Reflection
Frances Horowitz -- "power walker"
25 03, 21 06:55
There are many stories I can share about Frances Horowitz during the my time at KU. One characteristic was her disciplined approach to life.
Example: Every so often in the mid-1980s I'd get on a fitness kick and make an effort to get up at some ungodly hour and go to "workout" at the indoor track facilities in the new Anschutz Pavilion. I'd show up at about 6AM -- at times even earlier -- and with very few exceptions I'd see Frances doing her methodical laps around the track. More a steady and vigorous "power walk" than anything approaching a run, she would keep up a solid pace staring straight ahead and seemingly indifferent to all the activity going on around her even at that hour.
Over three years of my intermittent efforts to establish an exercise regimen, I never interrupted her workout. It was clear she was not there to socialize or engage in administrative business.
During that period I became more involved in faculty governance and aware of the pressures and issues she faced as a long-serving vice chancellor. I avoided bringing any of this up at Friday evening services or other occasions when we saw each other at the Lawrence Jewish Community Center, but there were times to chat during breaks in university committee meetings. I finally asked her about her almost daily routine at Anschutz. I told her I had a problem concentrating and sustaining the workout and asked how she did it. Her answer: she spent the entire time doing laps thinking about how to deal with the issues and problems she was facing that day. In a sense, the morning laps -- her workout -- were just part of her workday. The steely straight-ahead gaze on the track was Frances at work solving problems while getting the benefits of those laps.
I went to work at Baruch/CUNY in 1988 as chair of the public administration department (at the time located in the business school), a position I held until my move to Rutgers in 1992. Among the administrators I worked with was Matthew Goldstein, then president of Baruch who would eventually become chancellor of the CUNY system.
As it happens, Goldstein was chairing the search committee to select the next president of the CUNY Graduate Center. One day he called me to ask about one of the candidates for the Grad Center position -- Frances Horowitz. My comments in response were, of course, glowing -- and I was quick to note that were it not for the glass ceiling imposed on women academics by the Kansas Board of Regents, she would have been AND SHOULD HAVE BEEN appointed the KU chancellor years earlier. That part of the conversation completed, Goldstein then raised an issue that surprised me: her age.
I had never given any thought to Frances' age -- in fact, until reading the NYT obit yesterday I had no idea she was 14 years my senior. She was certainly my "senior" in terms of intellect and experience in the academic trenches, but I cannot recall even thinking of her in "ageist" terms. But obviously it was an issue for the search committee. She was 60 years old when being considered for the CUNY position, and by my calculation eight or nine years older than Goldstein (and probably other CUNY presidents).
I don't recall my specific response about her age to Goldstein that day, but I think it included (among other things) reference to her daily power walks in Anschutz.
I am happy to take a bit of credit for whatever minor role my comments played in the decision to hire Frances at CUNY. Her accomplishments during her 15 year tenure in the position are described in the NYT obituary, and they are notable. On the downside, CUNY's gain was KU's loss.
Example: Every so often in the mid-1980s I'd get on a fitness kick and make an effort to get up at some ungodly hour and go to "workout" at the indoor track facilities in the new Anschutz Pavilion. I'd show up at about 6AM -- at times even earlier -- and with very few exceptions I'd see Frances doing her methodical laps around the track. More a steady and vigorous "power walk" than anything approaching a run, she would keep up a solid pace staring straight ahead and seemingly indifferent to all the activity going on around her even at that hour.
Over three years of my intermittent efforts to establish an exercise regimen, I never interrupted her workout. It was clear she was not there to socialize or engage in administrative business.
During that period I became more involved in faculty governance and aware of the pressures and issues she faced as a long-serving vice chancellor. I avoided bringing any of this up at Friday evening services or other occasions when we saw each other at the Lawrence Jewish Community Center, but there were times to chat during breaks in university committee meetings. I finally asked her about her almost daily routine at Anschutz. I told her I had a problem concentrating and sustaining the workout and asked how she did it. Her answer: she spent the entire time doing laps thinking about how to deal with the issues and problems she was facing that day. In a sense, the morning laps -- her workout -- were just part of her workday. The steely straight-ahead gaze on the track was Frances at work solving problems while getting the benefits of those laps.
I went to work at Baruch/CUNY in 1988 as chair of the public administration department (at the time located in the business school), a position I held until my move to Rutgers in 1992. Among the administrators I worked with was Matthew Goldstein, then president of Baruch who would eventually become chancellor of the CUNY system.
As it happens, Goldstein was chairing the search committee to select the next president of the CUNY Graduate Center. One day he called me to ask about one of the candidates for the Grad Center position -- Frances Horowitz. My comments in response were, of course, glowing -- and I was quick to note that were it not for the glass ceiling imposed on women academics by the Kansas Board of Regents, she would have been AND SHOULD HAVE BEEN appointed the KU chancellor years earlier. That part of the conversation completed, Goldstein then raised an issue that surprised me: her age.
