Jerry Speyer, who was a witness to that subway trial aftermath, recounted it in a speech he gave adjacent to College Walk at the 2008 commencement of the Columbia Business School: “You or I cannot even imagine how Sandy felt at that moment, but he summoned something inside of himself, some untapped courage.… I tell you this story because it has remained with me for forty-six years.”
It has remained with me as well. That moment at the gates of the university, the moment of my triumphant survival of that subway odyssey, was the moment when fear—fear of risk, fear of movement, fear of change—was vanquished within me forever. I don’t know if Arthur had a cathartic moment of his own then. I can say only that I realized something profound—my friends and family had become angels who would be with me and never leave. I was strong because of the strength we gave each other.
12
Moving Forward
Spring of senior year was coming up fast, and I was not looking forward to it. Every day Arthur would go to the mailbox, looking for letters from the graduate schools, and come back empty-handed. I began getting a daily stomachache. Waiting for those responses was like being on death row. I was fairly certain I was not going to be accepted by any of the schools. Yes, I had very good grades, what with all my grinding work, but, well…Greenberg is blind. Nevertheless, I held on to the notion that something was possible. Something like an appeal or a pardon or the arrival of the cavalry in the nick of time. In a word: hope.
The first letter I received was from Princeton—a rejection. I do not recall exactly what it said, but the wording was formal and empty. It had nothing to do with me as an individual. Its text was almost certainly the same sent to many other applicants. Holding the letter as if it were a dead mouse, I took it to my anthropology professor, Margaret Mead, who had written me a recommendation. She was one of my advisers, and I was working for her as a research assistant. She was unpretentious and outspoken, and she had succeeded in a world dominated by men.
As I sat in her office, she picked up the telephone to Princeton. “The dean of the graduate school, please,” she said while my heart pounded ever harder. Soon she was bellowing: “What the hell gives you the right to reject Greenberg? He’s met all of your requirements and then some.” A dreadful pause. The man probably responded that Princeton simply did not think I could handle their reading loads because I was blind. (This was before people were able to sue for such comments.)
“Goddamn it,” Mead yelled. “Your reading lists are no tougher than Harvard’s or Yale’s. This is outrageous behavior on your part.” She slammed the phone down. I never really heard the words she then used to console me. I staggered out of her office but had no place to go. I bumped into a concrete bench and sat on it for hours. Hard work and diligence would yield success, wouldn’t they?
The worst part was that I thought the dean at Princeton might be right. I probably could not keep on this way, spending another four or five years earning a master’s degree and then a PhD, all the while listening to tapes and readers. I wasn’t sure if the proper metaphor was Job or Sisyphus, but one of them surely fit.
Meanwhile, I still had my ongoing studies at Columbia to attend to, and the occasional side highlight as well. Ike’s visit, for example. During a cocktail reception for seniors at his palatial residence, John Palfrey, the dean of Columbia College, told me that former president Dwight Eisenhower would soon be visiting the campus where he had served as president before resigning to campaign for the White House and asked if I would like to meet him.
When I told Arthur about the invitation, he approved. “A great opportunity,” he said. “Great fun. But what will you say to him?” Before I had time to respond, he shouted, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it. You want to make a lasting impression, right? Here’s what you do. When you’re introduced, get real close to him, face to face, look him straight in the eye, and say ‘blue mud.’” Typical Arthur.
The day of the meeting arrived. It was a small gathering, men murmuring in the room. I had just entered when a military aide took my arm and escorted me to a back corner. There stood the man who had charted perhaps the greatest victory of the century—the Allied landing at Normandy—and then had led the entire country through a period of relative peace and prosperity. The introduction was formal. “Mr. President, Sandy Greenberg.” At that, his hand was obviously extended toward me. For a moment, I hesitated. Then I thought, “blue mud.” I found and clasped his hand. “Mr. President, it is an honor to meet you.”
“Thank you, Sandy,” he answered. I did not respond, and he broke the silence. “I understand that you have excelled at this university of which I am so proud.” He said he understood I was going through a rough patch at school. I do not know how he knew this. I said I was, to some extent. He then took on a firmer, stiffer tone, perhaps of the same steel he had used to command his troops. He went on to tell me that much of his life was spent fighting the odds. He had been down before, like me, he explained. At one point, he had become the object of ridicule among his friends for having stayed in
