History of Baruch College Book and Exhibit

3. War and Postwar: "Downtown City," 1940-1955

In some circles the war that swept through Europe (and also influenced the United States) between 1914 and 1918 is known as the Great War, but to the generation of Americans who reached maturity in the forties and fifties, it was World War II that had the greater impact. From every point of view, it appears to have been an enormously significant turning point. The economic, social and diplomatic transformations precipitated by the global struggle against Fascism and aggression made the postwar world vastly different from the one that had existed prior to 1939.

This was particularly true for children from the immigrant groups who had first come to New York City in the early twentieth century. The upheaval of war brought them opportunities undreamed of in pre-war years. Among other improvements, the G.I. Bill, decreased bigotry, and the longest period of prosperity in American history gave hundreds of thousands of second-generation Americans a chance at higher education and entry into previously barred occupations.

At the School of Business, the war years saw little innovation, but beginning with the enrollment of the first veterans in 1944, the winds of change were felt at 23rd Street. They continued to blow for the next decade, culminating, on October 8, 1953, with a convocation in the Pauline Edwards Theatre (the auditorium). At this solemn occasion, complete with academic costume, speeches by dignitaries (such as Alfred P. Sloane, the president of General Motors)and congratulatory letters from President Eisenhower and Eleanor Roosevelt, it was proudly announced that the School of Business and Civic Administration of the College of the City of New York had adopted the name of a leading financier and advisor to presidents. It would now be known as the Bernard M. Baruch School of Business and Public Administration. A festive lunch at the Hotel Commodore followed the ceremonies, and the Ticker published a special edition, filled with congratulations from well-wishers. Some observers, as William Shakespeare had done on another occasion, asked "What's in a name?"

Despite such cynicism, the new title and the widespread publicity given to the event were important because they were positive proof that change had taken place in the years between 1945 and 1953, both in the School itself and in the economic climate of the city in which it functioned. As a result of these changes, the newly named Baruch School was considerably different from its pre-war predecessors. Some of the innovations were attributable to leadership from within, but many resulted from the great alterations that occurred outside, as the nation moved from the wartime forties into the prosperous fifties.

Change did not come easily. These years were marked by conflict, both external and internal. The battles were prolonged and the issues significant, involving the place of the School within City College; balancing the interests of the liberal-arts faculty with the interests of those who taught professional courses; the desirability of graduate education; the relative importance of teaching and research and the choice of a broad business education or a more specialized one. Partly because of this clash of interests, more was proposed than realized, and, overall, there was not enough change. In many respects, the School of Business needed major surgery, not the bandages that were applied to its persistent ills. But some change did take place, and with the advantage of hindsight it is possible to see that a foundation for a future transformation was being laid in the postwar years, to come to fruition in the sixties.

A New Broom: Dean Herman Feldman (1940-1942)

There was a hiatus of almost a year after Moore's departure, during which Law Professor Lewis Mayers reluctantly assumed responsibility for the School of Business. In September 1940, Herman Feldman arrived at 23rd Street. As we have already seen, this graduate of City College (class of 1915), most recently professor of industrial relations at the prestigious Amos Tuck Business School of Dartmouth College, was a very different kind of dean than his predecessor. Appalled at what he found at 23rd Street, ambitious for a future in university administration, energetic and articulate by nature, Feldman launched a multifaceted attack on the physical conditions, curriculum and faculty at the School of Business.

Partly because his whirlwind approach stirred opposition at an institution unused to so much administrative action, he remained for less than two years, returning to Dartmouth in the fall of 1942 with a diminished desire to administer and leaving little changed behind him.

Feldman's most important achievement was the creation of two massive reports on the conditions existing at the School of Business and Civic Administration, subtitled "A First Report to the Faculty of the School, with Recommendations for a Program of Development" and "Curricular Progress and Department Problems," a review based on the responses to his request for department reports. These two documents and an additional one produced by the Plant Committee he established, reinforced some of Love's criticisms as well as those of the Survey Committee. They were, however, far more balanced and presented a more reliable picture of the School of Business and Civic Administration as it was at age thirty, a decade after its move into a new building and midway in its period of growth and change.(1)

To paraphrase Gilbert and Sullivan, Herman Feldman acted like the very model of a modern administrator, requesting "wish lists" from the departments, summarizing them in his first report and then assigning a committee of skilled and experienced compromisers to make recommendations after consultations with faculty, students and alumni. Compromise was essential; years of overcrowding and neglect, to say nothing of the hostilities generated by the Survey Committee and subsequent diminution of the power of the liberal arts and sciences faculty had exacerbated tensions, particularly regarding space.

Lack of classrooms had led to overlarge classes, huge lectures (Principles of Statistics, for example, was taught by lecture to 300 students in a room where most of them could not see the black-board), and forced a cap on the number of sections that could be offered. Office space was at a premium; the Government Department, which had only one full-time member but several part-timers, told the new dean that their tiny quarters, a room that held one file cabinet, one desk, one typewriter and no telephone, was quite inadequate. The Law Department was even more crowded, having only two desks in one room for five day-session lecturers and eighteen who taught in the evening.

History had no office at all. Economics instructors were scattered. The psychology department was limited to one multi-purpose classroom. Even accounting, the most important of the departments, complained about oversized classes and lack of room for its large staff: Unlike most of the departments, it had both a telephone and a secretary, but its members were far from content. Especially in the evening session, instructors, of whatever rank, literally had no place to hang their hats.

Feldman was told that lack of space also prevented departments from offering specialized courses or sponsoring extracurricular activities, such as theatrical or orchestral performances. The art department could not offer studio courses, and foreign language instructors could not use educational recordings. A number of departments, not only the sciences, wanted laboratories so students could have hands-on experiences. The hygiene department was the most unrealistic; it asked for a larger swimming pool and outdoor space for athletics.(2)

What did Feldman make of all this? Except for the request for additional laboratories from the science departments (he thought they already had more than was warranted), he was extremely sympathetic. In the first segment of his own massive report, entitled "Proper Housing for a Metropolis' College of Commerce," he attempted to account for the predicament of the School of Business. Extensive and unexpected growth in enrollments in the twenties and thirties and the relocation of the Townsend Harris High School when it had appeared that there would be unused space at 23rd Street had led to a situation where, in 1940, "5,000 students and staff members used the building between nine and three, 2,000 more in the late afternoon, and 7,500 in the evening," creating jammed elevators, overstuffed classrooms and "unsafe occupancy."(3)

