CHAPTER 8

 

IT'S NOT SMART TO BE SMART

 

            Well, it's all right to be smart.  But you mustn't show it.  It's even all right for boys to be smart and let you know they're smart.  But smart girls don't act smart.  At least that's the message I got.

 

            From first grade on I suppose I knew I was smart.  But I tried to pretend even to myself that I wasn't.  It was partly that the message at home was "don't show off", "let other men praise thee and not thine own mouth", "fools rush in where angels fear to tread", "praise to the face is open disgrace", etc.

 

            I was smart enough to figure out some human relationships fairly early.  My father liked to have me "help" him even as a little girl.  Helping meant sitting or standing VERY quiety while he did something, fixing a tool, mending some furniture, clearing up his desk.  The less I did the more he was apt to say, "You're my best helper."  I also learned not to upstage people ‑‑ at least outside the family, if you wanted to get along with them.  I used to be invited often to stay overnight with Teddy Langmuir when her family were away, and her governess, Mamette, was there.  I always looked forward to that, for Teddy was the pampered only daughter of the family and had many advantages that seemed daz­zling to me:  she had a real playhouse stocked with toys; she had velvet party dresses with elegant lace and even her broadcloth school frocks were hand embroidered.  One night we were served dinner in her room.  Sliced peaches were part of the menu and Teddy pretended they were gold fish slipping through her fingers.  Mamette had forbidden this activity so when one of the "gold fish" slipped through her fingers and stained her pajamas, Teddy just picked up the scissors and cut out the spot.  I was awed by the reckless power of being rich.

 

            Of course Mamette scolded in her ineffectual way.  Then she turned to me and said, "Carol, when you take off your soiled clothes, what do you do with them?"       

            I knew the answer wasn't that I put them wherever it was handy, so I said, "I put them in the hamper."

            "See, Teddy, why can't you be like Carol?"

            Major lifetime lesson in how to lose friends. 

 

            Growing up in Englewood provided ample opportunities for being a "people pleaser".  With few exceptions my friends had distinctly more money, better clothes, wider opportunities.  I had to use my wits to be ingratiating.  Is this terrible?  Look‑ ing back I feel grateful for what I learned from the Langmuirs and others ‑‑ the many nice invitations, the tickets to Carnegie Hall or other concerts.  (If one is a hanger‑on one also sits through endless musical and dance recitals where one's friends are performing.  One may secretly wish one could afford to take lessons, but simple admiration was the order of the day.)

 

            But I was also "school smart".  In first grade I got all A's on my report‑card.  I skipped three times.  I never remember a time when I wasn't one of the one or two top students in the class.  But I also learned to conceal my A plus or A paper.  Don't let the kids see your report card.  It's fine to bring it home. (I knew my parents liked to have me get a good report card, but they never put on any pressure.  I do remember being angry the year they gave John 50 cents every month he got on the honor roll and feeling as if I never got anything.)   But like anyone on top of the pyramid‑‑it`s precarious.  I didn't want anyone to see my report‑card, but I didn't want Zelda Cohen or Evelyn Spencer to beat me either.  Zelda was all right‑‑she was naturally smart.  But Evelyn was the worst thing you could be‑‑a grind.  (Years later when I was working for the Carnegie Foundation in New York City, I was sent by train to Brown Uni­versity in Providence where I was to make some corrections on the test scores of their "Graduate Record Examinations".  I was ushered into an office and greeted by the secretary whom I recog­nized as Evelyn Spencer out of my childhood.  Just as competent and prim as ever, she looked exactly like my picture of an old maid‑‑ a fate worse than death.  That's what happened to smart girls who let it show.)

 

            Mr. Mabry was the popular principal of the Intermediate School.  It was his idea that I should skip 7A.  He insisted on my having an extra set of textbooks at home so that I wouldn't have to carry books home to study.  I took great pride in never taking any books home anyway.  I worked like a beaver at school and got all my homework, even the Latin and algebra done without having to crack any books at home.  Evelyn Langmuir's family were friends of Mr. Mabry's and he went there for dinner occasionally and Evelyn would report the conversation to me.  To my consternation she reported that Mr. Mabry had said that the "trouble with Carol is that she's too studious‑‑sort of a goody‑goody."  The words burned.  I wanted to tell him I never studied at home.  I seethed.  I still seethe now even as I laugh about it.  A few days later I happened to notice that Mr. Mabry was walking just a yard or two behind me in the school hall, and I decided to impress him my saying "Oh Hell," rather loudly to my friend.  I blurted it out plenty loud so he couldn't possibly not hear.  I never looked back.  This was before Clark Gable said "damn" in a movie.  I felt triumphant.

