“There were many who underestimated me,” he said. “Many of my setbacks were not short-lived, either. Despite them, I never lost confidence in myself.” I told him I was very much aware of his accomplishments but until now did not understand how he had personally approached the enormous challenges he had confronted. It was clear that he was aware I had been moved by his words. I believed, or wanted to believe, that he had faith in me.
The inspiration lingered as I made my way back to my room.Then it was gone. All I could think was: Princeton rejected me.
One day Arthur came back from the mailbox with a whole bundle of letters from the graduate schools to which I had applied. “The results are in. Would you like me to read them to you?” he asked. Although I could hardly bear the thought of being humiliated in front of my friend, I had no choice. His dedication to the process had been unflagging.
“Is there one from Harvard?” I muttered. “Open it, please.”
The sound of him undoing the envelope seemed to go on endlessly. The letter finally unsheathed, Arthur stood up and in an exaggerated British accent read, “It is with great pleasure …”
Harvard wanted me to join its graduate program in government. The letters from the other schools read more or less the same, but we both knew it would be Harvard for me. I fell back on my bed, overwhelmed, as Arthur laughed. A friend brought in a bottle of Scotch. Arthur ran into our bathroom, grabbed a large glass, and poured it full of whiskey. Jerry ran in, and they both towered over me as I drank the entire glass.
There was more good news. First, I was elected president of my class. Then one day Norman Cantor, my professor of British constitutional history and one of my most important advisers, asked me to join him in his office. Cantor, who had been at Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar, had told me early in my junior year that “you can’t be an educated man without attending Oxford.” To that end, he had wanted me to apply for a Rhodes Scholarship, but Detroit had intervened. Undaunted, he now said that he had another idea for me about Oxford, but first he had a more pressing item to discuss. He leaned back in his chair and said with great satisfaction, “Sandy, you’ll shortly be receiving some very good news which, I might add, is well deserved. You have been elected to Phi Beta Kappa.” He paused, waiting for my response.
“Professor Cantor,” I stammered, “this news is overwhelming.” I held back tears. We often look back on early successes as lesser things, but at the time this meant everything to me. Phi Beta Kappa membership was an honor bestowed by my own faculty. It was as if, having been held underwater, I was finally able to resurface.
Professor Cantor was more set on getting me to Oxford than I had imagined. Because I could no longer apply for a Rhodes Scholarship—it did not permit married students, and I was now planning to marry Sue—he suggested that I apply instead for a Marshall Scholarship. I told him I would have to talk about it with Sue. Also, it seemed premature to talk about Oxford at all; I first had to figure out how I was going to get a doctorate while paying rent in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Even before that, and most immediately, I had to actually graduate from Columbia.
The podium was stationed in front of the statue of Alexander Hamilton. I stood as straight as I could. It was a languid spring day, and the smell of recently cut grass was heavy. The mortarboard sat uncomfortably on my head, tilted to the right, its tassel brushing my face. The graduation gown clung to my ironed shirt. My fellow members of the Class of 1962 and their families sat on lacquered wooden chairs in front of me. Behind me sat the dean of the college.
The audience quieted, but I remained silent for a moment. This spot, sheltered from the city, had been the heart of my college life. I could not avoid thinking of how much my life and I had changed since my high-school graduation four years earlier.
The wooden chairs creaked and clattered. The click of a nearby camera caught my notice; I supposed that Sue’s father was taking a picture. I began to speak …
13
Paying Back
Sue and her parents began making preparations for our wedding in Buffalo, and they asked me to make the arrangements for the music. I got on the phone to the leader of the band we had picked. “Mr. Shiron,” I began, “I want you to know how excited we are about the prospect of your playing at our wedding. I have an idea I’m very excited about.”
“Well, Sandy,” he said, “my band and I are also very much looking forward to it. We’ve known Sue’s parents for many, many years. We’ve seen them at numerous events where we’ve performed, and they’re fine people.”
“Okay, here’s my idea. My college roommate, who is also my best friend, has an absolutely beautiful voice. He would be honored to sing at the wedding.”
“What, are you kidding?” he shot back. “You want a kid to sing with my band? My men are pros—we don’t work with amateurs.”
“Mr. Shiron, he’s not just any kid. He has an extraordinary voice that I’m sure you’ll appreciate when you hear him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Arthur Garfunkel,” I said.
“Look,” said Shiron, “I know you think he can sing, but my experience is that whenever someone is put forward like this, he can’t.”
“Well, Mr. Shiron, I believe you’ll feel differently once
