Campbell Corner Language Exchange
A Path Out of Middletown
The Life of Helen Merrell Lynd, 1896-1982
by Christine Biancheria
& Susan Frietsche
Campbell Corner extends
best thanks to the Lancaster Literary Guild
for permission to reprint this essay in
full.
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Helen
Merrell Lynd with Bert Loewenberg, Colleague
and Historian, Courtesy of the Sarah Lawrence
Archives
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Helen Merrell Lynd—the philosopher
and writer, the radical educator, the formidable
scholar—possessed the kind of genius, both intellectual
and interpersonal, that inspires great art. The
portraitist Alice Neel caught her raptor-like
gaze on a canvas that now hangs in the Smithsonian’s
National Portrait Gallery. Renowned American poet
Muriel Rukeyser serenaded her in subtle, evocative
poetry. Alice Walker paid grateful tribute to
Helen Lynd in her memoirs, remembering Helen in
In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens as “the
first person I met who made philosophy understandable,
and the study of it natural. It was she who led
me through the works of Camus and showed me, for
the first time, how life and suffering are always
teachers....”
“We didn’t know the manuscript was good,” she
recalled. “I was about 26, Bob was under 30. It
was getting on for four years then, and we had
worked long hours and long days.” The couple’s
spirits had been understandably dampened when
the Rockefeller Foundation, the book’s original
sponsor, rejected their manuscript as “unpublishable”
and downright savage on religion. At that point,
remembered Helen, “I think Bob probably had more
confidence in it than I did.”
Fortunately, so did Alfred Harcourt of Harcourt,
Brace. About five years after the project had
begun, Bob gave Harcourt a copy of the manuscript.
Harcourt himself reviewed it and decided immediately
to take a chance on it, publishing Middletown:
A Study in Modern American Culture by Robert
S. and Helen Merrell Lynd in 1929.
“Nobody was as surprised as we when it came out
with front page reviews in the Times and
Herald Tribune,” Helen recollected in an
address to the American Sociological Association.
Middletown was plastered all over the shop
windows of Brentano’s bookstores in New York and
secured for Helen and her husband the status of
nobility among American scholars.
The Rockefeller Foundation’s Institute of Social
and Religious Research originally commissioned
Middletown as a study of small-town religious
life. Convinced, though, that religion could not
be separated from its broader cultural context,
these maverick authors ambitiously undertook to
study all aspects of an entire American city instead.
For their subject, Bob Lynd chose Muncie, Indiana,
as representative of contemporary American life.
As a later New York Times reviewer would
caution, “Those who cling to their childhood illusions
about their native land will wish that the Lynds
had scrutinized the Patagonians instead.” The
Lynds and the three women who made up their staff
packed up and moved into the community. Seeking
objectivity, they decided to try something new;
they applied anthropological techniques typically
reserved for the study of foreign communities
and tribes to their American subjects.
Unlike typical researchers and writers of the
time, the Lynds immersed themselves completely
in the culture they were studying. They lived
in Muncie for a year and a half. They pored over
newspapers and organizational minutes. They attended
church, where Bob sang solos. They went to Rotary
meetings and developed a social circle, becoming
part of the city’s life. A turning point came
when the Lynds decided to let their subjects speak
in their own voices. Middletown is animated
by what the Lynds call “folk talk,” or the “rattle
of conversation that goes on around a luncheon
table, on street corners, or while waiting for
a basketball game to commence.”
These plain-spoken voices convert the sociologists’
research into a poignant and searing critique
from which a startling image emerges: while Middletown
believes in the American Dream, there is a tremendous
schism between its beliefs and its realities that
has left its inhabitants miserably unhappy, with
little insight as to why. Its citizens embrace
each new invention—from automobiles to the credit
purchase—as progress, never pausing to realize
the cost it exacts from their quality of living.
The reader, turning the pages of this heartbreaking
book, is overtaken by an unsettling sense of recognition:
one cannot help but see our own society in the
life of Middletown.
The Lynds gather evidence that shoots down the
sacred cows of American culture where they stand:
the unquestioning faith in the value of hard work,
education, marriage, religion and politics. Middletown’s
citizens believe in reward for hard work, but
the facts reveal a city divided along formidable
class lines that ultimately dictate everything
from careers to religious beliefs and politics.
Trapped in a treadmill existence, parents scrimp
and save for their children’s education, which
they view as “an open sesame that will mysteriously
admit their children to a world closed to them....”
But Middletown’s schools are ailing and inadequate
to the task. Rather than liberating children,
formal schooling consists of a “systematic, high-pressure
orientation to life,” accompanied by an unnatural
“taboo upon physical activity [which] becomes
stricter, until by the third or fourth year practically
all movement is forbidden....” The educational
system produces teenagers fully inculcated in
the prevailing views, such that high school seniors
respond with striking uniformity to the Lynds’
extreme true-or-false statements. For example,
they believe overwhelmingly that the “white race
is the best race on earth” and the United States
“is unquestionably the best country in the world.”