Bad as the physical discomforts were, however, the psychological damage was even greater. Although, as the dean said on every possible occasion, there was no academic basis for such feelings, faculty and students felt inferior, especially when they compared their condition with other units of City College, the developing campus at Brooklyn College and the brand-new building being erected for Hunter. Furthermore, the School was prevented from receiving visitors, holding conferences or acting in the manner to which its position as the world's largest college of commerce "situated in the greatest commercial laboratory in the world," entitled it. As Feldman plaintively asked, "Who feels like inviting [anyone] under present conditions of overcrowding, lack of cleanliness and lack of mere paint?"(4)

The crowded, shabby lobby, which is what a visitor, invited or not, would see first, was of great concern to him, but he also wanted to close the smelly, unsanitary cafeteria, provide more comfort and convenience for the faculty, increase the library's space and provide room for student organizations and publications. At the very least, the dean said, maintenance should be improved. A professional custodian was essential: "A School of Business should exemplify principles of efficiency... in lighting, ventilation and equipment rather than permit these to be a source of derision," as they were at the present time.(5)

With a few exceptions, the Plant Committee, which reported in 1942, agreed with the dean's priorities. But the members also had some of their own. In spite of the fact that the war would probably mean more women students, most of whom would probably want to prepare for teaching commercial subjects, long-standing hostility to sharing their limited facilities with other units of the College led the committee to recommend the expulsion of the Department of Education from 23rd Street and conversion of its considerable space into offices for the neediest departments.

There was considerable difference of opinion between the dean and the Plant Committee on the allocation of space for the evening session. Feldman did not want this part of the college to grow and therefore planned to deny them the use of the about-to-be freed Townsend Harris floors for classrooms. This would have been a major blow because the evening session had always been able to use those rooms after the high school ended its session at 3:00 P.M.. Ignoring the fact that evening-session students constituted more than 57 percent of the total matriculated enrollment and that there were also a huge number of fee-paying nonmatriculants attending at night, Feldman rather casually advised the Board of Education to rent space for them in nearby buildings. The Plant Committee, however, recognizing the size and importance of the evening session, left large portions of the upper floors for their use.(6)

Feldman was not the first dean to show hostility to the evening session. In 1939, usually passive Justin Moore (possibly to retaliate against Robert Love, one of his severest critics, who had recently, over Moore's objections, been made assistant director of the Evening Session by the powers uptown), had enumerated its many failings: classes were overcrowded, the sequence of courses was illogical, prerequisites were ignored and teachers were not "inspected," although, because they were "inadequate and lacked preparation," they should have been carefully supervised.(7)

Evening-session students, when polled, agreed with Moore and added some grievances of their own, teacher inadequacies being the first item on their list. This should not have come as a surprise to anyone; a large proportion of the evening-session faculty were teaching from four to twelve hours a week on top of their basic fifteen-hour day schedule, and some also led an active, nonteaching professional life. The underlying cause of this overloading was the low salaries paid to all faculty and the result was some very poor teaching.

The evening session was troublesome in other ways as well. A Board of Higher Education study demonstrated that only 12 percent of the evening session BBA candidates actually graduated, and that many of the students who followed the path of limited matriculation initiated by Dean Robinson in 1931 used the designation in order to save on tuition but were really nonmatriculants in every other way. Feldman saw a better way to separate the sheep (true BBA candidates) from the goats (less qualified students masquerading in scholarly clothing), elevate at least one part of the evening session and remove some of the tarnish from the "real" School of Business and Civic Administration. He recommended that the "bargain" category of limited matriculant be abandoned and that a short course, leading to a diploma or a certificate in business administration, be offered to those students unable or unwilling to pursue the full course leading to the BBA. A dozen years later, his suggestion bore fruit when the School began to offer an Associate in Applied Science degree (AAS) in accounting, advertising, foreign trade, retailing, sales and specialized stenography.(8)

If Feldman had known about this, he would have been very pleased because his vision of a "college" of business (he consistently overlooked the fact that the School of Business was only part of a college), had never included a somewhat disorderly evening session, largely staffed with part-time practitioners, not scholars, and attended by students of less than Ivy League caliber. In spite of these views, Feldman did little to change the evening session while he was the dean, and sad to relate, all of the discussion regarding space also came to naught. Thus, a twenty-fifth anniversary report, issued two years after he had left, reiterated all the familiar pleas for more space, particularly specialized space, saying that the absence of such facilities was the greatest handicap faced by the School of Business and Civic Administration.(9)

Feldman's appetite for identifying problems and moving for change was not limited to the physical and financial sphere. During his brief tenure, he combined the results of two earlier curriculum studies done by students and alumni at the request of his immediate predecessor, Acting Dean Mayers, with a new report (based in large part on the departmental self-study he had requested) and culminating in a series of recommendations for curricular change.

Unfortunately, except for removing marketing and management courses from the swollen Department of Economics and creating a new Department of Business Administration to house them, Feldman had as little success with programs as with space. His one achievement, however, should not be minimized. By creating a fourth business department (Accounting had been established in 1927, and Law, required for the CPA examination, in 1936), he gave recognition to the truly professional subjects and their practitioners while reducing the influence of the more theoretical economists. With this action, he defused some of the anger that had led to the drastic Love and Survey Committee reports.

In other respects, however, two years after Feldman left, the basic divisions of the curriculum remained virtually the same as they had been in 1932. True, a much-criticized senior thesis and comprehensive examination in foreign languages had been dropped in 1940, but the 128 credits that were required for graduation were still divided into a cultural base of 58.5 credits (maximum), an economic and social foundation of 27 credits, a 24 credit specialization and the remainder (typically 20 credits) to be taken in free electives.(10)

Feldman's failure to achieve meaningful curricular change was not from want of effort but rather the result of poor timing. The United States entry into World War II came just at the point that his massive reports were ready for faculty consideration, but the period that followed Pearl Harbor, marked by the departure of both students and instructional staff, was not a favorable time to consider new curricular directions. This goes far to explain why the curriculum of the School of Business, although unsatisfactory to many, was not revamped. But Feldman's failure was not total. Although unproductive in 1941 and 1942, the studies generated by the energetic dean provided the first thorough and systematic look at what the School of Business and Civic Administration was offering to its students after a decade of headlong growth, and thus provided a base upon which others might build when the times were more propitious.

