The Class

on her bed, staring into space.

The final lyrics of Greek 2B were by an author not generally known for amorous verse — Plato.

“It’s ironic,” Professor Havelock remarked, “but the philosopher who banished poetry from his Ideal Republic was himself the author of perhaps the most perfect lyric ever written.” And he then read out in Greek one of the famous Aster epigrams.

Star of my life, to the stars your face is turned;
Would I were the heavens, looking back at you with ten thousand eyes.

Appropriately enough, the bells of Memorial Hall tolled the end of the class. As they walked out the door together, Ted whispered to Sara, “I wish I were the heavens.”

“Nothing doing,” she replied. “I want you right nearby.”

And they walked toward The Bick hand in band.

***

November is the cruelest month — at least for ten percent of the sophomore class. For it is then that the Final Clubs (so called because you can belong to only one) make their definitive selections. These eleven societies exist merely on the edge of Harvard life. But it is, one may say, the gilt edge.

A Final Club is an elite, if homogeneous, institution where rich preppies can go and have drinks with other rich preppies. These gentlemanly sodalities do not intrude on college life. Indeed, the majority of Harvard men barely know they exist.

But, needless to say, November was a busy month for Messrs. Eliot, Newall, and Wigglesworth. Their suite was a veritable mecca for tweedy pilgrims, flocking to implore them to join their order.

Like modern musketeers, the three decided they’d stick together. Though they got invited to punches for most of the clubs, it was pretty clear that they’d go to either the Porcellian, the AD, or the Fly.

In fact, if all got asked, they knew they’d join the Porc. If you’re going to bother with these things, it might as well be the undisputed number one, “the oldest men’s club in America.”

Having been included in the P.C.’s last-cut dinner, they assumed they were in.

Back at Eliot, they were still in their penguin suits, nursing a final digestif, when there was a sudden knock at the door.

Newall quipped that it might be some desperate emissary from another club — perhaps the AD, which took Franklin D. Roosevelt when the Porcellian blackballed him.

It turned out to be Jason Gilbert.

“Am I disturbing you guys?” he asked somberly.

“No, not at all,” Andrew responded. “Come in and join us for a brandy.”

“Thanks, but I never touch the stuff,” he replied.

His glance made them curiously self-conscious about their attire.

“The final dinner, huh?” he inquired. “Yeah,” Wig replied casually.

“The Porc?” he asked.

“Right the first time,” Newall sang out.

But neither Mike nor Dick sensed the tinge of bitterness in Jason’s voice.

“Was it a tough decision, guys?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Wig. “We had a couple of other options, but the P.C. seemed the most attractive.”

“Oh,” said Jason. “It must feel great to be wanted.”

“You ought to know,” Newall quipped. “Every lovely at The Cliffe burns incense to your picture.”

Jason didn’t smile. “That’s probably because they don’t realize I’m a leper.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Gilbert?” Andrew asked.

“I’m talking about the fact that while almost every guy I know got at least one invitation to the first punch of a club, I wasn’t even asked by the lowly BAT. I never realized I was such an asshole.”

“Come on, Jason,” Newall said reassuringly. “Final Clubs are a bunch of crap.”

“I’m sure they are,” he replied. “Which is why you guys are all thrilled to be joining one. I just thought that being tuned to the club mentality, you might have some notion as to what precisely they found so obnoxious about me.”

Newall, Wig, and Andrew looked uncomfortably at one another, wondering who would have to explain to Jason what they had assumed was obvious. Andrew could see that his roommates weren’t up to it. So he made a stab at the not-so-commendable facts of Harvard life.

“Hey, Jason,” he began. “Who are the guys that mostly get asked to the clubs?

Preppies from St. Paul’s, Mark’s, Groton. It’s kind of a common bond. You know, birds of a feather flocking together and so forth. You can see what I mean?”

“Sure,” Gilbert retorted ironically. “I just didn’t go to the right prep school, huh?”

“Yeah,” Wig quickly agreed. “Right on target.”

To which Jason replied, “Horseshit.”

There was a deathly silence in the room. Finally Newall grew annoyed that Jason had broken their mellow mood.

“For Christ’s sake, Gilbert, why the hell should a Final Club have to take Jews? I mean, would the Hillel Society want me?”

“That’s a religious organization, dammit! And they wouldn’t want me. I mean, I’m not even —”

He stopped, his sentence half-completed. For a moment, Andrew thought that Jason had been about to say he wasn’t Jewish. But that would be absurd. Could a Negro stand there and suggest he wasn’t black?

“Hey, listen, Newall,” Wigglesworth piped up, “the guy’s our friend. Don’t piss him off more than he is.”

“I’m not pissed off,” Jason said in a quiet fury. “Let’s just say I’m uncomfortably enlightened. Good night, birds, sorry to have interrupted your flocking together.”

He turned and left the room.

That called for another round of brandy and a philosophical observation from Michael Wigglesworth. “Why’s a neat guy like Jason that defensive about his background? I mean, there’s nothing so bad about being Jewish. Unless you really care about stupid things like Final Clubs.”

“Or being President of the United States,” added Andrew Eliot.

--*--

November 16, 1955

Dear Dad,

I didn’t get into a Final Club. I know in the scheme of things it’s not that important, and I really don’t care that much about having another place to go and drink.

Still, what really bothers me is that I wasn’t even considered. And most of all the reason why.

When I finally worked up the guts to ask some of my friends (at least I always thought they were my friends) for an explanation, they didn’t pussyfoot around. They just came straight out and told me that the Final Clubs never take Jews. Actually, they put it in such a genteel way that it hardly sounded like prejudice.

Dad, this is the second time I’ve been rejected for something simply because people regard me as Jewish.

How do you reconcile this with the fact that you’ve always told me we were Americans “just like everybody else”? I believed you — and I still want to. But somehow the world doesn’t seem to share your opinion.

Perhaps being Jewish is not something you can remove like a change of clothing.

Maybe that’s why we’re getting all of the prejudice and none of the pride.

There are lots of really gifted people here at Harvard who think being Jewish is some kind of special honor. That confuses me as well. Because now more than ever I’m not sure exactly what a Jew is. I just know lots of