“Middletown adults,” the Lynds write, “appear
to regard romance in marriage as something which,
like their religion, must be believed to hold
society together.” But romance is the exception.
Most are too tired by day’s end for companionship,
and “such conversation as there is may be of a
bickering sort, or may lapse into apathetic silence.”
Housewives are so lonely that the knock on the
door by Helen Lynd, hoping for an interview, becomes
a notable event, and so Helen, with a note of
sadness, writes that in a number of cases after
she had “succeeded in breaking through an apparently
impenetrable wall of reserve or of embarrassed
fear, the housewife would say at the close of
the talk, ‘I wish you could come often. I never
have any one to talk to….’”
Middletown seeks relief from its lonely, disappointing
reality in religion and dreams of heaven. Thus,
the Lynds report that, “when an overwrought working
class woman, ill-dressed and unkempt, rose in
a noisy Pentecostal church and cried, ‘I’m tired
of this ol’ garlic and onions world! I’m going
home to Jesus!’ no simple description can convey
the earnestness of her wailing words.” Church,
the Lynds discover, is a place where Middletown’s
parishioners cope with the “too-bigness” of life.
In their elegant prose, they describe how Middletown
shuns ambiguity or debate in religion. Rather,
“in church question marks straighten out into
exclamation points, the baffling day-to-day complexity
of things becomes simple, the stubborn world falls
into step with man and his aspirations, his individual
efforts become significant as part of a larger
plan.”
Occasionally, the town’s inhabitants become
“reluctantly conscious” of the dissonance between
their wishes and their lives. But with regret,
Bob and Helen note that, wed by fear to the devil
they know, the citizenry’s knee-jerk response
is renewed insistence upon traditional institutions
and values. Like Boxer, Animal Farm’s longsuffering
horse whose response to any oppression is, “I
will work harder,” Middletown’s folk seek solace
in more of the same. In the end, the Lynds conclude
that what is really needed is a deep-cutting reexamination
of Middletown’s most basic institutions and beliefs.
All the world loves a mirror, and despite Middletown’s
damning portrait, critics hailed the book as a
great American wake-up call and as a research
model that would transform social science the
world around. Today, Middletown is ranked
among the greatest works of sociology. The irony
is that it was produced by a couple in their 20s,
neither of whom yet held a Ph.D.—never mind that
Bob Lynd never took a sociology course, and Helen
Lynd confessed to her friends that she had no
real interest in the subject.
The Lynds responded differently to their first
encounter with Middletown. Helen later recalled
that Bob “always claimed that he could have lived
happily in Muncie, and I couldn’t.” In some ways,
Bob did go on, at least figuratively, to live
in Middletown. His career path took him to a staid
teaching position on the tenured faculty of Columbia
University. Although Bob remained the more famous
of the pair, his life in mainstream academia was
suffocating. The fate of this once-buoyant individual
was described by his son, Staughton Lynd, in his
recent book, Living Inside Our Hope: “His
classes grew gradually smaller. He had a series
of heart attacks. He developed a writing block.
He would sit hunched over his desk like a small
boy doing homework, smoke one cigarette after
another, and clip the business press in perpetual
preparation for the book on power that was never
written.”
Helen Lynd, in contrast, went to the liberating
and off-beat Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville,
New York, to join its first faculty. Middletown’s
disturbing images of an entire culture too afraid
to challenge its fundamental assumptions, even
for the sake of its own happiness, dogged Helen
Lynd throughout the rest of her life. She spent
the remainder of her life at Sarah Lawrence studying
the link between courage and creativity in the
individual who can tolerate the uncertainties
that arise outside the shelter of the traditional
and see things freshly.
In Bronxville, Helen spread her wings and took
flight, becoming an outspoken philosopher and
social critic, a groundbreaking teacher and a
muse to some of America’s finest women writers
and artists.
****
Helen Merrell Lynd’s upbringing, recalled in
Possibilities, a collection of previously
unpublished writings and interviews, was one she
found “both so restricting and so enlarging.”
Restricting because of its small-town provincialism
and religious dogmatism; enlarging because her
parents, intellectuals themselves, bred Helen
for an independence of mind that permitted her
to adopt the best and reject the worst in her
experience. Helen Merrell was born on March 17,
1896, in La Grange, Illinois, the first of three
daughters of Edward T. and Mabel Waite Merrell.
Helen’s mother was brisk and a bit of a disciplinarian.
Her father, who had attended a theological seminary,
edited a Congregationalist magazine. The dignity
of her father’s position sharply constrained Helen’s
childhood activities: no dancing, no theater,
no desserts on Sundays. His income, and consequently
his household, was modest. According to their
son Staughton, Helen “hated what seemed to her
the penny-pinching, anxiety-ridden atmosphere
of her childhood.”