Several clear themes appear in all the Feldman era reports, the oldest and most persistent being the struggle between the advocates of a practical education for students of business and those who favored a broader and more cultural one. The quarrel manifested itself in a number of ways and was exacerbated by the fact that the liberal-arts departments at 23rd Street were largely creatures of their uptown colleagues; they were often forced to offer more intellectually demanding courses than most of the people downtown wanted. The English department was a favorite target of criticism on this score.

Teach them how to write and speak good English, including business English, and drop your esoteric literature offerings, said the dean and the business faculty. Feldman was explicit; he wanted the English Department to offer fewer literature classes and instead use the instructional time to correct written work submitted by students in other courses. He was thus giving the English department the responsibility for "writing across the curriculum," truly a formidable assignment.

Did the situation justify such a drastic step? According to many different sources, the dean and faculty evidently found the scholars at 23rd Street deficient in spoken and written English, but how unprepared could they have been? The New York City public schools in the thirties and forties taught grammar, emphasized spelling and gave students practice in writing essays. Furthermore, these "defective" students had earned a Regents' diploma, and a high-school average of B or better.(11)

These facts raise questions as to what really lay behind the faculty's alarm. Was it truly the lack of technical writing skills that was troubling Feldman, and the others? Or was it one more example of the battle to Americanize the children of immigrants that colored so much of the curriculum at all educational levels in New York City from the late nineteenth century on? There is considerable evidence to suggest that the latter reason was the cause of the stress on good English at the School of Business. Administrators, individual departments, student publications, the Plant Committee and the alumni--rarely united on school policy--agreed that members of the student body, because they were the children of immigrants, needed training in the amenities: manners, social graces, good citizenship, proper dress, cleanliness, neatness, even honesty.

Ruth Wright, the chairman of the Department of Student Life since 1943, for example, had drawn on her daily experiences to produce a report that reinforced these views: "The students markedly lack social skills, the ability to meet people and to get along with them.... They cannot engage in conversation in other than an argumentative fashion . . . even their drive, persistence and competitiveness ...offends employers and others."(12) The crowded, dirty building on 23rd Street, without adequate coatrooms, lockers, washrooms, security or "nicely fitted rooms for social occasions" offered few opportunities to develop these qualities.

Feldman received much support when he said that more health education, lockers, cloakrooms, "well-appointed lounges" and a clean cafeteria were all weapons in the struggle to bring the "little aliens" into the mainstream culture. Standard English, spoken and written, was, of course, proof positive that Americanization had taken place. To achieve it, the faculty at 23rd Street advocated intensive efforts at speech and writing remediation.

From the vantage point of the 1980's, much of this seems very strange. After two decades of glorifying ethnic differences, there is now much less interest in imposing mainstream American culture on children from foreign backgrounds. One reason for this is that, thanks to government action in the sixties, members of all minority groups have less reason to be concerned with discriminatory hiring practices. This was not the case in the thirties and forties. Jewish students who could "fit in" were more likely to be hired than those whose dentalized "t" and rising intonation, as well as poor spelling and "pushy" manners, labeled them as being of foreign background.(13)

It was certainly not only the dean and faculty who felt this way; students were very much aware of the realities of the job market and ranked English, hygiene and public speaking as the three subjects they most needed. They also wanted courses that would teach courtesy, cleanliness, tact, poise and good social behavior. They demanded a great deal because, as discussed earlier, anti-Semitism and resulting job discrimination was one of the reasons they were at the School of Business in the first place.

There is considerable evidence, both direct and indirect, that many of the diligent accounting students wanted to be engineers or academics but believed, correctly, that few jobs in these areas were open to Jews, no matter how qualified. Even at 23rd Street they specialized mostly in subject areas where Jews had a good track record, such as accountancy, and not in finance or personnel work. Feldman, among others, deplored the fact that 72 percent of the day-session students and 50 percent of the evening-session students were preparing to be accountants, because he felt this made the School of Business seem too vocational. It is clear, however, that he also understood why the statistics were so skewed.

There was less agreement between dean and students on other aspects of the liberal-arts curriculum. Perhaps because for many the School of Business had been a second choice, they opposed the dean's request to cut the number of English electives and asked for more courses on contemporary prose and poetry, as well as the classics. Not all liberal-arts courses, however, found favor. A student poll indicated that the sciences, mathematics and foreign languages, as then taught, were seen as useless and needed to be revamped so as to be of use in business and industry.(14)

Did the views of the alumni, out in the real world, differ from those of the students? Not very much. Graduates of the School of Business and Civic Administration said that "uncertainties regarding employment conditions . . . [necessitated] that vocational training be emphasized," but at the same time "mastery of the fundamental cultural tools [was] essential to economic security and social wellbeing." The alumni also agreed with the undergraduates on the need for changes regarding science and foreign-language teaching and with everybody on the need for English and speech remediation.(15)

Regardless of the wishes of the students, both past and present, there was no real possibility that more liberal-arts courses would be offered at 23rd Street. The administration uptown did not wish to diminish the offerings of their flagship College of Liberal Arts and Sciences; moreover they never received enough funding to do justice to all of their divisions. Furthermore, Feldman was much more interested in the business curriculum. The economics department was his special target. Claiming that they demanded completion of five prescribed courses for "historical reasons, not real need," he called upon them to modernize their curriculum as well as their methods of teaching.(16)

Furthermore, he said, their courses did not prepare students for the employment opportunities available in New York City. Although the School of Business was "located at what is now the financial center of the world," few finance, banking or insurance courses were offered, and there was no attempt to link classroom work with the existing institutions of the financial world, such as international banks or the Stock Exchange. As he had when discussing the unfortunate (in his view) predominance of accounting majors, Feldman recognized the "special limitations affecting our graduates in seeking employment" at such institutions but felt that the problem was inadequate preparation at 23rd Street as well as anti-Semitism.(17)

The government department also felt the back of his hand. Jobs in New Deal agencies proliferated, but not enough School of Business students were prepared to fill them. Why, Feldman asked, was a school which included civic administration in its name not even mentioned in the professional literature? Student interest, especially when teaching opportunities diminished, was high, and it behooved the department to end its inertia (a condition that affected most of the 23rd Street departments, according to the dean), and develop new courses, a new specialization and a Master of Public Administration (MPA) program. To speed them on their way, he appointed a committee made up of faculty from interested departments and enlisted the support of the uptown chairman. His efforts were not in vain, although wartime needs had more to do with the expansion of public administration courses at the School of Business than anything Feldman initiated.(18)

The war affected the curriculum of the School of Business in other ways as well. As would be expected, the military science department became more important, mathematics gave a concentrated course to students about to enter the service, and the history department related its work to the background of wartime issues. These initiatives were warmly welcomed by the students because their previous opposition to the war, at least as expressed in the Ticker, changed enormously after Pearl Harbor.

