no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
He was the Golden Boy. A tall and blond Apollo with the kind of magnetism women loved and men admired. He excelled at every sport he played. His teachers adored him, for despite his universal popularity, he was soft- spoken and respectful.
In short, he was that rare young man whom every parent dreams of as a son. And every woman dreams of as a lover.
It would be tempting to say that Jason Gilbert, Jr., was the American Dream.
Certainly a lot of people thought so. But beneath his dazzling exterior there was a single inner blemish. A tragic flaw he had inherited — from generations of his ancestors.
Jason Gilbert had been born Jewish.
His father had worked hard to camouflage the fact. For Jason Gilbert, Sr., knew from the bruises of his Brooklyn childhood that being Jewish was a handicap, an albatross around the soul. Life would be far better if everyone could simply be American.
He had long considered disposing of the liability of his last name. And finally, one autumn afternoon in 1933, a circuit court judge gave Jacob Gruenwald a new life as Jason Gilbert.
Two years later, at his country club’s spring ball, he met Betsy Newman, blond, petite, and freckle-faced. They had a great deal in common. Love of theater, dancing, outdoor sports. Not least of all, they shared a passionate indifference to the practices of their ancestral faith.
To avoid the pressures from their more religious relatives to have a “proper” ceremony, they decided to elope.
Their marriage was a happy one whose joy was magnified in 1937 when Betsy gave birth to a boy, whom they named Jason, Jr.
The very moment that he heard the splendid news, in the smoke-filled waiting room, the elder Gilbert made a silent vow. He would protect his newborn son from suffering the slightest hardship because he was of nominally Jewish parents. No, this boy would grow up and be a first-class member of American society.
By this point Gilbert, Sr., was executive vice-president of the rapidly expanding National Communications Corporation. He and Betsy were living on a lush three-acre homestead in growing — and unghettoed — Syosset, Long Island.
Three years later, baby sister Julie came along. Like her brother, she inherited her mother’s blue eyes and blond hair though only — Julie got the freckles.
Their childhood was idyllic. Both seemed to thrive on the regimen of self-improvement that their father had devised for them. It began with swimming and continued with riding and tennis instruction. And, of course, skiing on their winter holidays.
Young Jason was prepared with loving rigor to become a demon of the tennis courts.
First he was tutored at a nearby club. But when he showed the promise that his father had fully expected, each Saturday the elder Gilbert personally drove his budding champion to Forest Hills for coaching by Ricardo Lopez, former Wimbledon and U.S. champion. Dad watched every minute of the sessions, shouting encouragement and reveling in Jason’s progress.
The Gilberts had intended to bring up their children with no religion at all. But they soon discovered that, even in a place as easygoing as Syosset, no one could exist in unaffiliated limbo. It was worse than being … something second rate.
Fortune dealt them yet another ace when a new Unitarian church was built nearby.
They were accepted cordially, though their participation was sporadic, to say the least. They hardly ever went on Sundays. At Christmas they were on the slopes and Easter on the beach. But at least they belonged.
Both parents were intelligent enough to know that trying to raise their children as Mayflower WASPs would ultimately cause them psychological perplexities. And so they taught their son and daughter that their Jewish background was like a little rivulet that poured from the Old Country to join with the mighty mainstream of American society.
Julie went away to boarding school, but Jason opted to remain at home and attend Hawkins-Atwell Academy. He loved Syosset, and was especially reluctant to give up the chance of dating girls. Which, next to tennis, was his favorite sport.
And in which he was equally successful.
Admittedly, he was no whirlwind in the classroom. Still, his grades were good enough to all but guarantee admission to the university he and his father — dreamed of — Yale.
The reasons were both intellectual and emotional. The Yale man seemed a tripartite aristocrat-gentleman, scholar, and athlete. And Jason simply looked like he was born to go there.
And yet the envelope that arrived on the morning of May 12 was suspiciously underweight, suggesting that its message was short. It was also painful.
Yale had rejected him.
The Gilberts’ consternation turned to rage when they learned that Tony Rawson, whose grades were certainly no better than Jason’s, and whose backhand most assuredly was worse, had been accepted at New Haven.
Jason’s father insisted on an immediate audience with the school headmaster, himself an old Yalie.
“Mr. Trumbull,” he demanded, “can you possibly explain how they could reject my son and take young Rawson?”
The gray-templed educator puffed at his pipe and replied, “You must understand, Mr. Gilbert, Rawson is a Yale ‘legacy’. His father and grandfather were both Old Blues. That counts for a lot up there. The feeling for tradition runs extremely deep.”
“All right, all right,” the elder Gilbert responded, “but could you give me a plausible explanation of why a boy like Jason, a real gentleman, a great athlete —”
“Please, Dad,” Jason interrupted, increasingly embarrassed. But his father persisted. “Could you tell me why your alma mater wouldn’t want a man like him?”
Trumbull leaned back on his chair and replied, “Well, Mr. Gilbert, I’m not privy to the actual deliberations of the Yale committee. But I do know that the boys in New Haven like to have a ‘balanced mix’ in every class.”
“Mix?”
“Yes, you know,” the headmaster explained matter-of-factly, “there’s the question of geographical distribution, of alumni sons — as in Tony’s case. Then there’s the proportion of high school and prep school students, musicians, athletes …”
By now Jason’s father knew what Trumbull was implying. “Mr. Trumbull,” he inquired with all the restraint he could still muster, “this ‘mix’ you refer to, does it also include — religious background?”
“In fact, yes,” the headmaster answered affably. “Yale doesn’t have what you would call a quota. But it does, to some extent, limit the number of Jewish students it accepts.”
“That’s against the law!”
“I should hardly think so,” Trumbull replied. “Jews are — what? — two and a half percent of the national population? I’d wager Yale accepts at least four times that number.”
Gilbert, Sr., was not about to wager. For he sensed that the older man knew the exact percentage of Jews accepted annually by his alma mater.
Jason feared an angry storm was brewing and longed at all cost to avert it.
“Look, Dad, I don’t want to go to a school that doesn’t want me. As far as I’m concerned, Yale can go to hell.”
He then turned to the headmaster and said apologetically, “Excuse me, sir.”
“Not at all,” Trumbull responded. “A perfectly understandable reaction. Now let’s think positively. After all, your second choice is a very good school. Some people even think Harvard is the best college in the country.”