Still, in Possibilities, Helen described
her father as a man with “a good writing style,
a sense of humor, and a flair for people and for
principles,” and one of the great influences of
her life. He spent long hours reading aloud to
the family from literature and especially the
Bible, the cadences of which influenced Helen’s
own writing style. Looking back, Helen said, “I
cherish the fact that when I read the Bible, as
when I read Dickens, it’s in my father’s voice.”
Despite their provincialism, Helen’s parents
displayed their own brand of unconventionality.
Her father bitterly complained when the local
country club blackballed a prospective Jewish
member, and Helen remembered that when “Negro
ministers came to the church it was usually our
family who had them to dinner.” As for her mother,
Helen discovered later that she “would never give
the salute to the flag. Because she said it wasn’t
true, there wasn’t equal justice for all.”
Helen inherited this spirit of dissent, which
she exhibited from an early age. In Possibilities,
Helen recounted a telling exchange with her mother,
who once commented that a German immigrant in
the neighborhood was very ignorant because she
said, “I seen.” A young Helen shot back, “Well,
they’re not [as] ignorant as you are, they know
parts of two languages and you know only one.”
When her father was offered a job in Framingham,
Massachusetts, the family moved east. There, Helen
enrolled at Wellesley College, where she encountered
Mary Case, a professor who made a profound impact
on Helen and ignited her passion for philosophy.
Like her childhood, Helen’s experience at Wellesley
was both emancipating and confining. Helen suffered
emotionally there, where she first became conscious
of her relative poverty. She came to Wellesley
a shy young woman plagued with a sense that she
was physically awkward and unattractive, and so
it did not help matters that she wore the wrong
clothes and ended up having to do housework for
other students to get by. Decades later, “she
was still bitter about the social stratification
at Wellesley. That was humiliating to her,” said
Suzanne R. Hoover, a former student of Helen’s
and perhaps Helen’s closest friend and intellectual
companion in later life. “I mean, she could still
get really churned up about it if she started
to talk about it so many years later.” Helen’s
sense of awkwardness never left her, and Suzanne
noted that, throughout Helen’s life, she felt
desperately ugly.
On the other hand, Wellesley was for Helen academically
liberating. Precociously intelligent and something
of an intellectual spitfire, Helen drew the attention
of her teachers. One in particular was her elderly,
wheelchair-bound philosophy professor. Eager to
enroll in Miss Case’s course on Plato, Helen was
disappointed when the college told her that she
could not register because she lacked the philosophy
prerequisite. Perhaps sensing a kindred spirit,
Miss Case bent the rules for Helen since, as she
pointed out, Plato never took philosophy either.
In Miss Case’s classes, Helen witnessed the kind
of thinking and teaching that she would bring
to Sarah Lawrence in her attempt to spur the growth
that Middletown did not. Miss Case taught Helen
that the questions one asks can be more important
than their answers and put Helen at ease discussing
different points of view.
Helen graduated in 1919, and it was during that
summer that she met her future husband.
***
The special synergy that would produce Middletown
started on Mount Washington in New Hampshire.
Helen Lynd always loved to hike, and in the summer
of 1919, she and her sister set off on an 11-mile
trek up the mountain. In Possibilities,
Helen described what happened next. On the way
up the trail, she said, “we met a man coming from
the other direction. Bob had climbed Mt. Washington
the day before, spent the night at the Ravine
House, and had all his washing hung on the back
of his rucksack. He was on two weeks’ vacation
in the mountains. We got into conversation, and
for some reason or other I mentioned Veblen’s
Theory of the Leisure Class. We didn’t exchange
names.” Soon after, Helen wrote to a friend to
say that she “had met a man who certainly knew
how to have a good time in the world.”
Frustrated that he didn’t get the young woman’s
name, Bob turned around and hiked all the way
back up the arduous trail to the hut at the summit
to retrieve Helen’s name from the guest book.
Bob wrote to Helen and, on his suggestion, said
Helen, “we climbed Bear Mountain and cooked cocoa
and lamb chops. It was one of the great experiences
of my life.”
Bob had been attending the Union Theological
Seminary, and after returning from a summer interning
as a preacher in the Rockefeller oil camps of
Elk Basin, Wyoming, he and Helen were married
on September 3, 1921. On their honeymoon in the
mountains, the romantic Bob returned to Mt. Washington
and stole the page from the guest book in the
hut where they had signed their names.
The following year, Bob wrapped up his studies
at the Seminary, and Helen finished her master’s
thesis at Columbia. Then the pair headed off to
Muncie, Indiana.
