By Jeffrey Lott
How
many readers of this magazine can say that they were born on the
Swarthmore campus? Barbara Pearson came into the world in the
Benjamin West House on July 5, 1910, the daughter of Paul M. Pearson,
professor of public speaking.
Who remembers playing on the College's gates as a child? She grew up only two blocks from the campus and loved to watch the world go by from atop the stone orbs on Elm Avenue.
How many have been lifelong members of the Swarthmore Friends Meeting? Barbara's parents left Methodism to join the Friends, and the religion became her birthright.
Who studied under such legendary professors as Philip Hicks and Frederick Manning--and called some of them "uncle?" Barbara Pearson entered Swarthmore in 1927 with a White Open Scholarship, yet she stayed only two years at the College and, in fact, never received a college degree.
Barbara Pearson Lange Godfrey '31--professor's daughter, Swarthmore student, later director of dramatics for 14 years and dean of women in the turbulent '60s--has observed Swarthmore College from its Quaker roots to the threshold of the new century. For most of that time, it has never been far from her thoughts. Today Barbara (let's just call her by her first name--as she encouraged her drama students to do) lives just eight miles from campus, and I stopped by the other day to talk about ... what else? Just listen:
On her two years as a Swarthmore student, before she left to study at the Yale Drama School: "My favorite course was history with Freddy Manning. The rule was that if the professor was more than 10 minutes late, we could leave, but we always waited for Professor Manning. He challenged us to know things. I was so impressed with him that I read the whole of Gibbon's Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. He turned everybody on."
On performing with Swarthmore Chautauqua, the traveling summer theater company and cultural series founded by her father: "We performed the same play every night in a different town.... It was a worthless little play--boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl.... But my father's idea was that you gave the audience what they wanted--that was the bread of the sandwich--and the meat was the things he wanted them to have, like Shakespeare and the Renaissance plays."
On the "Pet," a Victorian couch that sat for generations outside the doors to the Parrish Hall dining room: "It was a real hazard for women. If you wanted to go from one end of Parrish to the other you had to go past it--and all the whistles and remarks from the men. Often we would cross over on the second floor in order to avoid going in front of the Pet."
On "fussing hour," the hour after dinner when men and women were allowed to spend time with each other: "We weren't really supposed to be with the opposite sex except in that hour. We got together in a classroom or outdoors if the weather was nice. At the end of the hour, the bell on Trotter would ring, and we'd go off to our rooms to study."
I always wondered what that bell was for. It's still there in its little brick cupola, but the College is so different now. Coed dorms. No curfews. Condoms at the health center, no questions asked. A lot of these changes began to unfold right before Barbara's bright blue eyes. On her watch, you might say.
On dormitory "open houses" (the "fussing" of the '60s?): "Pete Thompson [professor of chemistry] and I were on a committee to discuss dormitory open house hours--when boys and girls could be in each other's rooms. The students were plugging for four hours on Sunday afternoons, but [Dean] Susan Cobbs said two was enough. One student said to her, 'Miss Cobbs, what can I do in four hours that I couldn't do in two?' And she said in her Southern drawl, 'You could do it twice.'"
It's not apocryphal, Barbara says with a smile: "I was there. Susan had a great sense of humor."
On President Courtney Smith: "I was in awe of him. I thought he was the greatest man. But there was something I didn't realize until one time he and I were sitting on the facing bench at the meetinghouse, getting ready to talk to the new class during freshman orientation. I said something to him and put my hand on his arm and realized how tense he was. The calm that he evinced was not real--it was just control."
On becoming dean of women in 1960: "I was asked to be dean because I was so friendly with the students. I think [Courtney] had seen my relationship with the students and thought maybe I could get something out of them that nobody else had gotten. Well, that was not true. As long as the students who had known me as director of dramatics were at the College, it was all right. But once they all graduated, I became the enemy. It was terrible. So difficult. There were young women I met in the hallway who didn't speak to me. I just couldn't get used to that after so many years of having a different kind of relationship with students. That's why I gave up. I wrote to Courtney and told him the job was no longer a joy to me ... but he died before he had a chance to find a replacement."
Being the enemy was "heartbreaking," Barbara says, shaking her head. I feel a silent pang of guilt; I was one of those '60s kids who saw my college deans in that light. Could I have been breaking their hearts? But Barbara remembers helping them as well:
"I always knew what was happening when a girl would walk into my office after a vacation and tell me she had to get a job in order to stay at the College. I knew that her parents had found out she was having sex or living with a man and had threatened to not give her any more money. The one thing I did as dean of women that I'm proud about is that I was able to keep some of these families together. One family called me from New York and said they wanted to meet me but didn't want to come on campus. So I suggested we meet at the airport, and they told what they had found out. They were so shocked by what they had learned about their daughter, but I said don't disinherit her because then she's gone, and you might lose her forever. I asked them to talk with her and find out what she was doing and why. They did, and they thanked me afterward."
She smiles again, this time a satisfied smile. She still hears from some of her "girls." Funny, the term's not in use anymore. College students think of themselves as women and men now--and perhaps they are. That's another one of the changes, I guess.
Barbara on the best of times--her years as director of dramatics: "I'm prouder of that job than I am of being dean of women. I didn't do anything creative as dean, but I really did as director of dramatics. I helped the students choose plays from different periods of theatrical history, different forms of plays, and I just thought it was part of their college experience to know what theater was like--and to be responsible for a performance. There was no credit for it, but the students did it all--sewing constumes, building sets, lighting, performing."
One more story, on the fun of it all: "In the mid-1950s, the Book & Key Club was trying to improve its image, and they sponsored a one-act play contest. Prizes were given by vote of the audience for the best play, the best actor--the best everything. And while the votes were tallied, the actors came to my house, where I served burgundy punch. It was very mild, but in the excitement, it sometimes got some of the people a little drunk, and the parties started to get out of hand."
This on a "dry" campus in a "dry" town, mind you. To get things back under control, Barbara decided that instead of an audience vote, an outsider should judge the plays, leaving a little less time for imbibing before awarding the prizes. So she suggested Judy Kazan's ['58] parents, Molly and Elia Kazan, and they agreed to come.
It was the best party: "Ted Nelson ['59], who had written one of the plays, came to me and asked if his mother could come to the party. I said, 'Who's your mother?' and he said, 'Celeste Holm.' So we had Molly Kazan, the playwright, Elia Kazan, the director, and Celeste Holm, the actress. The students all sat on the floor at their feet, and that was the best party I have ever given in my house."
Did she serve the famous punch?
"Oh yes," she said with a twinkle in her eye, "but I don't think anyone got drunk."
2 qts. Red Burgundy
1 pt. Port
1 cup Cherry Brandy
2 cups Orange Juice
1/2 cup Lemon Juice
1 cup Sugar
2 qts. Club Soda
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Swarthmore College. All rights reserved. 1998