I had never given any thought to Frances' age -- in fact, until reading the NYT obit yesterday I had no idea she was 14 years my senior. She was certainly my "senior" in terms of intellect and experience in the academic trenches, but I cannot recall even thinking of her in "ageist" terms. But obviously it was an issue for the search committee. She was 60 years old when being considered for the CUNY position, and by my calculation eight or nine years older than Goldstein (and probably other CUNY presidents).
I don't recall my specific response about her age to Goldstein that day, but I think it included (among other things) reference to her daily power walks in Anschutz.
I am happy to take a bit of credit for whatever minor role my comments played in the decision to hire Frances at CUNY. Her accomplishments during her 15 year tenure in the position are described in the NYT obituary, and they are notable. On the downside, CUNY's gain was KU's loss.
Comments
March 3, 2020: My last day in the classroom
03 03, 21 06:37
Under normal circumstances teaching can be a risky profession at certain times of the year when students return to campus with colds or some variant of the flu spreads through the dorms. You get use to hearing coughing and sneezing as students wander into class, and over the years you get accustomed to the idea that "catching a cold" is just part of the job. Nothing to be concerned about unless you are a germaphobic hypochondriac.
But it was different on the morning of March 3, 2020. Listening to the news on my usual 60+ minute commute to campus, it was hard not pay attention to growing concerns about Covid-19 and warnings about the vulnerability of folks 65 and older, especially those who have health issues (what we now call "co-morbidities"). Being 73, a type 2 diabetic with a history of cardiovascular issues who is obese, I paid particular attention to those messages that morning.
Over the past two or three class sessions I had noticed that students were increasingly "under the weather" -- displaying the usual signs of coughing and sneezing fits. But on this day, as I made my way to the classroom through the crowded corridor (it's literally a mob scene between class times), I felt as if each point of "contact" was a threat. After finally making my way into the classroom, as I began my usual routine of setting up my laptop for use in my lecture, I could hear more than a few folks make those unmistakable sounds of the cold and flu season. At that point I decided that I would shift my class to "online" status. There were hints that this might be an option in the future, but I was not going to wait.
In recent years I had built in an "online" option into my non-online courses as a way of dealing with times when either the weather or some other event made it necessary to miss a scheduled class. Typically these were online lectures rather than "Zoom" sessions, but over the years advances in instructional technology (e.g., Canvas, Blackboard) had made it possible to deal with the traditional "snow day" scenario. As a result, what would otherwise seem like a radical transformation of the class from bricks-and-mortar to online would not prove that difficult. The trick was to do so smoothly in the middle of a term.
But the classroom was a risky place for someone with my vulnerabilities, and so I told the students then and there that all future classes would be online. And since this was my final semester at UNH (I planned to retire in May), that March 3 class session was my last one.
After class I packed up my laptop and whatever else was related to my courses that spring term and did not return to campus until I made a quiet and very brief mid-summer trip to pack up what remained in my office. By the evening of March 3rd I had made the needed changes in the syllabus that would make the adjustment to a fully online course as convenient as possible for students. There was actually no negative feedback from either students (none would miss the in class quizzes) or the "powers that be".
The next week was spring break, and by the time it was over the university-wide transition to online courses began. It turns out I was just a week or so ahead of the game.
But it was different on the morning of March 3, 2020. Listening to the news on my usual 60+ minute commute to campus, it was hard not pay attention to growing concerns about Covid-19 and warnings about the vulnerability of folks 65 and older, especially those who have health issues (what we now call "co-morbidities"). Being 73, a type 2 diabetic with a history of cardiovascular issues who is obese, I paid particular attention to those messages that morning.
Over the past two or three class sessions I had noticed that students were increasingly "under the weather" -- displaying the usual signs of coughing and sneezing fits. But on this day, as I made my way to the classroom through the crowded corridor (it's literally a mob scene between class times), I felt as if each point of "contact" was a threat. After finally making my way into the classroom, as I began my usual routine of setting up my laptop for use in my lecture, I could hear more than a few folks make those unmistakable sounds of the cold and flu season. At that point I decided that I would shift my class to "online" status. There were hints that this might be an option in the future, but I was not going to wait.
In recent years I had built in an "online" option into my non-online courses as a way of dealing with times when either the weather or some other event made it necessary to miss a scheduled class. Typically these were online lectures rather than "Zoom" sessions, but over the years advances in instructional technology (e.g., Canvas, Blackboard) had made it possible to deal with the traditional "snow day" scenario. As a result, what would otherwise seem like a radical transformation of the class from bricks-and-mortar to online would not prove that difficult. The trick was to do so smoothly in the middle of a term.
But the classroom was a risky place for someone with my vulnerabilities, and so I told the students then and there that all future classes would be online. And since this was my final semester at UNH (I planned to retire in May), that March 3 class session was my last one.