On December 8, 1941, "shocked and sober," they filed quietly into the auditorium to hear a broadcast of President Roosevelt's war message. Stimulated by this, the students sent a message of support to the College president, Harry Wright. In spite of this ringing statement, however, the students were not altogether happy with some of the emergency steps taken by the administration. They were particularly displeased [with] the accelerated calendar, which provided for three semesters a year instead of the customary two and therefore, as the Ticker said, made it certain that upperclassmen would be drafted sooner. But by and large, however, patriotism was the rule of the day. The ROTC, for example, which for many years was anathema to the Ticker and many of its readers, now became a source of reassurance. It was the best of the reserve forces, said the editors in that frightening December 1941, and would valiantly protect the country from its enemies. During the war years, political dissent virtually disappeared from the newspaper as a series of women editors urged unity and good works.(19)

Calendar changes, draft counselling, air raid drills and emergency faculty committees were all part of the response to the war. In addition, several new initiatives for fee-paying students were undertaken, partly to compensate for the drop in nonmatriculant enrollments. A series of courses in distributive education--aimed at mature, already employed men and women and based on cooperation with business persons--was developed by Robert Love and grew into a large Intensive Technical and Business Program (ITBP) after the war, thanks to veterans enrolling with G.I. Bill benefits. By 1947 it was flourishing in a separate center at 50th Street, offering noncredit courses in advertising, finance, foreign trade, small business management and salesmanship. An Emergency Science and Management program to train both men and women to do specialized work was also begun in cooperation with the School of Technology.(20)

Feldman did not stay long enough to make his mark on any of these new programs. His stated reason for leaving after the spring 1942 semester was lack of administrative support, but in truth, he had more assistance than any previous dean. On the other hand, no other dean had tried to do as much as he had. Feldman's reach had exceeded his grasp and in the process of trying to change the whole school quickly, he had raised many hackles. In spite of this, he was missed. Indeed, it took an entire committee to fill his shoes: for three years, under the chairmanship of Professor Herbert Ruckes, an Administrative Committee (Harry Kuntzlemen and Robert Love were the other members), governed the School of Business and Civic Administration. Although he carried heavy responsibilities, Ruckes was not named acting dean until just before the arrival of his successor, Thomas Norton, who assumed office in September 1945.(21)

A Successful Dean: Thomas Norton, 1945-1955

Like Feldman, Norton had been associated with Dartmouth College as student and teacher. He had earned his Ph.D at Columbia University and was a specialist in labor relations; indeed, at the point that he came to the School of Business, he was regional chairman of the War Labor Board. His skill as a mediator may explain both his ability to remain as dean for ten critical years and also his election to the Executive Committee of the influential American Assembly of Collegiate Schools of Business (AACSB), but there was more to Norton than merely the ability to get along with people. In his very first speech to the faculty, he showed the pragmatic and common-sense approach he would use throughout his tenure. "The School of Business and Civic Administration," he said, "should be an undergraduate school, concerned with the question of earning a living."(22)

With this in mind, Norton concentrated his efforts on broadening students' choices of majors and strengthening ties between the School and the business community. He also reluctantly supported the graduate program. His primary concern was with overspecialization by students, who tended to take most of their electives in business courses connected to their majors, and with the narrow specialization requirements themselves. He also criticized the heavy hand of the past: "In one sense we can say that the required courses [in 1946, the time he was writing] are in the Bulletin only because the School happened to offer them in 1918-1920."(23) Surely the Depression, the war and the recent changes in the government's role in the economy should have led to alterations in the curriculum of the economics department, at least, but this had not happened.

Norton could build on Feldman's work because he came to the School of Business after the war, when enrollments burgeoned and the economy boomed, and because he stayed longer. Although the cultural base was not his major interest, following the guidelines of the Truman Commission Report on Higher Education, Norton recommended changes that broadened student choices in the humanities and social sciences, shortened the lengthy foreign language requirements and added an additional composition course for all but the most able. All of these proposals received faculty approval and were incorporated into the curriculum. There was more change on the business side. Business administration, the huge umbrella department begun by Feldman, ventured into newer fields such as industrial psychology, market research and statistics, while greatly expanding its retailing offerings under the leadership of an expert full professor, John Wingate, brought in by Norton just for this purpose.

The dean wanted to see majors in these newer business disciplines on the theory that they were best suited to the economic life of the city. This desire to be linked to the outside world also explains his enthusiasm for a new program he established, Cooperative Business Training. The first of these efforts was in retailing and had the support of department store owner Nathan Ohrbach, Sr. By 1950, there were also programs in advertising, credit, foreign trade, management and statistics. Each was supervised by an advisory committee of businessmen from the appropriate field. Specially selected seniors worked twenty hours a week in accredited firms, attended regular classes and seminars and received a salary and four credits.

Lexicon saw a threefold benefit: to the students, many of whom went on to permanent positions in the company in which they had trained; to the employer who got a chance to hire experienced employees; and to the school, which was able to keep the curriculum up to date. Norton saw a further advantage: the businessmen who participated became interested supporters of the School, contributing both expertise and time. The dean's interest in outreach resulted in still another new program for the School of Business. In 1955, in conjunction with the Police Academy, a program of collegiate training leading to an Associate degree (AAS) in Police Science was begun. The program was a success and laid the foundation for the establishment of the John Jay College of Criminal Justice a dozen years later.(24)

Although the sum total of the program changes during Norton's decade of leadership did not add up to a revolution, there was certainly modernization. One of the reasons he was able to accomplish as much as he did was that he held the threat of competition over the heads of the faculty. Starting in the late thirties, the other municipal colleges attempted to educate for business, a most alarming prospect for the School of Business and Civic Administration and one they constantly fought. The changes of the Norton era strengthened their defenses.(25)

The School of Business also had to defend its graduate program, which was done on both educational and practical grounds. The BBA alone, it was said, did not offer sufficient training for the modern business world, and the low tuition charged at 23rd Street ($5 per credit compared to $12.50 at Columbia and $11 at NYU) made it possible for less affluent students to earn a master's degree. Less altruistically, the faculty believed that a graduate program embellished the image of the School. Unfortunately, there was also much to criticize in the School of Business graduate programs of the forties. In order to increase enrollments, all courses were open to undergraduates and graduate students alike, and those who had received a BA degree elsewhere could use undergraduate business credits they earned at 23rd Street toward the total needed for an MBA.