These two intellectual Titans were poised to
revolutionize social science research which, to
that point, had tended to be a top-down examination
of a single facet of life to prove or disprove
an academic theory. The Lynds, on the other hand,
with their working-class sensibilities, would
enter into the community with little in the way
of preconceived notions and examine it from the
bottom up, participating in its life, drawing
connections and talking with ordinary people.
As their son Staughton explained in a recent PBS
interview, for the Lynds, this critique of American
culture and religious life was both “an act of
criticism and an act of love.” Those who
knew the couple insist that they were not cynics.
They thought their dissident voices would make
a difference.
Believing that change arises through the vision
of the extraordinary individual who sees beyond
the conventional to an entirely new way of being,
Helen turned her attention to the study of creativity
and personal transformation. She thought she had
found the secret in a line from one of her favorite
poets, John Keats, who wrote of “Negative Capability,”
which, he said, is “when a man is capable of being
in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any
irritable reaching after fact and reason....”
Helen took this idea with her to Sarah Lawrence
College, where she was recruited onto the faculty
that would open the College’s doors in 1928. Helen
recalled that “Mr. [William] Lawrence, Sr., wanted
it put in the Sarah Lawrence charter that it was
a college for Christian—I don’t think he thought
it necessary to add, white—girls.” But for the
influence of President Henry McCracken of Vassar,
who served as an adviser to Mr. Lawrence in establishing
the new college, this restriction may well have
been imposed. But if Mr. Lawrence had hopes of
creating a conventional institution, Helen Lynd’s
presence on the faculty consistently pulled the
College in a different direction, away from the
hierarchical “lesson-textbook-recitation method”
that had so stultified Middletown students.
Lois Barclay Murphy, a Sarah Lawrence professor
and noted child psychologist who recommended Helen
for the position, later said, “there was no way
I could have predicted her profound, enduring
influence on the little college.”
****
Suzanne R. Hoover attended Sarah Lawrence in
the 1950s. With plans to become a conductor, Suzanne
also studied in Paris with the legendary musician
Nadia Boulanger. But English was a deeper love,
and eventually, she returned to teach at her alma
mater. She retired only recently, and now lives
in New York City. Suzanne, casual and unassuming,
met us in the lobby of her building, and led us
to her serene apartment lush with houseplants
and cluttered with old books and African art,
high above Manhattan’s Upper West Side.
Sitting in her armchair with sunlight filtering
through the foliage surrounding her, Suzanne spoke
quietly and thoughtfully of Helen Lynd and her
teaching: “She was, I think, a disconcerting teacher
for people who needed facts and certainty, and
who couldn’t deal with what Keats calls ‘negative
capability,’ the ability to remain in doubt and
mystery,” Suzanne explained.
Helen once said she believed it necessary “for
a student to go through a period of chaos” to
learn to think for herself. To foster independence,
Helen did not lecture, but instead plied her students
with question after question. “Students who couldn’t
deal with that found her difficult. Because she
was interested in questions, not answers,” said
Suzanne, who was quick to add, though, that Helen
“was very much loved by her students. And I think
one of the reasons was that one always felt as
her student that one was being listened to.”
Helen taught classes on subjects that she herself
was learning about and genuinely viewed her students
as partners in discovery. The effect was magical.
Years later, for a memorial service for Helen,
former student Frances Vicario described it: “I
would like to quote Staughton Lynd’s remark,”
she commented, “which amused his mother. He said,
‘My mother might possibly mistake a jackass for
a unicorn, but she would never make the mistake
of taking a unicorn for a jackass.’ It was wonderful
to be taken for a unicorn by Mrs. Lynd.”
From the beginning, Suzanne said, Helen and her
colleagues pushed Sarah Lawrence away from the
type of education that stunted growth. There was
no standard curriculum, no grades. Instead, education
focused on the individual student’s needs and
abilities. To Helen, the role of education wasn’t
just to pass on encyclopedic knowledge, but to
create free-thinking individuals who might bring
about social invention and change. As Suzanne
once said, “we learned that traveling without
a map can be frustrating—sometimes even frightening—but
that when you rely on a map, you end up learning
mostly about maps....”Helen’s assignments were
intimidating, yet alluring all the same. Frances
Vicario recalled one: “Our focus was the culture
of ancient Egypt; our site—the Egyptian wing of
the Metropolitan Museum among the statutes, frescoes
and ancient relics there. These served as ‘primary
sources’ from which we formulated our own hypotheses
on such activities as the family, getting a living,
religion, etc. Later our findings were compared
with corresponding activities in the American
society of the thirties.”
Helen’s teaching methods mimicked her interpersonal
style, which Suzanne termed “dazzling and very
seductive.” Helen’s manner, Suzanne continued,
“was to incessantly ask questions. She would grill
you, or interview you, about where did you go
and what did you do and what was it like. As though
she needed to know those things more than anything
else in the world.”
