My father died in 1969--suddenly, unexpectedly, just turned 49. I was 22, and it wasn't a good time for him to go. (Is there ever one?) The two of us were estranged: he the conservative businessman and I the longhaired college dropout, rejecting all he stood for. There existed a great gulf of misunderstanding between us, a divide of dashed expectations, worry, contempt, and fear.
Our last few years as father and son had been tension filled, and I regret that he never got to see the fruits of what he had given me: an honest upbringing, self-confidence, a love of language, and, eventually, my education (which I didn't complete for another five years). I, in turn, never got to thank him for being the stoic and loving wall against which I could throw my rather lengthy adolescent rebellion.
Swarthmore's father died that year too--suddenly, unexpectedly, just turned 52. (See Swarthmore's Crisis of 1969.) The loss of Courtney Smith was felt by all of his children, including, perhaps especially, those who were estranged from him at the time. He, too, had given them many gifts, not the least of which was the power to question. Two years before his death in the midst of the College's greatest crisis, he had led the most comprehensive self-examination in Swarthmore's history. He even suspended classes so that students could contribute to the critique.
As a good father does, President Smith encouraged his Swarthmore children to ask hard questions; as a good father must, he exposed himself and this institution to the resulting challenges. Students were questioning all of society's institutions, including their College, and by 1969 they were asking about larger, more difficult issues than merely revising the Honors program. It became Smith's turn to see his sons and his daughters go beyond his command.
Courtney Smith was arguably the last of Swarthmore's presidents who could stand in front of his students in the same manner that my father presided over our family dinner table--with a sense of authority that was almost beyond question. Almost. It may not have been their choice, but Smith and other university presidents of the era (including Clark Kerr '32 in California and the late Jim Perkins '34 at Cornell) rang down the curtain on in loco parentis, the now-quaint idea that colleges and universities should take on the role of surrogate parents, with the authority to set curfews, enforce dress codes, and the like. Some may lament the loss of these "standards," yet their demise made possible the freedom, openness, and diversity that characterizes the best of higher education today.
If my father were alive, he'd be delighted to see what has happened to me, to read this magazine, to see his fine grandchildren. Yes, I still like to question authority, and sometimes it gets me into trouble, but that might also please him.
And what of Courtney Smith? He'd be delighted, too, I think--at the rich lives of his former students and the promise of those who have followed at Swarthmore. Like a proud grandfather, he would see the College's current vibrancy and solid reputation as one more legacy of the hard questions that he wasn't given time to answer in 1969.
--Jeffrey Lott
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