Another unseemly practice--automatically issuing the MBA after a fifth year of study--was frequently attacked. Several critics urged that the faculty limit itself to giving nondegree courses to adults interested in increasing their business expertise until the resources of the School permitted the establishment of a real graduate school. This was the view expressed in the Strayer report. It urged slow expansion of the graduate program, an immediate end to shared classes and more emphasis on adult education.

Norton's objection to the graduate program was based on its cost. Graduate programs were not supported by tax levy funds, and the income produced by the $5-per-credit fee was not enough to cover its expenses. As a result, the School of Business MBA program was being indirectly supported by undergraduate funds. While not suggesting that it be abandoned, Norton did recommend that admission to the graduate school be limited to the most qualified students and thus remain small. His advice was not taken; indeed, the most popular MBA major, accountancy, diversified its specializations into private, public and tax accounting during his tenure, and newer disciplines such as advertising and management also expanded.(26)

Whatever his inner reservations, Norton went along with the trend, encouraging the establishment of the MPA degree in 1950 under the direction of a recognized expert, Wallace Sayre, and appointing an assistant dean for graduate studies later that year. In one of his last reports he boasted that the School had enrolled more than a thousand graduate students per semester during his tenure. His figures were reasonably accurate. About 100 MBA's per year were being awarded by 1955, a modest increase over the 78 issued in 1948. The poor quality of the program made the growth less impressive, but after ten years at 23rd Street, Norton was ready to overlook this and even urged the faculty to consider a Ph.D. program in Accountancy.(27)

The dean's boosterism should be taken with a grain of salt, but the change in his attitude certainly endeared him to the business faculty at 23rd Street, who had many reasons to value the MBA program. Graduate teaching meant fewer undergraduate classes and enhanced the importance of the School and the people who taught there, bringing them almost (perhaps) to the level of their uptown brethren. It was less desirable from the point of view of the liberal arts faculty who saw their own resources diminished by the costs of the graduate program. Whatever the doubts, however, the pattern could not be reversed. The always pragmatic dean recognized this and hoped that better administration would make the program more worthwhile.

He was not equally sanguine about another problem that faced him when he took over from Ruckes in 1945. Robert Love, the assistant director of the Evening and Extension Division, was assistant only in the sense that the full director was based uptown. In spite of criticism by Moore and Feldman, he had achieved virtual independence for his unit shortly after his appointment. During the interregnum between Feldman's departure and Norton's arrival, Love had further established himself and enlarged both the reach of the division (all of the wartime programs were in his bailiwick) and his own power.

In 1947, almost 4,000 degree candidates and over 5,500 nonmatriculants were enrolled in the evening session, attending classes at six different centers in the Gramercy Park area. Love gleefully boasted that more courses were offered in the evening session than in the day. Scorning criticism (other than agreeing that many of his faculty needed more training), he pictured his empire as an exceedingly happy place, complete with Friday-night dances on the stage of the auditorium and cookies and punch on demand.

Love thought his accomplishments were at least equal to those of the dean; in an organizational chart prepared for the Board of Higher Education, he placed himself at the same level as Norton, that is, responsible only to the President of the College. This posture was not at all to Norton's liking. The dean strongly favored integration of the Evening and Extension Division into the rest of the School. To limit Love's independence, he appointed an ally, John Wingate, as co-assistant director and in a strongly worded report successfully attacked a proposal suggested by the Board of Higher Education and supported by Love--to establish five Schools of General Studies at the various municipal colleges, including one at 23rd Street.(28)

In 1950, the dean apparently felt strong enough to clip Love's wings further and appointed an advisory council to the evening session to "further integrate" the work of the School. The faculty supported him; they said that the director was only in charge of administrative matters and must consult with and notify the various departments on all academic matters. Love continued to fight back with the support of that portion of the faculty who were comfortable with the current arrangements (especially the subchairmen who acted as evening-session representatives for extra compensation), but his position had been weakened by the failure of his beloved IBTP, which had lost students as G. I. Bill benefits expired. The program was discontinued in June 1956. As a result, at the end of his tenure Norton was able to say that the Evening and Extension Division had been integrated into the School as a whole.(29)

He had less success in other areas, notably the problem of space. The removal of the Townsend Harris High School had brought some relief, as had the wartime drop in enrollments, but the influx of students after the war brought new problems. Norton, like his predecessors, was acutely aware of the need for additional space. In his first report to the faculty, he commended the Plant Committee for its hard work, saying that the "redistribution of dissatisfaction" was never a pleasant task.(30) His choice of words was apt: without the acquisition of additional space, no real progress could be made. After two years of working at 23rd Street, Norton concluded that the School needed three times its present facilities. He proceeded to search for space that would allow the School to remain in its present location where it was "ideally suited to serve the professional and business needs of metropolitan New York."(31)

In spite of his best efforts, however, he was able to accomplish little. After a decade as dean, he could report that an "excellent" Registrar's Office had been created "out of air" from the upper floor of what had been the two-tier library and that "out of nothing," there was now an office for curricular guidance. He had performed additional magic and found room for a public relations office, which opened in 1947 with a part-time administrative assistant in charge. Although hampered by lack of staff, it "brought the accomplishments of the School of Business to the general public and businessmen in particular" and even published a "Faculty-Staff Newsletter." Also, some of the specialized rooms requested by certain departments had been created, but overall, significant relief, except for improved student activity facilities, did not come to the School of Business until the late sixties.(32)

Student Concerns and Concerns About Students

Students recognized that space improvements were essential but what troubled them more was their need for money, jobs and a successful social life. Clearly, the first two concerns were most urgent in the thirties. As the Ticker said, what mattered to students was the "problem of what to do with our diplomas when we graduate and how to get a job this summer so we can return to school next term." Lexicon expressed student worries poetically:

Now, now little senior, don't you cry
You'll get a good job, by and by
Just tell them you come from CCNY
And wait . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (33)

To avoid the expected long wait, Ticker urged that the School of Business and Civic Administration establish an employment office of its own, instead of relying on the uptown one. Such an office could also be useful for part-time work before graduation. Even President Robinson, usually seen as remote from student concerns, recognized the need for jobs uptown and downtown and supported student petitions for additional federal emergency-relief money to pay for college jobs. Possibly as a result, funding for the National Youth Administration (NYA), the successor agency to the emergency student work-relief program, became available in the autumn of 1935, but there were never enough jobs to meet the demand. The Ticker more than once ran an editorial which urged only those students who really needed the money to apply. The administration, for its part, tried to stretch available funds to the utmost.

