide
how I wanted to develop the canvas. The process was
helped by the arrival of a large packet of financial
and academic information from Smith that confirmed
that the job was doable, at least in the near term.
Smith lacked a significant endowment, but its
operating finances were in reasonably good
order.
It was a scrutiny that for a variety
of idiosyncratic reasons I was going to have to
undertake pretty much alone. John was convinced I
should make the move, but only I could assess
whether this was a real calling--a vocation that
would call out the best in me. In the next few
weeks, the scrutiny went with me everywhere. It was
the subtext of my stream of consciousness at
meetings of the University's governing board, on
weekend hikes with John over the Bruce Trails along
the Niagara Escarpment outside Toronto, at the
seasonal round of Christmas parties, while shoveling
the winter snow.
My life had gone at such a
pace since leaving Australia, and I had moved about
so much, that there hadn't been time for taking
stock or dreaming about the future. I'd been
preoccupied with a freshly breaking present.
Graduate school examinations, producing a doctoral
thesis, marrying someone my family didn't approve
of, moving to Canada, coping with John's long
hospitalization for depression.
When I cast
up the accounts on the matter of staying in Canada
or moving into a new institution and a more public
role, I thought the negatives clearly predominated.
I was by nature solitary. Born on an isolated
sheep station, virtually an only child while my
brothers were in boarding school, I needed the quiet
of libraries and the comfort of losing myself in
some research project. The sounds I liked best were
the subdued rustle of manuscripts and papers in
an archive, and the hushed background voices of a
library staff careful not to interrupt. I could
manage being with people constantly, but I found it
exhausting, an inheritance of a childhood where we
could go months without seeing another human being
come by the homestead.
Excerpted from A Woman's Education by
Jill Ker Conway
Copyright 2001 by Jill Ker Conway. Excerpted by
permission of Knopf,
a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt
may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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