This insatiable curiosity, and the relentless
questioning it spawned, was classic Helen and
a characteristic that seems etched in the memories
of everyone who knew her. “Why do you think there
is so much emphasis on childhood traumas and neuroses
as the driving forces behind creativity? Questions
like these would suddenly come out of Helen Lynd,”
remarked another former student, Tital Beal, at
Helen’s memorial service. “You might be waiting
in a hectic midtown coffee shop line with Helen.
Or browsing through a bookstore. She’d look at
you expectantly, as if your ideas mattered more
than anything else at that moment.” As she was
graduating, Suzanne, impressed by Helen’s skill
as a listener, confided in Helen about some of
the difficulties in her life at that time, and
Helen responded in kind. Helen thought that Suzanne
was one of her most gifted students and described
Suzanne’s mind as “ranging and profound.”
And so their friendship grew. “We just loved
talking about stuff,” said Suzanne, pausing and
then adding, “which we did at great length.” With
her memories crowded round her, Suzanne looked
wistfully out her window and said, “We talked
about everything.”
****
While Helen reveled in the fact that, at Sarah
Lawrence, she could teach at the “front edge”
of her thinking, it was not all a Bohemian paradise.
Bringing us hot herbal tea, Suzanne reminded us
of the political climate engulfing Sarah Lawrence
in the ’50s: “This was right after McCarthy, and
we were going through some rough stuff.” But Helen,
she said, “was brave because she didn’t pull any
punches in class. She said what she believed.”
Helen detested labels and the thoughtlessness
behind the mantras of American politics— “containing
Communism” and “fighting for freedom”—used to
justify any wrong. In the ’40s, she gave talks
on the duties of the teacher. At Smith College,
she warned that the “slogans ‘soft’ or ‘hard’
on Communism may block the effort for historical
understanding. If all the angels were on one side
and all the devils on the other, it would be easy
to find a formula to cover the situation. But
issues of such moment do not come pre-analyzed,
nor can they be resolved by shibboleths.” She
implored teachers to push their students beyond
superficial analysis. “The day after Pearl Harbor,”
she would explain, “my senior seminar came in
saying ‘Now, the issues are clear!’, by which
they meant, ‘Now, thank Heaven, we can stop thinking.’”
Neither Sarah Lawrence nor Helen escaped the
notice of the anti-Communist vigilantes. The American
Legion’s Westchester County Americanism Committee
set its officious sights on her, seeking her dismissal
as a “subversive influence.” Though not a member
of the Communist Party, Helen had associates who
were, and she had traveled to the Soviet Union.
The National Council for American Education listed
her as one of the “RED-UCATORS AT LEADING
WOMEN’S COLLEGES.” Their pamphlet named her suspect
affiliations including the American Committee
for the Protection of the Foreign Born, the National
Council of American-Soviet Friendship, the League
of American Writers and the League of Women Shoppers.
Accused of being a sympathizer, in 1950, Helen
was hauled before the Jenner Committee, the Senate
version of the House Un-American Activities Committee.
Helen fired off a letter to the Committee in response
to her subpoena, challenging the Committee’s constitutional
authority to conduct the inquiry and threatening
that she would not answer any questions that would
hurt colleagues or which, she wrote, “would otherwise
cause me to lose self-respect.” She retained Attorney
Telford Taylor to represent her.
Taylor, a former brigadier general in the U.S.
military, was famous for his role as principal
prosecutor of Nazi war criminals at Nuremberg.
After the Nuremberg trials, Taylor became an early
critic of Senator Joseph McCarthy and his cohorts.
Helen said in Possibilities that Taylor’s
greatest help “was that he scared me so much that
neither the chairman of a committee nor anybody
else could scare me after that. He’s a very impressive
person and I don’t have the kind of memory that
he expects people to have.” Suzanne told us that,
when Helen spoke of being questioned by the Committee
about her travels, Helen would say “she could
remember the exact shape of the seagulls’ wings
in the harbor,” the things that mattered to her,
but not the answers to the Committee’s questions.
If anything, Suzanne said, “Helen was a card-carrying
Romantic.”
Helen survived the experience with her position
at Sarah Lawrence intact, but she regretted long
afterward that she had answered the Committee’s
inquiry into her party affiliation instead of
taking the Fifth. Like the witch hunts of Arthur
Miller’s Crucible, the anti-Communist crusade
had a long reach; just a few years later, Helen’s
son Staughton was kicked out of the Army, where
he held noncombatant status as a conscientious
objector. One of the reasons given: his mother
was “a hyper-modern educator.” Describing this
era, Suzanne explained, “There was such a sense
of the limitation of the American political scene
during those years, such a sense that America
was smaller than Helen wanted it to be.”
