I am sitting in our apartment a day or two before Christmas. It is an extremely cold, wintery day, and I hesitate to go outside, fearful of falling. So, I am trying to conjure up more pleasurable memories of times when my wife and I could walk miles exploring the city, when many more friends were alive and our social life was modestly full. But I especially try to remember images of my many years of teaching that gave me intense pleasure and the feeling that I was doing meaningful work.
I can vividly recall my first years at my experimental CUNY college (over 55 years ago) that was anomalously placed in conservative, working- and lower-middle-class Staten Island. The courses were basically ungraded, and they were informally and democratically structured with most of the students taking on the trappings of the counterculture: long hair, beards, and totally informal dress (sweatshirts, t-shirts, jeans, sandals). I was always addressed as Lenny, not Professor Quart, and we sat on the floor in a circle that sometimes included the students’ dogs. The courses dealt with a range of topics; two of my favorites were entitled “Self and Society” and “Modern Views of Man.” They were courses that could encompass a large variety of films, fiction, and essays as their curricula. The underlying idea of the course was to introduce the students to the great books and films and get them talking about the works, but also about their own lives.
It was the 1960s, and our experimental courses had to have psychological and social relevance—sometimes sacrificing the aesthetics of the books and films and even the substance of the works themselves for digressive discussions of the students’ personal feelings and lives. At their best, the classes flourished with many students participating and passionate talk that at times was truly revelatory—about their own lives and about the human condition itself. But at their worst, they could feel chaotic and there were students who just zoned out (sometimes smoking weed), paying no attention to what was being discussed. And without exams and grades, there were few mechanisms that we could coerce or punish the students for doing next to nothing or even missing most of the classes. The commitment to experimental education did not survive for many reasons, and that will be the subject of another piece. But I still remember those classes when a discussion of a Bergman film or an early Doris Lessing novel came alive and many students participated, some even ardently and eloquently. I should add that these were students who mainly did not come from homes where high culture played much or any role. Those were radiant moments that I can’t forget.
