Extraordinary, Ordinary People: A Memoir of Family

chapter thirty-one

The August commencement at Denver University was really a cause for celebration. Both my high school and undergraduate graduations had been anticlimactic. Now, with the receipt of my PhD and the job offer at Stanford, my parents and I could acknowledge that all they had tried to do—even that premature stab at early education when I was three—had paid off. The night before the ceremonies, there was a large reception at the Phipps Mansion, a beautiful old white elephant that had been deeded to the university by one of Denver’s most important families. At one point, the master of ceremonies read off a list of where the PhD students had been hired. When he read my name and said Stanford, there was an audible reaction of approval and surprise. My parents just beamed.

Several friends had traveled from out of town to attend commencement, and there were many more from Denver. My parents held a big dinner afterward at our favorite restaurant. At the dinner, Daddy choked up when trying to make a toast. It took him a while to regain his composure and to say, “Your mother and I always knew that you were special. You are God’s child.” My parents had said this before to friends and family, and I always found it embarrassing.

I tried to deflect the comment by saying something like, “We’re all children of God.” But that commencement night Daddy wouldn’t be deterred, repeating the phrase again and again. Finally, I just changed the subject to make a joke about the gifts that I’d been given.

“You all gave me household gifts,” I said. It was true. I had gotten fancy candlesticks and linens as well as a beautiful set of silverware. “Maybe you thought this was a bridal shower,” I joked.

I wasn’t required to teach in my first quarter at Stanford. That’s not unusual, since the university tries to give new assistant professors a chance to get their feet on the ground before taking on the Stanford student body. But I would be required to teach three courses after the first of the year. And unfortunately, graduate school doesn’t really prepare students for teaching responsibilities. At best, an advanced graduate student will act as a teaching assistant to faculty a few times. The whole process of graduate education is geared toward compiling a research record. That is the basis on which elite universities hire assistant professors. In those days, no one even asked whether the job candidate could teach. Frankly, they still don’t.

I sat down with Heinz to decide what three courses I would teach. Obviously, it made sense to offer a course on civil-military relations, the topic of my dissertation. I said that I could also offer a course on Soviet policy in the Third World. But I had no earthly idea what else to propose. Heinz asked whether I could teach something called Elite Politics. I immediately said yes, though I didn’t really know what one would do in such a class. Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Heinz said, “Let’s co-teach the course in the spring.” I felt as if I’d been delivered from certain doom, and readily agreed. I would teach civil-military relations in the winter. In the spring I would teach Soviet Policy in the Third World and co-teach Elite Politics with Heinz.

As winter quarter approached, I realized that my proposed course on civil-military relations had not been listed in the course catalogue. The irregular process by which I had been hired had somehow failed to trigger the normal mechanisms. An embarrassed Heinz said that the department would widely advertise my course. When January rolled around, six—yes, six—students had signed up for the course. Moreover, because the course was a late addition, all of the classrooms had already been booked. Thus, the morning of my first class at Stanford, I walked to the other side of campus and met my six students in the old chemistry building. The classroom even had one of those old sliding blackboards and a periodic table of the elements. I hadn’t been in a room like that since Mrs. Sutter’s chemistry class at St. Mary’s Academy.

I was anxious at the outset of the class that January morning. Stanford students have a well-deserved reputation for showing young faculty who’s smarter—and of course the students assume they are. The course met three times a week, and I was struggling, working late into the night to read and reread the material that I had assigned. I was just flat-out exhausted every day.

As the quarter progressed, I grew accustomed to life in the department. It wasn’t always easy, since there were only two women, both of us junior faculty. It didn’t help that Heinz often addressed the assembled faculty as “gentlemen.” In time, I started to realize that I was a really good teacher. My first students gave me outstanding evaluations and when I taught the course the next year, its ranks swelled to fifty. By the third year, The Role of the Military in Politics was overenrolled and I cut off admission at 120.

On balance, my first year was satisfying but very hard. In addition to teaching, you’re expected to push ahead with your research agenda. Much to my surprise, Princeton University Press offered to publish my dissertation as a book. Princeton was the gold standard for university presses, and publishing a first book with them was a real coup.

During my first year, I made a point of getting to know key leaders at Stanford, many of whom acted as mentors to me. I’ve never subscribed to the idea that you have to have role models who look like you. If that were the case, there would be no firsts. My friend and former neighbor Sally Ride never would have been an astronaut if she had waited to see a female in that role. Sure, it’s good to have female or minority role models. But the important thing is to have mentors who care about you, and they come in all colors. Thus, I made certain years later as an administrator that I always made time to see junior faculty who asked. And many did—including lots of white males.

There were dinners and parties almost monthly, and “sings” at John Lewis’s house, where the assembled would croon old favorites such as the Depression-era anthem “Hallelujah, I’m a Bum.” As odd as the social outings were, the people were really genuine and gave me a tight-knit community to which I could belong. And Stanford sports provided yet another touchstone. I bought season football tickets and enjoyed afternoons at the Stanford stadium, where future famed Broncos quarterback John Elway was then in his senior season. Season tickets for basketball followed.