In any case, at its peak, only 10 percent of the students were working at NYA jobs. Given the low income of most of those enrolled, it would be fair to assume that the remainder also needed part-time work. The faculty was sensitive to this issue and had formed a Committee on Student Employment, which recommended that the School acquire a full-time professional employment officer with clerical help, an adequate office and enough money to operate effectively. In January 1939, when the worst of the Depression was over, such an office was opened, but funding was not adequate. The full-time director was in place, but without a telephone or money for postage, he was not able to do very much. Eighteen months later, the bureau was still without funds, leading a desperate Acting Dean Mayers to ask the Board of Higher Education for permission to use $250 from student fees for petty cash expenditure. Four months later, the Board agreed.(34)

The employment prospects of the School of Business graduates were a matter of concern to everyone at 23rd Street; other student-centered matters concerned only the faculty and administration. At various times, they considered solutions for behavioral problems such as cheating, and after much discussion, a better freshman orientation program emerged as the remedy of choice. Until well into the forties, newcomers were required to attend Freshman Chapel, which was led by older students and aimed more at entertaining the younger students than showing them the way to conduct themselves in college. For more serious guidance, personal or academic, students would have to go up to St. Nicholas Heights. No guidance office existed at 23rd Street. Many faculty members served as advisors to clubs and publications, and others voluntarily helped students on an informal basis, but few would accept a permanent addition to their already heavy work load.

Herman Feldman suggested a solution that would deal with all of these problems and also help students with their academic work, namely the appointment of an advisor to men (there was already a girls' dean), which was accomplished in February 1941. Frank Shuttleworth, whose title was later changed to Dean of Men, was the first person to occupy the position. In October 1943, the two offices were combined into the Department of Student Life with Ruth Wright, the former Dean of Girls, as chairman. The new department was charged with a double task: to advise students and supervise their extracurricular activities.(35)

This arrangement worked during the war when the male population was small, but proved to be an impossible task afterwards. In May 1946, therefore, an Assistant Dean for Guidance, Ralph J. Kamenoff, was appointed. He had no full-time staff but instead conducted his office with the aid of five faculty members who were relieved of some of their teaching duties in order to counsel students. Kamenoff apparently did well; five years later he was commended for preparing a curricular guidance handbook, updated annually, which helped clarify the somewhat complicated requirements of the School of Business and Civic Administration. He also was very well liked by the students, who called him "the shoulder" because he was always ready to listen to an individual problem and find a remedy.

Wearing another hat, that of Chairman of the Committee on Academic Standing, Kamenoff could also have been called "the enforcer." As a result of several changes in grading standards in the late thirties and early forties, it was now more difficult to earn a degree at the School of Business, and Kamenoff and his committee heard a multitude of appeals for dispensations. The motivation for upgrading standards had been pre-war pressure for admission.

Assured that their courses were in demand, as shown by the numbers who wanted to enroll and unable to foresee the drop in registration that followed the U.S. entry into World War II, the faculty saw less reason to coddle weak students. In view of the shortage of seats, it was better that (after what amounted to a probationary two years), they leave and make room for new ones. Also, because the typical student took most of his professional courses after his sophomore year, the business faculty would not need to face the less qualified scholars. In any case, raising grade requirements gave the School more cachet and higher academic status and brought it into line with the grading standards of the College of Liberal Arts uptown.(36)

Meeting the demands of their instructors interfered with extracurricular activities, but this was only one of many obstacles fun-loving students faced. Indeed, given the lack of space at 23rd Street and the fact that a majority attended only part-time and in the evening session at that, student activities in the School of Business and Civic Administration seemed to be somewhat like Dr. Johnson's dancing dog. It didn't matter how good they were, the wonder was that they existed at all.

As a result, the Ticker found it necessary to rebut the prevailing view of the ultra-serious City College "boy" by printing a truly impressive weekly calendar of events. Long before the establishment of the Department of Student Life, there was a proliferation of clubs, reflecting the different religious, vocational, avocational and political interests of the student body. Much of the activity was of the "boy meets girl" variety and some of it, such as the annual boatride, was actually directed by the Student Council Uptown. Viewed as a whole, however, opportunities for fun and games existed at the School all through the years of the Depression, the war and the post-war adjustment, and the image of the City College student as a "greasy grind" was not accurate.

As it was for every activity in the School, finding adequate space was a huge problem to the students. For most of the thirties, a large room known as 5S (for South) was the student lounge. Because it was the only area available, it was overused and became shabby and uncomfortable. Money from the College budget was not available to upgrade it, so the Student Council, using the Ticker as its voice, conducted a year-long campaign in 1935 for student contributions to be used to refurbish and equip Room 5S.

Considering the troubled times and low income of most of the student body, the drive was not a huge success. Even if it had brought in a great deal of money, one lounge was hardly enough. Thus, the in March 1936, the Ticker reported on a search in the Gramercy area adjacent to the School for a "residence" that would provide shelter for at least the House Plan Association. This very large student group was an umbrella organization for the dozen or more houses (often called the poor man's fraternity or the poor woman's sorority), that were extremely popular at 23rd Street.(37)

The various houses, like the Greek letter organizations on which they were patterned, were basically social groups of like-minded people of the same sex and usually the same religion, designed to relieve some of the anomie of a subway college and provide support of various kinds to its members. All the municipal colleges had House Plan Associations, and their dances and parties were important events in the college year, providing a social life (and often a marriage partner) for the hardworking children of the working class who had limited discretionary income.

A search for an additional building conducted in 1936 led House Plan to occupy a "small, meagerly furnished and poorly located building at 138 Lexington Avenue,"(38) but several years later, in the fall of 1943, the generosity of the Lamport Foundation led to the acqusition of a house at 25 East 22nd Street to be used, as the Ticker said, as a "Super 5S" and the headquarters of the School of Business and Civic Administration House Plan Association. Lamport House was purchased, renovated and partially maintained by the donor; other support, including money to pay the salary of an executive director to administer the property and the activities it housed was provided from student fees paid to the House Plan Association.(39)

Other student activities continued to operate out of various offices on the ninth floor of 17 Lexington Avenue, which also housed the Department of Student Life. When Dean Norton first arrived at 23rd Street, he was astounded to find how much was being done in this limited space. Always pragmatic, he was also pleased because he thought that a full extracurricular life developed traits such as loyalty, a cooperative spirit, tact and leadership qualities, all characteristics of a well-rounded personality sought by employers.(40)

Years later, near the end of his tenure as dean, he pointed with pride to the further increase in student organizations during his administration (from forty-five in 1945 to seventy-three in 1955, excluding House Plan), and regretted only that he had been unable to acquire additional space to house them. At one point, he waxed almost poetic:

I envision in the future an annex to this building [17 Lexington Avenue] . . . in which there would be many lounges .... offices for. . . student organizations, a modern cafeteria... even a sun deck painted green for a campus! As I look out of my 16th story window, I can envision students basking in the sun on its roof. Someday it will be a reality.(41))

The building in Norton's daydream was the Children's Court, already linked to 17 Lexington Avenue by a common heating plant. In 1953 it became vacant when the court moved further east on 22nd Street to become part of the Family Court. Four years later the School of Business acquired it for a student center, which opened, after renovations, in 1960.