The experience only shored up Helen’s beliefs
in the methods of Sarah Lawrence, where students
then, as now, designed their own courses of study
bent to their individual needs. Helen firmly believed
that freedom is something that is learned and
that Sarah Lawrence should teach it by giving
students the experience of making strong, independent
choices. In 1950, she told a convocation there
that she remained on the faculty because “Sarah
Lawrence ... is a sign—however small—of a hoped-for
future.”
****
Following Helen’s trail, through the sheaves
of paper in the Sarah Lawrence archives, interviews
with those who knew her and writings of colleagues
and friends, we consistently were struck by the
profound and lasting impact that Helen had on
others. One of them, Elfie Stock Raymond, met
us on Sarah Lawrence’s campus, where she now teaches
philosophy.
About 30 minutes north of Manhattan, the campus
is a refuge of tranquility set about with evergreens.
From a classy black car emerged the spritely figure
of Elfie, dressed to kill on a lazy winter Sunday.
With a hint of a Hungarian accent, she guided
us to a local restaurant in Bronxville.
Elfie’s credentials are impeccable. She studied
Reformation history in Zurich, theology at Berkeley
and philosophy in Vienna and holds an advanced
degree from the Sorbonne. She met Bob Lynd when
she was a Fulbright scholar at Columbia University,
and he introduced her to Helen. Amid all of her
standout accomplishments, Elfie appeared especially
proud that Helen recruited her to Sarah Lawrence
in 1964 to take up the philosophical reins.
Elfie began by insisting that Helen was a philosopher,
not a sociologist. And in fact, Helen earned her
Ph.D. in the History of Ideas at Columbia in 1944
with a study of a decade of change entitled England
in the Eighteen-Eighties: Toward a Social Basis
for Freedom. (According to family legend,
Helen had drafted her Ph.D. thesis in the 1920s,
but then left it in the back of a taxicab, necessitating
its complete rewriting years later.) Helen taught
social philosophy at Sarah Lawrence because it
allowed her to blend many disciplines. As Elfie
explained, Helen had a talent for combining literature,
philosophy, psychology and political theory.
Describing Helen’s personality, Elfie brightened
and relaxed. “You were very grateful you knew
Helen,” she told us. “She took great delight in
being alive. In her company, you felt more vivacious.
She was a genius at interaction.” When we asked
if Helen was religious, Elfie replied, “She didn’t
talk theology, she lived it.” Helen, Elfie remarked,
had a “courtesy of the heart, la politesse
du coeur. The old-fashioned theological term
was grace.”
Helen cared for her students, said Elfie, and
“she really knew that social conventions were
crippling and sought to undo the crippling effect,
to give people back a sense of themselves. This
is for me her beauty and her greatness.”
Elfie turned to Helen’s writing at Sarah Lawrence.
Those who knew Helen agree that she did not regard
Middletown as her life’s work; rather,
it was her book, On Shame and the Search for
Identity, published in 1958. “Helen’s most
original thinking is in Shame,” Elfie commented.
“In Shame, she criticizes the psychology
establishment with great power.”
Helen took the leading psychological authorities
to task for their cramped views of human possibility,
but she went further. In shame, a phenomenon until
then largely ignored by mainstream psychology,
Helen glimpsed a path to revelation. In those
instances of great discomfort, our selves stand
exposed; in falling short of some inner ideal,
we learn about who we are and what we wish to
be. And with shame’s disillusionment, we can learn
difficult truths about the world around us. In
the “rejected gift, the joke or the phrase that
does not come off, the misunderstood gesture,
the falling short of our own ideals, the expectation
of response violated—such experiences mean that
we have trusted ourselves to a situation that
is not there,” Helen wrote. Momentarily, we “have
become strangers in a world where we thought we
were at home.”
The chance to see in a new light is open to those
with the negative capability to tolerate shame’s
anxiety and the uncertainty of the new. Without
that courage, shame becomes a painful, isolating
experience to be avoided at all costs, often by
insisting on a society of strict mores and well-defined
roles. In the clarity of these scripted roles
and standards, for better or for worse, we can
avoid the mistakes and misunderstandings ending
in shame. To Helen, shame was a crossroads leading
on to discovery and change or back to darkness
and the comfort of old beliefs, however false.
This theory led Helen, in her older years, to
explore the link between creativity and the willingness
to risk anxiety, disillusionment and rejection.
Elfie helped compile some of these unfinished
writings for Possibilities. In her drafts,
Helen related an illustrative story about her
8-year-old granddaughter: “She asked me what I
was doing with all those papers. I told her that
in every time and place there are some people
who have new ideas or ways of seeing and doing
things that are different from those of most other
persons. But it is a risk to say them or to act
upon them, because they are not like other people’s
and often one is hesitant and simply keeps them
to oneself.”