I also reconnected with church life, though initially through the Baptists, not the Presbyterians. Frankly, with all the upheaval of the move I’d fallen away from the discipline of weekly church attendance. One Sunday morning (when I should have been in church) I was grocery shopping at Lucky’s. A black man named Dale Hamel walked up to me in the spice aisle and began to talk. There just aren’t that many black people in Palo Alto, so I was surprised to learn that he was buying food for a church picnic at Jerusalem Baptist Church, a long-standing black congregation. We chatted for a while, and then he asked, “Do you play the piano? We need someone to play the piano.” I answered yes and within about a week began to play for the choir. Despite my marginal talent for gospel music, I served as the pianist at Jerusalem for about six months. But since the long arm of the Lord had reached all the way into the spice aisle at Lucky’s, I resolved to find a good Presbyterian church and get back to weekly attendance. I soon joined Menlo Park Presbyterian Church, which has been my church home ever since. Stanford and California were turning out to be very good for me.

There were troubles back in Denver, however. Ironically, my mother, for whom Denver had never really been a comfortable fit, was doing quite well. Mother was teaching at Gove Middle School and was about to complete a master’s degree at the University of Denver’s Graduate School of International Studies, where I had done my PhD. The degree, through the Center for Teaching International Relations, prepared high school teachers to teach international subject matter. She loved the program, and the work brought her closer to my world.

For Daddy, though, life was turning sour. Sitting at my desk at Galvez House one fall morning in 1982, I received a call from him. He was obviously upset, saying that he’d been told that the university would no longer have a job for him after the end of the school year. He was particularly worried about the imminent loss of health insurance. We eventually worked it out so that he retired from the university, thereby retaining health coverage and his pension. But I was furious with the university. Many years later, when I was asked to accept the Evans Award for outstanding alumni, I did so only on the condition that my father be acknowledged too. To this day I’m a major supporter of the Graduate School of International Studies, which was renamed in honor of my advisor Dr. Korbel, but I don’t feel close ties to the broader university.

Daddy’s situation threw everything into a tailspin. The house that my parents had bought in 1979 had been a stretch for them financially on two salaries. Now they simply couldn’t afford the mortgage. That spring I went back to Denver and helped Mother and Daddy find a small but very nice condo not far from where they’d lived. It broke my heart to see their furniture, particularly the grand piano, jammed into the small living room. Mother had always wanted a house of her own and had finally gotten it, only to have to sell it a few years later. We all pretended that it was better since I was no longer at home and they didn’t really need the space. It was true that the old house was a lot to maintain, and Daddy was glad not to have to cope with the flight of stairs that made his knees ache. But losing the house was a bitter pill for Mother and a source of deep embarrassment for my dad. For me it was more evidence that my parents’ investment in me—skating, piano, St. Mary’s Academy—had cost them dearly in terms of their own financial security.

Eventually my parents adjusted to their new life. Mother continued to teach, carrying most of the financial burden. My father was able to piece together consulting work and became very active with a nonprofit that counseled troubled young men and helped them find work. He loved it, but it paid him almost nothing. Daddy kept looking for new employment, but nothing materialized. Yet he maintained his dignity and sense of humor.

I tried to help my parents financially when I could. They visited me in California each Thanksgiving between 1982 and 1984. I paid their way, calling it their early Christmas present so as not to embarrass them. Occasionally, if I received a little extra income from a speech or an honorarium for an article, I’d just pay a bill for them without saying so.

But I too was under some financial strain, since I’d decided to buy my first house in the fall of 1982. With my Princeton book contract in hand, I was pretty sure that I would make it through the three-year review and be reappointed to the faculty. I decided to take the home-ownership plunge. Stanford offered very generous assistance to young professors who wanted to buy in the insane housing market of northern California. When I needed to dip into my grandfather’s small trust to help with the down payment, I called Aunt Theresa, who was thrilled that I was doing the responsible thing and buying a house.

“How much does it cost?” she asked.

“A hundred and twenty-four thousand dollars,” I answered.

“Don’t you think that’s a little above your means?” she huffed. Aunt Theresa was by this time living in Edwardsville, Illinois, and I am sure that her five-bedroom house was worth about half of what the two-bedroom, one-bath condo on the Stanford campus was about to cost me.

Fortunately, my father convinced her that it was a legitimate purchase, and I bought 74 Pearce Mitchell. I loved my little place, even though I could stand in the living room and see the entire condo. For several months I had to put my toothpaste purchases on my credit card, but in the long run the investment paid off.

Over the next few years I continued to do well at Stanford. My first book, Uncertain Allegiance: The Soviet Union and the Czechoslovak Army, was published. I was so happy to be able to give my mother the first advance copy as a Christmas present.

Toward the end of the 1984–85 school year, I received a call from the Stanford president’s office letting me know that I would receive the Gores Award for Excellence in Teaching, the university’s highest honor. The award would be bestowed at commencement, and the university would pay for my parents to come if they wanted. I waited until I knew they would both be home and called with the news. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew that they were both crying. It was a thrilling moment for the three of us. Weeks later they attended the commencement ceremony, held under bright blue skies at the Stanford baseball stadium. It was one of our happiest days together.