It never provided sun-bathing facilities and painted any color was no substitute for a campus, but it has been and continues to be a place students can call their own.

Although radicalism at City College had declined since the pre-war years, red-baiting had not. In 1941, the turbulence of the thirties had led the New York State Legislature to establish a joint committee (known by the names of its chairmen, Assemblyman Rapp and Senator Coudert) to investigate subversive activities at the municipal colleges and, by finding evidence of such activities, provide a rationale for cutting the Board of Higher Education's budget. Their investigation resulted in the dismissal of several radical City College professors and the intensive examination of all personnel records at 23rd Street.

The ensuing unfavorable publicity was very worrisome to the faculty at 23rd Street. At a special meeting they endorsed a remarkable resolution, which asked that the teachers and students of the School of Business not be tarred with a red brush as a result "of views that are characteristic of at most, a negligible minority," but instead be seen as having a deep appreciation of their obligations as citizens in a democratic society and as being predominantly interested in a "balanced preparation for business and commercial life." Having stated what was clearly their greatest concern, the resolution went on to exalt the City College tradition of academic freedom and asked that it be preserved, except in the case of those faculty who "exploited their office in the interests of a political organization.(42)

The war came to the United States only nine months later, and both the Rapp-Coudert Committee and student radicalism took a back seat for the duration. In 1949, however, City College once again received unfavorable publicity, which aroused new concerns at 23rd Street. Several of the players implicated in the basketball bribery scandal of that year were from the School of Business, bad news for a school that was training professionals who would manage other people's money. Also, the issue that had so worried the faculty in 1941, namely that their school would unjustly be seen as "red," surfaced again in 1949 during a controversy sparked by charges of anti-Semitism against Professor William Knickerbocker of the romance language department and an accusation of racial bias against an instructor, William C. Davis. All the rallies and confrontations were held uptown, but a group known as the Young Progressives of America appeared downtown and urged their fellow students to join the protests unless President Wright acceded to their demands to suspend Knickerbocker and Davis.

But times had changed at 23rd Street, and both the Ticker and the Student Council were firmly in the hands of moderates, who responded with a series of emergency bulletins under the heading "SC-REVEILLE" and opposed joining any strike on the grounds that such actions "have given the newspapers an opportunity to present the college in a bad light and had incalculably injured the employment possibilities of all City College graduates." At one point, as befitted a school of business, they gave figures to prove their point: "The number of students being placed by our Employment Office is off by 75 percent this week."(43)

The faculty was also very alarmed and discussed various ways by which they could disassociate themselves from the main campus. At a special meeting in May 1949, they established a committee to consider a change in the name of the School, preferably to one that would involve a distinguished person. According to Norton, the students were ready to go even further and secede from City College entirely, but he convinced them that the Board of Higher Education would not countenance such a step and urged that instead they should cooperate with the faculty committee and find a name of a prominent person. This was not a difficult task. As Norton said, "It took only a moment to conclude that there was one great graduate of the College who had attained renown in both business and public service," and his name was Bernard Marines Baruch, class of 1889, former trustee of City College, advisor to presidents and an enormously successful financier.(44)

Clearly, adopting Baruch's name, redolent of successful capitalism, was designed to scotch, once and for all, the idea that downtown City College could turn out "reds" in accountant's clothing. In the early 1950's, after all, with Senator Joseph McCarthy riding high, any charge was possible. It would also, since Mr. Baruch's reputation for integrity was high, blur the "dishonest" blot left by the basketball scandal. Still other reasons were considered. Perhaps the new but worrisome phenomenon of dropping enrollments could be arrested with some good publicity. Also, surely Bernard M. Baruch would not allow his name to be used by anything but a high-quality institution. From every point of view, therefore, renaming the School could only bring much-desired higher status. In any case, the suggestion received Mr. Baruch's approval in the spring of 1953.

As it turned out, the change was a good move but probably not needed to remove the red stain. By 1953, the student body was thoroughly apolitical, not to be reawakened until the Kent State massacre, the invasion of Cambodia and the civil rights movement seventeen years later. Politics virtually disappeared from the Ticker and Lexicon; the annual boat ride and Friday-afternoon dances took center stage. Indifference to world affairs was marked; the fact that a nuclear age had dawned went unmentioned except for a brief note when the Soviet Union exploded its first atomic device.

This change in interests was closely related to the changes in the way the students saw themselves, their school and most important, the larger society by the middle fifties. In the depressed thirties, they had strongly doubted the American dream, but by the prosperous fifties, their faith was strong. In 1935, the Ticker had derided the idea that every American male had an equal chance at the presidency of either the nation or of a large corporation and labeled the idea a lie meant to increase worker productivity in order to enlarge the profits of the "bosses." Two decades later, Lexicon expressed a very different view of social mobility:

Walk east from the center of town. Find the middle class [then the] extremely rich and two blocks further east, the slums [which have] poverty and bad housing but also reassuring sobriety, comfort and the safety of family life . . . . Someday a large portion of these people will be able to move two blocks west.(45)

Lexicon's upbeat view represented those who were about to graduate, but it was apparently widely shared. Although the Baruch School enrolled fewer evening-session students after 1955, it continued to educate sizable numbers of day-session and graduate students who wanted to emulate those who had come before them and use business as the road to the middle class. In spite of its many inadequacies, therefore, the School remained attractive and thus able to survive the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" that assaulted it in the sixties.

NOTES

(1) College of the City of New York, School of Business and Civic Administration, "Faculty Minutes," February 26, 1940, p. 22.