After class I packed up my laptop and whatever else was related to my courses that spring term and did not return to campus until I made a quiet and very brief mid-summer trip to pack up what remained in my office. By the evening of March 3rd I had made the needed changes in the syllabus that would make the adjustment to a fully online course as convenient as possible for students. There was actually no negative feedback from either students (none would miss the in class quizzes) or the "powers that be".
The next week was spring break, and by the time it was over the university-wide transition to online courses began. It turns out I was just a week or so ahead of the game.
My brief foray into practical politics -- 1968
24 02, 21 01:01
This is a reposting from FB. Originally posted on August 26, 2020, it is me reflecting on my brief foray into practical politics in 1968.
In Massachusetts we are having a senseless primary between an impatient young Kennedy and Ed Markey, and of course this sparked memories of at least one Kennedy campaign I was involved with back in my college days (I was "nominally" the Southern Colorado College coordinator for the Robert Kennedy presidential campaign).
It was March 1968, and RFK had recently entered the race, throwing the McCarthy supporters in Colorado (I was one of those) into turmoil; but we had to choose sides....
When it was announced that Kennedy would make a Denver stop on his swing through the west, several of us who were involved in some "official" capacity (again, in my case nominally since the effort was not well organized by then) were asked if we'd like to fly from Pueblo to Denver to attend his campaign event.
I had never flown before, but could not pass this opportunity up. As I recall, several of us were stuffed into a small private aircraft (more on that later) and took off early to get to the Denver airport so we could be part of the motorcade that would take Kennedy from Stapleton to the speaking venue. (The flight path from Pueblo to Denver is not for the weak kneed -- passing by Colorado Springs and Pikes Peak meant getting bounced around quite a bit.)
What I recall is shaking the man's hand and getting into a vehicle just two cars behind the lead car. If you look at this photo, I think you can see a convertible two cars behind the RFK car, and I recall as well the crowds and the slow pace (so he could reach out and shake hands) through the Five Points area where this was taken. (At that time Five Points was the African American neighborhood in Denver.)
I don't recall much else -- the rally or the speech -- other than as soon as it was over Kennedy headed to the airport and we made it back to our plane for a no less "bumpy" flight back to Pueblo.
The events of 1968 turned tragic, of course, and I never recovered whatever political activism (and ambitions) I might have had after the King and Kennedy assassinations in April and June. Finding this picture and thinking about those days sharpened my sense of loss for my days as a budding political actor.
From FB Comment:
With her sharp eye, Randi thinks that might be me in the photo. I was in the third car, but why would my head stand out unless everyone else in the car was slouching? It looks like the motorcade had stopped and I might have been trying to get a better view of what was going on. In any case, fond memory of an event when everything seemed to be looking up...
In Massachusetts we are having a senseless primary between an impatient young Kennedy and Ed Markey, and of course this sparked memories of at least one Kennedy campaign I was involved with back in my college days (I was "nominally" the Southern Colorado College coordinator for the Robert Kennedy presidential campaign).
It was March 1968, and RFK had recently entered the race, throwing the McCarthy supporters in Colorado (I was one of those) into turmoil; but we had to choose sides....
When it was announced that Kennedy would make a Denver stop on his swing through the west, several of us who were involved in some "official" capacity (again, in my case nominally since the effort was not well organized by then) were asked if we'd like to fly from Pueblo to Denver to attend his campaign event.
I had never flown before, but could not pass this opportunity up. As I recall, several of us were stuffed into a small private aircraft (more on that later) and took off early to get to the Denver airport so we could be part of the motorcade that would take Kennedy from Stapleton to the speaking venue. (The flight path from Pueblo to Denver is not for the weak kneed -- passing by Colorado Springs and Pikes Peak meant getting bounced around quite a bit.)
What I recall is shaking the man's hand and getting into a vehicle just two cars behind the lead car. If you look at this photo, I think you can see a convertible two cars behind the RFK car, and I recall as well the crowds and the slow pace (so he could reach out and shake hands) through the Five Points area where this was taken. (At that time Five Points was the African American neighborhood in Denver.)
I don't recall much else -- the rally or the speech -- other than as soon as it was over Kennedy headed to the airport and we made it back to our plane for a no less "bumpy" flight back to Pueblo.
The events of 1968 turned tragic, of course, and I never recovered whatever political activism (and ambitions) I might have had after the King and Kennedy assassinations in April and June. Finding this picture and thinking about those days sharpened my sense of loss for my days as a budding political actor.
From FB Comment:
With her sharp eye, Randi thinks that might be me in the photo. I was in the third car, but why would my head stand out unless everyone else in the car was slouching? It looks like the motorcade had stopped and I might have been trying to get a better view of what was going on. In any case, fond memory of an event when everything seemed to be looking up...