 

            When it came to graduating from high school I knew I was slated for either valedictorian or salutatorian.  Mother and father felt I was gypped because they disqualified me on account of my year in California and gave the valedictorian award to Evelyn Sprague.  I was as much relieved as anything to be merely the salutatorian and would have forgotten the incident entirely except that mother reminded me of it years later.

 

            I had no idea how I would be able to manage college.  I applied to Swarthmore and Oberlin.  But the cost in the catalogs looked impossible in the winter of 1933.  I was selected by Swarthmore as one of 12 finalists for a "White Scholarship".  This meant being invited to take the train to Swarthmore to be interviewed by the College President and other important personnel.  There were six boys and six girls, and the girls were housed overnight in a sorority house.  Next morning we were ushered into a classroom in the chemistry building by a white haired professor who supervised a 3 hour examination.  After we had been writing about an hour, the professor suddenly collapsed. We tried to revive him and finally got help‑‑I think he was all right, but I remember wondering if it were part of the examination.  I don't think so, and I don't think I was one of the most helpful ones either. 

 

            I was disappointed that I didn't win a White scholarship though Swarthmore offered me a substantial scholarship anyway.  When we added up all the figures, Oberlin's offer of a full tuition scholarship won out because I could live more cheaply there.  In the Depression one didn't make choices based on per­sonal whims‑‑one was grateful to clutch at a straw. Oberlin looked like something I might manage if I could only get a board job too. 

 

            Jobs were non‑existent.  I finally managed to get a job for the summer with a Mrs. Kent.  She was a new mother in poor health who could not manage the baby or the housework.  I went every day for nearly 6 hours for a dollar a day.  The first job to be done was to wash and sterilize the baby's diapers which were heaped in a pile, unrinsed and smelly.  There was no washing machine‑‑they had to be washed by hand, then rinsed, then boiled and hung up on the line.  Then I turned to housecleaning chores and getting her dinner.  And then I walked a mile and a half home. 

 

            I was also busy making my clothes for the new adventure.  And I bought some bright percale in primary colors to cover six pillows.  I made up some geometrical designs and appliqued them in black on the corners.  These were the summers when Molly was away at camp.

 

            I still didn't know for sure that I would be able to make it to Oberlin financially.  Then one day mother told me that Marion Bates wanted to give me $200.  It was more like what $4000 would mean today.  That covered the rest of my expenses and made it possible for me to be completely independent of my family.  Marion had been my 7th grade English teacher as well as being a staunch family friend.  She never had any children of her own.  I wrote to her until she died, but I could never thank her enough.  The next three years I received a loan from the Henry Strong Foundation for $200 each year and a scholarship from the First Presbyterian Church.

 

            "I worked my way through college," isn't quite a fair state­ment with that much help, though I worked all four years, including an N.Y.A. job in the Admissions Office at 35 cents an hour and board jobs washing dishes in the dormitory.  But I did not have to call on the family for any support.

 

            Molly and I became quite close friends before we left for Oberlin in the fall of 1933.  As children we were so different temperamentally and 3 years age difference was too much to bridge.  I always looked up to Molly in lots of ways.  She was noted for her infectious laugh and good spirits.  I think in some ways she was as misunderstood as I felt myself to be.  The thing I came to value most in Molly was her ability to be outrageously good humored in spite of everything, depression or disaster.  It wasn't by any means the symptom of a shallow or simplistic person.

 

            When we were small children, I remember Molly as always being generous enough to say "I'm sorry..." or ask for forgive­ness first after whatever quarrel had occurred.  Then it would be easy for me to admit I was wrong too.  I can't remember exactly when, but I do remember realizing that in my childish mind I had taken it for granted that she should say it first, because naturally I was right.  At least I came to appreciate the fact that she was not only more loving, but also smarter and wiser than I, to try to heal the breach first.  I learned a lot from having a loving big sister.  I asked Molly if she remembered the time I made her so mad that she whacked and broke her best doll's head on the foot of the bed.  It was her lovely dark curly‑haired doll with the glasses that I admired so much.  I was stricken‑‑I don't remember what the quarrel was about but I knew I was wrong if I had caused her so much distress.

 

            When Molly came home from camp that summer of 1933 we had lots of things to talk about on a more or less equal footing.  She helped arrange for me to room with Ruth Freeman who was the sister of one of her friends.  We talked about clothes and diet and most of all mother and father's disapproval of the girl she was planning to room with.  I loved being on an almost equal footing and sharing problems.  This was the really the beginning of a lifetime best‑friendship.  In reading this over I realize that in some ways I have idealized Molly.  She has needed me more through the years and many times I have been the "big sister".  I think we each resent it when we are stereotyped.

 

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