Helen’s wide-eyed granddaughter replied: “Grandma,
I know exactly what you mean. At school we were
to make wings for Christmas. Every one but me
made little wings close to their shoulders. I
took lots of aluminum foil paper and wire clothes
hangers and made big, beautiful wings. But then
I was nervous to take them to school because they
were different from what every one else made.”
“I love that story,” Elfie said.
****
It’s easy to idealize Helen. Suzanne Hoover had
cautioned against this: “I think it’s necessary
to see the pitfalls of her approach and then judge
how well she navigated them.” Helen’s chief analytical
weakness was what Suzanne had called her “knee-jerk
optimism”—and Erich Fromm her “belief in Santa
Claus.” This optimism, Suzanne had said, led Helen
to a profound refusal of the tragic view that
could distort her judgment.
On a personal level, Helen could be difficult
on those closest to her. Despite its auspicious
beginnings, Helen’s marriage to Bob became complicated.
Their son Staughton, in Living Inside Our Hope,
noted that, however “it may have been for him
in the 1930s, after World War II my Dad seemed
desperately unhappy as a professor. He thought
the new emphasis on heavy statistical analysis
in doing sociology trivialized his discipline,
and in any case he couldn’t do it....” Nothing
in Staughton’s own academic experiences, he wrote,
caused him to revise his impression that academic
life “is so mean-spirited. I have often felt that
its practitioners fall into two groups: those
grimly competing for tenure, and those worried
that they may be over the hill.” Maybe Bob fell
into the latter group, but in any case, his writing
tapered off, and his personality began to change.
Some who knew him during those years described
the formerly affable man to us as irascible.
The marriage grew competitive. According to
their son, Bob let it be known that, in his eyes,
“he was in the real academic big leagues,” whereas
Helen was teaching in a flighty, experimental
environment. At the same time, Helen came to feel
herself Bob’s intellectual superior, and she let
him know it. Perhaps out of resentment, he never
bothered to read Shame, Helen’s most important
work. Bob Lynd confided, though, in correspondence
from the 1930s, “I shall never be sure if Helen’s
achieved version of how to live is not far greater,
richer and more humanly valuable than my own....
Helen will grow till the moment she dies.”
“But it’s also true that my parents very much
loved each other,” Staughton told us over dinner.
There was once a great intimacy and mutual respect
between them, which made the writing of Middletown
possible. Both Helen and Bob benefited tremendously
from their collaboration. Certainly, neither exhibited
the same confidence in their writing when going
it alone. In fact, when writing Shame,
Helen was constantly pushed by her colleagues
to speak more in her own voice rather than to
assemble quotations of others to make her point.
The Middletown collaboration also brought Helen
a conventional respectability that, despite her
unconventional ways, she craved.
Helen’s drive for social acceptance may have
lurked behind her discomfort with the path her
son had chosen. For decades, Staughton and his
wife Alice, two radical Quakers with a Marxist
bent, have been long-distance runners in the grassroots
struggles of the Left. Though Staughton had the
benefit of advanced education at Harvard and Columbia,
he wound up blacklisted in academia because of
his public protests of the Vietnam War—at least
one of which landed him in jail—and a controversial
factfinding mission he undertook with Tom Hayden
in Hanoi.
Even before the war, Staughton’s life had been
unusual. In the 1950s, after his military dismissal,
he and Alice lived for years in a utopian, cooperative
community in Georgia, earning a living in part
by milking cows. In the early ’60s, he took up
teaching in Atlanta at Spelman College, a school
for African-American women, followed by a stint
as director of the Mississippi Freedom Schools.
Eventually, he and Alice were drawn into the labor
movement and became lawyers. After moving to Ohio’s
Mahoning Valley in the mid-’70s, they worked on
behalf of unemployed and retired workers suffering
the effects of steel-industry shutdowns. The couple
retired recently because, Alice Lynd said, “We
just don’t have time for jobs anymore.” In their
alleged retirement, the two remain hard at work
reforming a nearby super-maximum security prison.
Staughton’s activist lifestyle may have been
a sore point with his mother, but at the same
time, he was much beloved by her, excessively
so, said friends. In fact, she did not attend
her son’s wedding. But whatever her qualms with
his lifestyle, Helen grew to support the marriage,
and she was far more accepting of Staughton’s
political methods than was his father. Staughton
has written that he took guidance from Robert
Lynd’s 1921 summer working with and preaching
to the laborers of Elk Basin. When we asked about
the influence his mother had on his life, however,
Staughton answered, “It was everything.”
****
Mother and son were very much alike and once
conspired to assist a talented young African-American
woman floundering in what she regarded as Spelman’s
repressive atmosphere. Staughton recounted the
event over drinks at the Red Lobster near his
home in Niles, Ohio, where, we had been assured,
you’ll find the best fish in town.
Looking out over the straw of a Bahama Mama,
the 72-year-old activist explained to us, “I was
reading examination books one evening. And in
a bleary state of mind, I came upon this particular
examination book, and my reaction was, ‘Gee, this
is a pretty good exam, but there’s something about
the way it’s written!’