(2) College of the City of New York, School of Business and Civic Administration, "Report of the Plant Committee" (September 1942), 1-2; Herman Feldman, "Curricular Progress and Departmental Problems" (1942), 9, 18, 19, 31, 32, 36, 41, 45, 53.

(3) Herman Feldman, "Current Problems of the School of Business and Civic Administration" (1941), 8.

(4) Ibid., 10.

(5) Ibid., 16-17, 131.

(6) Ibid., 20-21; Feldman, "Plant Committee Report," 1, 6, 7, 1Q.

(7) Feldman, "Current Problems," 119. Moore's criticism of Robert Love's management of the evening session was made in March 1939 but reported in Feldman's 1941 survey.

(8) College of the City of New York, School of Business and Civic Administration, Report Commemorating the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of the School of Business and Civic Administration, 1919-1944," 22; Feldman, "Current Problems," 78; "Faculty Minutes," March 13, 1941, pp. 51-52.

(9) "Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Report," 23.

(10) Feldman, "Current Problems," 62; College of the City of New York, School of Business and Civic Administration, Bulletin, 1943-1944, pp. 1326.

(11) Ibid., 29-31, 72-73; Feldman, "Departmental Problems," 12, 40.

(12) Ruth Wright, "A Proposed Program of Orientation for Freshmen at the School of Business and Civic Administration," quoted in New York State Legislature, New York City Sub-Committee of the Joint Legislative Committee of the State Education System, Report, George Strayer, editor, March, 1944, p. 418.

(13) Feldman, "Current Problems," 13, 15-16, 24, 27, 28, 29.

(14) Author's interviews with Emanuel Saxe, Herman Singer, Roy Newhouse (Class of 1938); College of the City of New York, School of Business and Civic Administration, "Report of the Undergraduate Curriculum Committee," 1948, 38; College of the City of New York, School of Business and Civic Administration, Student Council Curriculum Committee, "A Survey of Student Opinion of Twenty-eight Required Courses in the Curriculum of the School of Business and Civic Administration," October 1939, pp. 4950.

(15) School of Business and Civic Administration, "Report of Alumni Committee on Curriculum," January 26, 1940, p. 1.

(16) Feldman, "Departmental Problems," 51.

(17) Feldman, "Current Problems," 68.

(18) Feldman, "Departmental Problems," 33; Feldman, "Current Problems," 63.

(19) Ticker, December 15, 1941; Lexicon, 1944; 1945.

(20) College of the City of New York, School of Business and Civic Administration, Robert Love, "Annual Report of the Evening and Extension Division," 1946-1947, 9; Florence Newman, "Access to Free Public Higher Education in New York City, 1847-1961," unpublished Ph.D. diss., City University of New York, 1984, 209-212.

(21) "Faculty Minutes," October 11, 1944, p. 145; December 19, 1944, p. 151; October 16, 1942, p. 99.

(22) "Faculty Minutes,"September l, 1945, pp. 172-173; Thomas Norton, "Annual Report," 1946, p. 10; 1947-1948, p. 88.

(23) Thomas Norton, "Where We Are: A Memorandum for the Curriculum Committee," 1946, p. 13.

(24) Norton, "Where We Are," 4, 16; "Faculty Minutes," March 29, 1949, p. 300; December 18, 1950, p. 342; June 12, 1950, pp. 327-328; February 21, 1951, p. 347; March 6, 1951, pp. 350-351; Norton, "Annual Report," 1947, 20; 1955, 5-6, 7-8; Lexicon, 1950.

(25) "Faculty Minutes," April 29, 1948, p. 269; Norton, "Annual Report," 1955, p. 8.

(26) Norton, "Annual Report," 1946, pp. 10, 15; Feldman, "Current Problems," 74-76; Strayer, Report, 506-507; College of the City of New York, School of Business and Civic Administration Alumni, "Report on Curriculum," 1939, p. 6.

(27) Norton, "Annual Report," 1950, p. 142; 1955, pp. 8-9; College of the City of New York, Office of the Register, Baruch School, table showing "Master's Degrees Awarded," 1948-1987.

(28) Norton, "Annual Report," 1955, p. 8; Love, "Annual Report," passim; Robert Love, "Professor Guy Snider," typescript, undated; "Faculty Minutes," May 5, 1950; Thomas Norton, "With Regard to the Proposed Establishment of a School of General Studies at the School of Business and Civic Administration," June 6, 1950, pp. 9, 12. This is included in a binder labeled "Dean's Reports," no date. Newman, "Access," 212-213.

(29) Norton, "Annual Report," 1950, p. 160; 1955, p. 8; "Faculty Minutes," October 2, 1950.

(30) Norton, "Annual Report," 1945, p. 17.

(31) Norton, "Annual Report," 1948, p. 114; 1951, p. 192.

(32) Norton, "Annual Report," 1955, p. 13.

(33) Lexicon, 1935.

(34) Ticker, April 15, 1935; May 13, 1935; December 20, 1935; "Faculty Mintutes," June 17, 1940, p. 33; October 7, 1940, p. 380.

(35) "Faculty Minutes," June 18, 1945, p. 169; March 27, 1945, p. 160; May 27, 1942, p. 89; Feb 23, 1941, pp. 46-47; October 21, 1943, p. 128.

(36) Norton, "Annual Report," 1946, p. 16; 1955, p. 4, 1951, p. 191; "Faculty Minutes," January 12, 1939, pp. 1-2; December 6, 1939, p. 5; March 30, 1942, p. 85; April 5, 1944, p. 138; Lexicon, 1950.

(37) Ticker, April 15, 1935; May 6, 1935; March 2, 1936; March 23, 1936; October 6, 1943.

(38) Feldman, "Current Problems," p. 47.

(39) "Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Report," p. 14.

(40) Norton, "Annual Report," 1946, pp. 24-26, 28.

(41) Norton, "Annual Report," 1955, p. 4.

(42) Ticker, October 2, 1939; December 12, 1940; October 7, 1940; "Faculty Minutes," March 13, 1941, pp. 52, 53.

(43) Ticker, October 6, 1948; "SC-REVEILLE," typescript, pp. 4-21; Young Progressives of America, "Strike Call," typescript, n.d.; "Facts in the Case Against Professor Knickerbocker," typescript, April 1949; "Review of the Facts Concerning Charges Made Against Professor William E. Knickerbocker and the Romance Language Department," typescript, November 8, 1948.

(44) "Faculty Minutes," May 5, 1949, p. 302; February 21, 1951, p. 345; Norton, "Annual Report," 1955, pp. 1-2.

(45) Lexicon, 1953.