The YMCA

In Bloomfield, New Jersey, there was a YMCA. I lived there for two years. New Jersey is an expensive place, and the Y was the only place I could afford.

It was a nice YMCA. There was a front desk with a receptionist. A lobby with several red and brown leather chairs. Also, they did not let in too many black people in those days—a few, but not many. There was another YMCA three miles away—they let in black people there, but not Bloomfield.

There was even a professor there from Harvard. He was a thin man, about five feet six inches. He used to teach economics, but now he was retired. He wore a tweed jacket with a patch on the sleeve, and he always wore a bow tie.

There was a TV room. The people at the YMCA liked to watch TV. They especially liked to watch the New York Yankees. The Yankees had been bad for many years, but now they were again getting better.

The professor lectured to the people. He raised his voice. "You should not watch TV," he said. "Baseball," he said, "is that all you care for? There is news in the world: the Middle East, a war, a President who is corrupt, who lies." He meant Richard Nixon. "Don't you care about any of this?"

Most people in the TV room would ignore the professor. Some would not even turn around to look at him. Others would look at him briefly and then return to their game.

Some would try to be polite—or would try to humor him. "You are right, Professor, of course you are right. But this is a good game. Join us just for one inning—just one."

The Professor would snarl, curling his lips in disdain. Then he would turn on his heels and walk away.

________

The Professor did not like these people; he looked down at them. Perhaps he was the same way with me. And yet, for some reason, he treated me a little differently. Perhaps it was because I was from another country (and therefore "exotic"). Perhaps it was because I spoke better English ("grammatically proper," as the Professor called it). Perhaps it was because I had a beard: "a sable-silvered beard," the Professor called it. "Just the way Horatio describes the beard of Hamlet's father—or better, the beard of the ghost of Hamlet's father."

But whatever the reason, the Professor treated me a little differently. When he saw me in the hallway or in the lobby, he would greet me. When he saw me in the diner or the cafeteria (a half-block away, where many of us ate), he would often call out to me. More than once, he asked me to join him.

When we ate he did most of the talking. And, who knows, perhaps this was the greatest attraction. The Professor liked to talk. And in me the Professor had a good listener, a captive audience.

One day the Professor and I went out for dinner. Then we went to a French movie. After the movie, we walked, and we walked. When we came back, it was well after midnight.

The Professor lectured to me throughout the walk. He told me about interest rates, about Adam Smith, the federal funds rate. Most of it—ninety percent? ninety-five?—was over my head. But I tried to listen. Wasn't that the reason, the main reason, that the Professor liked me—or at least that he tolerated me?

The Professor spoke to me about some of the other professors that he had worked with. He spoke about someone named James Tobin, about someone named John Galbraith. He said that Keynes (of England) was a genius. He said that Milton Friedman (of Chicago) was a reactionary. "No breeding," he said. "He is a grocer, nothing more, the son of a grocer. It shows in his ideas: money, money, money. It shows in his prose (have you read it?). It is labored, all labored."

Most of this was above me, beyond me. But so it was. [End Page 125...