“So I went and looked for the other half of
the Spelman College social science department,
Howard Zinn. And I said, ‘Howie, do you have a
student named Alice Walker?’”
Howard Zinn, author of A People’s History
of the United States, shared Staughton’s reaction,
and soon the two developed a warm mentoring relationship
with the young writer, who would go on to win
the Pulitzer Prize for The Color Purple.
Alice Walker remembers Staughton with obvious
affection, too. “I think Staughton probably drove
me to one of my very first demonstrations,” she
told us in a phone interview. “He and Alice had
this enormous old, old, old Cadillac, which was
just like sitting on a sofa, and he would tool
us around in that to various events and mind-broadening
activities.”
Staughton and Alice Lynd must have seemed perfect
role models to her because Walker felt a need
to rebel at Spelman, to act out in support of
the civil rights movement here and abroad. But
“once I was back on the campus,” she complained,
she was expected “to be a really nice, ladylike
person. It was an incredible strain to balance
that, and I really wasn’t succeeding, and Staughton
could see that.”
One day, she recalled, “I was standing on the
campus basically in tears because I was just so
frustrated.... I think [Staughton] decided that
he would help me leave since I was determined
to go, but I didn’t have anywhere to go actually.”
Staughton contacted his mother about getting Walker
into Sarah Lawrence.
Suzanne Hoover had told us that Helen rose to
the occasion by going out and personally raising
the money from former students for a scholarship
for Alice Walker. Helen shepherded Walker through
the transition. “I met Helen when I got to campus,”
said Walker. “And she was really lovely. She appeared
bearing this wonderful old Irish woolen throw
which they had had in their family for a very
long time, and she brought it because I transferred
in the middle of winter, and it was really, really
cold, and she was trying to be sure that I was
warm.”
Helen became Alice Walker’s adviser, or don.
“It was like having a guardian angel,” she said.
“She had a really wonderful twinkly smile, and
she was altogether very human.” Walker recalled
being welcomed to the Lynds’ apartment on Central
Park West, where she was amazed by the huge fireplace
and the homey atmosphere right in the middle of
Manhattan. Walker has chronicled the emotional
turmoil of her student days, and so her meeting
with Helen Lynd was well-timed. In In Search
of Our Mothers’ Gardens, Walker wrote of Helen
that, “since studying with her, all of life, the
sadness as well as the joy, has its magnificence,
its meaning, and its use.” During the phone
interview, Walker made sure to add “shame” to
that list.
What’s more, Helen introduced Alice Walker to
her colleague and close friend, the acclaimed
poet Muriel Rukeyser, who was on the Sarah Lawrence
faculty as well. Rukeyser, for whom poetry and
politics were one and the same, played a pivotal
role in the nascent writer’s personal and literary
development. “These women,” Walker wrote in Our
Mother’s Gardens, “were Sarah Lawrence’s gift
to me. And when I think of them, I understand
that each woman is capable of truly bringing another
into the world. This we must all do for each other.”
****
In 1982, Helen Merrell Lynd suffered a stroke.
After regaining some ability to speak in the hospital,
she told Staughton that her chief concern was
the welfare of her daughter, Andrea, who was going
through a divorce. She managed to ask whether
Staughton thought that they had done all they
could for Andrea. He said that he thought they
had. He kissed his mother good-bye and went out
for the afternoon. Later that same evening, he
received word that she had died.
While Helen’s works can be found on the library
shelves of any sociology department worth its
salt, and her memory permeates the style and history
of Sarah Lawrence College, Helen Merrell Lynd
has not been given her due in the pages of history.
Though the more original thinker, she was obscured
by her husband’s fame. For many, Helen Merrell
Lynd begins and ends between the covers of Middletown.
But if Middletown identified the trap,
Helen’s life was a beacon lighting the way out.
At a service for his mother, Staughton Lynd
feared that memories of Helen would dim. Alice
Lynd suggested, however, that there are two kinds
of legacies: the subjective and the objective
memory, the traces one leaves behind. Helen Lynd
is present in the education of all who pass through
the doors of Sarah Lawrence. In the works of those
she inspired in her lifetime. In her son’s compassionate
activism. In the poetry of Muriel Rukeyser. On
the canvases of the great painter Alice Neel.
In the inherited lessons that Alice Walker in
turn passes on in her works. As the philosopher
Morris Cohen wrote in A Dreamer’s Journey:
“Brief is the life of man; and of uncertain duration
is his handiwork, be it ships, houses, governments,
or laws. But the echoes from soul to soul will
go on so long as human life lasts.”
Copyright Rapportage, The Journal of the
Lancaster Literary Guild 2002. Reprinted by permission.
One-time rights only.
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