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Idealists meet the real world

15 years after leaving Harvard

Neal I. Koblitz '69, a mathematician at the University of Washington, donates the royalties he receives from his books to a fund he and his wife set up to aid women scientists in Vietnam. Koblitz's Harvard classmate, Michael K. Fenollosa '69, now an assistant vice-president at Boston's Shawmut Bank, writes in recent Class Record Book: "Needless to say, and I suppose, somewhat regretfully. I have become a political conservative (it seems hard to believe that I once voted for George McGovern for President.)" The two men represent two of the many different solutions to the dilemma that faced the Class of '69 as it grew from adolescence to middle age: how to reconcile the concerns that motivated their college protests and the realities they face in the real world.

Fifteen years ago, an aberration in the tradition of serious, alma mater-loving Harvardians, the Class of '69 momentarily seemed to shake the ivy roots of the University. But just as the country swallowed up the 60s generations--leaving a little space for TM meditators and a burnt-out, tie-dyed fringe--Harvard digested the Class of '69, burped perhaps, and moved on.

The Class of '69 also moved on, with, some claim, indigestion from their atypical Harvard experience: a takeover of University Hall and subsequent re-taking by Cambridge police; a general "strike" of classes; demonstrations; campus-wide meetings; and highly confrontational struggles. This week is their 15th reunion, a chance for them to come back and assess whether Harvard has changed since they took to the streets and, more importantly, if they themselves have changed more than superficially in the intervening years.

Is it possible to say, 15 years later, now that they have children and careers and are only a reunion or two from mid-life crises that they are different from other classes? William W. Bushing '69 writes in the 15th year Class Record Book: "I can't shed the spirit of the 60s...How do the rest of you bear the psychological cross of living up to the Harvard promise?"

The "hard" evidence leads to conflicting conclusions. The class of '69 is generally considered to be a very poor benefactor to Harvard, giving less money to its alma mater than other classes. Yet according to a survey done for the Class's tenth reunion, the occupational choices of class members are not radically different from those of other classes. At that time, 93 percent of the "anti-establishment" Class had gone back to educational institutions and received some sort of advanced professional or a academic degree: 23 percent of the men and 15 percent of the women were lawyers, 18 and 12 percent respectively were in medicine: and 18 and 8 percent respectively were in business or banking. A large part of the rest were teaching or still studying or, if women, raising children.

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Yet, the statistics only describe the surface of the story for many of the '69 classmates, the stereotypical version of the campus radical turned wealthy professional is clearly off the mark. While most of them have forsaken the counterculture, many members of the class contend that what motivated their activism in the 60s continues to shape the ways that they have decided to provide for families and stability. For some, like Ross C. Owens '69, the events of '69 were a brief prelude to a longer period of activism. Owens entered and dropped out of divinity school after Harvard, and did two years of service as a minister to fulfill his duty as a conscientious objector to the Vietnam war. After being involved in community organizing and issues of social justice during those two years. Owens went to law school and worked for several years in a federally-funded legal services organization. "It took me a little while to put it all together," he says.

Owens recently entered private practice and while he does not like having to evaluate the ability of his clients to pay, he defends the move by saying private practice gives him more freedom to engage in partisan politics.

For Owens, and others, a lot of the decisions of the past 15 years have involved trying to fit together different parts of a life--job, family, political and social convictions. Owens says that the "trade-offs now are okay...I don't feel I've sold out--I'm trying to figure out how much I can live out those convictions in the private sector." What Owens calls trade-offs, others may term "compromises."

Many of the former protestors feel there is a continuity between their campus activism on their activity later in life. On campus, the tactics were confrontational and emotional: later in life, the tactics are quieter, more subdued, and no longer have that "all or nothing" quality.

Robert H. Blumenthal '69 claims that his politics have remained consistent: "I was a liberal then and I'm a liberal now: everybody else moved to radicalism." Blumenthal, who was on the student Committee of 15 set up to handle the problems of 1969, is now a lawyer for the Massachusetts Board of Education, working on the Boston desegregation case. "I'm on the progressive side," he says, "not an activist per se, but political." Blumenthal, who also free-lances as a jazz reviewer, adds "I don't consider the fact that I own a house means that I sold out."

To Blumenthal, Owens, and others, finding the trade-off they feel comfortable with is not the same as selling out. Yet the process is almost completely uniform for the members of the Class of '69 raise a family, move into a stable career, buy a house, and--perhaps--lose a little idealism along the way. In its place comes a little realism some say; others perceive individual interest; and yet others just say that day-to-day concerns naturally push aside the urgency of their old campus activism.

Donald S. Shepard '69 left Harvard and entered the Harvard-Africa Volunteer Program. He wanted to teach high school in socialist Tanzania but was denied a work permit. When his work permit was denied--he believes because he came from capitalist America--Shepard says he realized that "unbridled idealism was not what the world was looking for," that reformers need to work within existing organizations that have their own rules and procedures. After the experience. "I went into less idealistic, less grassroots sort of activity," he adds.

Yet Shepard too does not believe he has sold out: "There is a consistency and overall purpose to my activities; although there has been a change in method," he says. Shepard explains that he still addresses the concerns for greater equity in the world through his teaching and research and points in particular to a course he teaches at the School of Pulbic Health on health issues in developing nations.

Like Shepard, Dr. Katherine A. Daufer '69 has also found a way to incorporate concerns from her college days in her professional work, Kaufer, now a pediatrician in Chicago, says that it is no coincidence that she runs into classmates at public health-oriented meetings. Although she and her classmates have acquired a long-term perspective for themselves and families, "no one has changed their fundamental values." Kaufer says.

The radicals of the 60s witnessed first hand the resilience of institutions to progressive change. Others have seen the establishments at Harvard and other places withstand challenges from outside. But for the idealistic students whose hopes were high, the strength of institutions caused sharp disillusionment with the possibility of fundamental, rapid change. If the revolution was just around the corner, then the block stretched out indefinitely. And before they could reach the end of the block, their four years at Harvard were over, and they had to make decisions about how they were going to support themselves.

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