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 circumstancecircumstance; 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.